Free Polychrome by Joanna Jodelka Page B

surprised; he hadn’t taken a particularly
better route – there were simply no understandable rules.
The street looked different from the previous day, gloomy
and depressing. There was no snow on the enormous branches
or pavement. Mush and greyness, as everywhere. All that
remained was a sense of peace, of not being in the city.
The apartment also looked different – also grey.
The previous day, in the strong light of photographic lamps,
the well-preserved French polish on the antique furniture
had experienced its second youth, gleaming, sparkling and
reflecting – as in a crooked mirror – the porcelain figures, silver
sugar bowls and everything else on it.
Now all this had turned dull; the feeble bulbs shone too
sparingly and the thick curtains didn’t allow any daylight in,
which – as it was – wasn’t very bright.
He greeted the two technicians. They were tired and didn’t
feel like talking: blending in with the ground, they were
finishing with the carpet on the ground floor.
He didn’t immediately make his way to the dried flowers,
but studied the walls and floor. There were no traces of
furniture having been moved. To make sure, he moved one
of the paintings on the wall and was certain – the place hadn’t
been painted for a long time.
Nothing else drew his attention.
Relatively calm, he approached the table with the flowers,
or whatever they were called. He didn’t know much about
flowers, especially when they looked like this.
They’d survived, leaning against the curtain. The decorative
tissue pressing into the vase might once have been yellow; now
it had more or less faded.
The huge bow had faded, too.
Carefully, he pulled the flowers out of the vase. His intuition
hadn’t misled him; there was a note attached to the ribbon.
Did they come from the association of dead poets or retired
cultural administrators?
He asked one of the technicians to snip the note off and
search for fingerprints.
There weren’t any. The technician believed the note might
have got wet many times over before someone had decided to dry
the whole lot. He also said they’d be able to say what the flowers
were and how long they’d been drying, if it was important.
Bartol opened the note and saw some Latin words with the
postscript ‘For Aurelia’.
It was important.
The technician secured the flowers, carefully wrapping
them in foil.
The police officer went back to his car. He didn’t notice the
people walking past scrutinising him.
    ‘Just look at that, some people have all the time in the world
to stare at tiny little notes. Could be a bill of exchange before
the war, but now? Must be a love letter. Hasn’t he got a phone
or something?’ one of them said to the other, loudly enough.
Bartol didn’t hear or notice them as they passed.
    He stood still, hundreds of thoughts racing through his
mind.
Was it a lucky coincidence or sheer chance that he’d found
this Latin twaddle? Maybe he was supposed to have found it?
Or maybe it was all the same to whoever had left it?
He stood there a good ten minutes before climbing into his
car. The frost was setting in again; puddles of slushy snow were
starting to freeze over.
He found the number he’d recently called.
‘Hello, mum.’
‘You’re generous today. I haven’t been home yet, haven’t had
time to check for you.’
‘Can you talk; not driving, are you?’
‘No, I’m still in the parking lot. Why?’
‘Do you have a pen? Can you jot something down?’
‘Uhm, go on.’
‘ Expecto Donec Veniat .’
‘I’ve no idea what that means but I’ve noted it down and will
have a look. Or no, listen, I’ll give you Magda’s number, she’ll…’
‘No, I don’t want the number of some Magda. Have a look
if you can, if not, we’ll get someone to do it.’
‘As you wish . Were those words found on the corpse, too?’
‘No, on some sunflowers, I think they’re sunflowers.’
‘A large circle with little yellow petals all the way