Polychrome (3 page)

They were friends. In spite of everything. Perhaps to spite
each other, or simply because of all this.
Bartol, taller by a head, was – apart from his ever more
nervous habit of raking his hair from temple to forehead –
rather calm in speech and manner. Slender. Angular. As if
entirely made up of hinges. His too-long arms dangled from
his shoulders, his thin legs were awkwardly connected to the
rest of his body, his knees were pointed. He didn’t sit and stand
but rather folded and unfolded.
Polek was corpulent and full of roundness. Round head,
round eyes, round back and belly, everything round, smoothly
flowing from one part of the body to another. Even when
gesticulating furiously, he would generally trace huge and small
circles with his hands – and he liked to reason with himself and
others even when he knew he was wrong; sometimes simply for
the sake of it. Just as he was quick to fume and rage when angry
so he would quickly simmer down, soften and forget what it
was all about. He said: ‘can do’ or ‘no way’. Nothing was ever
‘can do’ for Bartol; his mother, who taught Polish, saw to that.
Recently, however, they hadn’t talked to each other as much
or as often as before. Nor, for a month, had they gone for a beer.
It wasn’t really either Polek’s fault or his wife’s that the pleasant
weekend at the Agrotourism farm which they’d visited as a
foursome with his wife’s nice friend hadn’t turned out all that
well. Although it would certainly never be forgotten, and would
somehow have to be explained to the new human being who
had just then decided to exist.
It shouldn’t have been like that, perhaps, but something
unspoken, something like remorse on the one side and
reproach on the other, hung in the air.
Two more cars pulled up.
‘Who’s the bugle call for?’ asked Bartol presently.
‘I’ve no idea,’ replied Polek, finally giving up on his jacket.
‘Can’t suss it out, no way. Have a look for yourself. It’s a museum
in there with a still life at its centre. I’ve never seen anything
like it,’ he added.
Bartol had never heard of Polek ever visiting any museum
whatsoever, not even a wax museum. He’d no idea where the
comparison had come from. He wanted to ask but decided not
to and, unaccosted by anyone else, stepped inside.
Everything here was old and solid. The walls, the doors,
the furniture inside. The enormous, oval table, the chairs, the
escritoire were not like the antiques in the Stara Rzeźnia market
which he visited every other Saturday. They were identical to
the ones in the antique shops on Stary Rynek which he visited
only rarely, feeling like an intruder and knowing that nobody
was going to make him feel otherwise. That’s how he felt now.
In every room everything was in perfect order; it looked as
though everything had been in the same place for years.
The coloured porcelain parrot on the piano seemed to say:
‘I’ve been living in this place twice as long as you’ve existed, son.’
Bartol stopped himself from picking it up and checking where
it had been born; Meissen porcelain figurines from Miśnia
could cost thousands. He’d once discussed such figurines with
a shopkeeper for a good two hours. He’d never imagined he’d
be interested in porcelain birds but he was, very much so.
He smiled, thinking that – fortunately – he couldn’t afford
such a hobby. He wouldn’t have been able to invite the guys
around. As it was he had a lot of explaining to do regarding
his ballerina; the rare mechanism of the music box wasn’t a
convincing argument.
He continued to look around. He wasn’t in a hurry, knew
that the body was in some other room. The SOCO dispersed
in a spiral and were still far away, tracing an ever-wider circle
further and further from the corpse.
As he slowly made his way towards another room, his
attention was riveted by an inconspicuous round table. He’d
already seen one like it – in a terrible condition, admittedly,
but he’d still stared with disbelief at how smoothly the surface
had slid apart and the concealed legs parted in different
directions to form a long, exceptionally long table. He couldn’t
remember what tables like these were called but knew they
were extremely rare; the battered one had been too expensive
for him.
A glass vase containing long-dried stalks stood on the table.
He didn’t know much about flowers but once more had the
impression that he’d seen such colourful patches on the blue
glass of a jug somewhere in a book. A familiar voice tore him
from his thoughts.
‘Bit of a museum, eh? I’ve heard it’s your hobby, junk like
this. I’m taking shots of everything but if you want something
for your album, tell me. Have you seen the still life yet?’ It was
one of the technicians.
‘Not yet. What’s all this about a still life everyone's going
on about?’
‘I don’t know. That’s what somebody called it and it’s stuck. It
goes well with the client, go and look for yourself,’ he suggested
and went back to taking photographs.
Bartol knew the technician but couldn’t recall his name. He
had no memory for names – name days, birthdays and so on.
He decided to come back later. Perhaps he really was
taking too long looking around right now; everything simply
fascinated and interested him, not in the way it should.
He reached a room which might have been a study. Through
the half-opened door he saw an entire wall lined with yellowing
or gilded book spines – also old. Everything indicated that this
was where the drama had taken place.
After a while, he understood that the word ‘drama’ was
exceptionally apt in describing what he saw. He understood,
too, what everyone had had in mind.
On the floor lay the corpse of an elderly man. It was naked;
only the hips were girded with something like a narrow towel.
The towel wouldn’t have been strange had it not been for its red
colour, which contrasted dramatically with the grey, wrinkled
body. The position in which the man lay was also extremely
theatrical.
Bartol had the impression that a curtain would fall presently
and the play would come to an end. Nothing like that happened.
He continued staring at the naked body and thinking he’d not
seen anything like it before.
The right arm lay casually close to the body while the head
rested on the left hand; one leg was slightly bent, the other
straight. The face was peaceful, sleeping. The faint grimace
clashed with the blue groove around the neck, which should
have made the face look as though the man were experiencing
a nightmare, not an afternoon nap.
‘Have you ever seen a client so peaceful while being strangled?
‘Cos I haven’t!’ Polek stood leaning against the door frame, waiting,
as if indifferent, for an explanation of what he saw.
‘No. He didn’t fall asleep like that by himself,’ replied Bartol.
‘The cord must’ve been thick, like a piece of rope. Besides, he
might have died earlier from a heart attack or something, and
was strangled just to make sure he was dead or to make it look
like a finale.’
‘What finale?’ asked Polek, shifting from one foot to the
other.
‘A spectacular one.’ Bartol knew he was watching a
performance but didn’t know who it was for. One spectator,
the perpetrator, just them or the whole world? ‘We’ve received
an invitation,’ he said, shrugging.
‘What invitation are you going on about now?’
‘For the performance which has just started. Can’t you see?’
Polek didn’t know whether he saw or not; either way, he
didn’t like it.
And he was not the only one.

It was clear that the officers would, more than likely, not leave
before morning. The house must have been the smallest on the
street but still measured about two hundred cluttered square
metres. There was enough to do.

One man and hundreds of objects from his life, his parent’s
lives and probably the lives of his grandparents. A rarity in a
country torn by wars and a workers’ party. It aroused respect and
perhaps nostalgia for a world which was no more. Everybody
was strangely quiet, more focused than usual; perhaps because
shootings were rare where there was a museum and order; they
were far more frequent where there was a brothel and bedlam.

It was getting late, what was generally agreed to be late – as
always in winter. In summer 7pm was almost the middle of
the day, but not in January, when it had already been dark for
over three hours.

Briefing for the investigative team was set for eight in the
morning. Meanwhile, as much information as possible was to
be collected about the murdered man and neighbours were
to be questioned – they might have seen or heard something,
something could have drawn their attention. The usual stuff.

First of all, Bartol had to question the woman who’d called
the police. Before asking who she was, he’d imagined an elderly
woman who did the cleaning or shopping – that had seemed
the norm.

But, not for the first time that day, he was taken by surprise.
The police had been called by a female architect with an office
a couple of streets further down. And that was where she was
waiting to speak to him. She was a bit shaken and there was
no cause to take her to the police station, at least not that day.

He had no difficulty finding the office; it really was nearby.
Another beautiful villa, also old but in a different way.
The slick, sophisticated office of registered architects,
decked out with strangely suitable aluminium components,
was going through its second youth, fitting in with new times
and assignments. The sign informing that architectural
engineer Romana Zalewska worked here could not have been
smaller yet caught the eye.
From a distance, he saw a tall, slender woman open the gate
and door for him.
‘Good evening, I’m Romana Zalewska. You must be from the
police. It feels as though I’ve been waiting forever.’
‘Good evening. Maciej Bartol. I’m sorry. I came as soon as
I could.’
‘So I gather. I should be the one apologising. I’m a bit edgy. I
was just looking for some cigarettes, even though I don’t smoke.
Please come in. Would you like something to drink?’
‘Yes, coffee, if possible.’
‘Then please wait a moment.’
He sat on something which was neither an armchair nor a
chair and found it surprisingly comfortable if a little too low for
an official conversation. As usual, he didn’t know what to do with
his legs. Sliding them under the table, the way he liked, was out
of the question – the table was too low. He ran his fingers through
his hair; at least his hair remained neatly dishevelled.
He cast his eyes around. Everything was modern, mainly
grey and metallic; only one wall resembled a painting,
decorated with gold-red patterned wallpaper which seemed
as though it had been taken from the upholstery of palatial
furniture. Perhaps that was why the interior appeared to him
more feminine and friendly than all the other shades of grey
and aluminium which he’d recently come to expect in such
offices.
The architect fitted in with the place. Straight, narrow, black
jeans, a white shirt with a collar cut moderately low, promising
fine breasts; dark blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, a short
fringe. She could have been forty-five but he wasn’t sure; she
looked good, very good indeed.
When she’d brought the coffee and gone back for an ashtray
– because that must have been the only thing missing on the
table – he unwittingly followed her with his eyes to the door of
a kitchenette and gazed at the wall opposite. There hung a large
group photograph. He scarcely recognised her. It was difficult,
at first glance, to spot the resemblance between the shapely,
elegant and self-assured woman and the hunched, podgy girl
in awful glasses and overstretched brown-grey jumper.
He didn’t notice her come back. She, too, looked at the
photograph.
‘Youth and studying weren’t my best time,’ she said with
singular tolerance in her voice. ‘Oh well, the day must have
upset me. I don’t like talking about myself, let alone going back
to the past. I try to make sure I don’t have time. Your turn now.’
She broke off as quickly as she’d started.
‘You phoned the police, although I’ve been told you weren’t
professionally connected with Mr Antoniusz Mikulski nor were
you part of the family.’ He heard himself utter the murdered
man’s name for the first time.
‘I didn’t really know him. I called because there was a light
on in his study.’
‘Yes. I know. I also know you were very effective. It’s not every
day that a patrol car turns up because there’s a light on. Please
try to explain calmly everything in as much detail as possible.
Do you have time?’
‘I do now.’
‘So we don’t have to hurry. Good. From the beginning,
please.’
‘More or less thirteen years ago, fortunately after my
divorce – because it wouldn’t have been so simple otherwise
– I managed to sell the piece of land I’d inherited from my
parents.’
Bartol put away his ballpoint pen; he hadn’t expected quite
such a long story. He took a sip of coffee. It was better than he’d
expected.
‘I got a hefty sum of money quite unexpectedly – they’ve
built a parking lot for a large supermarket on the piece of land.
I decided to buy a house. It was completely unlike me to arrive
at somebody’s house asking them if they’d like to sell. But, I
don’t know, it was one of those days, one of those moments,
maybe someone had egged me on, I can’t remember. What I
do remember, is ringing the doorbell of the house. Mrs Aurelia
Mikulska appeared in the window, quickly opened it and
asked: ‘How can I help you, child?’ You know, she was – how
can I put it… the perfect picture of an elderly lady, like those
you see in pre-war films, as if from another world. Her voice,
attitude, dress, calm and some sort of warmth, her silver curls
– everything was perfect.’
Bartol caught himself thinking the same thing about the
woman sitting opposite – she had matured with perfection.
Looking furtively, he caught sight of a white lace bra-strap and
took a snapshot in his mind; the strap lay attractively against
the faint tan of her skin. He could almost imagine the rest.
‘I drank tea from an old porcelain cup, learned that neither
that house nor any other in the street was for sale but enjoyed
myself anyway. When it grew late I decided to say goodbye.
She then asked me to wait another fifteen minutes, because
at precisely seven o’clock her husband would emerge from
his study and be curious to know who’d come to visit them.
I was surprised because for a good hour I had had no idea
that anybody else was there apart from her. It was so quiet. I
discovered later that it was always like this. Between six and
seven in the evening Mr Mikulski worked in his study, writing
or reading, so I gathered. He was a restorer of monuments,
buildings, or something like that as far as I remember. It was
exactly as she said: at seven o’clock Mr Mikulski emerged,
greeted me and went to the kitchen. I was afraid he’d be
wanting his supper – at a quarter past seven, for example – so
I quickly took my leave. I went there once or twice after that’
– she grew pensive – ‘but I never saw Mr Mikulski again. Not
long afterwards I bought my house. And I’ve also acquired a
certain habit. I always, or almost always, drive down Góralska
Street on my way to work and back. It’s a bit of a roundabout
way but I always have the feeling that something separates me
from the city, a private corridor.’
She paused for a moment and lit a cigarette. Very awkwardly.
He let her continue without losing her flow. He realised
that the story was a necessary part of the whole, that it was
the construction on which rested a rational explanation. He
was talking to an architect, after all, and not some gossiping
neighbour.
‘I always smoke when I’m nervous. I don’t even know how
to inhale but it does help a bit. A habit acquired during exams.
As I was saying, when I pass the house in the evenings I always
look up at the window – by force of habit. For thirteen years the
ritual repeated itself. On the dot of seven the light went out –
sometimes… this might sound silly, but I can’ – she shuddered
–‘sorry, I could stop at three minutes to seven to wait and watch.
His desk lamp would be on even in the summer when it was
overcast and it, too, would be turned off on the dot.’
Again she paused a while.
‘I had a terrible day yesterday. A construction project
was turned down for no reason at all. It can still be salvaged
because the conditions of construction are vague, as is their
interpretation, but still, the time, nerves and so on. I left the
office and took the same way home as usual. I was sure it was
half past seven. I gathered, when at home – by some programme
on TV – that it was well past nine. I had no idea where the hour
had gone. It preyed on my mind a bit but I was already quite
exhausted and didn’t want to think. In the morning, I visited a
construction site with a client and took the usual route to the
office. I was alone in the office at about four drinking coffee,
and have no idea why it occurred to me that the light had been
on and that was why the previous evening I’d thought it wasn’t
even seven. I hadn’t realised that, subconsciously, I regulated
my daily rhythm according to the window. But that wasn’t the
worst of it. I realised after a while that something must have
happened; I was convinced of it. Mrs Mikulska died some two
years ago. Mr Mikulski was completely alone and could have
needed help and, above all, could have needed it yesterday. I
got to the house as quickly as I could. And had another shock,
the light was off but so what? It was a quarter past four. I rang
the bell. I hadn’t even thought of what I’d say if he'd opened.
‘Mr Mikulski, why aren’t you working in your study?’ But
nobody opened anyway. I was sure something wasn’t right. I
was made to believe I was wrong for too many years, and have
grown sensitive. If I’m convinced about something, I fight for
it – in both my private and professional life. Which is why I
didn’t let some duty officer brush me aside. I wasn’t worried
about making a fool of myself. I’m not scared of looking foolish
anymore either. And there it is, the whole story. You know the
rest better than I do. Would you like something else to drink?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘I’m just going to get some water. All these nerves and too
many words perhaps. I’m sorry.’
Thoughts ran through Bartol’s mind. He knew it would be
easy to check whether Antoniusz Mikulski’s world really had
been ordered in this way, but to find out who had destroyed it
would be far harder. It didn’t look like a coincidence.
He heard a glass shatter in the kitchen.
‘Just one more question. Did you see anything strange in
front of the house? Somebody lurking and watching you ring
the doorbell?’ he immediately began as soon as she returned.
‘No, nothing strange apart from the light being on and off.’
‘Please try to remember as many details as possible by
tomorrow. Maybe you saw something suspicious earlier on,
as you drove past. Please don’t hurry to answer now. We’ll wait
until tomorrow.’
‘You can be sure that if I saw anything it’ll come to me. My
whole life is made up of details. That must be my curse. What
does anyone want to stare at a window for?’
He wasn’t sure whether the two thick wrinkles on her
forehead appeared only then as, lost in thought, she pulled
back her hair, or had been there all along.
He said goodbye and left.
For a while, he stood by his car. It was already late,
exceptionally quiet and somehow uncanny. There were
practically no lights on anywhere as though no-one lived here,
as though the city were somewhere else.
The enormous trees had grown grimmer. There was no
wind, the trees didn’t want to talk.
they vIsIt the cemetery
as though it were a café; somebody
ought to install a vending machine with cakes and tea, the man
in the strange glasses thought with disgust.
The smile was long to disappear from his face, slowly, almost
naturally. The old woman had turned away a long time ago.
Impatient people, who had practically mastered the art
of smiling and achieved a level of near sincerity, yet didn’t
have the time or intelligence to round it off with precision,
amazed him. He loathed botched work. When he invited a
smile to his face, he didn’t allow it to leave for a long time.
Well practised.
He looked after his cheerful expression like other people
look after their teeth – systematically and to the point of
boredom. He practised and trained it; he didn’t want to give
time a free hand – it could have revealed too much, hampered.
He neither wanted to nor could trust his genes. So he laughed
often and easily. In women’s eyes – disarmingly.
His well-exercised facial muscles gave a fine performance,
sculpting friendly wrinkles, radiantly turning down the corners
of squinting eyes and catching parted lips in funny brackets.
He presented this trained smile as easily and readily as
young body-builders their freshly pumped muscles.
He cast his eyes around again. Soon there’d be nobody; it
was starting to grow dark. The woman who’d accosted him
belonged to the brave anyway; dusk chased old women away.
Now the candles burned only for ghosts.
For a moment longer, he allowed his thoughts to run in
disparate directions as he looked around, soaking up the
darkness and silence, feasting his eyes on the incongruous
scenery.
He gazed at the joyful flicker of votive flames, comically
reined into kitschy forms – in memory.
Aesthetics of the living in honour of the dead. All this
repulsed him.
Stone and flowers torn from the earth, cut and decorated –
with an aim incomprehensible to them – into shameful shapes.
He looked up. Only the huge trees, swaying in the wind,
lived their own life without looking down. They’ve got time,
he thought, and one day they’ll cover and bury all this. They’ll
steal the light from the yews watching over the graves, planted
to dispassionately measure out pain.
The taller the yews, the less the pain.
He didn’t intend to wait until time brought relief. He wasn’t
going to let it flow smoothly, wasn’t going to mute anxiety with
daily life. He’d already tried.
Makeshift solutions – anxiety had to be killed. A fractured
soul couldn’t be plastered over with appearances, couldn’t be
decorated with frilly accessories like a Christmas tree in order
to make it colourful, make it glitter with shiny lights and hide
it as it slowly dies in a pleasant atmosphere.
Once he’d suffocated, now he breathed freely; once he’d
deceived himself, now he deceived only others. When he needed
them. When he pulled the strings of people seemingly alive
yet as dead as puppets. When, just like a whore or politician,
he told them exactly what they wanted to hear in order for
their wooden souls to come alive momentarily, irrigated by
the illusion of understanding, empathy and other nonsense.
Only weak people allow themselves to be so deceived.
I know how much it hurts; I know what a great loss it must
be; I know how you’re feeling; I know what it’s like; I know how
awful it is. I’m very sorry. It shouldn’t happen, it shouldn’t have
happened.
Little ditties.
He looked around a while longer and unintentionally read
the epitaph on the grave nearby:
How can we live without you,
it hurts so much