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.’
‘Was it here she met Pawel?’ he asked.
The faintest frown creased her forehead, but she didn’t ask how he knew about Weronika’s secret boyfriend.
‘No, he came into the restaurant one day and chatted her up as she served him pierogi.’
‘Do you remember when he first came in?’
‘Yes! It was February thirteenth – I remember because my Mama’s called Katarzyna and it’s her saint’s day,’ she said, with a shy smile. ‘After that, he came back every single day, flattering her, slipping her little presents – czekolatki, perfume – till she finally agreed to go out with him.’ Her voice became scornful as she talked about Adamski.
‘You didn’t like him.’
‘He was bad news,’ said Justyna, nodding her head for emphasis. ‘Nika was only nineteen’ – she used the affectionate diminutive of Weronika – ‘and he was thirty – much too old for her.’
Janusz left a silence, letting her talk. ‘He was always getting drunk,’ she went on, after a pause, ‘and then he’d get crazy. One time the three of us, we were in a pub and he threw a glass at the TV screen – just because they were talking about the election!’ She widened her eyes at the memory. ‘We used to come here, mostly – until he got barred.’
‘What happened?’ asked Janusz.
‘He said it was for arguing with a bouncer,’ she shrugged, sceptical. ‘But he was such a liar, who knows.’
Since the girl’s animosity toward Adamski appeared to outweigh her caginess, Janusz decided to play devil’s advocate.
‘Lots of Polish men like to drink,’ he said with a grin. ‘Maybe you were a bit jealous of your friend? Perhaps you would have liked Pawel for yourself?’
‘No way!’ she shot back, her face flushed, warming her olive complexion and making her even prettier, he noticed. ‘I didn’t say one word against him at the start – I’m not her mother. But then, one night, while Nika was in the toaleta, he put his hand up my skirt! Can you believe the guy?’
‘Did you tell her?’
‘I tried to, but she just shrugged it off, said he must have been joking. She was crazy about him, and anyway, you have to understand something about Nika: she’s bogu ducha winna.’ He smiled at the expression – innocent as a lamb – it was one his mother had often used.
‘Where did he work?’ If Justyna didn’t know – or wouldn’t tell him – where the pair were living, it would be his best hope of tracing the pair.
She fiddled with the straw in her drink, shrugged. ‘It’s a big mystery. At the beginning, Nika told me he’s a builder, one of those who stands on the side of the road and waits for an Irish boss to hire him?’ Janusz nodded – in the old days he’d sometimes had to tout himself out in that humiliating way. ‘But then he started throwing big money around – taking her out for fancy meals, buying expensive hi-fi, flashy clothes, acting like a gangster.’
‘Maybe he won some money – internet poker, betting on the football.’
‘Enough to buy a new BMW?’ she asked, her eyes wide. ‘He said he was dealing in antique furniture.’ Her words dripped with derision.
‘So how do you think he made the smalec?’
At that, a cloak of inscrutability dropped over her face again, and she looked off into the bar area, which was filling up as the night progressed.
‘I don’t know,’ she said after a pause. ‘I just hope Nika isn’t getting herself mixed up in any trouble.’
As Janusz waited at the bar to buy more drinks he let his eye roam over the club’s clientele. In their teens and twenties, mostly Polish, but with a sprinkling of English faces, they appeared – for the most part – smartly turned-out and well behaved. His gaze fell on a group of youngsters sitting at the table nearest the bar. Two boys and two girls, deep in animated conversation, talking and laughing just a bit too loudly. And they were constantly touching each other, he noticed – a squeeze of the arm, a stroke of the cheek. Maybe it was just the buzz and bonhomie you’d expect between good friends enjoying the first rush of alkohol. Maybe not. The eldest, a boy, was 18, tops, and, under their make-up the two giggling girls looked barely old enough to drink legally.
He ordered the drinks and, leaving a twenty on the bar to pay for them, strolled to the toilets. After using the urinal, he lingered at the washbasin, combing his hair in the mirror and praying nobody took him for a pedzio. Just as he expected, a minute or two later, a shaven-headed, rail-thin guy in a hooded jacket slid up to the sink next to him, turned on the taps, and made a pretence of washing his hands.
‘Wanna buy Mitsubishi?’ he asked in Polish, without turning his head.
Janusz had a pretty good idea he wasn’t being offered a used car. Pocketing the comb, he raised a non-committal eyebrow.
‘It’s good stuff,’ the guy urged, ‘double-stacked …’ Suddenly, he found his sales pitch interrupted as his face was brought into violent and painful contact with the mirror.
‘What the fu …?!’ He gazed open-mouthed at his contorted reflection and scrabbled at the back of his neck where Janusz’s rocklike fist gripped his balled-up hood.
Janusz shook his head, gave him another little push for the profanity.
‘A word of advice, my friend. The undercover policja are all over this place. Apparently, some scumbag is selling drugs to youngsters.’
The guy tried to wipe snot and blood from his nose.
‘Your best move would be to take your … business up to the West End, and rethink your policy on selling to anyone under twenty-one.’ Janusz bent his head down to the guy’s level, locked eyes with him in the mirror. ‘In fact, if I was you,’ he said softly, ‘I’d insist on seeing a driving licence.’
Straightening up, he released the guy, who bolted, and turning on the taps, gave his hands a thorough soaping. He frowned at his reflection. Had Adamski been dealing Ekstasa here? It could explain a lot: his bizarre and unpredictable behaviour, the glazed look Weronika wore in the dirty photos, his sudden acquisition of enough cash to buy a BMW. It might explain that fracas with the klub bouncer, too.
Rejoining Justyna, he told her he’d been offered drugs in the toilets. He hoped she might take the bait, confirm that Adamski was a dealer, but she just lifted a shoulder, non-committal.
‘When I was a student,’ he said, ‘the only way to get high, apart from booze, was the occasional bit of grass. A guy I knew started growing it on his bedroom windowsill – in the summer the plants would get really huge. Anyway, one day, his Babcia was cooking the family dinner when she ran out of herbs,’ he looked up, found her smiling in anticipation.
‘The old lady decided that Tomek’s plant was some kind of parsley, and chopped a whole bunch of the stuff into a bowl of potatoes. Luckily, it wasn’t all that strong. All the