Polychrome (9 page)

At first, there wasn’t any sense in styling her hair, then shaving
her legs, then getting out of bed.
It looked
as though April had decided not to fool around
that year by offering both summer and winter; nor, as if to
spite its place in the calendar, did it intend to blossom. There
was neither sun nor snow; it was neither hot nor cold;
nevertheless, everyone grumbled as usual – because it rained
and the wind blew. Because there was no heatwave, because
there was no frost, because it was nondescript and that wasn’t
good either.

‘It can’t go on like this. It’s got to come to an end at some stage,’
Maciej Bartol repeated on his way to his mother’s house, a little
unwittingly and a little senselessly yet over and over again. As
if such talk could help. Besides, he was constantly saying and
doing senseless things of late. He was sure of it, and not only
because that was what his own mother maintained.

Four months ago, he’d informed her that she was going to
be a grandmother. He even remembered it had all gone pretty
smoothly. He’d deluded himself that it was going to be the same
as always, like when he was at school; she’d whinge a little then
hug him like a son, like her child.

Not at all slowly, not at all smoothly, not at all so he could
grow accustomed to it, he started to play second fiddle.
He felt like a sad circus clown who has to appear in the
interlude because such were the rules of the show, because
he acted as background to the real
artistes
; and sad, well, that
was just the make-up he wore, the part he was playing; deep
down inside, after all, he was very happy – the show was so
beautiful, such wonderful things were happening in that
pregnant belly.
He couldn’t understand it all. Once, she’d always – but
always – been on his side, even up against the whole world.
Once they’d been able to talk until the early hours of the
morning like friends, about almost everything. And now?
Right from the start, from their first meeting as a threesome,
it was as though she’d ceased to understand him, as though
she stood against him, had gone over to the side of the enemy.
When he argued, for example, that he hadn’t expected she’d
be such a wonderful mother-in-law, she responded with the
avalanche that unfortunately she didn’t have the chance to
experience being a mother-in-law – which was a great pity –
but fortunately she’d see what it was like to be a grandmother.
And these were two different matters, as if he didn’t know.
To his timid statement that perhaps the child hadn’t been an
accident, perhaps this was a way to get some sympathy, after all
she so loathed manipulation – always spoke to the point, face
to face – she said there was nothing to talk about, what had
happened had happened, maybe there weren’t any accidents
and, as it was, he ought to be pleased someone wanted to
replicate his genes although if truth be told, if she were the
girl she’d think twice about those genes, of course.
And so on and so on.
He couldn’t understand this convoluted logic. It was as
though women’s logic was founded on an entirely different
premise, on a theory of chaos unknown to him where only
women could find their way, instinctively, without difficulty,
with a mutual understanding of the twisted rules.
The culminating point came when both women pressed
the ultrasound photograph on him.
Black and white dots on a slip of paper with the question:
isn’t it beautiful? Isn’t it touching?
Absolutely wonderful, absolutely beautiful, he almost saw
its teeth. He was a step away from disaster, from exploding.
Luckily, this ended with nothing more than an idiotic
expression on his face. Besides, they weren’t looking at him;
he’d understand it all later, apparently.
All he understood was that a month was not ‘later’. Another
miracle: black and white dots on film, similar in content, except
that it was easier for him to assume an idiotic expression; it was
slowly growing on him.
Now another outrage which couldn’t be delayed lay in wait
– after which he’d no doubt suffer again. And right from the
morning at that, when he’d wake up thirsty and hungover, his
head abused with the drunken search for an answer to the
question – when was this finally going to end?
Very slowly he walked up the stairs, cast his eyes around,
noticed that the neighbour had changed his front door,
studied it for a while but still arrived at his destination. He
rang and opened the door; he had a key. At the threshold,
he decided to take a defensive stance in the face of… in the
face of he knew not what, nor did he expect anything good,
not these days.
‘Hello mum. I got soaked. I’m sure I’ll catch a cold,’ he said,
coughing and sniffling. As he pulled off his damp jacket he
recalled a time when something like this had always done the
trick, had set the kettle boiling for hot tea, a blanket ready, and
a warm word.
‘All right, I’ll make you some tea but first sit down. We’ve
got to talk seriously.’
The tone of her voice indicated that those times had come
to an end.
‘All right, but I’m in a hurry.’ He thought that maybe this
would work.
‘Then pretend you’re not. I’ve come to the conclusion that I
have to talk to you. She doesn’t want to ask you but I think you
ought to be at the delivery, no two ways about it!’ she said in a
determined, raised voice.
‘If there are no two ways about it then why are you talking
to me?’ Bartol thought he was either really coming down with
the flu or just shaking all over as if he’d never stop. He’d never
even taken anything like this into consideration. ‘Come on, I
thought that watching the 3D ultrasound scan was the worst
of it but no, you’ve got more goodies up your sleeve. How on
earth do you imagine it all?’
‘How do I imagine it? I imagine it quite naturally. You’ve
no problem examining corpses ripped apart with their guts
hanging out but you’re scared of birth?’
‘Mum, it’s not a question of being scared!’
‘Then what is it a question of? An allergy to life? Is it so
hard for you to welcome your son into the world?’ she said in
an offended tone, knowing she’d now pinned him down.
‘What? You already know it’s a boy?’ Bartol asked, collapsing
into a chair, utterly stunned. It wasn’t even the fact that it was a
boy; this something was slowly losing its impersonality. First, it
had started to move and now it had decided to have a gender. It
was too much information in one go; hard to evaluate.
‘We went to the doctor’s today, who said he thought he saw
something dangling there so it’s probably going to be a boy.
I’m pleased – I’ve obviously not had much success with you,
so now I’ll really apply myself. I’d no idea you were such an
emotionally neglected child.’
‘Mum, I’m pleased, too, and I had no idea either, but say
what’s on your mind - clearly, so that somebody like your
failure of a son can easily understand.’
‘I want you to be present at the birth. Which part of what
I’m saying don’t you understand?’
‘Why is it so important to you?’
‘Because I know it is for her, too. Because I remember how
frightened I was, how much I wanted your father to be with me.
But times were different then. They weren’t that willing to let
fathers into the hospital. So I’d prefer you to be with her, just
in case something happens, or simply to be there. It’s always a
bit easier when one’s not alone at difficult moments like these.
She’s terribly frightened. Is it so hard for you to imagine?’ She
ended her reasoning in a completely different tone of voice,
calm, muted, a little sad, as if she no longer expected an answer.
‘All right, I’ll be there if you like.’ There was no point in
fighting.
‘Good, that’s good. But I want you to be the one who wants
to be there.’
He decided he would never, but absolutely never, try to
understand women, including Our Lady. It wasn’t enough
that he’d agreed; he now had to believe that he’d thought of it
himself – as usual.
‘Couldn’t you have said this normally right from the start,
and not begun almost screaming and all that?’
‘I could, but why should I when this tactic proves so
extremely effective? To be honest, I thought it would be harder.
I’ll keep some of the arguments I didn’t use for later. Besides,
I’ve already told her that of course you’ll be there. Because I
think you’ve been well brought up, although sometimes there’s
room for doubt. I’ve got a delicious cheesecake. Get changed,
you’re completely soaked. Some of your old clothes are still
there in the wardrobe.’
She said this on her way to the kitchen so he didn’t see her
face, but even her gait indicated she was laughing, triumphantly.
He almost heard it.
He decided to eat something proper as well, seeing as he
was there. He knew she wasn’t going to harass him anymore; it
looked as though she’d won everything she’d wanted that day.
Luckily, she wasn’t in the habit of returning to something once
it had been dealt with.
‘Have you got something more substantial, mum? I’m a bit
hungry.’
‘Of course, I do. I’ve made some
gołąbki
for you, just like
you like them – buckwheat and lots of cabbage. I’ll just heat
them up.’
Everything had been prepared, with a number of variations.
If that hadn’t worked - then calmly and gently, and appetizingly.
Was it possible to stand up against this? So what if it would have
taken longer, if he’d resisted longer, explained his reasons, only
to fall in uneven battle crushed by the force of arguments all
leading to the same conclusion – that he was merely a man,
unable to understand higher matters?
It crossed his mind that there should be more women in the
police force, special units which could pacify in various ways.
He couldn’t remember whether there was any vodka left in his
apartment but decided not to take the risk and drop into the
night shop. He was sure it was going to hurt; he was going to
get drunk alone – yet again. He didn’t look or wait for anyone
who could understand him. Things would, after all, work out
somehow; after all, he was going to have a son – admittedly with
no tree and no house. But he’d started somewhere.
He’d almost begun to feel sorry for himself when his
work mobile resounded with the cabaret ringtone he thought
suitable for the occasion, as though it, too, were mocking him.
It was Lentz. Bartol couldn’t help but feel that something
was being repeated, and a moment later knew why.
‘Hi, where are you?’
‘Ogrody. Has something happened?’
‘I heard you’re getting ready for some leave. Don’t, if you
can help it. We’ve had a murder in Mościnno, twenty-five
kilometres from Poznań. You take a left somewhere halfway to
Buk, so the local police tell me. They said it’s all very strange. A
quiet, single man, strangled. No signs of a break-in or burglary,
he’s just – peacefully dead. You know what it reminds me of?’
‘I can guess. No point deliberating. I’ll be there in about
forty minutes all going well. Are the rest there?’
‘They’re just being notified, I think you’re the first. I’ll see
you then, bye.’
‘Bye.’
This time he wasn’t very happy with the timing; five minutes
later and he’d have eaten in peace. The familiar aroma of
gołąbki
was wafting through the air. A couple of years ago, he wouldn’t
have waited but now he thought pragmatically – a moment
wouldn’t change anything. He had to eat anyway.
‘I’m in a terrible hurry, mum, so if you could…’
‘I didn’t expect otherwise. You can come now,’ she called
from the kitchen.
‘I’ll eat and run. I’ve got to go.’
‘But of course!’
‘Mum…’
‘It’s all right now. I wasn’t intending to persuade you to do
anything else today anyway, although there are still a couple
of things we need to talk about.’
‘This time I didn’t expect otherwise. Can’t you tell me
everything in one go or write it down on a piece of paper so
I’ve got time to prepare myself, get everything in order?’
‘What on earth? Do you think I bought you in a shop or
something? With ready instructions? Like a washing-machine
– if I read them I’ll know straight away that if the machine
doesn’t work it means it’s not plugged in. I heard you’re in a
hurry, so eat or it’ll get cold.’
He said no more and started to eat. Despite his hurry he
tried to cut and separate the food carefully so that every morsel
was perfect – the cabbage separate, the stuffing separate. She
watched him. She’d stopped fighting long ago. Obviously that’s
how it had to be: she’d take an hour wrapping everything only
for him to unwrap it all on his plate. Like a little boy.
The
gołąbki
were the same as ever; they carried the unique
taste of security and well-being and despite the irregular
circumstances, despite the constant squabbles recently, tasted
the same – of peace, constancy, home and something else
which couldn’t be put into words.
He ate and stopped being angry at his mother as he watched
her sulk, worry and wash the dishes. He shuddered as a
thought occurred from nowhere: one day it might no longer
be like this; along with her would disappear this one and only,
unrepeatable, best combination in the world – cabbage, meat,
buckwheat, spices and conversation, arguments – which, after
every bite, after every word, spread certainty through his entire
body that she was the only one who accepted everything he
brought her, who loved him whatever happened although
sometimes in her own way; who was always there for him. The
very essence of being present.
There must have been an odd expression on his face because
she was gazing at him with a faintly indulgent smile and said, as
though to a slightly thick but conscientious pupil: ‘Don’t look
so worried, it’s not that terrible.’
‘What are you talking about, mum?’ he asked, a little edgy
now.
‘I thought you were worrying about the birth, but what’s
on your mind?’
‘I’ve got to fly.’ He walked up to her, kissed her on the cheek
and added: ‘I love you so much.’
Now she was the one with an odd expression.
‘What’s happened to you?’
‘Nothing, I just wanted you to know. I’ll call tomorrow, bye.’
He swiftly slipped on his jacket and ran out of the
apartment leaving his mother with a slightly worried look
on her face. One might have thought she was analysing an
opponent’s move in chess, wondering whether the latter had,
indeed, done something peculiar or whether the strategy was
premeditated.
She’d been playing this game for the past thirty-odd years.