all small beer. An irritating social campaigner, doing his small-time provincial deals; it’s all small beer. They didn’t slash his tyres, or smash his windows, or kill his dog. They cruelly and deliberately butchered his wife.”
Sobieraj’s judgment of the victim had been unambiguous. She was wonderful, good, with no faults at all, open-hearted, even ifher husband was sometimes over-aggressive in his crusades and annoyed people, in her presence everybody melted. She helped, she advised, she took care of things. She was goodness incarnate, full of all that was best from head to toe. Prosecutor Sobieraj had delivered a totally non-objective paean in her honour, and then burst into tears. It was embarrassing. But nevertheless credible. Meanwhile, Szacki had a problem with Wilczur’s account. Something didn’t match up. He didn’t yet know what, but something wasn’t right.
“Mother Elżbieta of the Angels, that’s what they called her,” said Wilczur.
“After the character in Iwaszkiewicz’s story, ‘Mother Joanna of the Angels’? She was a madwoman.”
“Mrs Budnik wasn’t,” said Wilczur, shaking his head. “Not in the least. Goodness personified.”
“The woman in the story was insane.”
“You know that, and so do I, and she knew it too, and she hated that nickname. But that’s what they called her – they thought it was a compliment. And I’ll be frank with you – she wasn’t my cup of tea, but she deserved every compliment. She really was a good person. I won’t keep repeating myself, but I’m sure everything you’ve heard about her and have yet to hear about her is true.”
“Perhaps she was irritating too? Too much social conscience? Too Catholic? I don’t know, maybe she bought too little at the local bazaar? This is Poland – they must have hated her for something, bad-mouthed her behind her back, envied her something.”
Wilczur shrugged.
“No.”
“No, and that’s all? End of brilliant analysis?”
The policeman nodded and tore the filter off a cigarette; Szacki felt an overwhelming sense of resignation. He wanted to leave for Warsaw. Now. This minute. At once.
“What about the relationship between them?”
“People usually pair up with partners in the same league, I’m sure you’re aware of that principle. The beautiful with the beautiful,the stupid with the stupid, the prodigal with the prodigal. Whereas Mrs Budnik was from two or three rungs higher than her husband. How should I explain it to you?…” Wilczur fell into thought, which made his face take on a ghostly, corpse-like expression. In the dim light of the pizzeria, behind a veil of cigarette smoke, he looked like an incompetently animated mummy. “People only put up with him because she chose him. They think, too bad, he may have a screw loose but essentially he’s right, and if there’s a woman like that at his side, he can’t possibly be bad. And he knows that. He knows it’s contrary to nature.”
Sobieraj had said: “I’d like a man to be that much in love with me for all those years. I’d like to see that sort of adoration in someone’s eyes every day of the week. From the outside they may have looked ill-matched, but they were a wonderful couple. I would wish anyone that sort of love, that sort of adoration.”
“He adored her, but there was something sordid about that adoration,” said Wilczur, exuding his poison, “something possessive, clinging, I’d say. My ex was working at the hospital over ten years ago, when it became clear that Mrs Budnik wouldn’t ever have children. She was in despair, he wasn’t at all. He said at least he wouldn’t have to share her. It was a passion, for sure. But you know what people with passions are like.”
Szacki did know, but he didn’t want to agree with Wilczur, because he was finding him less and less likeable, and any fraternizing with this individual seemed abhorrent. Nor did he wish to prolong the discussion. Two people had told him
Sobieraj’s judgment of the victim had been unambiguous. She was wonderful, good, with no faults at all, open-hearted, even ifher husband was sometimes over-aggressive in his crusades and annoyed people, in her presence everybody melted. She helped, she advised, she took care of things. She was goodness incarnate, full of all that was best from head to toe. Prosecutor Sobieraj had delivered a totally non-objective paean in her honour, and then burst into tears. It was embarrassing. But nevertheless credible. Meanwhile, Szacki had a problem with Wilczur’s account. Something didn’t match up. He didn’t yet know what, but something wasn’t right.
“Mother Elżbieta of the Angels, that’s what they called her,” said Wilczur.
“After the character in Iwaszkiewicz’s story, ‘Mother Joanna of the Angels’? She was a madwoman.”
“Mrs Budnik wasn’t,” said Wilczur, shaking his head. “Not in the least. Goodness personified.”
“The woman in the story was insane.”
“You know that, and so do I, and she knew it too, and she hated that nickname. But that’s what they called her – they thought it was a compliment. And I’ll be frank with you – she wasn’t my cup of tea, but she deserved every compliment. She really was a good person. I won’t keep repeating myself, but I’m sure everything you’ve heard about her and have yet to hear about her is true.”
“Perhaps she was irritating too? Too much social conscience? Too Catholic? I don’t know, maybe she bought too little at the local bazaar? This is Poland – they must have hated her for something, bad-mouthed her behind her back, envied her something.”
Wilczur shrugged.
“No.”
“No, and that’s all? End of brilliant analysis?”
The policeman nodded and tore the filter off a cigarette; Szacki felt an overwhelming sense of resignation. He wanted to leave for Warsaw. Now. This minute. At once.
“What about the relationship between them?”
“People usually pair up with partners in the same league, I’m sure you’re aware of that principle. The beautiful with the beautiful,the stupid with the stupid, the prodigal with the prodigal. Whereas Mrs Budnik was from two or three rungs higher than her husband. How should I explain it to you?…” Wilczur fell into thought, which made his face take on a ghostly, corpse-like expression. In the dim light of the pizzeria, behind a veil of cigarette smoke, he looked like an incompetently animated mummy. “People only put up with him because she chose him. They think, too bad, he may have a screw loose but essentially he’s right, and if there’s a woman like that at his side, he can’t possibly be bad. And he knows that. He knows it’s contrary to nature.”
Sobieraj had said: “I’d like a man to be that much in love with me for all those years. I’d like to see that sort of adoration in someone’s eyes every day of the week. From the outside they may have looked ill-matched, but they were a wonderful couple. I would wish anyone that sort of love, that sort of adoration.”
“He adored her, but there was something sordid about that adoration,” said Wilczur, exuding his poison, “something possessive, clinging, I’d say. My ex was working at the hospital over ten years ago, when it became clear that Mrs Budnik wouldn’t ever have children. She was in despair, he wasn’t at all. He said at least he wouldn’t have to share her. It was a passion, for sure. But you know what people with passions are like.”
Szacki did know, but he didn’t want to agree with Wilczur, because he was finding him less and less likeable, and any fraternizing with this individual seemed abhorrent. Nor did he wish to prolong the discussion. Two people had told him
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