Authors: Joanna Jodelka
He climbed into his car, pulled away and after two hundred
metres, just beyond the bend, drove off to the side and halted.
He pushed his seat and leaned back. Lay down and tried to
collect his thoughts. He couldn’t collect them.
Nor did he manage to do so later, at home. Tired, he couldn’t
fall asleep.
Mikulski with his baroque splendour, Trzaska with his
monastic rendition.
The performance was on, he had no doubts about it, but so
what if all he saw was the stage and didn’t even know where
the wings were?
Act II had just come to an end.
Would there be a third? Would he be on time?
The solution wasn’t simple, but it was there somewhere!
Lurking. Waiting…
Nobody’s going to guess he’s there. It won’t enter anybody’s
head to check the chapel partially obscured by scaffolding. To
open the little door, pull back the curtain, and see, in place of a
confessor, the grown man curled up like a child, arms wrapped
around his legs, head pressed to his knees.
He’d wait another hour, perhaps two – as many as was
needed.
It didn’t trouble him that his legs, arms and neck were
slowly growing numb.
He’d long grown to accept the stupefying pain which came
and went according to a rhythm known only onto itself. It was
better not to move. The smallest twitch, even of his little toe,
passed on an impulse which dug red hot needles right into the
middle of his head. He then knew he had to wait until the body
stopped demanding action. Endure, calm down.
Dig his eyes even deeper into the protruding bones of his
knees so as to make fiery images once more appear beneath
eyelids raging with pain.
He exhaled slowly, inhaled even more slowly, not giving
his lungs as much oxygen as they’d like; it was better this way.
He heard his heart beating, almost like that other time.
The same music. Three beats – boom boom… boom, and
again boom boom… boom, like a song, like a dance.
A divine rhythm insulted by the sound of his guts.
The primitive gurgling of his stomach and intestines which
dispassionately changed everything entering them into one
and the same shit.
Transferred, propelled, packed tight.
He waited a long time until he was sure it was dark night,
that nobody would come in, that he was alone. Very slowly he
opened his body.
First, the head.
First, he gently raised it a little then began to rotate. Very,
very slowly.
The numb muscles of his neck didn’t allow it to move faster
,as though surprised they’d once borne such a weight; they
couldn’t get used to it.
Then the neck.
Then the fingers of one hand, then the other.
Finally the entire rebellious rest, as though out of spite for
having had to wait, now didn’t want to move. Had to be forced.
Consistently, until he was erect, his posture proud.
Last of all the eyelids; as it was his aching eyes wouldn’t
see anything for the time being. They, too, needed time to get
accustomed to themselves and the darkness.
The squeaking of the confessional door as it opened
contorted his face painfully. Another unfitting, hideous sound
severing the silence.
He conquered the obstacles of the scaffolding which leaned
against the entrance to the chapel, pulled out an antiquated
torch and noiselessly crossed towards the gate leading to his
place of worship. Was it a coincidence that it was right opposite
the altar, dripping with gold, intended for common folk?
On the way, he turned the torchlight on the closed eyes of
the bishop slumbering on a tomb. He always looked in that
direction when walking on this side. The fatso, content with
life, had managed to make himself comfortable after death,
too, napping on his side not far from the altar. Always in an
excellent mood – after life as after lunch.
A while later, the man stopped again and turned the tiny
light onto the eyes of a skull beautifully sculpted on a tombstone.
At this, too, he liked to look – amusingly terrible as it hung in
warning, which was probably why the skull had lost its lower jaw.
He didn’t look around anymore; childhood foibles he
could allow himself, but he didn’t want to become any more
distracted.
He arrived. Opened the heavy door and grating; knew it
wasn’t locked.
And once again he was in his sanctuary, his temple of ideas,
just as in the past. Just as when he’d got lost, as when he hadn’t
wanted to be found.
Again he was the little boy who’d strayed from a father
whom he’d so feared that he didn’t even shout.
He hadn’t shouted when he’d seen the closed door, nor had
he shouted later when he couldn’t open it for hours, eons.
He’d just sat there in the chapel, staring and shivering. He
shivered from the cold and from both fear that his father would
find him and that he wouldn’t find him. He hadn’t known which
he’d feared more.
And he’d shone that torch of his to tame his loneliness.
And they’d been with him, not looking at him, but they’d
been there: the mighty ones and the less important.
He knew them, knew what they meant and asked them, each
one individually, each in its own way, each one for something
different; and they’d listened. In the dim light of the torch and
even when he’d turned it off.
Although he didn’t like them as they were now, restored,
refreshed, beautified anew. But it was them. Without the patina,
without time on them, but them. He forgave them.
He also knew that those in the window glyphs had
disappeared forever. Earlier scribblings had needed to be
revealed. He hadn’t been able to come to terms with it for a
long time. He didn’t look in their direction, could recall them
any time he wanted to anyway.
The narrow passage in which he’d got lost had also been
walled over. He didn’t care.
Once again he cast his eyes around. With disgust he thought
about the rubbish heap they were making of the place – an
enormous candlestick, a baptismal font, an old pew serving
no purpose, pennants awaiting a procession. Why right here?
He turned the torchlight on one of the intruders. He might
have expected it: an embroidered Our Lady and a huge eagle.
Both wearing crowns of heart-shaped glass beads. As if either
needed them. Stupid people. He gazed into the eyes of the
Black Madonna. The garish beads didn’t suit Her; She knew it
and it made Her sad. An eagle wearing a crown wouldn’t soar
high either.
After a while he stopped taking notice of them, just as the
two enormous paintings stuck to the walls didn’t interest him.
He looked only at the ceiling. At what was engraved on the
walls and in his soul, which he’d never abandon again.
He lay down on the stone floor, like the time when he’d no
longer cared.
Again he felt the cold penetrate his every cell.
Again he was a child. Again he shone the light. Again he
observed the only boy in the group; his name was Fortitude.
And he, too, was looking back at him, dragging his burden,
inviting him to climb the mountain.
To achieve what he wanted to achieve. To pay homage to
those who were most important, and to himself.
To kill those who’d killed it in him.
He’d lie like this until the morning then go out as he’d done
then. And nobody would say anything to him.
And he’d finish what wasn’t finished.
And then all he’d hear would be boom boom… boom, boom
boom… boom, boom… boom…
rAIN, INsepArAble frIeNd
of traffic jams, fell over the city.
The journey Bartol made from home to work, day in day
out, seemed three times longer. It hadn’t grown light yet;
it looked as though someone had forgotten to switch the
daylight on.
He’d just left the house and was already feeling the need for
a coffee - instantly. He was afraid he’d fall asleep. He’d already
downed one but it must have been too instant. He drove into
a petrol station. Drank another two espressos. It took him
another five minutes to join the traffic; not many drivers were
willing to show kindness to those slipping in from the minor
road. The police officer didn’t know what to put this down to – a
general stupor, poor visibility or a morning aversion to life on
such a charming day?
Everyone was moving a little more slowly, sluggishly,
lifelessly. The drivers’ delayed reactions were, minute by
minute, growing increasingly delayed.
He’d done well to slip off. The coffee was starting to work,
his eyelids had stopped drooping, his blood, quickened by the
caffeine, had started to circulate faster.
It had been on just a day like this that he’d had the stupidest
of accidents. That day, too, his thinking had been slower. To
his misfortune the reaction of the driver in front of him had
been even slower. He thought he’d seen the other man move
away, had just looked left, accelerated and halted with the noise
of dented metal. He’d been in the car with his mother who’d
stared at him in her unique way.
The first time he’d seen her stare at him like that was
when he was in Year One at primary school and had faked her
signature on a note – using her first name. He hadn’t written
the surname, hadn’t known how to write ‘r’. Only much later
did he learn the meaning of the word pity.
Bartol glanced at his watch. Half past seven; not really
the right time, but he tried to call the Magda girl anyway.
Surprisingly – after three rings – the same voice he’d heard on
the machine five times the day before, replied.
‘Hello, I see a new number’s been trying to get through to
me. How can I help you?’
‘Good morning. My name’s Maciej Bartol. I got your number
from…’ He didn’t have time to finish.
‘Ah! Daniela! I take it I’m talking to her son. You’ve got a great
mother. Good, if it’s about a translation I’ve got a lot of work on
at the moment but I’ll come up with something. Danish and
Swedish willingly; as for English, you could do better than me
but I’ll help if needs be.’ Her cheerful voice didn’t in the least
suit the general atmospheric conditions.
‘I’m not calling about a translation, or rather I am, in fact,
but it’s more like an explanation or…’ He was getting lost; hadn’t
thought he’d be justifying himself right from the start.
‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have pre-empted you. I’ll listen quietly. I’m
too full of beans. Woke up to such a beautiful day, could be why.’
He was getting annoyed. Didn’t know how to react to her
words, couldn’t comment on the day because he’d hardly seen
any of it through the rain pounding on his windscreen.
‘You’re interested in symbolism, I’m not expressing myself
very well but… but I’ve got a couple of items… and a couple of
Latin maxims… There’s a connection between them, there’s
certainly a connection but I’m not sure what it is… And if you
had a moment… well, perhaps not a moment… But if I could
show you or tell you…’
‘Then tell me, I’ve got a bit of time now… And I’m in the
right mood,’ she added brightly.
‘They’re probably quotations from the Bible.’ He was already
regretting he’d phoned. ‘I’d like you to tell me what they mean
or might signify…’ He heard himself stammer. He was furious,
he had had no intention whatsoever of discussing it over the
phone. Fortunately, this time she promptly interrupted.
‘All right, we’d better meet. And remember the same thing
applies to the Bible as to people – you torture it long enough
and it’ll tell you what you want to know. The context is
important, the situation, place, time and so on. Drop in and
see me at my place tomorrow and we’ll discuss what you’ve
got in peace.’
‘Can’t we make it today? I’ll fit in with your schedule if…’
‘Sure, you can fit in with my schedule. I’m at Stary Rynek
until three, then catching the train from Kraków to Poznań, so
if you anticipate any difficulties I suggest we meet tomorrow. I
can make it first thing in the morning if it’s that urgent.’
‘Good, nine o’clock okay?’ he asked, sounding totally
resigned.
‘That certainly is first thing. But maybe that’s good, I wanted
to get up early anyway. I’ll text you my address.’
‘Thank you.’ He didn’t have the courage to tell her she could
drop in to see them. ‘Is it sunny in Kraków?’ he asked out of
interest. Although her state of mind interested him more than
the weather.
‘It certainly is. Not a single tiny ornamental cloud in the sky.
See you tomorrow. Maybe I’ll bring the sunshine to Poznań
with me. By the by, I’m pleased we’re going to meet. I’m curious
to see what you look like. And please send my regards to your
mother.’
‘I will. See you.’ He was still holding the receiver to his ear
when he heard the click as she hung up. For some unknown
reason, the only thought he focused on was that he’d have to iron
the trousers which had been drying on the radiator for the past
three days. As with his mother – one sentence and he’d have to
get up half an hour earlier simply to satisfy somebody’s curiosity.
He instinctively ruffled the hair over his forehead and glanced in
the mirror. Now he knew why the two women liked each other.
‘Let’s hope it’s worth it!’ he consoled himself.
Presently a text arrived with the address. A street in Wilga.
He wondered what he’d find: an apartment left by granny in
a low-rise communist block, a modern apartment bought on
credit or a loft sniffed out in a tenement? In the end, he bet on
the loft. He loathed stairs.
It rained harder and harder, the cars moved even more slowly,
people – huddled and drenched – ran from tram to tram. As he
arrived at headquarters the rain died down a little.
He parked almost at the same moment as Lentz.
And what’s with you? Over-zealousness not pay? I was sure
you’d arrived an hour ago to annoy everybody,’ Bartol said,
climbing out of the car and stepping in a puddle.
‘Nah, I went to the doctor’s for a referral. My liver’s playing up,
or pancreas, I don’t know.’ He broke off; his grimace indicated
he’d just suffered an attack of one of the above-mentioned
organs. A moment later he concluded: ‘He examined me and
wrote out a referral in three months time… Can you imagine?’
‘I can indeed. Don’t worry, your wait may yet be rewarded,’
he replied with amusement.
‘Rewarded with what? Death? I went privately, had an
ultrasound done of the entire abdominal cavity.’
‘And how is the cavity?’ Bartol tried to remain as serious as
possible.
‘And what! Apparently it’s fine but who knows,’ he snapped.
‘Then go again in three months. It’s always best to check.
Internal control of the health service won’t hurt.’
‘You’re right. Who knows what sort of equipment they had
and what sort of a quack he was? Some medical student who’s
going to use my pancreas to learn which mistakes to avoid.’
Lentz had started to regain his good mood.
Bartol waved it aside and didn’t dare add that all Lentz had
left to be examined was his head. He didn’t want Lentz to go on
leave right then. He decided to change the subject.
‘I spoke to that granny who knew Mirosław Trzaska, but
I didn’t get to have a word with the son. She’d fed him some
sedatives. The poor guy was asleep, might even still be asleep.
Either way, if he wakes up he’s to come here. He knew the
murder victim, used to meet up with him, but was at a young
people’s rosary circle at the time.’
‘That would even fit. Or they’re all providing an alibi for
each other. The rest of the neighbours, if you mean youngsters,
also said they’d gone through a few Hail Marys and about three
episodes of a TV programme in the neighbouring village. I
went to check, it seems to tally. I also thought that the boy might
have given a lift to one of them and been alone for a while but
that appears impossible, they all went together. That’s all,’ he
concluded in a normal, matter-of-fact tone, no longer pained,
as if he’d forgotten about his recent ailments.
‘I don’t think it’s anybody from there,’ said Bartol after a
while. ‘No doubt we’ll learn some Latin like you complain.
There was a maxim on the glasses, too. I don’t know what it
means yet, but I’ll find out.’
‘I’m not sure it isn’t all too much for me. Ordinary human
foibles, love, jealousy, alcohol and – to top them all – money,
that I understand but this?’
‘You’re not the only one. When you’re done moaning, I’ll
begin. Let’s hope this time it’s going to be different.’
‘Why? Because two corpses are better than one?’
‘Maybe so, maybe so,’ Bartol was unrelenting. ‘Lentz, we’re
missing something, overlooking something. It’s happened once
which doesn’t mean it’s going to happen again.’ He spoke as
though trying to convince himself. ‘He’s leaving his signature.
We can’t read it yet but it’s only a matter of time,’ he said as they
approached the entrance. ‘We’ve got loads of work this time,
masses of people to interrogate. I can’t believe we won’t find a
thread to pull.’
‘You trying to fill me with optimism or yourself?’ asked
Lentz, halting.
‘The both of us,’ assured Bartol with less conviction.
Lentz’s expression hardly changed; he hadn’t expected an
answer.
‘Then keep repeating it to me all day. Even mechanical work
sometimes needs encouragement and there’s a tedious search
ahead of us. Like digging for whatever it is in a frigging haystack
or whatever, and I don’t feel all that good. What are you doing
tomorrow?’
‘I’ve lined up some interviews starting in the morning… ’
Bartol didn’t have time to finish.
‘I’m talking about the evening, if nothing happens, which is
unlikely, but one never knows…’ Lentz added hesitantly.
Bartol was completely disoriented, and not only because
of the sudden change of subject. He couldn’t remember when
they’d last met privately, if at all.
‘I’ve nothing planned, or didn’t anyway. If nothing happens,
I’m open, why?’
‘It’s my birthday, my mother’s in hospital and I feel like
going out for a drink. I’m extending an invitation to you, no
commitment, of course. We’ll see how it goes tomorrow.’
‘We’ll see, but thanks, maybe it’ll work out,’ Bartol replied
although he didn’t quite know what to think of it. Did Lentz
simply want to go out, or was it the start of a concentrated
assault on his internal organs so that they’d be at least slightly
abused before his next examination and wouldn’t bring him
shame by their good health?
Luckily, he didn’t have time to give it any more thought.
Maćkowiak was already waiting for them. As soon as they
entered Maćkowiak stopped dialling and replaced the receiver.
‘Hi. I’ve no energy left to make any more calls. It’s the same
over and over again. My God, he was such a good man, but
nobody knows anything about any family.’
‘Yet again. But that’s almost impossible.’ Bartol was surprised.
‘Those who worked with him have no idea. He spent
Christmas and Easter at work, organised various Christmas
Eve activities at Kaponier Roundabout and things like that…
I’ll snoop around some more tomorrow but it’s all so strange.
Is it still fallout from the war or are towns full of lonely people?
I’ve no idea. I was at a wedding recently – I’ve got distant family
in the east – and they had a small reception for a hundred and
eighty people. The closest family apparently… And you should
have seen the sausages and other home-cured meats.’ He lost
himself in daydreams.
‘You’re joking,’ said Lentz in astonishment.
‘No, I’m not. I got some to take home with me. And was
scared of saying anything to anyone at the wedding because
when I called someone ‘Mr’ a couple of time all I heard was
– "Mr, Mr, I’m your uncle." And here? Is there an epidemic or
something?’
‘I can’t believe it either. Maybe in Mikulski’s case. They were
pretty old and Mrs Mikulska, as far as I recall, was orphaned
before the war, but this Trzaska guy, I don’t think so. How old
was he, in fact?’ asked Bartol.
‘Sixty-four. You’re right, we’ve got to look. Maybe I’ll start
with…’ He didn’t finish; Polek had burst into the room.
‘It’s peculiar, all this. A Poznań wino until he’s fifty and after
fifty – the guardian angel of winos. A miracle.’
‘What miracle?’
‘What are you going on about?’ All were equally surprised.
Looking at Polek, it was hard not to be amazed. And not
only because he was so excited and waving his arms around;
he looked somehow different, too. Bartol thought he’d treated
his hair to some hair gel or something equally sticky which
seemed absurd, bearing in mind how he’d made fun of Pilski
lately. All in all, he looked peculiar.
‘This Trzaska…’ Polek carried on breathlessly. ‘Over half a
century of tiny offences then suddenly that’s it. Besides, I’d have
thought that knocking it back for so long, his brain would have
been totally pickled but this guy here sobers up and sends out
emails. You tell me if that isn’t a miracle? I even paid a visit to
his girlfriend from the wino days.’
If it were possible to look any more surprised, they did so
now. Bartol didn’t ask when Polek had managed to do all this
but simply stammered out:
‘And?’
‘And! I’m scared I’m going to have nightmares about her.
She’s still living on Staszic Street and has got a boyfriend now.
They’d make a perfect pair of generators if you could draw
energy from alcohol.’ Polek glanced at his audience and added
with a smile: ‘She was surprised, too. Mirosław, whom everyone
called Lalek and whom, in a tide of affection, she’d briefly
registered at her place, had been dead for some time in her
books. At least that’s what she thought. Love had blossomed
when he’d started working as a gravedigger but withered when
he lost that job, too, because of his drinking. Which isn’t easy
considering drink used to be a way into that line of business.
You know what it’s like, you get sad, cold. Anyway, that was some
fifteen years ago, she said. She had to throw him out because he
drank without sharing when he had the job and she doesn’t like
that, not nice. She later heard that he was living at a station, first
in Poznań then Warszawa. Some friend working on the railways
had apparently seen him and apparently he’d become a real outand-out drunkard. It’s all in that vein. So if that’s not a miracle,
what is? Eight years of training, eight hectolitres of moonshine,
the life of a vagabond and then a little house in the country and
a successful steward? Idyllic, don’t you think?’
‘Olaf, are we talking about the same person?’ Bartol finally
asked.
‘I wasn’t the one who wrote out the domicile registration.
There’s a photograph – must be thirty years old – in his old
ID and a current one in his new ID, personal details are the
same. That hideous creature on Staszic Street must have held
on to that apartment since just after the war, or so it seems. She
remembered Lalek; his age and height tally. His appearance,
judging by the way she looks, must have revived a bit but we
can summon her, get her to identify him if she can.’
‘She’ll have to be summoned. I don’t like it. Did you talk
to anyone else who might have known him earlier?’ asked
Maćkowiak.
‘No, she didn’t know much about the guy she admitted to
have registered – as an exception – but then it’s open house at
her place, for drinks. As it is, it’s a good thing she remembers
him at all. All her days seem to merge into one.’ Then he added:
‘There must have been something about him.’
Nobody said a word. Polek, as though making the most of
the opportunity, quickly stood up.
‘There’s no point in what-ifs. We’ve got to check the wino link.
I’ll take care of it.’ Saying this, he looked at himself in the window,
pulled in his stomach and stuck out his pectoral muscles which,
with a little kindness, could be called muscles. ‘Maybe I’ll find out
some more. And keep an eye on that Pilski. I don’t like characters
in pink tie uniform. Did I tell you what I heard yesterday?’
‘No.’
‘I know something about people. I was walking past the
boss’s room, the door was ajar, and I heard him talking with
Pilski. What a character. That dandy…’
‘Olaf, were you eavesdropping at his door?’ Bartol laughed.
‘I wasn’t eavesdropping, I was just passing by, very slowly
passing by,’ replied Polek, smoothing down his already smooth
hair. ‘That dandy must have been trying to facilitate something
but our dear boss’s deep bass fortunately rang out that, if there
were any suspicions that it could be the same murderer, then
all the more reason for him not to change anything. The choir’s
not wasted on him.’
‘What choir and change what?’ asked Lentz.
‘The police choir, didn’t you know we had one? And I don’t
know what the anything he’s not going to change is. I was only
passing by.’ With an offended, haughty expression he looked
at Bartol.
‘We’ll know sooner or later,’ riposted Bartol.
‘We’ll know it’s not without reason I’ve got such strong
feelings about the shit. Bye.’
‘Bye,’ they replied simultaneously, their eyes turned towards
Polek as he left. He didn’t honour them with a glance.
‘No point in what-ifs: for the time being we’ll organise what
we’ve got.’
Lentz and Maćkowiak nodded with vigour worthy of the
weather outside.