Polychrome (24 page)

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 was 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.

‘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.’
‘Were you smuggling drugs?’ continued Lentz.
‘Why smuggle when you can buy them anywhere?’ he
replied, amused and rocking away on his chair. ‘If I happened to
want to make some money today I’d more than likely speculate
in the price of rice by the ton, not powder by the kilo. It’s more
profitable. I was simply flying in from Colombia, a hospitable
country where they offer you the best of what they’ve got.
Besides, I think the hospitality’s still got a grip on me. The rest
must have stuck to my clothes and that’s what the dog smelt,
but since there were only traces there was only enough to hold
me for twenty-four hours, so I didn’t get to see much. Whereas
I’m curious as to how long I’m going to be entertained here.’
‘Is Antoniusz Mikulski your father?’ Lentz posed another
question.
Bartol couldn’t remember ever having been so disorientated.
Unless this comedian was an actor, and a relatively good one,
he couldn’t be the person they were looking for. The palm trees
on the man’s shirt undulated with the chair.
‘Antoniusz? In a way, yes. He took me in; the kind benefactor.
But I don’t have any respect for him even though he’s dead,
irrespective of how he died. He didn’t even deign to tell me
about Aurelia’s death and I practically thought of her like a
mother. And now I’ve seen he’s got rid of everything from the
house which could have been associated with me. Nice, don’t
you think?’
‘Did you come across a sealed door by any chance?’
‘I did indeed, and an unsealed window vent which I’d used
ever since I was little. Apparently some lawyers were looking
for me, but after the way he disrespected me it’s hard to believe
he left the house to me. I just wanted to go in and walk around
a bit. After all, I did live there for fifteen years.’
‘I don’t know much about law, but since Mr Mikulski
invalidated his earlier will, the house belongs to you. Did you
know that?’ asked Lentz.
‘So that’s your game.’ He grinned broadly and blew a bubble
with his gum. When it burst, he added: ‘No, I’m not the one who
treated him to such an original parting. I was in South America
all of last year. A great change after Asia, I assure you. So much
for my alibi. As for the motive… I didn’t like him much, true
enough, and where money’s concerned the dollar’s been pretty
low lately but not low enough to worry me. I’ll have enough to
pay for the promotion of my jail guide.’ He’d grinned all along
but now started laughing to himself. ‘What do you think, what
would I have to do to get twenty-four hours in a Czech jail? I’ll
probably start there, I fancy a beer.’
‘I don’t know. You’ll think of something,’ replied Lentz, also
laughing. ‘Do you know Edmund Wieczorek?’ he asked with a
secretive expression.
‘I don’t think so but hold on, hold on, wasn’t that the name
of our postman? I liked him.’
‘No doubt. You can ask him, he’s got a lot of good ideas.’
‘So the old fellow's still alive?’
‘He is, and occasionally doesn’t know what to do with his
time either. You’ll get to like each other again.’
Lentz was clearly enjoying the conversation, Bartol quite
the opposite. For ten minutes he’d thought he was done with
the case, but only for ten minutes. Now he just wanted to hear
anything, anything that would get him out of the place where
he was stuck. Nothing came to him so he merely asked ’Did
you ever get lost in Gniezno Cathedral?’
‘No, not me. I was careful; after all, that house was better than
the orphanage.’ His laugh, this time, was insincere, ironical. It
was obvious these were memories to which he didn’t want to
return. ‘The kid before me got lost. He’d probably just taken
him in as a trial run. The run didn’t prove a success. He even
told the kid to call him ‘dad’ then gave him away.’ He stopped
rocking in his chair. ‘He was a piece of shit. I was the shrewder,
but things turned out better for the lad because some aunt took
him in, so my mother told me later. She was a good woman,
suffered her fair share through him, too.’
Bartol didn’t hear the last sentence. He’d already disappeared.