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He shook his head. ‘My mama taught me, right from when I was a little boy.’ Using a wooden spoon, he scraped the onion and garlic into the hot oil of the pan, releasing an aromatic sizzle. ‘When there was nothing in the shops we’d take a basket into the countryside to find treats for Tata’s supper. In the summer, wild asparagus, lingonberries to make jam…’
Kasia smiled at the nostalgia in his voice. Janusz’s childhood, with its visits to his grandmother’s place, a crumbling farmhouse on the outskirts of Gdansk, was a million miles from her monochrome memories of a monolithic Soviet-built estate in industrial Rzewow. She loved to hear his boyhood tales of collecting warm eggs from the chicken house, or climbing up into the high branches of apple trees in the orchard. The funny thing was, even though his memories were so different from hers, they still made her feel homesick.
She tapped cigarette ash out of the kitchen window. ‘How did your mama know what was safe to eat?’
‘She came from a family of farmers, so she was a real country girl. She even knew how to make birch wine. In the spring, you cut through the bark’, he used his wooden spoon to demonstrate the lateral cut, ‘and drain off a few litres of sap. But you must be careful: if you make the wound too big the tree will die.’
Pouring a jugful of water over the meat and vegetables, he said over his shoulder, ‘October, November, I take the tube to Epping and go into the forest to look for mushrooms. If you get lucky, you can find boletas. I could take you, if you like – show you which ones are good to eat.’
There was a moment of silence as they shared the unspoken thought … if they were still seeing each other in six months’ time.
He threw a couple of roughly chopped red chilies in the pot. The dish’s final ingredients, a little sour plum jam and a cup of buttermilk, wouldn’t be added till the end.
He’d been sliding glances at her face while he cooked and was relieved to see that the old bruise on her cheekbone had faded completely, with no evidence of fresh ones. The warning he’d delivered to Steve had done the trick, at least for now. And according to Kasia, Steve had bought the story that Janusz was Kasia’s cousin over from Poland, which was a relief – he didn’t want to give that chuj another excuse to knock her about.
He opened the fridge and pulled out a jar filled with cream-coloured fat.
‘What’s that?’ asked Kasia.
‘Goose smalec for roasting the potatoes,’ he said, doling some into a roasting tray.
‘Ah, goose fat is good for you!’ exclaimed Kasia, examining the jar, ‘It helps you to lose weight.’ Then, on seeing his sceptical look: ‘It’s true – I read it in a magazine.’
Kasia might be blade-sharp, reflected Janusz, but like all Polish women, she had a vast collection of cherished – and often crazy – dietary folklore: a rich brew of Catholic injunctions, old wives’ tales from medieval Poland, and the crap peddled by glossy magazines.
Janusz brandished the jar in front of him and adopted a serious air: ‘Top government scientists are warning: too much goose fat can cause dangerous weight loss – please use it sparingly.’ Pretending to be insulted, she made to grab the jar back from him.
He caught her arm deftly, his big hand circling her slim wrist with ease. ‘Can you stay tonight?’ he asked. Best to get the question – and the phantom of Steve – out of the way early so that it didn’t overshadow their evening. She looked along her eyes at him, then nodded. ‘I’m staying at my sister’s.’ Breaking into a grin, he grabbed her by the waist and, ignoring her laughing protestations, danced her around the tiny kitchen.
Half an hour later, with a couple of glasses of a decent Czechoslovak pinot noir inside him, he settled into the big leather sofa and, wreathed in the aromas of the roasting potatoes and the peppery stew, let his gaze linger on Kasia, who stood examining the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves either side of the fireplace. He felt as relaxed and happy – the realisation rushed on him unawares – as he had with Iza, more than twenty-five years ago.
An image of her, sitting outside a harbourside cafe in Gdansk, flickered across his memory like an old home movie. One of her hands, wearing a red woollen glove, was curled around a steaming drink. She’d taken off her other glove and he was chafing the bare hand to warm it, laughing at how icy her fingers were.
He lit a cigar. To hell with the past, he thought.
‘There’s a Polanski movie on cable later, if you fancy it?’
His tone was careful – it wasn’t the first time he’d tried to rekindle her passion for movies. Despite her first-class degree from the world-famous Lodz film school, the last time Kasia had visited the cinema was to see GoodFellas.
‘Maybe,’ she said lifting one shoulder, before bending to pick up a discarded envelope from under an armchair.
‘It’s Knife in the Water. The one with the couple on a boating trip on the Lakes?’
‘The one with the psychol?’ She made a comic grimace that turned her beautiful long mouth down at the corners. ‘Too depressing!’
Oskar had once put forward a theory – which doubtless originated with his wife Gosia – regarding Kasia’s lack of enthusiasm for films. Apparently, she regretted abandoning her directing ambitions to marry Steve, and couldn’t bear any reminder of her mistake. In this analysis, Kasia didn’t stick with her marriage because of her Catholic faith, but because the alternative meant admitting she’d given up her youthful dreams for nothing.
Janusz was sceptical. To him, psychology was a slippery pseudoscience, without any empirical foundation. But now and again he found himself wondering if Oskar’s theory mightn’t contain a grain of truth.
‘You like my new outfit?’ she asked suddenly, doing a little catwalk sashay.
That put him on the spot: when she had arrived he’d noticed she was wearing a dress rather than her usual tight black jeans and T-shirt. But the longish black shift was the sort of thing a woman with a lousy figure might go for. Why would a looker like Kasia hide her body under a sack?
She sensed the hesitation. ‘You don’t like it?’
‘It’s…stylish, darling,’ he managed, ‘but I think you’d look good in something a bit more…figure-hugging.’
She cut her eyes away from him. ‘You mean an exotic dancer should dress like a whore?’
Kurwa! This was dangerous ground – it wasn’t the first time Kasia had gone all touchy over her job. It mystified him – if she didn’t like stripping why did she do it? And if she did like it, why be so uptight?
‘Of course not, darling. Anyway, you would look ladylike whatever you wore.’
She smiled at that, mollified, then came closer, wrinkling her nose at the cigar smoke – ‘Smells like a bonfire,’ she complained – before putting a Marlboro Light between her lips and leaning down for a light.
He took the opportunity, instead, to pull her face down to his and kiss her, properly this time. When she offered no resistance, he tumbled her onto the sofa and continued the clinch, pushing the dress, rustling, up her stockinged legs, desire humming between them. They had loads of time to make love before the oven timer started pinging, he calculated, and her tightly closed eyes signalled a green light.
Then the phone rang.
He cursed inwardly and for a moment was tempted to let it go to voicemail, but Kasia extricated herself and he caught her watchful look. He didn’t want her to think he had anything to hide.
His abrupt ‘Czesc?!’ was met with silence. Then a female voice, uncertain, said ‘Pan Kiszka?’
It was the dark-haired girl from pani Tosik’s restaurant, the one he’d given his card to. She told him her name was Justyna, but didn’t volunteer a surname. He apologised for his boorish manners, keeping half an eye on Kasia, who had returned to the kitchen. He could see her stirring the beef stew, ignoring the conversation, but something about the angle of her head suggested she was getting every word.
The trouble was, the girl was adamant that she had to meet him tonight, and when he suggested postponing, sounded like she might hang up. He was half-inclined to tell her no, but an undercurrent of urgency in her voice stopped him. Anyway, if he was to replenish his depleted cash reserves he needed to find the missing girl fast.
Thirty seconds later, he was jotting down the name of a Polish club in Stratford where the girl wanted to meet.
Janusz retrieved his cigar from the ashtray and joined Kasia in the kitchen. With a stab at a nonchalant air, he said, ‘Listen, darling. Something’s come up – a job I’m doing for someone.’
‘A woman?’ she asked.
‘Well, yes, the client is a woman, but an old lady – a babcia.’
‘And the woman on the phone – she is an old lady, too?’ Her green eyes had narrowed, and she would no longer meet his gaze.
‘Well, yes, she is young, but she’s just a contact. The thing is she insists on seeing me tonight, for some reason.’
Without a word, Kasia started to collect her things, her movements uncharacteristically jerky.
All his hopes for the evening teetered on a cliff edge. ‘Listen, Kasia,’ he said, aware of a cajoling note in his voice he didn’t like, ‘I can get there and still be back by ten, maybe half past, we can have a late supper.’
‘So I sit here and watch Sky while you go out drinking with a woman?’ She pulled a mirthless smile. ‘All the lies I have to tell Steve, making excuses so I can stay all night, and now this.’
Janusz felt the anger bolt out of him like an unleashed dog.
‘I have a job to do, money to earn! You are not my wife to tell me whom I can and cannot see!’ His voice boomed around the flat.
‘You are right – it’s none of my business,’ she said, her voice tight. ‘How can I complain if you have other girlfriends? I am just some dziwka you are sleeping with who other men pay to see naked.’
He clutched his head, mute before this irrational torrent.
‘And no, I’m not your wife,’ she went on. ‘I’m someone else’s – and I shouldn’t be here.’
Softening his voice with an effort of will, he said, ‘Listen, Kasia. You are still young, you could leave Steve, start life over again,’ but he knew it was hopeless – this was old ground, the argument well worn.
She pulled on her coat. ‘You know I can’t, Janek,’ sounding weary now.
He caught her arm as she opened the flat door.
‘Don’t go off this way, kotku,’ he said.
She smiled a sad smile at this big man calling her a little cat, touched her fingers to his lips, and left.
Thirty seconds later, the main door to the street boomed like a distant firing squad.
Janusz paced the flat, cursing; running the last hour’s dramat through his head on a continuous loop. Half an hour later he still couldn’t make any sense of it: what right did she have to be jealous whenshe was the one sleeping with another man? The fact that man was her husband didn’t make it any easier. No! Being able to picture that rat-faced Cockney screwing her made it a thousand times worse.
With an effort of will, he pushed Kasia to the back of his mind, threw himself onto the sofa and drank a glass of red wine in a single draught. He took the snap of Weronika, the one of her in the fur coat, out of his wallet. Something about this girl, her innocent beauty, and yes, okay, the way she reminded him of Iza, had got under his skin, made him preoccupied with finding her. Naprawde, it was even worse than that, he realised with an embarrassed grimace: he wanted to rescue her.
He went to turn off the oven, and after a moment’s hesitation, scraped the roast potatoes into the bin: once cooled you could never recapture their crust.
Leaving the block’s front door between the stone columns that flanked the entrance, Janusz noticed that a new ‘For Sale’ sign had sprouted overhead. Oskar said that if he sold up and bought a place further out he could pocket a couple of hundred grand, easy. But why would he want to live in some benighted suburb like Enfield?
When he left Highbury Mansions, it would be wearing an oak overcoat, as his father used to say –God rest his soul.
As usual, he took the shortest route to the tube, straight across the southern section of the darkened Fields, feeling the dew from the grass creeping into his shoes. Halfway across, without breaking his stride, he glanced backwards – there had been a spate of muggings here recently. All clear. But as his gaze swung forward again, he discovered that a big, heavyset man, almost as tall as him, had materialised on the pavement at the edge of the Fields, twenty-five, thirty metres ahead. He must have just stepped out of a parked car, but if so, why hadn’t Janusz heard the distinctive clunk of a car door? He kept his gaze locked on the bulky figure, clad in an expensive-looking parka jacket, strolling through the pools of orange thrown by the street lights, until finally, the guy disappeared out of sight behind the Leisure Centre.
Janusz couldn’t fathom what it was about the man that had caught his attention – he certainly didn’t look like a mugger. All he could say was there was something about him that looked indefinably out of place.
FlashKlub, the place that Justyna had named for their rendezvous, was located in a basement under a semi-derelict fifties factory building in an area called Maryland on Stratford’s eastern fringe. The name might suggest rural romance, but the area was depressed and scruffy – no Olympic effect visible here. Lining up with a queue of youngsters chattering away in Polish he felt middle-aged, out of place, but the young bouncer showed no surprise, greeting him with a polite ‘Dobry wieczor, panu.’ He did make an apologetic gesture at his cigar, though. Janusz ground it out on the pavement before heading down the rickety stairs toward the klub with all the enthusiasm of a man going to get his teeth drilled.
Justyna was sitting on a stool at the bar, fiddling with the straw in her drink. She was even more attractive than he remembered: glossy dark hair grazing her shoulders, eyes the colour of conac. She seemed relieved to see him – no doubt she’d been pestered non-stop by guys trying their luck. He ordered a Tyskie and another apple juice for her – she shook her head when he suggested a shot of bisongrass wodka to liven it up. Maybe she didn’t want to let her tongue run away with her, he thought.
A huge screen on one wall playing pop promos dominated the basement. The current one had been shot in some semi-derelict Soviet housing estate and starred two skinny crew-cut boys. Dressed like gangsters from an American ghetto, they bobbed and grimaced through a Polski hip hop number, their faces deadpan. Maybe he was just a narrow-minded old fart, but it set Janusz’s teeth on edge. The mindless beat and nihilistic lyrics struck him as an affront to the musical beauty of the language.
‘You don’t like it?’ she asked with a half-smile at his tortured expression.
‘No. Do you?’ he said, raising an eyebrow.
She shrugged. ‘Sure. I like all kinds of music.’
‘When I was your age, studying physics in Krakow,’ he said, ‘there was a craze in the cellar bars, for traditional music, folk, I suppose you’d call it.’
Her expression was attentive, but detached. She had one of those faces that you felt compelled to keep scanning because her emotions were so hard to read.
He paused, remembering those nights, the frenetic violins, the thrilling sounds infused with the wildness of Gypsy music, often a haunting woman’s voice in the mix, and felt the tug of nostalgia in his chest. He took a swallow of beer to cover his expression. ‘The thing was, the dumbass … excuse me … stupid Kommies thought traditional music was wholesome, harmless stuff – but of course, all those old partisan songs about carrying your heart around in a knapsack were dynamite.
‘The music had us stomping and cheering, climbing onto tables to sing along. After closing, all hyped up and full ofwodka, me and my mates would dodge the police patrols and paint Solidarnosc graffiti all over town.’
‘Did you ever get caught?’ she asked. From the mild curiosity in her tone, she might have been asking about something that happened in the nineteenth century rather than two-and-a-half decades ago.
He hesitated. ‘Just once. There were three of us – my mates had hung me by my legs over the side of a railway bridge so I could paint some slogan or other. “THE TV LIES”, I think it was. When the milicja arrived, the lads just about managed to drag me back up, but by the time I was on solid ground they’d legged it and I got nicked.’
‘What happened to you?’
He looked away. ‘Nothing much, spent a night in the cell, got a few slaps, got sent home in the morning.’
Bullshit. The milicja had thrown him in the back of a van and taken him to Montepulich, Krakow’s notorious jail, where the Soviets had tortured and murdered hundreds of Polish nationalists after the war. It must have been a quiet night for them to commit so much time and effort to interrogating a seventeen-year-old boy over such a stupid thing – or maybe they just enjoyed their work. He’d been left with bruises and cuts that had taken weeks to fade, but they were nothing compared to the real legacy of that night, the thing that he carried inside him, like the shadow on an X-ray. He stamped the memories back down. Forget the past.
The girl and he gazed at the flickering video screen. The two boys were now in a car, lurching back and forward, zombie-like, to the beat. The camera cut to a shot of one of them, on his own, walking, before the camera pulled out to a wide aerial shot, revealing him as a tiny, lonely figure alone in a vast desolate wasteland.
She gestured with her chin. ‘He is like you, when you were young.’
‘Like me?’
‘You and your friends, back then, under the Komunistow – life was bad, society didn’t work for you. This music – for young people it says the same as your folk songs, it says fuck your society, we do our own thing.’
He knew that it was common for young women to swear these days, especially the ones who’d been in England a while, but it still shocked him in an almost physical way to hear it. When he had been her age it would have been unthinkable to use such language in front of one’s elders.
‘Is that what you feel about Poland today?’ he asked.
She sipped her apple juice, eyes cast down. ‘I want to go back one day, I guess,’ she said, choosing her words. ‘But not yet. What is there for me, in Katowice? I would earn maybe half of what I get here – I’d have to save for years just to buy a five-year-old Polski Fiat.’
There was no anger, only a resigned pragmatism in her voice.
‘Here, once I learn English, I can get a job in Marks and Spencer and earn good money, go to college part-time.’
‘What will you study?’
Her eyes lit up, animating her whole face for the first time. ‘Physiotherapy, or maybe chiropractic, I haven’t decided yet.’
Janusz knew Katowice: a powerhouse of heavy industry under the Soviets, many of its residential districts were now half-empty, depressing places, peopled by the old, the sick, and by those who lacked either the resources or the courage to leave. The thought of living there made him shudder. Maybe his generation had been lucky, after all – at least fighting the Kommies gave them a sense of common purpose.
‘Zamorski is a good guy,’ he assured her. ‘If anyone can put the country back on its feet, he will.’
His words hung there, shiny and shallow sounding, as she gazed at him with dark brown eyes.
‘Politicians are all the same.’ Her tone was polite but decisive. ‘You and your friends thought that Walesa was superman, right?’
Janusz had to admit she was right about that. He had idolised Lech Walesa once, only to watch in horrified disbelief, after the Solidarnosc leader became Poland’s first elected president, as he fell out with some of the revolution’s brightest thinkers and surrounded himself with yes-men.
Zamorski shared Walesa’s Solidarnosc credentials, but displayed none of his demagogic tendencies and had already pulled off an impressive political balancing act, drawing on Poles’ instinctive conservatism while resisting the temptations of full-blooded nationalism. But spending the night arguing politics with the self-possessed Justyna wasn’t going to help him find the lost girl, thought Janusz. He sensed he’d have to go gently – if he came out and asked where Weronika was, she might just clam up.
‘Did you ever come here with Weronika?’ he asked, taking a slug of beer.
‘Yes, sometimes.’
