‘You know all those letters in Latin by heart?’
‘Are you mad? I talked earlier to a clever priest here. He also told me where the words on that silver octagonal platter come from. Omnibus omnia. And this is what might be most important. I’ve noted it down. It’s a Letter to the Corinthians, the bit about boundless Love. Listen to this: “To the weak I became weak, to win the weak. I have become all things to all men so that by all possible means I might save some.” That’s an extract for someone with a mission, isn’t it? Even with a little license for devious action if that’s the way you want to interpret it.’
‘In the name of Love?’
‘Of course. Even in the name of Love if you like, but love of yourself if you restrict those deserving to be saved to yourself. And if that’s the way you’re prejudiced, then everything’s allowed. It could be a coincidence, but as I said before, three children in the company of Love, one on her knees and two behind her back, is a group which appears frequently. But everything’s falling into place too perfectly here. Maybe the next in line to meet the son is Mrs Ogrodniczak.’
‘You guessed it might be him by looking at the paintings on the ceiling?’
‘You overestimate me. I told you I talked to the priests here. One very old one didn’t know much Latin but had an excellent memory, especially as regards things about the distant past. I told him I was writing a thesis about the restorer Antoniusz Mikulski who played a big role in salvaging the church’s monuments at a time when circumstances weren’t very conducive for that sort of thing, and that I was collecting information. He didn’t recall the name, but remembered perfectly well that the small son of one of the restorers got lost and spent the whole night lying locked in the chapter. He added that it couldn’t be the same man I was writing about because he wasn’t very nice, to anyone even his son. He shouted at the child as though he wasn’t his, but the little one was very brave. The priest remembered very well because the boy didn’t even cry when they found him in the morning. And this happened some thirty years ago. Maybe it really wasn’t his child but that Ogrodniczak’s and the priest’s? That’s something you need to check out.’
‘Elżbieta Ogrodniczak visited the Mikulskis and apparently it wasn’t a pleasant visit. It’s all falling into place.’
‘Come on, we’ll talk about it outside. We’re not going to hear ourselves speak in a minute. Judging by the din I’d say there must be two coach loads of kids, in a way that’s good… Let’s go.’
Only now did Bartol realise what had been troubling him for some time now. The muted hullabaloo was approaching inescapably. They managed to get out before the swarm – whispering loudly, rustling and giggling – poured into the old chapter house.
They talked a little longer and went in search of the old priest. He soon turned up and wasn’t in the least surprised that someone was asking him the same thing again, as though he’d long ceased to be surprised by anything. He repeated exactly what he’d said earlier and had nothing else to add. He didn’t remember the name of the restorer but did remember that the boy wore glasses and a pair of checked trousers.
They didn’t find out any more.
They returned to Poznań. Magda asked for a lift to the Collegium Novum, since she’d arranged to meet an art hysterian there. Bartol didn’t know why she called him that; she couldn’t explain it either – apparently he was a rare eccentric.
Bartol intended to talk to Lentz as soon as possible. As he neared the crossroads which led straight up to headquarters and to the left straight to his mother’s door, he remembered that he hadn’t called her over the last two days. He picked up the phone, called Lentz: nothing had changed, as yet. Maybe it would be best, he thought, if he popped in for ten minutes to see her – them – of his own accord. He’d knock up a couple of points for himself, especially as it didn’t look as though he’d be able to do so over the next few days. He’d explain everything neatly and that would be enough for a while. He turned.
No open door awaited him. He had to open it himself. He heard his mother walking around in the bathroom. It was very quiet. This didn’t surprise him. Only two variants had come into play of late: either screams or whispers. What did, however, surprise him was an Uhlan’s uniform hanging in the hall and an enormous hat on the shelf nearby.
When his mother emerged from the bathroom, he whispered: ‘What’s this?’
‘A uniform,’ she replied in her usual voice.
‘That much I can see, but whose is it?’
‘Franciszek’s now.’
‘Who’s Franciszek?’
‘What a stupid question! You’re the one who left me with him, don’t you remember?’ Seeing the expression of complete incomprehension on his face, she continued: ‘The son of a friend of mine who’s a mathematician used to be an Uhlan. He worked his way through all the regiments, rowed with all of them, and since he’s got a horse and still likes dressing up, has now become a knight. He’s bought himself a suit of armour but has still got the uniform.’
‘And?’
‘And he’s given it to Franek. They met once and liked each other and since he – Franciszek that is – also rides, in case you didn’t know, nothing stood in the way of his joining the cavalry. Besides, I encouraged him myself. He takes his oath quite soon as far as I know, straight after his exam. Why, what’s so surprising?’
‘Why, nothing,’ he replied, not understanding either her tone or their conversation. Besides, only then did he realise that they were talking quite loudly.
‘Are you alone?’
‘Can you see anybody?’
‘Mum, what’s up?’
‘Nothing!’
‘So where are they?’
‘They left yesterday. I thought I’d told you.’ Pretending to think it over, she added: ‘Or maybe I didn’t? I don’t know anymore. Maybe because we didn’t have a chance to speak?’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Nothing’s happened. She simply wanted to go home.’
‘Will she cope?’ he asked, still not understanding any of this.
‘Why so over-protective? Of course she’ll cope. She’s a clever and good girl.’ She paused. ‘And I think Franciszek’s going to help her. He proved exceptionally helpful at changing nappies when you weren’t here, was even pretty good at it.’ He saw her strange smile, but it took a while for him to register what she wanted to tell him.
‘Mum, he’s too young!’
‘Too young for what, may I ask?’ She shrugged. ‘To be an Uhlan?’
‘You know what I mean,’ he practically shouted.
‘You’ve both got similar qualifications but his motivation is as if better and more sincere. He’s a good lad. And now listen to me carefully and learn, because I’m not going to live forever. It’s not important what role life’s allotted to us – sometimes it’s not for us to decide – and there’s no point in fighting or disputing it, but what is important, or most important, is to play one’s role well. I also got a bit lost recently. I wanted to be actor, director, prompter, everything. It doesn’t work. We’re not going to discuss it now. Both you and I have got to think it all over. But not now: right now I haven’t got time. I’m off to the coast today and want to take my granddaughter for a walk before I go. We’ll talk when I get back.’
‘Are you going with Aunt Basia?’ He knew perfectly well he was enquiring about what was least important at that moment, but he did ask and regretted more than ever.
‘No, with Krzysiek. And he’s not your uncle and even less so mine.’ Saying this, she turned and made her way towards the wardrobe from which she took two large suitcases.
This was too much. Bartol didn’t say more either. He turned and left. Without a word. He didn’t slam the door, nor did he shut it quietly.
Sitting in the car for ten minutes without turning the ignition key didn’t help, nor twice thumping the steering wheel so hard as to bruise his hand. He regretted not having at least thrown the uniform on the floor and trampling it. He
regretted not having asked who Krzysiek was so he could do the same to him. He regretted not being able to control himself and stamping in a puddle like a little boy, for looking for a guilty party without knowing where the guilt lay.
Magda phoned; he didn’t take the call. Lentz phoned; again he didn’t take the call. He pulled out, but in such a way that he almost crashed into another car. In his rear-view mirror he caught a glimpse of a straw hat on the head of a horrified elderly gentleman. The man might have survived the war but he lacked the courage to off-load himself by hitting the horn. Contrary to logic, this calmed Bartol and he drove the rest of the way to headquarters calmly.
Lentz was waiting for him. In fact, he’d phoned to let Bartol know he was waiting. At first, Bartol tried to explain all about the virtues, why Moderation had a mirror and that there was a Letter to someone, it didn’t matter who – he couldn’t remember – but that he was weak for the weak so as to save himself at least. Seeing Lentz’s face, he realised he wouldn’t have understood what he was saying if he’d had to listen to himself either. He stopped talking about snakes, blades and that sort of thing, and concentrated on Antoniusz Mikulski’s son. He said they’d been in too much of a hurry to bury him in some Burmese jungle and that they’d spent too long wondering what connected all the characters in the drama, and that he was, perhaps not a hundred, but ninety percent sure that the third act wouldn’t take place without the participation of the vibratory Elizabeth, whatever she might say.
Lentz remained silent for a long time, then when he was about to say something, he didn't have time. Polek burst into the room and started rummaging in the drawer of his desk. He ignored them, finally found something and made towards the door. Bartol got to his feet and – very quickly, so as to make it on time although he didn’t know why – informed Polek of the chief suspect in the case on which they’d been working for months. It made no impression on Polek, who acknowledged it with one sentence – so the case was wrapped up – congratulated them and wished them luck. Then left. Bartol ran out into the corridor after him. Polek turned and showed him the leaflet in his hand. A small mansion with red towers on the seafront itself.
‘Łeba. That’s where we’re going, but don’t even try to find me there.’
Bartol continued staring at him with uncomprehending eyes.
‘I haven’t been on holiday alone with my spouse since she’s been my spouse, meaning never. But things are going to change because now, brother, I’m on an historical mission. I intend to prove that mountains suck because they only block the view. Oh, and you have to do a lot of walking when you’re there, while I intend to lie around: on her, under her and on both sides all at once. Because the satnav in my head had broken down and I’d started moving around in the wrong place. So if any comrade tries to get in touch with me please say I’ve passed away.’
Bartol continued staring, speechless. He’d heard ‘my old woman’ hundreds of times, never ‘my wife’, let alone ‘my spouse’, so all he could blurt out was: ‘They’ve given you leave? I thought you were down for August?’
‘I’ll get some in August, too, and if I don’t I’ll learn how to embroider artistic tattoos.’
‘I hope you have good weather,’ said Bartol. Up until now Polek had always fled from home to work, not the other way round.
‘I don’t give a shit about the weather. It can do what it likes. What counts is that my room’s on the ground floor. Not a metre above sea level. Absolute zero. You’ll manage without me. Thanks for putting me up, but I can’t sleep very well when I’m alone. Bye.’
‘Bye,’ said Bartol to Polek’s back, remembering how long it had taken him to fall asleep because of Polek’s snoring. Maybe the murmur of the sea would drown his snores, he thought, and returned to the office. Rarely did he see curiosity registered on Lentz’s face, but he saw it now.
‘What’s up with him?’
‘He’s taking a holiday.’
‘He’s got it bad with that girl.’
‘Better still, with his spouse.’
‘Aha.’ As if to spite everything, the expression on Lentz’s face returned to normal. ‘Listen, I’ve been thinking about that woman with the warehouse. Why is she so brave, bearing in mind she might be next in line? And I came to the conclusion that her behaviour isn’t any different from that of the other two. They were waiting for him. Whether they expected what was coming or not is neither here nor there. The fact is, they were waiting. Mikulski had annulled his will. Perhaps he’d changed his mind and didn’t want to leave everything to dogs but to parrots, for example. But he could just as easily have thought that, since his adopted son had turned up, he’d atone for some of his sins, make up for lost time. The same applies to Gawlicki. He guessed that someone had got to know about his past, perhaps even guessed who it might be, and he, too, wanted to wait for him in spite of everything. After all, he could have fled again, become a head shepherd and raced around mountain pastures. He didn’t have a lot of needs and knew how to blend in with the background. The same could apply to the woman. She’s lost two sons, and when the one she lost earlier turns up at least half of the maternal balance will have been evened out.’
‘You’re right, yes, you’re right, that must be it. Wait…’ he said, although Lentz had no intention of leaving. He dialled Magda’s number. And – wonders never cease – she picked up after two rings. She spoke first: ‘You didn’t really have to call back. Truth might still be there, maybe Wisdom, but I thought it’s not that important anymore…’
‘I’m not calling back. I’m phoning to ask you whether the golden octagonal platter could, for example, be a mirror?’
She remained silent for some time.
‘I admire you more and more with each day. A painted mirror which doesn’t reflect anything will resemble nothing other than a silver plate. Yes, if you think about it carefully, it’s got to be a mirror, and nothing else. To the weak I became weak… I reflect reality to reach reality…’
‘Thanks, but I’ve got to hang up.’
‘Then do, that’s perfect, because I’ve finished too. I wish to thank you for a pleasant and creative collaboration.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘In a nutshell: your sibling.’
‘What are you talking about? I don’t have any siblings.’
‘That’s just it, your non-existent sibling, which leads me to the simple conclusion that Daniela Bartol’s – that is, your mother’s
– little granddaughter is directly related to you. I met them on a walk. I congratulated her, congratulations were accepted…’
‘I’ll explain everything to you!’
‘I very much doubt it.’ She hung up.
First he stood up, took one step towards the door, turned back, sat down, stood up again, then sat down again and looked at Lentz, who quickly pretended he was going through the papers on his desk. He clutched his head and ruffled his hair as though to make what was on his head correspond to what was inside. A muddle, chaos, mess. Uhlan Franciszek with a nappy, some man called Krzysiek, Polek at the seaside with his wife, Magda! All he wanted to think about was that, at some stage, the day had to come to an end. But when? And there was still Ogrodniczak and the mirror which he saw on her desk, which had to be the mirror and had to be inscribed, whatever she said. He glanced at Lentz. No, this is what he had to take care of first. The rest he’d sort out later.
‘Lentz, she’s already received an invitation and is waiting for him. Phone the prosecutor’s office and sort out a search warrant for her house. No, it’ll take too long to explain. I’ll call Pilski, get him to arrange all that quickly. You phone the local boys and warn them we’re coming.’ The desk phone rang. ‘Right, take that first.’
Pilski’s phone didn’t answer. Bartol dialled Mrs GawlickaSęk’s number. She said her son wasn’t in. Bartol was just going to explain he knew that and also knew that her son didn’t want anything to do with the outside world, but in exceptional circumstances Bartol wa
s to call. And he probably would have explained, were it not for the expression on Lentz’s face positively telling him that he had some important news to pass on to him – immediately. He hung up.
‘They’ve apprehended Jan Mikulski. He’s downstairs.’ ‘How? Who?’ The speed of it all was beginning to horrify him.
‘The traffic boys. Just so,’ replied Lentz, shrugging. ‘In ten minutes he’s ours.’
In those ten minutes, with Polek’s help, he found the number of Pilski’s fiancée. He called. A squeaky, offended voice informed him that she wasn’t engaged and didn’t know anyone like that. All that Bartol had time to think was that her last visit to Pilski’s apartment couldn’t have been a great success.
Lentz and Bartol went downstairs, in silence. Bartol had no idea what Lentz was thinking; he didn’t even know what to think himself. One thing appeared certain – all this would soon come to an end. Presently he was going to see the man who’d killed two people in cold blood, turned it into a performance, the strangest Bartol had ever seen, and been arrested – just like that – by the traffic police.
He wondered what the man looked like. It was a good thing he didn’t have much time to reflect because everything pointed to his having a very limited imagination.
The individual waiting for them was neither boy nor man and wore a Hawaian shirt with a palm motif, a pair of knee-length shorts with numerous pockets, and dreadlocks instead of hair. He was chewing gum and, clearly pleased with himself, sat rocking on his chair and casting his eyes around. As they walked in, he smiled broadly and was the first to speak: ‘Gentlemen, I’ve just had a brainwave. I’m going to write a guide to world jails. I’ve already gone through two European jails this week so we’ll start with Europe.’
‘And where, if I may ask, were you before us?’ asked Lentz.
Bartol couldn’t get a word out.
‘Frankfurt-am-Main, the airport. It’s not quite as luxurious here, I must say, but pleasant enough.’
‘What held you there?’
‘A dog. I was standing quietly doing nothing when it came up to me and gently laid its paws on my shoulders. I can’t say it was small but it was quite friendly, so to speak.’
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