Polychrome (19 page)

‘I can’t promise anything.’
‘Nor do I ask you to promise anything. Just give me some
time to get used to the situation, that’s all. I’ve been planning a
wedding, not a funeral.’ He didn’t wait for a reply only walked
to the door.
Bartol took his leave. He was already on the ground floor
when a girl, stiletto heels clattering and jewellery clanking,
passed him. She could barely raise her eyelids, heavy with
make-up, to throw him an uninterested glance. All her attention
was focused on a fingernail, glittering with sequins, which
apparently wasn’t glittery enough. It occurred to him that this
had to be Pilski’s fiancée who, at the last moment, had resisted
climbing in through the window. She looked the part.
Right in front of the stairwell he saw a Mercedes parked
haphazardly. The passenger – bored, clicking similar fingernails
and wearing a similar cowboy jacket – was a woman resembling
the younger one but some decades older and, doubtless for
that reason, her glitter sparkled all the more against an even
deeper tan.
Bartol was more than horrified.
AprIl dIdN’t fool ArouNd
; it wasn’t fine and didn’t stand out in
any way. May, on the other hand, right from the very start tried hard
not to leave newspaper headlines or television news. Everything
was extreme, was the most… since records began, and even the
oldest highlanders couldn’t remember such temperatures, such
downpours, such gales. Several places experienced tornadoes,
cloudbursts, ground frost and heatwaves. Nature tried not to take
too much notice and within a week everything that could flower
and turn green was covered with flowers and leaves.
It was no different, it was the same in Maciej Bartol’s life.
His girlfriend ended up in hospital. The pregnancy was not
as greatly threatened as had initially appeared but, in keeping
with May’s logic, the light summer rain turned into a storm of
hail and thunder.
He didn’t visit her on the first day, only phoned saying that if
there was no need that day he’d come the next since they had a
lot of work. She believed him. Polek’s wife helped him out – oh,
wonder of wonders – by having already mentioned that the men
were working hard on something, that her husband was coming
home late and hardly sleeping. Bartol wasn’t coming home later
than usual, but didn’t mention that. Seemingly justified, he went
to the hospital two days later and brought some flowers. He didn’t
quite know how to behave. He tried to be calm and matter-of-fact;
said that her health was the most important thing and that all the
rest… he stammered – the rest didn’t count.
And it was this ‘rest’ that caused the trouble. One stupid
word. The girl started sobbing hysterically; it was impossible
to calm her down. The women in the neighbouring beds,
who’d previously stroked their bellies gently so as not to move
unnecessarily, now looked as if they wanted to get up, crush
him to the ground and suffocate him under their weight. A
nurse ran into the ward, didn’t ask anything, cast her eyes
around and, reflecting the looks of the other women like a
mirror, turned him out.
His mother wasn’t phoning so he gathered she must have
heard something already. He called first. She picked up and
nothing – silence. When he asked why she wasn’t saying
anything she finally replied that a pause in music was also a
sound and very expressive at that. When he asked what it was
she wanted to express, he was told that she was speechless.
She hung up.
Usually – even though he hadn’t done anything wrong,
hadn’t any bad intentions, had just uttered ordinary words
which somehow had been misinterpreted – he would have
tormented himself from morning to night. Usually, but not
now, not now that the cherry trees on the terrace among the
tenement roofs were covered in pink blossom.
He saw these trees almost every evening and, more and
more frequently, in the mornings, too. The first time was on
her birthday. They’d been alone. He’d given her one of his
treasures: an old music-box with a ballerina. He’d found it hard
to part with; he’d feared she wouldn’t appreciate it.
She did appreciate it; and he didn’t regret it. Didn’t regret it
at all. He wound the ballerina up many a time.
He never came across the muscular boy again. They never
talked about him, nor did she mention her former relationships;
perhaps only once when she said she didn’t want to commit
herself because she’d made a long-term investment with a high
risk factor in the past and the risk hadn’t paid off. She didn’t
ask about his life. Which suited him.
Whether he needed to or not, he visited her. They analysed
every detail and every sentence on both the pages marked by
a ribbon in the Bible on which murdered Jan Maria Gawlicki’s
hand had rested. The pages contained two chapters from the
Book of Wisdom. Everything could apply to anything, everyone
and every situation: nothing but wisdom. There was also a
paper bookmark with the words
Credo in unum Deum.
A tossup according to Magda. The words of the Apostles’ Creed had
been mandatory since 381 AD, a little too long for them to be
popular. On the other hand, if they took it that everything in
Antoniusz Mikulski’s case had referred to Hope in some strange
way, and in Gawlicki’s case everything referred to Faith, then
it might fit.
He’d also gone to Gawlicki’s funeral. Unlike Mikulski’s
funeral, this occasion had gathered a crowd, but the effect was
similar, meaning non-existent.
Neither Gawlicki’s sister nor his nephew had attended. Bartol
had seen Pilski a couple of times since then and spoken to him,
but he hadn’t asked why neither he nor his mother had been
present. Nor did he ask why, in fact, Pilski was getting married.
Nor did he manage to question Mrs Ogrodniczak, the
chairman and sole shareholder of the Elizabeth Garden
Fun Factory Company. For the past two weeks she’d been
staying at a health clinic and it wasn’t her custom to inform
her employees of when she’d return; they expected her at any
moment. Bartol also waited; he didn’t want to scare her away
with a sudden summons. He knew she’d left the country and
hadn’t yet returned.
He felt he was running around in circles again – during the
day. In the evenings, on the other hand, everything spun all the
faster – and it spun pink.

elżbIetA ogrodNIczAk
didn’t even try to fall asleep; she never
could in planes. She kept touching her face, avoiding her still
painful lips. She felt she wouldn’t be able to laugh for a long
time. It didn’t bother her much. She rarely laughed.

Polek’s wife was pleased he wasn’t home. She waited for her
daughter to fall asleep then started packing. She didn’t have to
explain to anyone why she was taking stiletto heels and a pair
of practically invisible, golden thongs she’d carefully hidden
earlier, to a three day training conference. She smiled at the
panties and blushed again, as she had when buying them.

The girl stared at the child she was feeding and didn’t feel
anything, not even that she was feeding. She was sure that the
following morning the doctor would come and say, just like
her head of department had once done:,‘You’re not competent
enough’. Maybe she’d even ask: ‘To do what?’ And he’d reply:
‘To be a mother’. And this time, too, she’d agree; this time, too,
she wouldn’t even cry.

A truly pissed occupant on the top floor of the tenement in
Wilga had smoked almost a whole cigarette before noticing
the couple kissing on the terrace. The view was obscured by
branches, those of a cherry tree. He pondered a long while over
how they’d managed to carry such large trees to the roof before
he returned to his room and beat his own woman, out of sheer
bitterness that things hadn’t turned out as well between them.

Melka’s night shift began unusually. First the man with strange
glasses had appeared uninterested, then paid up front, and now
he was kissing her all over for at least ten minutes. Somehow
she felt ill at ease; her boyfriend, after all, was downstairs in
the hotel bar. Finally, she asked the man to stop; he laughed
scornfully and finished off like an ordinary client.

Krzysztof Bolko, the regional leader of a neither poor nor rich
area near Szczecin, lay in bed waiting patiently for sleep to
come. The room seemed unbearably stuffy and too bright
for the middle of the night. He could have got up, opened
the window and pulled the curtains to, but he didn’t. He kept
closing his eyes only to instantly open them again. He knew
that, in the end, he’d have to turn over on his other side and
part from the drowsy and soothing wall. Sometimes it worked.
A bit on his back, a bit on his other side, then turned to the
wall again. Sometimes, but not this time. His wife performed
the manoeuvre almost at the same time. They’d have nearly
collided had the duvet, which she’d unknowingly thrown to
his side, not absorbed the undesired blow. For a while, he
stared at her with what could have been disgust or perhaps
boredom. Her nightdress, exceptionally short because of the
heatwave, had ridden up to her neck, revealing enormous white
knickers. Not for the first time did he have the impression that
he was looking at gigantic rings of over-pickled white sausage,
produced by a drunken butcher. He’d have swiftly turned over
again if it weren’t for the malicious satisfaction with which
he watched two persistent flies which – chased away by the
nervous twitches of the slumbering body – stubbornly kept
landing on it again.

‘So she didn’t manage to wipe them all out,’ he muttered to
himself, smiling a touch scornfully at the recollection of how
she’d raged with the fly swatter, swiping the flies just when the
sports news was on, probably so that they wouldn’t distract her
by sitting on the television during the serial which followed
the news. The loud slap of a hand trying, in sleep, to kill yet
another fly which obstinately kept sitting on his wife’s cheek
woke him up completely.

He got up, made energetically for the kitchen then slowed
his pace midway. He’d just remembered that the fridge was
going through yet another family diet, grapefruit this time.
He didn’t even approach the fridge to check what else was
there; he’d bought five kilos of grapefruits that day himself,
so what else could there be? He went instead to his bag which
lay by the armchair; there were some chocolate bars in the
bag, slightly melted, but they were there. He ate all five.
He laughed heartily to himself; one for every kilo of the nasty
bitter stuff.

He adored such moments when he felt he’d outsmarted
somebody or something. And maybe this hadn’t been his
only success that day, he thought, as he remembered the very
promising applicant. Complaints all day long then, towards the
end, a request concerning land available for development. And
on behalf of Mrs Garden. He’d never have thought that she was
so forgiving. Up until then he had, in fact, been frightened of
her. He’d won the last elections loudly fulminating against the
previous regional leader for having agreed to the construction of
a warehouse with all that filth, when it was still in construction.
Initially, he’d pretended to a certain degree that he was trying
to prevent it. The councillors, as usual, couldn’t do anything
but helplessly counsel, whereas he’d been vociferous while
doing nothing in the hope of the case petering out in time. And
it had. A beautiful complex had appeared, beautiful profits
from property tax – the largest in the district, employment and
salaries for a large number of people – also the highest in the
region. Somehow it had all turned out. He was just as quick to
explain to himself where the friendly attitude of such a woman
could have come from; big money and serious people weren’t
as petty as the riff-raff. He thought the same of himself even
though he hadn’t spoken to his neighbour for ten years because
the latter had sold him an allegedly good car; but that was an
entirely different matter.

He’d been slightly terrified when first talking to the man.
The man had been a bit strange, wore strange glasses, and a
not particularly masculine little heart hung at his neck. Bolko
must have broken into a sweat when he heard the client ask
about land for an enormous toy warehouse. He was afraid
to even think what sort of toys the man had in mind but the
latter, sensing his unease, had smiled warmly and jokingly set
things straight by saying he meant ordinary toys for children,
teddy bears, board games and so on. They’d both laughed. The
atmosphere had relaxed considerably. To such an extent that
he’d very willingly offered to deliver the gift to Mrs Elżbieta –
who’d just left the country – in person. So the man wouldn’t
have to visit her company again, seeing as he was so busy.
Krzysztof Bolko didn’t generally do people favours but this
applicant had been so polite, so promising for the region’s
future and for him, that he hadn’t been able to refuse. Nor
was a personal visit to Mrs Garden without significance. With
a present from a friend whom she’d recommended, he could
even phone her at home and arrange to meet for coffee, or
perhaps even something else.

‘Oh, that woman is certainly elegant and must surely know
something about her kind of trade,’ he laughed lewdly at his
own thoughts.

He went back to bed and fell asleep with a smile.
mAcIej bArtol
had been pacing the room for an hour. Now
he stood at the door, listening for footsteps on the stairs. He
knew the unique rhythmic clatter of heels, knew it since birth,
and was simply scared. All day long he’d devised complicated
escape plans, realising they were absolutely senseless. In the
morning, not only the day had attacked him with its brightness
and his lack of sleep. Not only had the alarm rung, but his
mother, too… had rung.

Just so, as it were. They’d been intending to go together to
visit his daughter and her granddaughter anyway; his mother
couldn’t get over the joy of it being a girl because that was, as
if, better than a grandson. He’d left a message in the evening,
explaining why he hadn’t been able to visit the previous day,
but had the odd impression that she hadn’t listened to what
he’d said or, what was worse, had listened to it but in her
own way. She’d said, almost calmly, that she’d first drop in
on him then later they’d go to the hospital together. It wasn’t
until he’d simply asked why, seeing as the hospital was closer
to where she lived, that all hell had broken loose. She’d replied
in an entirely different tone of voice, saying she was just in the
right mood to discuss the city’s topography. And that even if
corpses lay strewn in a row all the way along Święty Marcin
Street from Kaponier Roundabout to Stary Rynek, he was to
be at home.