He put his gla.s.s on the tabletop and fetched out two deep plates with a blue border. They reminded him of the canteens at the old workers' holiday camps. The kitchen, though long, was hopelessly narrow. He turned round with the plates and for the first time that evening gazed into her eyes. She immediately looked away, but in that moment he found her beautiful. He thought how he'd like to wake up beside her, at least once.

Feeling embarra.s.sed, he picked up his gla.s.s and went into the sitting room to poke around in the bookshelf. This whole situation seemed comical. What was he doing? He'd agreed to meet a pretty girl for coffee a few days ago, and instead of just s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g her, forgetting her and seeing to his wife, as everyone else did, he was gazing into her eyes and dreaming of breakfast together. Unbelievable.

At the thought of Weronika and Helka he felt a stab of regret. A sense of guilt? Not necessarily. More like sadness. Everything in his life had already happened. He would never be young again, he would never fall in love with the feelings of a twenty-year-old, he'd never be so deeply in love that nothing else mattered. So many emotions were always going to be repeats now. Whatever happened, he'd always be a guy - just a middle-aged one for now, then an older and older man - who's been through a lot, with an ex-wife and a daughter, with a flaw that's obvious to any woman. Maybe some woman would want him for shallow reasons, because he still looked quite good, because he was slim, had a permanent job, and you could talk to him. Maybe he'd accept someone, because in the end it was easier to live in a twosome than on your own. But would anyone ever go crazy with love for him? He doubted it. Would he? He just smiled bitterly and felt like crying. His age, his wife, his daughter - at once it all felt like a sentence, an incurable illness. A diabetic can't eat pastries; someone with high blood pressure can't run up mountains; Teodor Szacki couldn't fall in love.

She put her hands over his eyes.

"A penny for your thoughts," she whispered.

He just shook his head.

She snuggled against his back.

"It's so unfair," he said at last.

"Hey, don't go over the top," she said with artificial cheerfulness. "A little is more than nothing."

"A little doesn't interest me."

"More isn't always possible."

"Maybe never."

"Did you come here to tell me that?"

He hesitated for a moment. He felt like lying as usual. Since when had it come to him so easily?

"Yes. And it's not just to do with..." he broke off.

"Your family?"

"Yes. Something else has happened, I can't tell you the details, I've got tangled up in a murky affair, I don't want to drag you into it."

She stiffened, but didn't let go of him.

"Do you take me for a fool? Why don't you tell the truth, that you got me to fall in love with you for fun, that it was a mistake and now you've got to get back to your wife? Why all the fibbing? Next you'll be telling me you're a government agent."

"In a way that's true," he said, smiling. "And I swear I'm not lying. I'm afraid they might use you to get at me. And as for making you fall in love - believe me, it's completely different."

She snuggled up to him even closer.

"But will you stay today? You owe me that at least."

He had imagined this scene earlier in every possible way, but he hadn't envisaged this scenario. He followed her through the hall into the bedroom, and suddenly he had a terrible urge to laugh. You're waddling, he thought. You're waddling like a satyr with bandy hairy legs. You're waddling like a constantly h.o.r.n.y bon.o.bo chimp with a red behind. You're waddling like an old dog on the scent of a b.i.t.c.h. You're waddling like a middle-aged fool. Right now there's nothing human about you.

When she opened the bedroom door ahead of him and smiled flirtatiously, he had to bite the inside of his cheek hard to stop himself from bursting out laughing.

They were very gentle, exploring each other like school-children, not like mature people who had decided to go to bed together. Unb.u.t.toning her shorts, watching her lying on the bed as she raised her b.u.t.tocks to pull them off and then pulled her T-shirt with the Hopper reproduction over her head - all he felt was cold curiosity. And soon after, as he lay naked beside her and stroked her body, he ceased to feel anything.

He was horrified. He knew she was very lovely. Young. Attractive. Different. Above all, different. He had seen how men looked round at her. He had imagined every part of her body a hundred times. But now, when this body was lying in front of him, hoping for s.e.x, he had become totally indifferent to it. He was horrified, because he had suddenly realized he wouldn't be able to perform as a man. His body didn't want her body, and was utterly indifferent to all the efforts his brain was making. His body refused to be unfaithful. And if it weren't for the thought that nothing was going to come of it, maybe it all would have gone differently. But that very worst of all the thoughts that can occur to a man was making him go stiff - unfortunately not in the key areas. He was half filled with panic, half with embarra.s.sment. There was no room left for desire.

He wanted to vanish.

Finally she forced him to look at her. Amazingly, she smiled.

"Hey, silly boy," she said. "You know I could just lie here next to you for weeks on end and I'd be the happiest woman in the world?"

"I'm sick," he moaned in despair. "Fetch me a razor blade. I don't want to go on living."

She laughed.

"You're silly and tense as a schoolboy. Cuddle up to me and we'll sleep a few hours. I've been dreaming for days of waking up beside you. I'll never understand it."

He didn't get it. He wanted to die. She made him lie on his side, nestled her back against him and fell asleep almost instantly. Amazing, but, as he was wondering if she were already fast enough asleep for him to make his getaway, he too soon drifted off.

He woke up a few hours later, sweaty because of the sultry night. In the first instant he didn't know where he was. He felt alarmed. But only in the first instant.

It had been - well - maybe not fantastic, but decent. At the key moment he remembered the story of a school friend who, when he finally got the girl he'd been fantasizing about for years, came to school next day and, still wistful, admitted over a cigarette: "You know what? I had more fun with her when I was whacking off in the bog."

He had to bite his lip again.

The car clock showed a few minutes past five, and the sun was already quite high as he parked outside his house on the other side of the city. He quietly went inside, got undressed in the hall and shoved his underwear to the bottom of the linen basket so Weronika wouldn't smell the scent of another woman. In their sitting room c.u.m bedroom there was a computer game lying on the table, tied with a thin ribbon - the latest part of Splinter Cell. And a note saying: "For my sheriff. W". He smiled bitterly.

11.

Friday, 17th June 2005 The health-protection agencies in all the European Union countries are planning to withdraw food products that contain paprika, turmeric and palm oil. Carcinogenic food colourings have been banned. Research shows that Russians do not notice severe censorship in the state media. Doctors at a conference in Toru conclude that Polish women are less s.e.xually active than German or French women. Thirty per cent of women suffer from frigidity. The Inst.i.tute for National Remembrance's team triumph in a shooting contest for security-firm employees. Extreme nationalist politician Andrzej Lepper is suggesting that Prime Minister Marek Belka, head of the National Bank Leszek Balcerowicz and Marshal of the Sejm Wodzimierz Cimoszewicz all collaborated with the SB. Meanwhile, the last mentioned is having fun with President Kwaniewski and his wife at Lech Wasa's name-day party. The inc.u.mbent president gave his predecessor a bottle of red wine. In Warsaw the standard-bearers of "normality" - League of Polish Families party leader Roman Giertych, All-Polish Youth and the skinheads from the National Radical Camp - march in their parade. They shout: "Paedophiles and pederasts are Union enthusiasts." Citizens can visit the capital's museums and galleries at night, and in the metro they can hear the children of refugees announcing the names of the stations in garbled Polish. Maximum temperature - eighteen degrees; cloudy, a little rain

I.

How Szacki managed to get through Thursday was a mystery to him. He had woken up - or rather been woken - with a headache and a temperature of almost thirty-nine degrees. When he had dragged himself out of bed to be sick, he had almost fainted on the way to the toilet, and had had to sit down on the floor in the hall until the black spots before his eyes had gone. He had called work to say he'd be late, taken two aspirins and gone back to bed where - he was sure of it - he hadn't fallen asleep but pa.s.sed out.

He had woken up at two p.m., taken a shower and gone to the prosecutor's office. On the way up to the second floor he had had to stop every few steps to catch his breath. He told himself nothing was wrong with him, it was just his body's reaction to a concentrated dose of the emotions he usually experienced over the course of several years, not a single day. But it didn't make him feel any better.

Once at his desk, he finally switched on his mobile phone. He ignored the text messages from Monika and listened to the voicemails from Oleg, who had left several, each more furious than the last, screaming that if Szacki didn't call him back immediately he'd put out a warrant for him.

He called back and found out what he had suspected ever since his visit to Captain Mamcarz. So in theory he shouldn't have been surprised, but even so a shiver ran down his spine. Always, whenever the truth about a crime came to light, it wasn't satisfaction that he felt, just sickening sorrow. Once again it turned out a human being had not died by accident; that someone's memories and hopes had been extinguished in the brief moment it took for the sharp end of a skewer to pierce his eye and penetrate the thin layer of skull in that spot. Does the person feel anything at a moment like that? Does the consciousness last for much longer? The doctors say he died instantly. But who can really know that? What would he have felt if that SB b.a.s.t.a.r.d had pulled the trigger the other day?

He drove away the thought, which made his breathing go shallow again, quickly wrote out a to-do list and called Kuzniecow to prepare the necessary site for the trial experiment. Then in turn he contacted Cezary Rudzki, Euzebiusz Kaim, Hanna Kwiatkowska, Barbara Jarczyk and Jadwiga Telak. This time it went smoothly. They all answered the phone. Curious how when things aren't going well, nothing works, but when they start to fall into place, suddenly everything goes the right way. "If only that were the truth," he said aloud, nervously tapping his fingers. "If only."

He gave his boss a laconic account of what he was planning to do, without mentioning the previous day's events and without waiting for her surprise to turn into fury, then left for the appointment he had made with Jeremiasz Wrobel. He still had a few questions for the feline doctor.

He was playing for the highest stakes. If he succeeded, the inquiry would be closed by Tuesday. If not, they'd have to put it on the shelf. Of course, another way would be to track down "OdeSB", but that, unfortunately, he couldn't do.

He felt sick again.

II.

But that was yesterday. Now it was coming up to eleven on Friday. He was sitting in the Citroen, parked outside the arts centre on azienkowska Street, trying to understand why the pump regulating the hydraulic fluid pressure in his French monster's bloodstream kept turning itself on. Whenever he switched off the radio there was a regular hiss, recurring at several-second intervals - it was truly irritating. He turned off the engine to stop hearing the nerve-jangling noise.

It was one of those wet summer days when, instead of falling from the sky, the moisture rises in the air and clings to everything. The world outside the car windows was misty and fuzzy, as raindrops ran down the gla.s.s now and then, blurring its contours even more. Teodor Szacki sighed, reached for his umbrella and very cautiously got out of the car, trying not to dirty his pale-grey trousers against the bottom edge of the door. Dodging puddles, he crossed the street, stopped outside the brick chimera of a church and - to his own surprise - crossed himself. Once upon a time, as a child, he'd had the custom acquired in the family home of making the sign of the cross every time he went past a church. In adolescence he'd started feeling ashamed of what seemed to him a blatant show of religious feeling, and he only occasionally thought of this childhood habit when he pa.s.sed a Catholic shrine. Why couldn't he stop himself from doing it now? He had no idea.

He examined the ugly gloomy building from under his umbrella. d.a.m.n this b.l.o.o.d.y church, d.a.m.n Henryk Telak and the murder that meant his life would never be the same again. He wanted to have the case off his hands as soon as possible, whatever the outcome. I'm getting like the others, he thought sourly. Just a little longer and I'll be sitting at my desk, staring longingly at the clock and wondering if anyone will notice if I nip off at a quarter to four.

"Doc.u.ments, please," boomed Kuzniecow's voice close to his ear.

"Get lost," he growled in reply. He wasn't in the mood for jokes.

Together they went into the church annex, via the same entrance as almost two weeks earlier, when in the small religious education cla.s.sroom Henryk Telak's body had been lying on the floor, and the cherry-and-grey stain on his cheek had made Szacki think of a Formula One racing car. This time the room was empty, not counting a few chairs and Father Mieczysaw Paczek, whose face in the livid light of the fluorescent lamps seemed even softer than before.

Szacki chatted to the priest. Meanwhile, Kuzniecow and a technician from Wilcza Street set up a camera on a tripod and arranged some extra spotlights in the dark room, so they could record the trial experiment.

At a quarter to twelve everything was ready, and only the main characters in the drama were missing, who were due to appear at noon precisely. Father Paczek reluctantly went back to his room, and the technician reluctantly left his toys behind, not encouraged by Kuzniecow's a.s.surances that he was better at handling electronic equipment than women.

On small ugly chairs with metal legs and brown covers the cop and the prosecutor sat next to each other in silence. Lost in thought, Teodor Szacki started laughing quietly.

"What is it?" asked Kuzniecow.

"You'll laugh, but I was thinking about what Helka will look like in fifteen years from now. Do you think she'll still look like me?"

"Fate could never be so cruel."

"Very funny. I wonder how children can be so unlike their parents."

"Maybe because first they're themselves, and only then someone's children?"

"Maybe."

III.

They turned up punctually, almost simultaneously, as if they'd all come on the same bus. Jadwiga Telak was as sad as usual, in beige linen trousers, a polo neck of a similar colour and elegant shoes with heels. Her hair was tied in a plait, and for the first time during the inquiry she looked like an attractive, well-preserved forty-something of elegant, proud beauty - rather than her sister who was fifteen years older. Cezary Rudzki had fully recovered. Once again he was the king of Polish therapists - thick grey hair, white moustache, a piercing look in his clear eyes and a simpering smile encouraging you to confess, "what are you really feeling as you talk about this?" Good jeans, a sports shirt b.u.t.toned up to the neck. A dark-blue tweed jacket tightly hugged his broad shoulders. Without a word they sat down next to each other on the ugly chairs. They waited. The prosecutor could sense the atmosphere was solemn.

Hanna Kwiatkowska did not disturb it. She lacked her typical quivering, perhaps because she seemed extremely exhausted; her make-up failed to conceal the dark shadows under her eyes. Her hair was still mousy, her suit still wasn't in any way different from tens of thousands of other suits parading about the capital city, but the low neckline of her blouse and the height of her stilettos made Szacki wonder if he hadn't judged her a bit hastily, in labelling her an as.e.xual covert nun. At the same time as Kwiatkowska, Barbara Jarczyk entered the room - once again she looked exactly the same as the first time Szacki had seen her, and may even have been wearing the same clothes. She smiled at the prosecutor, who thought she must once have been very pretty, and now - if it weren't for the mascara - she'd have deserved to be called handsome. Euzebiusz Kaim arrived last, a minute after twelve. As usual, he radiated self-confidence and cla.s.s. Even the SB b.a.s.t.a.r.d would have regarded his outfit as elegant - not just smart. His shoes and trousers alone must have cost as much as Szacki's entire suit. His heavy white shirt with rolled-up sleeves looked as if it had come straight from Brad Pitt's wardrobe.

Once they were all sitting down, Szacki asked if anyone wanted to use the toilet. They didn't.

The prosecutor took a deep breath and started to talk.

"I have a.s.sembled you here to conduct a trial experiment that will help me and Superintendent Kuzniecow to understand better what happened in this room two weeks ago. Of course I am familiar with all your accounts, and with the theory of constellations - many thanks to Mr Rudzki for explaining it - but in spite of all that, I feel it essential to conduct an experiment of this kind. Forgive me for forcing you to come to this place again, which is sure to prompt negative feelings in you. I realize that being here must be painful, and I promise I'll do my best to make sure the whole thing takes as short a time as possible."

He recited the speech he'd prepared in advance, conscious of how wooden it sounded, but he couldn't give a d.a.m.n about its style. The point was to put them off their guard, make them believe it was just about a simple repet.i.tion of the therapy from two weeks ago. He tried not to look at Oleg, who was standing in the corner of the room, absorbed in chewing his fingernails.

Rudzki stood up.

"Am I to position the patients in the same way as they were standing then?" he asked.

"There's no need," replied Szacki calmly. "I'll do it, and then I'll be better able to understand how the mechanics of it function."

"I am not convinced-" began Rudzki in a superior tone.

"But I am," the prosecutor interrupted him brutally. "This is a trial experiment being conducted by the prosecution in connection with an inquiry into a case of the most serious crime, not a lecture for first-year students. That wasn't a polite request, but information about what I'm going to do, so please let me do my job."

Szacki went a bit too far with the bluntness, but he had to put the doctor in his place at the off, otherwise he'd start questioning every move he made. And the prosecutor couldn't allow that.

The therapist shrugged and scowled disapprovingly, but shut up. Szacki went up to him, took him by the arm and positioned him in the middle of the room. With his mocking smile, Cezary Rudzki can't have suspected that the spot where he was standing - just like for all the others - was not accidental, but the result of the very long conversation Szacki had had the day before with Dr Jeremiasz Wrobel.

He took Barbara Jarczyk by the arm and arranged her next to Rudzki. Now they were standing shoulder to shoulder, facing the door. The mocking smirk had left the therapist's face, and he was staring anxiously at the prosecutor. Szacki permitted himself a glance in his direction.

Next he arranged Hanna Kwiatkowska opposite Rudzki and Jarczyk, so that she was facing them. He positioned Kaim to one side, slightly out of the line-up, and told him to look at a point more or less halfway between Kwiatkowska, and Jarczyk and Rudzki. Near this point he arranged Jadwiga Telak, who looked at him in surprise when he took her by the arm. She probably wasn't expecting to have to take part in this. But she stood politely near point X, turned to face it, far enough to the side for Kwiatkowska, Jarczyk and Rudzki to be able to see each other easily.

Rudzki was as pale as the wall. By now he must have known where Szacki was heading. But he was still hoping it was an accident, and that the prosecutor was fumbling in the dark, just hoping to chance upon something.

"Doctor Rudzki," said Szacki. "Please tell everyone what the most important question is during a constellation. Or at least one of the most important. The kind you'd ask yourself if someone showed you a line-up like this one."

In the empty room every utterance sounded unnaturally loud, on top of which it was followed by a low echo, and so the silence that fell after Szacki's question was all the more intense.

"It's hard for me to say," replied Rudzki at last, shrugging. "It looks quite random, I can't see any order. You must understand that-"

"In that case I'll tell you, as you don't want to say," Szacki cut him short again. "The question is: who's not here? Who is missing? And indeed, it now looks as if you're all staring at someone who isn't there. Instead of that person there's an empty s.p.a.ce. But we can easily solve that problem, by putting Superintendent Kuzniecow in that place."