about the Budniks today, but he felt as if he still knew bugger all – this emotionally stamped quasi-knowledge was of no use to him at all.
“Have you questioned Budnik?” he asked at the end.
“He’s in a terrible state. I asked him a few technical questions, I’m leaving the rest to you. He’s under discreet surveillance.”
“Where was he yesterday?”
“At home.”
“And where was she?”
“At home too.”
“Sorry?”
“So he claims. They watched television, snuggled up and went to sleep. He got up at dawn for a glass of water, and she wasn’t there. Before he’d had time to get really worried, he got the call from Basia Sobieraj.”
Szacki couldn’t believe his own ears.
“That’s a load of crap. The silliest bunch of lies I’ve ever heard in my entire career.”
Wilczur nodded in agreement.
XI
Prosecutor Teodor Szacki tossed into the bin the leftover cold meat and cheese that was festering in the fridge, a half-eaten tin of pâté and a piece of tomato; for a moment he hesitated over the contents of the frying pan, but finally the day-before-yesterday’s bolognese sauce ended up in the rubbish too. The greater part of the food he had cooked. He had made far too much, enough for a three-person family and some chance guests. In Sandomierz he had no family, no friends or acquaintances and guests; as it was, he had to force himself to cook at all, because the ritual of standing on his own at the cooker and eating alone was dreadful. He tried to eat with the radio or the television on, but this fake version of someone else’s presence just made matters worse. He couldn’t swallow a bite, the food stuck in his throat, and he was starting to think of eating as such a tough, depressing activity that after every meal it took him a long time to recover. And he was finding it more and more arduous.
He went shopping as if it were a punishment. He was learning to buy less and less. At first, as with the cooking, he automatically got as much food as ever, accustomed to the fact that however much he bought, it would all disappear from the fridge. Someone would make themselves a sandwich, someone would come home hungry, or have a snack in front of the evening telly. Here there was just him. Firsthe gave up buying anything that was in a packet. The packs of cold meat and cheese were too big for one person, and he was throwing things away on a daily basis. He started buying by the weight, but still bought too much. Two hundred grams of smoked sausage, a hundred and fifty, a hundred. One day he was standing by the till in a shabby co-op on the market square. One bread roll, a pot of cottage cheese, a small carton of orange juice, fifty grams of ham and a tomato. The checkout girl joked that he didn’t have much of an appetite. He left without a word, somehow kept a grip on himself on the way home, but once he got there he cried as he made himself breakfast, and when he sat down at his plate with two sandwiches on it, he sobbed hysterically, and couldn’t stop; there were tears and snot smeared across his face. And he went on howling, rocking backwards and forwards, unable to tear his misted gaze from the ham sandwiches. Because he realized he had lost everything he loved, and would never get it back again.
Since moving from Warsaw he had lost fifteen kilos. People didn’t know him here – they thought he’d always been a skinny guy. But his suits were hanging off him, his collars had become too loose, and he had had to burn extra holes in his belts with a nail heated on the gas.
He thought of throwing himself into a whirl of work, but there wasn’t that much work to do here. He thought of going back to Warsaw, but he had nothing to go back to. He thought of finding someone for company who wouldn’t just be there to share the bed, but he hadn’t the strength. He did a lot of lying down, and a lot of brooding. Sometimes he felt that things were better now, that now he was standing on solid
“Have you questioned Budnik?” he asked at the end.
“He’s in a terrible state. I asked him a few technical questions, I’m leaving the rest to you. He’s under discreet surveillance.”
“Where was he yesterday?”
“At home.”
“And where was she?”
“At home too.”
“Sorry?”
“So he claims. They watched television, snuggled up and went to sleep. He got up at dawn for a glass of water, and she wasn’t there. Before he’d had time to get really worried, he got the call from Basia Sobieraj.”
Szacki couldn’t believe his own ears.
“That’s a load of crap. The silliest bunch of lies I’ve ever heard in my entire career.”
Wilczur nodded in agreement.
XI
Prosecutor Teodor Szacki tossed into the bin the leftover cold meat and cheese that was festering in the fridge, a half-eaten tin of pâté and a piece of tomato; for a moment he hesitated over the contents of the frying pan, but finally the day-before-yesterday’s bolognese sauce ended up in the rubbish too. The greater part of the food he had cooked. He had made far too much, enough for a three-person family and some chance guests. In Sandomierz he had no family, no friends or acquaintances and guests; as it was, he had to force himself to cook at all, because the ritual of standing on his own at the cooker and eating alone was dreadful. He tried to eat with the radio or the television on, but this fake version of someone else’s presence just made matters worse. He couldn’t swallow a bite, the food stuck in his throat, and he was starting to think of eating as such a tough, depressing activity that after every meal it took him a long time to recover. And he was finding it more and more arduous.
He went shopping as if it were a punishment. He was learning to buy less and less. At first, as with the cooking, he automatically got as much food as ever, accustomed to the fact that however much he bought, it would all disappear from the fridge. Someone would make themselves a sandwich, someone would come home hungry, or have a snack in front of the evening telly. Here there was just him. Firsthe gave up buying anything that was in a packet. The packs of cold meat and cheese were too big for one person, and he was throwing things away on a daily basis. He started buying by the weight, but still bought too much. Two hundred grams of smoked sausage, a hundred and fifty, a hundred. One day he was standing by the till in a shabby co-op on the market square. One bread roll, a pot of cottage cheese, a small carton of orange juice, fifty grams of ham and a tomato. The checkout girl joked that he didn’t have much of an appetite. He left without a word, somehow kept a grip on himself on the way home, but once he got there he cried as he made himself breakfast, and when he sat down at his plate with two sandwiches on it, he sobbed hysterically, and couldn’t stop; there were tears and snot smeared across his face. And he went on howling, rocking backwards and forwards, unable to tear his misted gaze from the ham sandwiches. Because he realized he had lost everything he loved, and would never get it back again.
Since moving from Warsaw he had lost fifteen kilos. People didn’t know him here – they thought he’d always been a skinny guy. But his suits were hanging off him, his collars had become too loose, and he had had to burn extra holes in his belts with a nail heated on the gas.
He thought of throwing himself into a whirl of work, but there wasn’t that much work to do here. He thought of going back to Warsaw, but he had nothing to go back to. He thought of finding someone for company who wouldn’t just be there to share the bed, but he hadn’t the strength. He did a lot of lying down, and a lot of brooding. Sometimes he felt that things were better now, that now he was standing on solid
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