Free Entanglement by Zygmunt Miloszewski Page A

they always looked like leftovers that hadn’t sold in the City Centre two days earlier. Or else he didn’t want to part with his change, because he still had to go and buy food. But only fifty yards further on there was an ATM. And a rose only cost five zlotys. Sometimes he also thought: Why should I buy flowers? When was the last time I got anything from her? A CD or a book, or even a text message other than “sliced loaf and cigarettes”? So he’d walk away from the flower shop, angry at himself and ashamed, and stop at the shop for the fucking sliced loaf, which he’d bought every other day for the past eight years in the same shop from the same saleswoman. Funny how he could see that she was getting older, while feeling as if he were exactly the same person as when he’d done the shopping there for the very first time. That had been in July. Szacki had been wearing a tracksuit, covered in dust from moving house. He was happy with the flat, happy to know that soon he’d be eating rolls and drinking kefir with the most beautiful woman in the world. He was happy the saleswoman was so nice. In those days he had long dark hair tied in a short plait, not the milk-white crew cut that made him look like the infantry sergeant out of an American war film.

    Cezary Rudzki politely but very firmly refused to answer any questions about Kwiatkowska’s, Jarczyk’s and Kaim’s therapy. Szacki did not insist. He would have to charge one of them before he could get a court order forcing Rudzki to hand over the paperwork. As Rudzki described the day when the body had been found, Szacki noted with regret that none of the people interviewed so far appeared to be the murderer. Their statements were logical and seemed to be sincere; there was a clearly audible note of sadness at the death of Henryk Telak and a large dose of empathy for him. Besides, he couldn’t imagine what motive any of them could have had for killing Telak.
    So thought Prosecutor Teodor Szacki on Tuesday 7th of June at 10.30 a.m. Two hours later he was already convinced that one of Rudzki’s three patients had to be the murderer.
    “I’m quite surprised it’s you that’s talking to me and not the police,” said the therapist suddenly.
    “You mustn’t believe what you see on TV. In this country it’s the prosecutor who conducts the serious inquiries. The police help as much as they’re told to, but all they do on their own is chase car thieves and burglars.”
    “Surely you’re exaggerating.”
    “A little,” smiled Szacki.
    “You must feel under-appreciated.”
    “I’d prefer to talk about facts, not feelings.”
    “Yes, it’s always easier. What else would you like to know?”
    “I’d like to know what happened on Saturday evening. And what Family Constellation Therapy is. And why your patients’ voices quiver whenever they talk about it.”
    “In that case we will have to talk about feelings.”
    “I’ll manage to put up with it.”
    The therapist stood up, went over to the bookshelf and started rummaging in a black briefcase.

    “I’m unable to explain it to you,” he said. “Unfortunately it’s not possible. Totally unfeasible.”
    Szacki gnashed his teeth. What an old fool. Now they’d got to the point, things should be moving forwards, not coming to a standstill.
    “Please try. Maybe it’ll work.”
    “No way. I won’t try telling you,” he said, turning round and smiling apologetically at Szacki, who was shaking with fury inside. “But I can show you,” he said, holding up a small video camera.
     
    The scene is the hall in the building on Łazienkowska Street. Telak, Kaim, Kwiatkowska and Jarczyk are sitting next to each other. Then Rudzki appears in the frame.
    Rudzki: Mr Telak, please go ahead.
    Telak stands up, smiling nervously. Szacki felt a shiver down his spine. Telak is wearing the same clothes as when he was found dead. Szacki couldn’t help thinking that any minute now he’d lie down on the floor and one