I can’t, he thought, I can’t do that. I’m thirty-five, nearly thirty-six. I cannot go to the toilet at the main city library to wank, while thinking about some lassie with bandy legs.
But off he went.
When he came back, the newspapers were waiting for him.
He started with Życie Warszawy - “Warsaw Life” - from 1978, although he didn’t think the case would go that far back. Henryk Telak was nineteen then, and his parents were already dead. The 17th of September fell on a Sunday. He leafed through the pages. The coldest summer of the decade was ending, the final phase of the harvest was proceeding efficiently, there was an aeroplane exhibition at Zwycięstwo Square to mark the thirty-fifth anniversary of the Polish People’s Army. All very boring. Writer Zenon Kosidowski and eminent ophthalmologist Witold Starkiewicz had died, in the Tatra mountains a tourist had succumbed to a heart attack, and a mountaineer had fallen off a peak called Mnich. Could it possibly be to do with one of them? No. Curiously, Życie Warszawy had published a series of articles in the run-up to the sixtieth anniversary of Poland regaining independence after the First World War. Strange - he was sure that in Communist Poland 22nd July had been celebrated as Independence Day. Which wasn’t so dumb - celebrating anything in mid-November makes no sense. It’s always cold, pouring with rain, and no one even feels like watching a parade. He carefully read all the minor reports, especially from the capital, in search of information about a car crash or a killing. Instead of that he found reflections on the fact that “computers have made a rapid rise in popularity. At times their expansion even stirs anxiety.” He automatically checked to see what was on TV on the evening of 17th September. Part one of the classic serial The Doll starring Jerzy Kamas and Małgorzata Braunek, and on Channel Two A Soldier’s Love - a Yugoslav film production.
In the Ochota district a car ran two people over, one of them died. He meticulously wrote down the names of all the deceased. Including Professor Sylwester Kaliski, minister of science, higher education and technology, Polish United Workers’ Party member and member of parliament in Communist Poland.
Sport. In the competition for ski-jumping on an artificial surface Tadeusz Tajner came sixth. A relative of the skiing champion Apoloniusz Tajner, perhaps? National soccer team trainer Jacek Gmoch’s charges are preparing for their next match in the European soccer championship qualifying stages. They have already won against Iceland, and will now play Switzerland; Holland and East Germany are waiting their turn. The editor couldn’t have known what Szacki knew in 2005 - that Poland had not played in the finals of that European championship or any since.
He went on looking, noting down the names in the death announcements for all the people who had died on 17th September. Most of them had died of old age, “after a long illness”, or simply “departed”. He thought it comforting that so few people were killed in accidents. It looked as if statistically he too had a chance of quietly reaching seventy. In the edition dated 20th September he finally found something interesting: “On 17th September Marian Kruk, aged fifty-two, and Zdzisław Kruk, aged twenty-six, died tragically”. Two death notices of identical size and content, the only difference being the signature. In the first, “wife, mother and family” were bidding farewell to their “beloved husband and son”, and in the second, “wife, daughter-in-law and family” to “beloved husband and father-in-law”. So a father and son had died together. One accident, two deaths, a massive family tragedy. An earthquake within the system. He circled their names in red in his notebook. He’d have to check the circumstances of that incident.
He reached hopefully for the Express Wieczorny - “Evening Express” - expecting to find some juicy crime reports and gory descriptions of tragic accidents, but he was disappointed. The paper radiated nothing but dreadful boredom - he couldn’t understand why its legend had endured for so many years. Maybe he was just unlucky and had hit upon some poor editions. The only information that grabbed his attention was the news that Andrzej Wajda had started filming The Maids of Wilko, with Daniel Olbrychski in the leading role. Once upon a time they made good films, he thought.
In Życie Warszawy dated 17th September 1987 - this time it was a Thursday - there was no mention whatsoever of the anniversary of the Soviet invasion of Poland. Just like nine years earlier, and every year. However, there was a lengthy piece about the anniversary of the Nazi bombing of the Royal Castle. And about Wojciech Jaruzelski, who was having talks with Erich Honecker during a working visit to East Germany. It won’t last much longer, you bastards, thought Szacki vengefully. A year and a half and you’ll all be put out to grass.
On television there was a British crime series, Cover Her Face, world championship gymnastics, a programme called Vodka, Let Me Live and the International Congress of University of the Third Age associations. It looked as if on 17th September 1987 only a few hours of communing with the telly would be enough to make you slit your wrists out of boredom. Part of central Warsaw had no gas. Failure in the heating supply. Szacki impassively ran his eyes over the headings. In the autumn a Gorbachev-Reagan summit meeting. Despite an extremely difficult harvest, the grain crop reached twenty-five million tons. A murderer wouldn’t admit his guilt. He had been apprehended. It was a Warsaw murder. On 17th September.
“All Warsaw is talking about the tragedy that occurred yesterday in the city centre. Dozens of people witnessed the incident. At 4.15 Danuta M. was murdered at 125 Jerozolimskie Avenue in the sight of passers-by and people waiting at a bus stop. The murderer, fifty-three-year-old Ryszard W., stabbed her in the neck with a knife. The woman died on the spot, and members of the public apprehended the killer. The inquiry is being conducted by the Ochota District Office for Internal Affairs.”
The District Office for Internal Affairs? What the hell is that? wondered Szacki as he made notes. The militia? The prosecutor’s? A sort of camouflaged secret-police unit? The case was striking, but it smelled of illegal alcohol a mile away. Later he read that the culprit was drunk, so was the victim, and he’d stabbed her because she’d refused to go and get him cigarettes from a kiosk.
He went on looking.
The Polish film, The Mother of Kings, won the “Golden Lions” award at the Gdynia film festival. He almost whistled as he read the list of other prizewinners - nowadays any one of those films could win that festival hands down with no fear of competition. The Magnate, On the Niemen, Blind Chance, The Faithful River, Inner Life, Train to Hollywood. Nothing but classics, and all in the same year. Incredible.
In the Express dated 21st September he found a short note, just a few sentences: “The body of twenty-three-year-old Kamil S. was found by his nineteen-year-old sister in a city-centre flat on Mokotowska Street. ‘The whole family was meant to be on a belated holiday,’ we heard from Captain Stefan Mamcarz of the district Civic Militia. ‘The boy stayed behind, and that was his undoing. The robbers expected the flat to be empty, and when they broke in and saw him there, they panicked and killed him.’ The militia claim that the tragedy occurred on 17th September in the evening. An intensive search is under way to apprehend the criminals.”
He made a note and tapped his disposable ballpoint on the historic newspaper, leaving some black spots on it. Again he felt a tickling in his brain. Either instinct was telling him this could have a connection with the case, or he had cancer. Except that he was looking for a dead girl, and this was a boy. Maybe it was to do with the sister who found the body. Telak’s former girlfriend, perhaps? Or maybe this Kamil and Telak… No. All because of the homophobic panic - now he too thought he was seeing gays everywhere. But he’d have to check up on this case. It would be good to know the surname.
Three days further on he found two death notices. The first read: “On 17th September 1987 Kamil Sosnowski was taken from us, our beloved son and brother. Dearest Kamil, we will love you for ever, your Mummy, Daddy and sister.” And the second was atypical: “On 17th September Kamil was murdered, our best mate and friend. Old pal, we’ll never forget y
ou. Zibi and everyone.”
He didn’t believe anything would come of it, but he decided he should ask Oleg to find the file relating to that case in the archive.
Mechanically he read the article he’d marked earlier with his pen. “Volume II of the Universal Encyclopedia is now available to the public. Issued upon fulfilling the following conditions: presentation at the waste-paper collection centre of a recyclable materials purchase booklet, subscription voucher, identity card and payment of 5,100 zlotys.”
What nonsense. He couldn’t remember the world of Communist Poland well, but it looked as if the film-maker Stanisław Bareja’s satirical account of it was entirely true. Though on the other hand everything must have been simpler then. And funnier.
He took the binders back to the book trolley, bowed politely to the buxom librarian and ran down the stairs, quietly crooning the Michael Jackson hit, ‘Liberian Girl’, but changing it into “librarian girl”. Only on the ground floor did he switch on his mobile phone and realize he’d spent three hours in the library. Bugger, he’d fucked up again. He swore out loud and called Weronika.
8
Monday, 13th June 2005
In America a jury has acquitted Michael Jackson on a charge of paedophilia. Nevertheless the King left the court building looking sad and dejected. In Belarus the militia have apprehended a gerontophile rapist. The youngest victim was sixty-one, the oldest eighty-seven. In Ukraine, councillors in Lviv have passed a resolution necessary for the opening of the “Eaglets” Polish war cemetery. In France, Polish actor Andrzej Seweryn has been awarded the Légion d’honneur. In Poland, boring news: nationalist politician Roman Giertych wants to take the Minister for Internal Affairs and Administration to court for not preventing the illegal Equality Parade. Conservative politician Jan Rokita of the Civic Platform party agrees with Law and Justice party leader Jarosław Kaczyński on the issue of vetting people in official posts to expose Communist-era collaboration and declares: “There is a chance for joint government.” Left-wing former premier Leszek Miller has been thoroughly defeated in the primaries within the Łódź branch of the Democratic Left Alliance party, but even so he will be first on the candidate list. In Warsaw the police break up a gang of thieves which stole luxury cars by making the drivers get out to inspect non-existent damage. During the interrogations a gun with a silencer is seized, along with 5.5 pounds of amphetamines and an antique samurai sword. Beautiful weather in the capital city: twenty-two degrees, sunny, no rain.
I
Bright and early he arrived at Oleg’s place on Wilcza Street. Unfortunately, no one had been murdered that weekend and Szacki was worried that if the policeman didn’t provide him with new information about Telak he’d be forced to work on the drugs case.
They drank coffee out of plastic cups in the police station canteen. In his black fake-leather waistcoat thrown over a greenish T-shirt Kuzniecow looked like a black-market money changer from the old Thousandth Anniversary Stadium that was now home to a seedy bazaar. Szacki was in a grey suit, like a mafia accountant wanting to have a serious talk about business with him.
“I’ve got a voiceprint analysis for you,” said Kuzniecow. “Unfortunately it’s not an expert opinion, just an unofficial one. Leszek did it for me as a favour - normally you have to record comparative material in their special sound-analysis studio. They paid insane money for it - even the sound of electrons in the electrical wires has been silenced - and now they refuse to hear of any other recordings. They’ve got big-headed. But Leszek is all right. You know what, he spends most of his time tuning pianos. He has a fabulous sense of hearing, I’m surprised he bothers working for us.”
Szacki bought a bottle of water to rinse out his mouth after the coffee, which tasted like a wet floor-cloth. Either they’d made chicory coffee, or else they hadn’t cleaned the espresso machine for several years. Or maybe both.
“And what is Leszek’s official opinion?”
“You have no idea what a nutcase he is - I once went to his house, I can’t remember what for. He’s got two rooms in a block in Ursynów, but the child sleeps with them, because the other room is for listening. A tiny table and nothing else - the walls and ceiling are entirely covered with egg cartons, the big square ones.”
“Oleg, be merciful, I’ve got a heap of work to do, and I might have even more. The opinion.”
Kuzniecow ordered another coffee.
“Just hold on, you won’t regret it.”
“I will,” said Szacki resignedly.
“What do you think he listens to in there?”
“Not music, since you ask.”
“His wife.”
“What a good boy. Is that all?”
“No. He listens to his wife having orgasms.”
Kuzniecow stopped talking and looked at him triumphantly. Szacki knew he should stab him with a well-aimed malicious remark to close the subject, but he couldn’t restrain his curiosity.
“Very good, you win. You mean to say they fuck on those egg cartons?”
“Almost. He tells her to masturbate in that room and he records her moans. There can’t be any interference.”
Szacki was sorry he hadn’t closed the subject.
“One last question: why on earth would he do that?”
“For money. He has a theory that women emit a very special noise while climaxing, which is partly beyond the auditory threshold. He wants to synthesize that sound, patent it and sell it to people for advertising. Get it? An ad goes out live on TV, eight out of ten prefer X etc., and you suddenly go wild with excitement, because that recording is built into the advert. Then you go to the shop, see that beer and at once you get a hard-on. And then what? Are you still going to buy the usual Warka beer? You may laugh, but there’s something in it.”
“I even know what. The tragedy of a child who has to sleep with his parents.”
Kuzniecow nodded, no doubt wondering if he too could make a deal out of climaxing adverts, and took a notebook out of his waistcoat pocket.
“Leszek is ninety per cent sure the voice saying ‘Daddy’ is Kwiatkowska’s. Warsaw accent, characteristic intonation, a bit similar to French - maybe the girl used to live in France - and a slightly voiceless ‘r’. Only ninety per cent because the comparative material was everyday stuff. He definitely ruled out Mrs Telak, and Jarczyk too, though here he found more common features. He claims that both of them - Kwiatkowska and Jarczyk - must be at least second-generation residents of Warsaw, and from the City Centre. Their voices also have a similar timbre, quite high.”
Szacki raised his eyebrows.
“You’re joking. You can’t persuade me you can tell by the accent if someone’s from the City Centre or the Praga district.”
“I was surprised too. Certainly not when you’ve only been living there for a few years, but if your grandparents already lived here, then you can. Not bad, eh?”
Szacki agreed automatically, wondering if, after living in the Praga district since birth, his daughter had already caught the proletarian pronunciation of the right bank of the Vistula.
They talked for a while longer about the inquiry, but Kuzniecow didn’t have much to say. Only today would he finally be meeting with Telak’s financial adviser. He’d also sent a man to find Telak’s friends from technical college and the polytechnic and question them about his old love affairs. Finally they quarrelled when Szacki asked the policeman to find an investigation file from 1987 as soon as possible.
“No way,” bristled Kuzniecow, eating a teacake and blancmange. “There’s absolutely no bloody way.”
“Oleg, please.”
“Write a letter to the chief. You always were a pain in the arse, but in this inquiry you’ve surpassed yourself. Just you write down on a piece of paper everything you’ve demanded of me so far and you’ll see for yourself. There’s no way. Or submit an application to the City Police Headquarters archive. In three weeks it’ll all be ready. I’m not going to deal with that.”
Szack
i adjusted his shirt cuffs. He realized Kuzniecow was right. But instinct was telling him he should check it out as soon as possible.
“It’s the last time, I promise,” he said.
Kuzniecow shrugged.
“You’re lucky I’ve got a pal who just happens to work in the archive,” he muttered in the end.
Why doesn’t that surprise me? thought Szacki.
II
Janina Chorko was looking - luckily - as ugly as usual. This time she had skilfully emphasized her total lack of charm with the help of some black trousers ironed with a crease and a grey knitted top adorned with a monstrously large brooch made of leather. He could relax and look her in the eyes while they talked.
“Sometimes, Prosecutor,” she drawled impassively, looking at him like a bump in the wallpaper, “I get the impression that you in turn are under the impression that you enjoy some sort of special regard in my eyes. That is a mistaken impression.”
Szacki was happy. If she’d decided to be flirtatious again and given him a knowing look, he would have had to change jobs. What a relief.
“Wednesday,” he said.
“Why is that?” she asked.
“For several reasons…” he began, but paused, because a bleep sounded, indicating the arrival of a text message. He’d forgotten to silence his phone.
“Please check what it says. Maybe someone has confessed,” she grinned spitefully.
He read it. “I know this is stupid, but since yesterday I’ve got very fond of my new shoes. Guess why. Coffee? Mo.”
“Private,” he said, pretending not to notice the look on her face. “Firstly, I must have two more days to dig around in the Telak case, secondly, I must get ready for the Gliński trial, and thirdly, I’ve got a ton of paperwork.”
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