Free Polychrome by Joanna Jodelka Page A

to talk to everyone.’ He passed the crutches
to Mrs Bończak and made towards the front door. Once there,
he retreated and asked: ‘What did you have in mind when you
said he was getting a bit weird?’
‘Nothing much, but when I wanted to throw some old
flowers away – they were withered and didn’t really fit in with
the otherwise clean apartment – he shouted at me to leave
them alone. He’d never even raised his voice before. I was a
bit annoyed. All I’d wanted to do was throw some rubbish away
even though I didn’t have to. But once I’d gone it occurred to
me that the flowers could’ve been important, maybe someone
had remembered about him, or thanked him for something.
Maybe I’ll hold on to dried flowers one day if my grandchildren
give them to me, who knows.’
    He quickly went down to his car. One thing he knew for certain
– he had to find himself in the house in Sołacz as quickly as
possible; it wouldn’t give him any peace. First he came to a
standstill by Kupiec Poznański, the office and shopping centre,
and almost entirely forgot about the word ‘quickly’ a few yards
further down on Podgórna Street. Here, the cars didn’t seem to
be driving, only pushing each other along as they sluggishly
climbed the hill.
    He had a long time to think it all over.
As far as Mrs Bończak’s sons were concerned, what he
heard was more or less what he’d expected. He liked the ruse
about her working in the theatre. He’d ask the local police to
check whether that was what everybody really thought, but
was almost sure it was true. If she’d told her sons the truth,
there’d have been evidence of it already. Offices like that had
everything those good boys stole – expensive mobile phones,
laptops, cameras, and Mikulski’s apartment was furnished with
antiques. Everything could be taken and would bring quick
money without venturing too far from home. One of the lads
would have stalked her over the two years, and under some
pretext or other paid her a visit. From what he’d heard about
them he guessed this was only the beginning of their careers
and – once Mrs Bończak told him there wasn’t any work for
them – he was convinced of it. He wasn’t entirely sure whether
she realised they weren’t looking for work, certainly not such
as wasn’t mentioned in the penal code.
He remembered the local cop’s words: ‘Maybe not this time,
but you’ll meet them before long, that’s for sure.’ Of the mother,
he had a good opinion.
He also decided to call an antique dealer he knew. He
exchanged some needless information with him then asked:
‘One question – tell me, what do they call those unobtrusive,
round tables which pull out to seat ten or twelve people?’
‘Have you got one? Buy it, or sell it – to me.’
‘No, I haven’t, I only wanted to know what they’re called.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Let it be. ‘Bye.’
‘Just tell me, where’d you find it?’
‘In a museum.’
‘Is that so? Drop by with it. Bye.’ He hung up.
Up until that morning, Bartol had thought he kept seeing
the table simply because he couldn’t remember what it was
called. He’d phoned the dealer to get it off his mind but knew
that wasn’t what was bothering him. Those unlikely dried
stalks just didn’t fit in. They didn’t fit in with the apartment,
didn’t fit in according to him and they didn’t fit in according
to Mrs Bończak, yet they were important to Mikulski. Perhaps
there was a simple explanation as to why the elderly man had
been so sentimental.
He phoned the police station. They were still compiling the
portrait of the man Edmund Wieczorek had seen. And it wasn’t
easy, according to Maćkowiak. Bartol heard that a technician
was still milling around on Góralska Street, therefore nothing
stopped him from going there. At four, they were all to meet at
the station.
He covered the last couple of kilometres in an unexpectedly
short time. He was