Polychrome (20 page)

There was little hope of escape.
The footsteps strode in, inevitably and resolutely.
‘Hello, it’s nice to catch you at home. I wasn’t entirely sure

you wouldn’t find some desperately convoluted excuse.’
‘You used to say I was your little hero.’
‘A lot of time’s gone by since you brought home that little

bird with a broken wing in your scarf.’
‘Mum, please stop. You know it isn’t easy for me either.’
‘Even though the Caesarean section spared you some trauma,

Bartol stared at her dumbfounded. He opened his mouth
to say something but didn’t have time.
‘Please be so kind as not to enlighten me.’
‘Mum, you know I couldn’t yesterday.’
‘Then it’s a very good thing you can today.’ She walked
through to the living room and sat down in the armchair.
Bartol thought that was the end of the assault, but he was
wrong.
‘And please don’t explain anything, not today, not now and
preferably not tomorrow.’ She brushed the hair from her forehead
in a specific way, as though casually, as though she were thinking
something over. He knew the gesture perfectly well and knew that
now she was going to say what she really wanted to.
‘You know, an old saying has been going round and round
in my head that explains everything. You know which one? It’s
the one about catarrh and love being the two things you can’t
hide. But maybe it’s going around in my head because it’s lost
its way, what do you think?’
It seemed to Bartol as though she’d paused intentionally,
just to see whether he’d turn pale. He did. He had no idea
whether she knew anything or whether she’d played
va banque
and now, by just looking at him, had seen her conjecture prove
true. He had no illusions that now she knew for certain.
The phone rang. For some reason he’d been sure it was
Lentz but he was wrong. It was Magda. He had no idea of
the expression on his face but he must have looked crushed
because he heard:
‘Pick it up or the phone’s going to blush.’
‘I’ll pick it up later,’ he mumbled and muted the ringtone.
‘But don’t worry,’ his mother began after a while. ‘I’m not
going to say it’s bad timing and I’m not going to think it
over or ask you any questions now. There are more important
things I’d like you to resolve in the way I taught you.
Successfully, I hope, because I invested masses of work and
time in it and, in my old age, don’t want to think the time or
money was wasted.’
‘Well then, how many times are we going to go back to
the same conversation? I accept the child, am going to help
bring it up as best I can, although it all seems so abstract to me
right now. But I’m not going to live with them. I’m not going to
pretend my love’s come to an end because love had never even
begun. What else am I supposed to say? That I don’t rush to
the hospital because I don’t know how to behave? That I see
the child but don’t yet know what I feel?’
‘You know where the problem lies? In that she doesn’t know
how to behave and doesn’t know what she feels either.’
‘Mum, regardless of anything else, she wanted that baby.’
‘She also wanted a wedding with a hundred people, a dress
made in Paris and a film star like Żebrowski for a husband, all in
a package. And so what? Do you know how much one imagines
about motherhood has got to do real motherhood? About as
much as an advert for Pampers has to do with dirty nappies. I
was there yesterday. It’s no better, if not worse.’
‘You said she was tired after giving birth.’
‘I did because she was. She’s already been in hospital for a
week, the baby’s jaundice is almost gone but she’s not getting
any better. She’s being discharged today and mustn’t be left
alone, not even for a minute.’
‘So what do you propose, because I suppose you do have
a solution?’
‘We’ll go there together and you, concerned, are suddenly
going to have the brilliant idea that since she shouldn’t be alone
and you have so much work, she could go and stay with me for
a while. I’ll be delighted with the simplicity of the idea and on
top of that I’ll be extremely happy. It’s your problem to convince
her and make it look convincing.’
‘Have you still got that Franciszek on your shoulders by any
chance?’
‘From time to time. Except that he’s less trouble than you
are, even when you’re asleep. Besides, he’ll probably prove
useful.’
‘You think she’ll agree?’ he asked after a while. He didn’t
expect the stage of forcing the plan about their initially living
together would end so strangely.
‘She’s got to agree. Believe me. For the first six months I
loved you differently than for the rest of your life, except in
those days nobody explained this could happen. The word
depression was reserved for the Żuławy flatlands. After giving
birth, a woman was allowed to be tired yet happy, but I wasn’t
tired yet I was unhappy.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘You didn’t have to.’
‘Mum,’ he said after a long pause, ‘do you think it doesn’t
take it out of me, the fact that everything’s not going the way
it should?’
‘Don’t be all that worried. The sun also has spots. Get
yourself together, we’ve got to go.’

He made two runs between the housing estate in Polanki
and Ogrody. He carried and brought things although he didn’t
quite know what they were for. It was hard for him to believe
that all this was for that tiny bundle he’d brought from the
hospital. He was scared to pick the bundle up, so his reason
dictated; was also afraid of staying at home too long, but
couldn’t honestly say why. Fortunately, nobody asked him and,
fortunately, again he wasn’t the centre of attention.

Once again he blocked Magda’s neighbour’s car when
parking in front of the tenement in Wilga. The neighbour
wouldn’t be able to drive away in the morning but apparently
he didn’t get up before nine anyway so there wouldn’t really
be any problem. The rain was light, but it was enough to act
as an excuse. Bartol left his phone number on the windscreen.

He knew it was one of many, albeit the smallest, of temporary
solutions he came up with in his life and about which he tried
not to think beforehand. He knew they lulled his vigilance
through ostensible and blameless action; he knew and did
nothing about it.

It was a near certainty that one day the neighbour would get
up early and the morning would be a write-off, just as Magda
would finally find out about the child, about the fact that the
child was living with her mother in his mother’s apartment;
and this, too, would be a rude awakening.

As he was reaching the first floor, the thought occurred
to him once more that he should tell her everything, but the
thought was obviously too heavy and stayed on the second
floor, could no longer be seen from the fifth and, as he knocked
on the attic door, he forgot it had even existed.

Again he was touched by the same view. Sheets of paper
spread out on the floor, next to them a couple of books, spines
up, a couple put aside, one open and on it a heavy, small statue
of a laughing Buddha who saw to it that the book didn’t close,
a glass of wine. And the words: ‘It’s a good thing you’re here…’

For a long time he didn’t even listen to what she was saying;
he didn’t really want to hear more. She turned away to look
for something and returned with an illustration she wanted
to show him. It was small. He didn’t study it, handed it back to
her and pulled off his damp sweater.

‘Good.’ She gave him a moment. ‘Sit down and look carefully.
Do you want something to drink?’
He didn’t have time to reply. Picked up the illustration again.
Studied it and froze. It was a photograph of an etching depicting
a mother with a child on her knees; from behind her back peered
some more children. Bartol sat, or rather collapsed ,onto the sofa.
‘What is it?’ was all he could manage.
‘Love,’ Magda answered quite naturally. ‘Well, what will
you have to drink? Wine?’ She looked at him and smiled. ‘Or
something stronger? You’re a little pale.’
‘Make it something stronger…’ he replied, slowly regaining
his balance. It wasn’t an allusion; probably something she
simply wanted to show him.
‘You’re right. The air’s too heavy, as if a storm’s brewing…
Take a look at the other pictures on the table. I’ll be back in a
minute.’
It still took him a long while to gather his thoughts. The
illustrations showing fragments of paintings and etchings
depicting mothers with one, three or a whole group of children,
didn’t help. Only when Magda had returned and sat down
next to him, only when he’d almost choked on his gin with its
drop of tonic – the way he liked it – did he start to regain peace
of mind.
‘Are you going to visit her tomorrow?’ she asked after a
while.
‘Who?’ This time he did choke.
‘You’re a bit strange today. Careful, or you’ll suffocate. What
do you mean ‘who’? The Ogrodniczak woman.’
‘Yes,’ he replied still coughing. ‘She’s already back. I called
her company. She’s going to be there.’
‘I don’t know whether we’re on the right track but it would
be good for you to be prepared. Presuming that my thinking’s
correct, Hope and Faith have already been buried, only the
greatest remains – Love.’
‘Why the greatest?’
‘“And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the
greatest of these is love.” Letter to the Corinthians. You’ve never
read it,’ she laughed.
‘I don’t read other people’s letters, haven’t you noticed yet?’
‘I couldn’t help but notice. You’d better listen then. Love can
be represented in various ways. There’s worldly love, sensual
love and love in general. The latter used to be represented with
a torch, basket of fruit, flaming heart but above all children.
Alciati has it that there can be no end of them, however many
will fit, it doesn’t matter. Cesare Ripa states decidedly three. I’ll
read it to you: “three children indicate that although single love
is a virtue, it is triple love which has power because without it
neither faith nor hope has meaning” – and, in my opinion, it
does have meaning for this person. He left it, meaning Love,
to the end, and it’s not out of the question that it could refer to
this woman. She’s somehow mixed up in all of this.’
‘That’s why I’m going there. Let’s say we’re right, what do
you think I ought to look for and ask about? Children? Latin?’
He felt everything was slowly returning to normal. He made
himself more comfortable on the sofa, looked and listened.
‘Both one and the other, of course. Ask and look around. I’m
trying to tie it all together. I know I’m going to find a painted
or graphic representation with all this in one, and with an
inscription at that, I just know it. If not in some church then
in a town hall, if not in Gdańsk then in Paris. I’ve no idea why
I haven’t found it yet but I will, and then we’ll know what to
look for or what’s been found, but make a bit of an effort now.’
‘So what symbols and what sayings am I looking for and
where are they supposed to be?’
‘All of them and everywhere. Note down what comes to
mind and if you see anything in Latin, even on a cake of soap,
call me.’
‘What’s soap got to do with it?’
‘I’ve no idea, it just came to mind. Besides, Venus emerged
from the foam naked: will that do?’
‘It could. Maybe I’ll just see a heart and arrow on a wall?’
‘Don’t joke. Even if you see a heart-shaped box of chocolates,
take a good look at it and all the chocolates, too. Besides, do
you think a heart like that was thought up by one of your pals
at junior school?’
‘No. I associate it with a little chubby Cupid and his bow. It’s
probably his doing.’ He laughed.
‘Cupid with an arrow is the notion of sensual love, sudden,
at first sight, heralding a change of events, but a heart as symbol
of sublime love, if pierced by an arrow, bleeds – unhappily. And
if you think that Cupid is nothing but a chubby child, you are
mistaken. There was a time when he used to be represented as
a beautiful youth with an enormous quiver resting on naked,
firm – very firm – buttocks. All he’s got left from childhood
are his curls. I’ll show you in a moment if you like, I’ve got one
somewhere here of exceptional beauty.’
‘No, thanks,’ replied Bartol nervously ruffling his fringe.
‘Then take a look at all these illustrations. Love figures in
all of them. I’ll make us another drink. It’s got stuffy with all
these feelings.’
He merely glanced at the photographs; they all looked alike.
Then he gazed at Magda as she extracted ice from the bag,
sliced the lemon, as she walked and smiled. When she sat next
to him, all he knew was that he didn’t want to talk about Love
anymore, unless it was about the other kind. He pushed all the
papers aside. Picked up one picture, with no children in it: just
a man and a woman, the latter holding a flower. He showed it
to her when she returned.
‘I prefer these innocent flirtations.’
‘They’re not all that innocent,’ Magda replied. ‘The covering
on her head shows that she’s married and that joker in the lace
next to her looks to me to be nothing more than a musician.
Look, she’s holding a wild rose and this most surely indicates
sinful and forbidden love.’
‘I’d never have thought it. Then why did they paint such
filth?’ he asked laughing, looking at the apparently innocent
scene again.
‘See what an imagination they had. It’s a censored version
of the story of sin, as a warning, so women looking at it knew
what vain sensual love looks like and where it can lead. If you
like I can show you how real love, married love of course, was
represented and praised…’
‘No, thank you. Perhaps some more of that sensual love,’ he
said, slowly brushing behind her ear the strands of auburn hair
which had broken loose of her grip and fallen in all directions.
She didn’t say anything, which was a good sign; nothing
in the vein of ‘wait, let’s get some more work done, I’ve just
remembered something’.
With a touch of irony, she merely asked: ‘Is this how you want
to release creative energy? A brief leap into Chaos and back.’
‘That’s exactly the sort of journey I’m in the mood for right
now.’
‘And what would you like to know?’
‘What, for example… does an ear exactly represent in this
context?’ he asked and started kissing her ear, lazily, as though
there, on the inner side of the lobe, he’d be able to find the
answer.
‘In this context, you say…’ she repeated, stretching out her
words and body. ‘It is, above all, greedy for flattery, or rather…
lip-homage…’
He didn’t wait for further encouragement.
After a lengthy interlude, she was the first to speak: ‘That’s
not all. It’s also exceptionally sensitive to vows or compliments,
if you prefer…’
‘About your breasts, for example?’ He pulled down the right
strap of her bra.
The strap didn’t resist, fell gently, revealing one breast.
‘For example…’
‘And what, for example, does such a liberated breast stand
for?’ he asked, toying with her nipple.
‘Well… It could signify sincerity, fertility. Or perhaps simply
the jealousy of the other, imprisoned one… I don’t know yet…’
she replied.
‘Well then, perhaps we simply have to do something about
it, explain it to the other one,’ he said, pulling down the other
strap. ‘There’s no hiding the fact, it’s waiting for an apology…
impatiently. Shall I take care of it?’ He didn’t wait for her assent.
A moment later, he looked at her again; she, too, opened
her eyes.
‘What’s waiting for an explanation now?’ she asked.
‘The hair grip.’
‘Both my naked breasts are smiling at you and it’s my
pinned-back hair that’s putting you out,’ she laughed, her eyes
on his imploring face. ‘All right, unfasten it.’ As clumsily as he’d
pulled the grip out of her hair, so very accurately did he throw
it into the wastepaper bin.
‘We didn’t like each other at first sight,’ he declared,
spreading her hair as it tumbled over her shoulders.
‘See,’ she said, winding a strand around her finger, ‘and
I thought that loose hair as a symbol of power to magically
enslave men was a bit of an exaggeration.’
‘Not in the least… Now just the dress… I ask it…’ The dress
consented with unwitting encouragement.
‘And the feet?’ he asked, seeing them instinctively rub
against each other.
‘That’s for the prince… I’ve no idea what he did with the
slipper during his tedious search for Cinderella,’ she answered,
unbuttoning his shirt, then belt, then trousers. ‘What can that
be compared to?’ she asked herself.
‘Aren’t there any symbols for it anymore?’
‘Come on, there are masses. In fact everything that’s hard
and erect.’
He eased her onto her back and started kissing her stomach.
‘You’ve reached the seat of ecstasy and sinful desires.’
‘And where will I get to in a minute?’
‘Could be… the pomegranate, or fig maybe…’
‘I’ve never tasted one but it’s probably my favourite fruit…’
Again he didn’t get enough sleep, and again didn’t regret it.
Much to his own surprise he left Poznań exactly as he’d
planned although not everything had gone according to plan.
He’d just been about to phone Polek when the latter had called
informing him that he wasn’t going anywhere, that he was
having problems with his family and would Bartol cover for
him should the need arise. Bartol agreed without asking any
questions but knew the unwelcome conversation no longer
wished to be postponed, and at most could wait until the
following day and not a day longer.
That’s what he decided, and then focused exclusively on
the purpose of his journey.
For two weeks he’d been gathering information about
Elżbieta Ogrodniczak. At moments he was fascinated, at
moments horrified. He didn’t know what to think of the
woman. She kept slipping through his fingers, refused to be
pigeonholed; as if she were made of pigeonholes: locked, left
ajar, open, ones which could no longer be closed.
He had no idea who he was going to meet.
A hard, efficient chairwoman who employed seventy people
and had long ago erased her twentieth birthday, one she’d
spent behind bars?
A clever tart who had stopped earning with her body
soon enough and had started using her head in order to
run an exclusive dating agency long before that’s what they
were called, and ended her career running a legal, profitable
business in a related field?
A young woman for whom three years in prison had not
been enough to form a bond with the child to whom she’d
given birth there?
The woman who’d later had a pair of twins of whose
fatherhood many a prominent figure in the country had
been suspected, a woman who’d never confirmed or denied
anything, brought the children up alone for twenty years just
to bury them later in the same cemetery as the one into which
they’d crashed their light sports aircraft?
He knew about this from the newspapers; from newspapers,
too, he'd cut out two photographs of her. There, in the third row
at some gala event, the photographs too small to read anything
from her face.
He was scared of the conversation.
During the entire journey, he prepared himself, thinking
almost exclusively of Elżbieta Ogrodniczak, his thoughts
escaping to Magda only briefly. Even more briefly, to his
child. When almost at his destination, he started running
through his conversation with Pilski and covered nearly a whole
kilometre before realising he’d passed a factory. He turned back.
It could easily be mistaken. The building looked like a
warehouse or production plant of some highly specialised
equipment. Silver, corrugated, modern, surrounded by a neatly
trimmed hedge, neatly planted trees, neatly parked cars. Nor
did the large letters EGFF clarify anything. He didn’t find the
sign marked Elizabeth Garden Fun Factory which Pilski had
mentioned but, as he parked, sensed it was the right place. As
soon as he entered, all certainty vanished.
A door of steel and glass opened. Immediately behind it,
on the right, he saw a row of desks on which stood computers
behind which sat women wearing headphones. The women
simply registered his entry with their eyes and continued to tap
away on their keyboards. On the left, he saw a hall with rows
of shelves. He didn’t know why he walked towards them. From
a distance, the twenty metres of shelving looked crammed
with shampoos and conditioners. He was wrong; side by side
stood lines of vibrators. Pink ones, green ones, ones made
of flowery glass and some whose function he couldn’t quite
figure out. It was the same with what looked like a shelf full of
pharmaceuticals. They seemed to be medicines but the images
on the packaging suggested, in a more or less explicit way, what
they were used for. A raging bull, a wild horse, golden rain. The
swan on the packaging of some syrup – for potency no doubt –
seriously interested him because although the swan’s neck was
long and thick he couldn’t work out a connection.
Just as he was thinking he’d have to ask Magda what a swan
like that could signify, a young woman approached offering to
help. When she heard that he wanted to talk to Mrs Ogrodniczak,
she retorted that, unfortunately, Mrs Ogrodniczak wasn’t in.
His hint that he was from the police was met with a shrug: so
what, the head wasn’t in anyway.
After long negotiations with one of the managers in a
beautiful office and another in an even more beautiful office,
he was connected to the boss. He briefly told her why he was
there. To his amazement the woman invited him to visit her at
home – if he’d be so kind. He would be so kind.
The house stood nearby.
Still a little bewildered by the unusual products, Bartol arrived
at the given address. He’d presumed the architecture would be
modern and now quickly decided never to presume again. Passing
through the open gate, he drove in a small circle and parked in
front of a small house stylised on a traditional Polish manor.