Authors: Joanna Jodelka
In the briefing room he saw Pilski standing, all the rest sitting.
Olaf Polek was studying a stain on the ceiling; Maćkowiak had
reserved another stain – this one on the wall – for himself;
and Piotr Lentz was, with interest, examining his new tumour
which had assumed the form of a tiny mole on his wrist, which
had been growing since he was born and could grow even more
at any moment so clearly had to be observed.
‘I’ll collect the report of the autopsy, and you produce the
plan of action and deliver it,’ Pilski finally said.
He tried to sound resolute, although Bartol wasn’t sure
whether there wasn’t a hint of pity or amusement in his voice.
‘Call me any time if I’m needed.’
And, as in confirmation, his phone rang. Yet again they had
a chance to hear a new ringtone – this time bells chiming.
Pilski swiftly said goodbye as he tried to find the phone
still ringing in his pocket. He didn’t find it and gong after gong
continued to resound behind the closed door.
‘How’s he supposed not to crack up with those bells clanging
from morning till night? His Sovereign Highness, the muchneeded one,’ Polek summed up.
‘Let him be, Olaf. He’s not cracking up, he’s calm. You said
yourself that if prosecutors got more involved in investigations
they’d be more useful in court. What do you want from him?’
asked Lentz.
‘That’s just it. I don’t want anything from him. And I don’t
want him to want anything from me. He’s treating us like little
boys. The great adviser. It’s best he doesn’t hang around here.
Why doesn’t he just get married and go home?’
‘It’s when he gets married that he’s not going to want to rush
home,’ laughed Maćkowiak.
Bartol knew Polek was preparing himself for an argument
about nothing, and decided to break up the banter.
‘We’re not going to go into the beauty of married life right
now. I think we’ve got to search elsewhere. At least for Mirosław
Trzaska’s family.’
Everyone looked at Bartol.
‘Don’t be surprised, Maćkowiak, that you haven’t learned
anything from his colleagues. They all probably say he didn’t
have a family and the documents haven’t revealed anything.’
‘As I said, nothing’s changed,’ Maćkowiak replied. ‘Everyone
I’ve spoken to has nothing but vague recollections.’
A faint smile appeared on Bartol’s face; he waited for what
was to follow. And was rewarded.
‘Everyone’s just guessing,’ continued Maćkowiak, quoting
Pilski’s words with vengeance. ‘Assumptions which get us
nowhere,.' He now spoke seriously. ‘Mere gossip – he could have
been an alcoholic, could have been homeless, his wife could have
left him. He didn’t say anything, they didn’t ask anything and got
used to it. Everyone’s got a good or very good opinion of him.
He worked exceptionally hard, apparently, and was devoted to
helping others. Someone like that’s a rarity. Everyone says the
same thing,’ added Maćkowiak. ‘And they also say he was very
effective, never wanted to be promoted even though he apparently
received interesting propositions from town. I looked through
his computer. I didn’t know there were so many organisations –
both governmental and others – that can be milked for money.
Apart from the mail there’s nothing interesting. Nor did he seek
personal happiness on the internet, and apart from a couple of
pages on dog shows, same thing all the time.’
‘I’m not one to believe in such saints. In Calcutta maybe, but
not here,’ Polek summed up sleepily. ‘Besides, I’m surprised
Lalek left his comfort zone just like that. He suddenly fell away
from that drunken piece of skirt and had a revelation. Why?
Because she threw him out of a stinking dump!’
‘You know what, Olaf, it’s rare but this time your cynicism
might be well-founded. I interrogated the son of the woman
who knew Trzaska.’
‘Mrs Konopka has been good enough to phone us three
times already because she doesn’t feel well and can’t wait for
her son,’ Polek added again.
‘She’ll be all right. Getting back to the point, the lad knew
Trzaska a little and had a couple of pretty interesting reflections
on the subject. He never asked him about anything either, but
had the impression that Trzaska had started a new life. That
would fit somehow. We have to find out who he was in his other
life and what sonorous name he used.’
‘There’s nothing in the documents about him changing his
name,’ said Lentz, astonished.
‘And I don’t think he did change it. He simply borrowed it
from Mr Traska, perhaps when he was still alive, perhaps after
his death. I don’t think he needed to kill him. Trzaska most
probably drank himself to death and was buried at the state’s cost,
an unidentified victim in one of our larger cities with a heated
station. That’s my guess, but as far as I can see it’s the only way
it all holds together. Acquaintances who only knew him by the
nickname of Lalek didn’t connect him with the surname. And our
Mirosław very much wanted to start a new life and I think he did.
For a long time he was successful, until someone found him out
and reminded him of the life he’d wanted to forget. I think the
writing on the glasses was enough to refresh his memory.’
‘All right, if he’d managed to change everything once, why
didn’t he hole up somewhere again?’ asked Lentz. ‘He probably
knew nothing good was waiting for him.’
‘But maybe he was waiting for it all to end. Maybe he’d had
enough and didn’t want to go on hiding. Maybe he wanted to
put an end to his penance? We won’t know until we find out
who he was, and that’s what we’ve got to concentrate on.’
‘That, we can find out. I invited the woman from Staszic
Street to come here so we’ll soon learn a bit more. It’s all a
bit convoluted but if she doesn’t recognise him from the
photographs, you’re right and that’s it,’ said Polek. ‘Maćkowiak,
you go and check our man’s fingerprints. Maybe the state’s
already charged him before. I don’t believe in such saints.’
‘And you might be right, Olaf. We’ll find out what he was
guilty of,’ agreed Bartol.
‘Good. Have you got anything for me? Because I’ve still got
hell of a lot of people to question. They’re all saying pretty
much the same thing at the moment but since he wasn’t such
a saint maybe somebody will remember something. Am I to
ask about that Lalek?’ Maćkowiak made sure.
‘No harm in it,’ answered Bartol, then turned to Polek: ‘You
talked to the doctor. Did he mention anything else of interest?’
‘Not really anything we don’t already know. Oh, he did say
we have to catch that mongrel which is wandering around
because it probably bit him in the ankle once he was dead.
There are traces of bites, the pathologist said, an animal’s bites,
most probably those of a small dog, but it has to be verified. I’ve
already phoned the local police, they’re going to grab it. I’m not
going to catch it. The only animals I like live in tins. Besides, I
was once bitten by a dog.’
‘You’re scared of a little dog,’ laughed Bartol. ‘Anyway, the
dog’s called Harpsichord, pretty funny, don’t you think?’
‘Funny or not, I’ve had a hang-up since childhood. And
that includes Harpsichord! Besides, I don’t intend to be a
dog-catcher. That lousy job’s not for me. I prefer the job
I’ve got.’
‘Okay, nobody’s telling you to be one. The dog probably
wanted to wake the man up or knew something bad had
happened, that’s why it was howling. Who knows, maybe it
was grieving,' Lentz reflected. ‘I’ll take care of it.’
‘Good. The pathologist’s bound to be right but it needs
checking out,’ agreed Bartol. ‘Olaf, when you’ve spoken to
Trzaska’s former girlfriend, find other people who knew him
and find out what happened to Lalek. The rest of you know
what we’ve got to do. I’ll gather all the findings and probably
get it all down on paper right here.’
‘I never thought I’d see anything like it. We’ve got the dog.
It wasn’t easy but we’ve got it. They’re exceptionally cunning,
those country mongrels, but we managed,’ he said excitedly.
‘
And?’ Bartol was struck dumb; somehow he hadn’t expected
to be talking about the dog.
‘It’s a good thing it bit him. I’m with it at the vet’s right now.’
‘What are you going on about? What do you mean: "It’s
a good thing it bit him’?" You were supposed to go to the lab
with it, not the vet’s. Have you hurt it or something?’ he asked,
annoyed.
‘I’ve already been to the lab but that’s not it. Its ear was
terribly grazed, I felt sorry for it…’
Bartol moved the receiver away from his ear and seriously
considered hanging up, pretending they’d been cut off. But he
didn’t; after all, it was Lentz he was talking to, not Polek.
‘And you know what? The dog hadn’t been injured fighting
over a bitch, there was a tattoo on its ear.’
‘You’re joking, the dog was a thoroughbred,’ said Bartol. The
conversation didn’t cease to astound him.
‘It’s not a thoroughbred, although I do know some breeds
which really do look like mongrels. Don’t laugh. Maybe that’s an
overly long preamble to say there’s something written on its ear…’
‘You must be joking!’ Bartol couldn’t force more out.
‘Why do you keep accusing me of joking? Are you mistaking
me for somebody else?’
‘Sorry, Piotr, I forgot about your birthday.’ Whenever he
was on edge the strangest things came to mind out of the blue.
Like now.
‘Listen, what’s happening to you? We’ve arranged to meet
this evening as it stands. I haven’t been waiting around since
the early hours of the morning expecting a birthday card. You
must be curious to know what he’s got written. You’ll have to
wait a bit, I’m afraid. My vet’s no sadist. He wants to see to the
wounds before shaving Harpsichord’s ear so we can read the
rest. What can be seen now is the word
Oportet
. Not the name
of a breeder, as you might guess.’
‘How long will it take?’ asked Bartol, totally disorientated.
‘Not long! I’ll call you straight away, although I’m no longer
sure I did the right thing.’
‘How many times do you want me to apologise? It’s not an
obvious thing to do, write on a dog.’
‘I’ll be at the station in about half an hour. We’ll talk. Maybe
I’ll be able to find out a bit more by then and you’ll have time
to gather your wits.’
Bartol sat down, one hand supporting his head, the other
rubbing his brow. He rubbed hard as if the massage would help.
He now recalled what Konopka had said about the dog
disappearing. He’d apparently been gone for three days, after
which Trzaska hadn’t been himself.
Had Trzaska known what it was all about? Had he understood
the message? His last days at work hadn’t been different
from previous days. Had he come to terms with, or simply
waited for, what was to come? Did he guess what lay behind
those words?
Bartol couldn’t answer any of these questions. He tried to
call Magda. She didn’t pick up.
He waited for her to call back.
She didn’t call, either then or all afternoon.
The vet also took his time. Lentz, who really did appear
within an hour, had no intention of hurrying him, stubbornly
maintaining that it clearly had to be this way. Bartol respected
this, although he didn’t quite understand. He didn’t intend to
argue. Nor did he say that he didn’t particularly feel like going
out that day. They arranged to meet.
Walking down the corridor, he passed the woman from
Staszic Street. He hadn’t met her before but was sure it was her.
She was as sober as she could be. There was no waft of alcohol.
No smell, but evidence of it was there: old, worn down shoes;
a jacket neither first- nor even second-hand; bright, clumsily
applied lipstick. As bright as the signs on shops selling the
cheap wine which destroyed the people and tenements of
Staszic Street like Russian vine.
And as he expected, she didn’t recognise Mirosław Trzaska
on the photographs, although the other man had been
handsome, too.
They had to wait.
Luckily, Lentz didn’t want greetings or presents. They were to
meet at Stary Rynek in a bar on Zamkowa Street. Bartol still had
time to go home, change and leave his car. He ordered a taxi
and tried getting through to Magda again. She didn’t answer.
He was furious with her and with himself. He shouldn’t have
trusted her. He shouldn’t have.
He took his time leaving. As it turned out, the taxi driver
took even more time. It was drizzling. Cold droplets found
their way beneath Bartol’s eyelids and behind his collar,
and the wind under his jacket. Nobody felt like going
for a walk.
It was even worse in the taxi when it finally did arrive, but
at least it wasn’t windy. The driver must have loved his work; he
talked incessantly, regardless of whether anyone was listening.
And everything caused him pain: his neck, legs, life. Maybe
that’s why he hadn’t washed his car for so long.
When Bartol finally arrived at Zamkowa Street, his mother
called. He glanced at his watch, oh, well. He remembered what
he’d forgotten. Now he didn’t massage his forehead as he’d
done all day but slapped it as hard as he could. Franciszek.
‘Hello, hello,’ his mother began as though amicably.
‘Hi, mum,’ he replied, grimacing.
‘I guess you haven’t guessed why I’m calling?’ She couldn’t
see him, but from the note of satisfaction in her voice he knew
her expression.
‘I can but timidly imagine.’
‘Meaning, those schools weren’t for nothing. Praiseworthy
indeed. But I’m only a modest Polish teacher, believe it or not.
And if it weren’t for the fact that I’ve been particularly sensitive
to this unique stutter of yours since you learned to speak, I’d
probably hang up.’
‘I’m sorry. Can you help him in any way? He’s got a Cerberus
at home, not an angel and speech therapist rolled into one like
I do. Try to understand, mum.’
‘I do. Can’t you guess from whom you inherited both your
intelligence and wit? Occasionally, of course, because you’ve
clearly taken a break this afternoon.’
‘Thank you so much anyway. I forgot. These things happen.’
‘It would be simpler if you didn’t forget and hadn’t exposed
me to a twenty-minute conversation about nothing, just to
extract what it’s all about from the shy young man. The patience
of this angel might run out, too. For you, of course, because the
boy I’ll take care of.’
‘Thanks. How can I make it up to you?’
‘Buy yourself some lecithin; it’s good for the memory. Bye.’
‘Bye.’
That wasn’t too bad. It could have been far worse, and taken
longer.
He entered the bar. It was crowded for the middle of the
week. He saw Lentz at the counter, drinking something and
sending a message. Bartol had grown unused to places like this.
Crowds, smoke and, as usual, a shabby-looking counter, the
more shabby the more besieged. He had no idea why Lentz
had chosen this place; it was more suitable for the end of a
pub crawl rather than the beginning. Everybody here could
be divided into two categories: those still looking around and
those no longer looking around.
As in life.
He walked up to Lentz; or rather, squeezed into the tiny
free space next to him. He smiled to himself thinking that
Maćkowiak wouldn’t fit.
‘Hi, I’m glad you’ve come. What will you have to drink? I’m
buying.’ Lentz glanced at the barman. It looked like they knew
each other, which surprised Bartol a little.
‘A gin and tonic for me, please,’ Bartol replied, studying
the slivers of lemon floating in Lentz’s glass. He was pleased. It
didn’t look as if this was going to be a heavy drinking session;
Lentz was clearly intent on weakening his organs slowly,
without damaging his health.
‘I’ve got news from the vet. The writing says:
Quam Oportet
.
But that’s not all, there’s still more. He says we have to wait till
tomorrow. Does it mean anything to you?’
‘The same as all the others. Regardless of where they were
written. I spoke to a girl this morning who was supposed to
check but she hasn’t ru…’ He hadn’t finished the sentence
before he heard a familiar tune. He looked at his phone.
‘Incredible. Talk of the devil. I’ll just take this, ok?’
‘Of course.’
‘Hello,’ he answered in a slightly formal, perhaps even
offended tone.
‘Hello, hello. I see you called. My phone was off. I didn’t
want to get distracted, it was going well. I spent practically the
whole day buried in old books. Where are you?’
‘Zamkowa Street.’ He didn’t know whether he’d done the
right thing. Lentz, seeing his embarrassment, nodded and
shrugged, easy going.
‘Maybe I could drop by, leave you what I’ve written. Are you
alone or with a girl?’
‘A friend.’
‘Sorry, I’m nosy. A friend, why not? It’s none of my business.’
‘A colleague from work!’ Bartol was embarrassed again.
‘Drop by if you can.’
‘A colleague from work, why not? I’ll be there in fifteen
minutes, I’m not far. So long.’
Bartol looked apologetically at Lentz. He wasn’t sure
whether he was pleased with this turn of events; he quickly
finished his drink.
‘Don’t look at me like that. I wasn’t intending to confide
in you, I simply wanted to go out and chat. You were around,
that’s all.’
Bartol wasn’t sure it was true but didn’t want to labour the
subject. He was even a little pleased; he didn’t exclude the
possibility that, in view of potential pancreatic cancer, Lentz
might leave him his old clock.
Fortunately, they didn’t have to wait long for Magda; she
was there ten minutes later.
He noticed her first. And not only he. A number of men
raised their eyes from their tankards and, with the expression
of experienced tailors, measured her from head to toe and
up again. With satisfaction. She looked different again. Tight
jacket, thin colourful scarf wrapped rakishly around her neck,
windswept auburn hair, and a flush. He didn’t have to wonder
long whether he was the only one to think she didn’t look bad.
More and more people fixed their gaze on the girl as she
cast her eyes around. He wondered whether he, too, didn’t stare
like that at times. Be that as it may, he didn’t like it. He got
up and leaned over so that she could catch sight of him more
easily. It helped. She waved and briskly walked over, without
looking around anymore. Several men followed her with their
eyes then lost interest as soon as she reached her destination.
Two men were competition.
‘Greetings, gentlemen. I’m Magda.’ She extended her hand
to Lentz without undue ceremony.
‘Piotr. What will you have to drink?’ He smoothed his bald
pate. ‘I’m paying. It’s my birthday today. Twenty-eight,’ he
added, pleased with his joke.
‘Shame, because I’m looking for someone over thirty. Happy
birthday. I hope I’m not interrupting a private party. Besides, I
thought we’d arranged to meet.’ She looked at Bartol.
‘I phoned,’ he replied. ‘Piotr’s also in on the investigation. It’s
worked out well that there’s the three of us.’ He smiled, his eyes
on Lentz. He certainly looked like someone who had nothing
wrong with him or ever had.
‘I’d like some tea, please. I’m a bit cold. Perhaps with a drop
of rum. I’d prefer to sit at a table – it’s crowded here – but it
doesn’t look as though one’s going to be free for some time. I’ve
brought a file with me, I’ve noted down a few things…’
‘You’re right. Let’s drink up and go somewhere quieter,’
Lentz said unexpectedly and peered strangely around the
pillar. He quickly pulled out his wallet and paid for what they’d
ordered earlier; he didn’t even attempt ordering any tea.
Bartol had no idea what was happening to him.
He didn’t have to speculate for long. Before he had time to
turn and see for himself, he heard Polek’s laughter in chorus
with the giggling of a young lady who, as it turned out, was
snuggling up to him in more than mere friendship. Fortunately,
Polek didn’t notice them, either then or as they left. He was too
engrossed in creating his new image, which involved going back
some twenty years – no easy task while holding one’s breath.
Bartol followed Magda and Lentz.
He stared at the ground and not only because the
cobblestones of Stary Rynek glistened dangerously, warning
of their slippery surface. The whole way, he mulled over what
he’d seen. Polek must have gone mad. Perhaps he’d reached
the age when guys still want to prove something to themselves
– that was none of his business – but since when was he so
stupid as to prove it in a bar where he could come across his
own daughter?
Bartol knew Polek’s wife well, certainly well enough to
foresee what would happen if she were to find out. She’d thrash
him, wring and wash him right out. And finally she’d probably
throw him out on Bartol’s doormat with the note: bastard to
bastard.
He knew she didn’t speak well of Bartol since the slip-up
with the pregnancy. He didn’t feel like fighting it; besides, it
accorded with that twisted logic women have.
She’d pushed for the introduction; they could have made
such a fine couple – her colleague from work, her husband’s
friend. She had such good intentions, had organised it all so
well and now resented it hadn’t worked out so well. But that
wasn’t her fault.
Obviously.
Polek’s daughter was at an age when she’d stick up for her
mother out of sheer spite. She’d been unbearable of late, and
Polek would never live this down.
Bartol knew he had to talk to him. But how?
With relief, he set the problem aside for later. They’d
reached Żydowska Street and sat down in a little bar-cumcafé. It was warm with small armchairs, a chocolate colour
scheme and smooth music. All this put together started to have
a soothing effect.
He walked up to the bar to order something and instinctively
looked around. The first thing which occurred to him was that
here, on the other hand, he could come across Polek’s wife.
Almost all the tables were taken up by women of a certain age
who talked gracefully about how to trim the wings of forty-yearold Pegasuses and how to choose the right colour of napkins to
go with the tablecloth. At least that’s what he thought.
He shook all these thoughts away.
‘It’s a good thing we moved. The atmosphere’s a bit lighter
here. It was dark with all that smoke and people at the other
place. All nervous with the chase. While here, they calmly
exchange various bedroom experiences, official and unofficial,
of course.’ Magda, laughing, was the first to speak.
Bartol and Lentz didn’t laugh nor did they say anything.
‘But to the point.’ Looking at them she instantly turned
serious. ‘We’ve got three sayings.’
‘Four,’ corrected Bartol, slowly setting their thoughts along
the right track.
‘How come four?’ An entire stave of wrinkles appeared on
her forehead.
‘The last victim’s dog had the words
quam oportet
freshly
tattooed on it.’
‘All that! On a dog, how’s that? What’s this about?’ Her
surprise didn’t surprise either of them.
‘No, that isn’t all. We’re going to have the rest of the sentence
tomorrow. Let’s start at the beginning. What have you discovered
so far? That’s probably easiest.’
‘Maybe you’re right.’ The highly wrinkled brow slowly
unwrinkled. ‘So, from the beginning. The first body had two
sayings attributed to it. Right, so there ought to be two by the
second one, that figures,’ she thought out loud. ‘Do you have
the photographs?’ She glanced at Bartol and nodded. ‘You
don’t, too bad. One way or another I suggest that both the first
and second dictum found by the first corpse refer to hope. That
was my first association, too, and probably the best. I also took
other meanings into consideration but kept going back to
the same idea. Rightly so, I think. The caption
Expecto donec
veniat
appears in the book of Juan de Boria in
Empresas Morales
published in Prague, 1581, with the following commentary…
I’ve got it written down here somewhere.’ She took a while
flicking through her papers, finally found the right place and
started reading: ‘“Hope should be cultivated in the belief that
misfortune will not last long and the longed-for happiness
and peace which will be solace for misery will come soon.”
Admittedly, Boria suggested the symbol of a locust to render
the meaning…’
‘And what’s a locust got to do with it?’ asked Bartol.
Lentz didn’t ask anything, just sat eyes wide open.
‘In this case nothing. That’s not the point. It’s the commentary
that counts, but the images can vary depending on what model
the artist followed. It’s not as complicated as it seems.’
‘I believe otherwise,’ answered Bartol, resigned. Too many
impressions for one day, he felt.
‘Well, then here’s a brief lecture,’ said Magda. Lentz merely
lowered his head and finished what was in his glass. ‘A certain
preacher, Christoforo Giarda, wrote something like this – and
it’s worth remembering.’ She picked up one of her pieces of
paper. ‘“All knowledge concerning learning and virtue is useful
to man, but knowledge concerning the invention and shaping
of symbolic images infinitely exceeds any other because thanks
to this gift”’ – she started to enunciate each word more slowly –
‘“the spirit, banished from heaven to the dark cavern of the body
and in its deeds tied to the senses, can gaze at the beauty and
form of virtues and learning removed from all matter though
still generally described in its form.” Beautifully put, don’t
you think?’ She looked at her listeners and, seeing their dull
expressions, didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Besides, he believed that
the entire universe was a library of symbolic images ordered
by the Creator… But to the point, the genesis of many symbols
which accompany various concepts is extremely interesting
and, to a greater or lesser extent, complicated. Nevertheless, not
long after printing was invented, people decided to set all this
in order because, as time went on, they couldn’t get the hang
of it all. On a French illumination from 1450 Prudence has the
attributes of a coffin, coin, sieve, mirror, spade and scythe. A bit
much, don’t you think? You don’t know what it means.’
They agreed with her. This time it was Bartol who finished
his glass. Nobody suggested another round, afraid, perhaps,
that they’d start to understand.
‘Vasari, for example, wrote a whole book explaining what
he himself had painted earlier. Finally, someone decided to see
to it and a certain Andrea Alciato published his
Emblematum
liber
in 1531. He was almost immediately taken to be the father
of – and authority on – emblems; symbols to you. Then, in 1593
the work was completed by Cesare Ripa who wrote
Iconology
and depicted practically all commonly used abstract concepts.
Other, less significant books were written, like the one in which
I found the maxim, but the idea’s generally the same – drawing,
symbol, caption and explanation. It’s a set of instructions that
can be used to put forward an idea in a way everyone can
understand and know what the artist wants to say by his work…
Besides, the artist wasn’t the most important thing here; what
was important was what was intended to be portrayed. I won’t
delve into the details but let’s put it this way: you couldn’t, in
principle, freely interpret what was painted in a church or
municipal council. It had to be edifying and comprehensible.
I think I’m expressing myself reasonably clearly?’
There was a moment of silence. Neither of them said a word.
She looked at each in turn, nodded and started again.
‘In your field, for example, what do you think a woman
holding scales represents?’