Polychrome Read Free

listen. This time the
man couldn’t see him so he had time; he slowly started to calm
down, as always when able to focus on the details, one by one,
with profound reverence.
    The man’s voice was deep; he spoke resolutely, not very fast;
he could easily have worked for the radio. It took a while for
Ksawery to realise, with surprise, that he was speaking Polish as
though it were something strange – here in Poland, in Warsaw.
    The man no longer looked ordinary although he still wore
the same shirt, unfastened so Ksawery could clearly discern
a small anchor on the cord around his neck. His hair looked
different, too, pulled back and held in place at the top of his
head by the glasses.
    The stranger was rather handsome. Ksawery wouldn’t
have been able to judge this himself, no doubt, but saw it
very patently in the eyes of the pretty girl serving the man. He
recognised the smiles, the fawning. He hated it, although he
craved it for himself. To be noticed, remembered.
    Hence the pursuit after self-confidence, watches, shirts – all
substitutes for something else.
He lost sight of the man for a moment because of a couple
of fuming passengers who were seeking information – from
anywhere; perhaps that’s why they were in the bar. In a split
second the nice woman stopped being nice.
He remained glued to the glass display, and the good mood
he’d been in this morning melted away like the jelly on the tarts
which had the misfortune of not having been swiftly sold. The
tarts didn’t look good from close up, nor did his reflection in
the glass.
He remembered his mother reading something about
Leonardo da Vinci, according to whom truly ingenious and
beautiful people could only be born from great passion. So he’d
been a lost cause right from the start; he hadn’t just guessed but
known his mother could barely stand his father. He knew very
well – he’d heard from the best source possible, his mother.
Now he really did want something to drink – with no ice. He
would calm down and soon his thoughts would be back on the
right track, true to plan. Perhaps he’d phone the office – that
always did the trick.
He’d walked two steps before hearing: ‘We meet again.’
He just stared, mouth gaping in surprise no doubt, and felt
like a child who, caught red-handed, knows trouble’s on the
way. But why did he feel like this? He had no idea. So he didn’t
say anything.
‘Sorry for being so direct.’ A radiant smile immediately
appeared on the stranger’s face. 'Just because I remember you
doesn’t mean you have to remember me. Please forgive me. I’m
almost certain we had breakfast together, in the same hotel,
that is. Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?’
‘Could be, although I don’t remember.’ He had no idea why
he’d lied and couldn’t say anything cleverer. All he saw was that
the curt reply didn’t discourage the beaming stranger in the least.
‘Please don’t be angry that I'm pestering you. You’re not the
only one I’ve pestered since yesterday.’
Ksawery hadn’t seen him pestering or paying attention to
anybody that morning.
‘I’m just passing through Poland,’ he continued. ‘I regret not
living here but that might soon change and I’ll stay for longer.’
Ksawery didn’t have time to ask where the man was from,
but his earlier peculiar unease was imperceptibly evaporating,
swiftly turning into sincere interest. And his typical, deeply rooted
aversion to small talk with compatriots was gradually turning
into equally typical, endearing native hospitality extended to
foreigners and, eventually, to Poles not born in Poland.
Their conversation, barely begun, was interrupted by a
collective groan from a dozen passengers as they heard yet
another announcement declaring a further delay of up to fortyfive minutes.
They sat down.
‘You know, when I watched you this morning, you looked
like a million dollars.’ The stranger smiled. ‘That’s a