The door was orange. Yes, orange, because it blended beautifully with the green walls. They say the color of grass has a calming effect, and in a place like this, that's half the battle. The doorknob was probably gold, straight with a rounded tip. It could have looked completely different, but it would have suited this space. A doorknob is a very important thing; it opens and closes new horizons. Thinking about it now, I have the feeling that everyone has to enter their new reality someday. Sometimes I get the feeling that in heaven there will be no doorknobs, and that's exactly what will be wonderful, no surprises, everything will be as if in one room, visible as on a plate.
So the door was definitely orange, and behind it I saw darkness. But all that came later, and first, there was even earlier. I mean, probably, because now I'm not so sure.
***
It was raining. Rain always falls precisely when it shouldn't and where it shouldn't, but that's its mischievous nature. You can say a lot about precipitation in general, but certainly not that it makes life more pleasant for passersby.
A large droplet audaciously fell, with an unpleasant plop, as it always does, directly into my eye socket. Naturally, surpassing Almette cheese in naturalness, it splashed the entire inside of the glass and obstructed my vision. A moment later, it mattered little, as almost no shapes could be seen through the gray wall of rain. And it was then that I had the unique, questionably pleasant opportunity to personally examine the structure and geometry of the street lamps. My shock, caused by my unusually strong perception of metallurgical art, was so great that I grabbed my head and staggered a few meters. Only the wall of a nearby tenement house provided me with a strong enough foothold to calmly process the shock, caused by the truly extraordinary durability of this very branch of human creativity. I clearly sensed that this encounter with culture would leave a lasting and indelible mark on me. I immediately noticed a new respect for art growing within me, almost tangibly. I slowly came to, and then I saw her for the first time…
***
Beyond the darkness, a lamp glowed, giving off a harsh light, illuminating the small room. In the center was a couch, more commonly known as a sofa, and an armchair with a backrest. Everything was decorated in calm, pastel tones.
"Good morning," came the voice of a young woman. "Mr. Jan Kowalski, I presume?"
I nodded slowly and stepped inside, looking around carefully…
***
A moment passed before her image coalesced into a single, relatively stable image. She must have been standing relatively close, as the curtain of raindrops wasn't obscuring her. She was a little shorter than me and much smaller. Dressed in a light green jacket with the hood pulled up, she stood out clearly against the gray surroundings. She hurried over and asked,
"Are you all right?" A slight note of concern dominated her voice. "You must have hit yourself pretty hard.
" "What?...What?" I asked, unintelligently surprised. "Oh, I...no, I'm fine, just a little dizzy."
Only now did I see her face and ascertain, relatively soberly, that she was younger than me, maybe not by much, but definitely by a few years.
"Thank you for your concern, but please don't call me sir, I feel old then," I tried to smile, but I couldn't quite manage a slight frown, so I grimaced in pain. "I guess I'll have to bruise today."
She bent down slightly and lowered her hand to her right shoe, or rather, her right combat boot, because it wasn't quite the same, at least according to some circles.
"Here, it should help," she said, handing me something. She hesitated for a moment, but finally added, "Put it on your forehead."
I looked at her hand and was speechless, my autonomic nervous system reacting by dilating my pupils, even though it wasn't dark at all.
"Do you always carry such…things…with you?" I finally managed to say with some difficulty. "It's quite an original item.
" "No, only when it rains," she smiled sarcastically.
***
"Tell me everything in detail," the woman's voice soothed, as it was meant to. "And try not to leave anything out."
"Start with childhood?" I couldn't think of anything more sensible.
"No, of course not." The smile was wide and sincere. "It's a movie cliché. Although sometimes we do look for the root of problems in our youth, nowadays we're moving away from Freud.
" "And the couch?
" "The couch is really useful; the semi-reclining position allows for better relaxation.
" "Perhaps I'll start from the beginning, although that sounds cinematic," I joked uncertainly. "It was raining. Do you know, doctor, that rain always falls when it shouldn't?"
"I know," she replied. "And where it shouldn't. Please continue.
" "Will you take notes?
" "Yes, it will make it easier to make a diagnosis.
" "Good," I said calmly. "I remember it all started when a large drop fell behind the glass…
The energy-saving bulbs brightly lit the room…
" ***
The knife had an interestingly carved handle and an extremely interesting blade, about twenty centimeters long.
"Put it on, you won't get any swelling." She deftly turned the dagger around and pressed it into my hand.
I didn't particularly want to hold it, but I couldn't think of a better idea. So I shrugged, more to myself than to anyone else, and pressed the narrow blade against the already swelling skin.
"May I ask," I said to the girl in the green jacket. "Why do you wear...this"—I emphasized it clearly—"in your shoe?
" "A habit from my previous place of residence." She smiled slightly. "Maybe we should go into a gate for a moment, because otherwise we'll probably be washed away."
I wondered if I might feel even wetter than I did now and decided not to test it experimentally, through sensory impressions. So I suggested timidly,
"Let's go to 'Orange'." It's a cozy student pub on the next street, only a few hundred meters from here. If you're willing, of course...
I think she had...
***
"Do you understand, Doctor, that I don't make such offers to everyone I meet, especially after such a short time?" I propped myself up on my elbow to check if she really understood.
"Of course I do." A warm smile encouraged me to continue. "But you had a very good reason.
And to think that I thought such visits were completely unrealistic.
" "Exactly," I replied, nodding my head vigorously. "The reason was very important. The knife handle was my reason. Doctor, do you know where Transylvania is?"
***
A warm cup of hot tea pleasantly warmed my hands. Across from me sat a girl in a green jacket, who turned out to be a rather unattractive blonde with gray eyes.
"So you study art history?" She continued the conversation. "That's interesting," she thought for a moment, then added. "And a rather unusual field."
"A bit niche." When I was little, I read a lot; my favorite character was Mr. Car. I always wanted to be like him. "And that's how it turned out," I said half-jokingly.
She smiled and raised her cup to her lips.
"What are you studying?" I asked.
A strange shadow passed over her face. It seemed impossible that he could have been so wrong about her age. I was afraid I'd made a needless blunder.
"I'm not studying," she said, as if with a hint of shame. "I work.
" "Aha," I murmured with understanding and not without a sense of relief. "And may I ask who?
" "I just clean...
" ***
"Such knives were only made in one place, in the Southern Carpathians, near Transylvania.
" "Count Dracula?" the doctor asked. "Vampires and stuff like that?"
"Same place, same story even," I replied, a little dreamily. "The nobility weren't particularly well-liked by the peasants. That's why there were vampire knives in that area—a silver blade and a handle adorned with protective symbols. They were also good for an ordinary Blueblood. A lot of that kind of blood must have flowed in those days.
" "This one had a silver blade too?" she asked, curious.
"No, not really. But that wasn't the only thing strange…
***
"I got it from my grandfather for my twelfth birthday." She looked me straight in the eye. "He was a wonderful man.
" "A rather unusual gift for a teenager, don't you think?" I glanced around the café. "Can I see him again?
" There was almost no one in the Orange at this hour, just a lone student leafing through papers at the other end of the room. The girl nodded, leaned over, pulled out the blade, and placed it on the table. I stared at it, captivated, then slowly and carefully took it in my hand.
On the hilt were clearly visible miniature images of figures, some human, others seemingly not quite. The blade looked sharp enough that I didn't bother to check the edge.
"Listen..." something occurred to me. "I'm such an idiot. I don't even know your name!
" "I was wondering when you'd ask," the blonde smiled charmingly. "My name is Matylda.
" "Nice," I tried to extricate myself from the awkward situation. "Sorry I didn't introduce myself—Jan Kowalski."
She gave me a pointed look, so, somewhat unsure why, I started to hastily explain:
"That's really my name. I know it's unusual." I somehow understood immediately that it wasn't smart. I mean, it's so commonplace that it's unusual. And anyway, does it matter?
We both burst out laughing...
***
"My friends at school always teased me about that," I said, a hint of the old resentment in my voice. "The only thing that heated up the situation were the ads featuring the average Kowalski. Besides, that was my nickname—"Statistic."
"And do you think a sense of commonness played a significant role in these recounted events?"
I thought for a moment.
"Actually..." Only now did I realize she was joking. "A stereotype?"
She nodded. With a sigh, I continued to speak, to the rhythm of the tapping pen...
"
Can I ask you something?" I said timidly after a moment's pause.
"Of course, go ahead.
" "Have you ever been to Romania?" I blurted out in one breath. "Have you been? "
She looked at me for a long moment, as if considering whether to answer.
"How do you know?" she asked, a hint of suspicion in her voice.
"Something tells me he's not from here." I pointed with my chin at the spot where the dagger had previously lain.
Her gaze was filled with surprise.
"We recently studied Eastern European culture in our lectures," I continued, receiving no response. "We were looking at exhibits from that region. There were also weapons from the purges, peasant flails, and the like. The professor drew our attention to a dagger, just like yours. A narrow blade and a silver hilt." I paused for a moment. "That's why it immediately caught my eye; it seemed familiar. But tell me, why doesn't this one have a silver blade? Because it doesn't, right?"
The spoon, from across the room, was the only element of reality disturbing the harmony of the silence.
"Okay. That was about fifteen years ago, far from here, near Tirgu Mures." I was about eight years old...
***
- Her grandfather fled to the Romanian Bridge after September 17, 1945. He wanted to return to his homeland, but he couldn't. He stayed permanently, with his wife in Romania, living in the Transylvanian Plateau. They had a son who married a Polish woman in exile. "What do we have, doctor?" I turned to the woman. "There are an awful lot of stereotypes these days. Is it always like this?
" "And is the world made of anything else?" she asked rhetorically.
I thought for a moment, but I couldn't find the answer. Maybe someday it will come to me, maybe someday I'll be sure about it. For now, the story is more important.
"Their son had only one daughter – Matylda," I continued the interrupted thread. "She got along particularly well with her grandfather. They spent a lot of time together. After his death, ten years ago, she decided to return to her homeland. And so she did.
" "And the language?" the doctor asked, intrigued. "She had no problems with Polish."
I smiled to myself. The story was starting to interest her, very good, very…
***
"And that's when he gave me this knife." She looked absently at the wall behind me. "I was turning twelve. I was surprised by the gift, but Grandpa said I'd understand someday.
" "And you did?" I dared to interrupt her. "Do you know what he meant yet?
" "I think I'm somewhere close to understanding the truth." She looked at me intently. "But I still can't grasp the essence.
" "Do you know why those people came to your grandfather back then? When you were eight?
" "No. But I know that since then, the dagger no longer has a silver blade.
" "Maybe your grandfather just needed money," I suggested timidly. "Maybe they were some old debts he had to pay off to those people?"
"I thought about that too, but later I found out we had quite a bit of money saved up in our family. So I rejected that theory first... I don't know...
" ***
I fell silent for a long moment. The electric lamp no longer bothered me as much as it had at first; I'd grown accustomed to it.
"Later, it surprised me..." I said, more to myself than to her. "Yes, it surprised me... So much so that I could palpably feel my surprise in the air I exhaled.
"With what?
" "With your broom," I metaphorically pictured...
***
"But why do you always carry it with you?" I asked the question that had been nagging me. "But what if they found it at your place..."
"They won't find it, I'm not worried about that." She bit into a chocolate cookie. "I already told you it's a habit from my previous place of residence.
" "Is Romania so dangerous that you have to walk around with large knives in your shoes?" I couldn't quite grasp it.
"I'm not talking about Romania," she said, for some reason smiling broadly. "I was already thinking about the time we were in Poland. We moved here from Lower Silesia, from Wrocław. We lived in this creepy neighborhood, near the center, called the Triangle.
" "A funny name," I remarked humorously.
"Even funnier were the people who lived there. At least some of them, and in a subjective sense. It was dangerous to go out after sunset.
" "A bit like the Wild West," I joked noncommittally.
"A bit like this, a bit like that." She somehow didn't laugh. "Besides, it's useful at work."
She looked at me and noticed I didn't understand, so she added:
"A dagger. It's useful at work.
" "In cleaning?! I didn't quite know what she meant.
"Have you ever watched 'Leon'?" she asked, her gaze boring into me.
And then, as they say, the pieces of the puzzle started falling into place, the gears clicked and started turning, and a light bulb flickered on somewhere. Whatever you call it, I didn't really like what I thought I was starting to understand well...
"No," I groaned.
"Yes."
I looked into the gray eyes, which suddenly seemed cold.
***
"'Leona'?
" "The one with Jean Reno." I was surprised she wasn't familiar with that film. "It's quite good, although I've heard that it goes too far with pedophilia. Maybe so, though probably not. Don't you go to the movies?
" "Work is completely absorbing me," she replied quite honestly. "Tell me briefly the plot.
You had to go back to your school days and start summarizing...
" ***
"But I still don't know why?
" "Why what?"
"Why did you start..." I swallowed harder. "Why did you start 'cleaning'?
" "It's a perfectly normal female profession, don't you think?" I suddenly noticed a cool cynicism in her voice. "It's just a specialization."
"Stop it!" I replied abruptly. "I don't find it funny. I think it's better if I go..."
I started to leave.
"Wait," she gave me a long look. "Does this completely invalidate me as a human being?"
Despite myself and all the basic principles of my own safety, the safety of my surroundings, and the national security, I sat back down. If you want to ask me about the reasons for this decision, I refer to serious scientific works on neurological topics, and I especially recommend the more complex ones. In any case, I continued to sit there, even though I should have been long gone...
" ***
"So her name was a completely coincidental coincidence with a movie character?" she asked, just to be sure.
"Actually, it's a shame it wasn't just a name," I said regretfully. "She was quite my taste... Sigh," I sighed. "It was coincidental, as long as the doctor believes in coincidences.
" "And you do, Mr. Kowalski?
" "I believed..." I pondered for a moment. "And now? I don't think I believe anymore... Or maybe... Anyway, never mind.
" "Please allow me to judge what's important and what isn't," she admonished me with a hint of professional perversion. "It's better that way, please trust me..."
***
"How long have you been doing this?
" "It depends on how you look at it." She had been staring at me persistently for some time now.
Stop it. I thought the mental signal should have reached her. It must have gotten stuck somewhere in the wiring.
"Because, after all, everyone has been killing since birth, right?" I detected no irony in her question.
"It's hard to disagree, actually," I agreed reluctantly, knowing it applied to me as well. "However, as far as I know, not everyone kills people."
"Not everyone," she agreed with a calmness I didn't like at the moment. "Some are forced into it, some choose it for their careers, others just like it… Simply."
A cold sweat ran down my spine. Simply… In my opinion, that wasn't the best word for the overall situation.
"And which of them are you?" I asked this question only after a moment of struggling with myself.
"I'm above them…
" ***
"You're asking where she learned this?" I thought for a relatively short moment. "Can it even be learned? Quite honestly, I have no idea; I haven't asked her…"
"Aha," she briefly acknowledged my philosophical efforts. "Did you feel any remorse for not leaving after all?
" "Remorse?" I replayed the phrase in my mind's eye to better grasp its meaning. "At first, I had a slight feeling of being lost and I didn't quite know what I was doing there, but... but it weakened over time. You know, doctor, stories are captivating...
" "Oh," she snorted lightly. "I know, I know...
A story is always captivating...
" ***
"I'm not involved in any criminal group or anything like that," she said, anticipating my question. "I'm a freelancer.
" "Freelance?" My voice dripped with irony. "You're free within your profession. I find it a very interesting position."
She looked at me in such a way that I involuntarily shuddered under her gaze. However, I detected neither contempt nor a sense of superiority. There was something like pity mixed with compassion.
"Why do you kill?" "I asked suddenly.
This caught her off guard. She fell into thought...
***
"Have you had anyone here who killed?" I asked as part of our conversation... my monologue. "Who killed more than once?
" "Only one person... He was forty years old and thought he was Mr. Evil, or whatever he called himself. A regular maniac, when it comes to my patients. We're all maniacs, we just go in different directions.
" "Very possible," I decided, thinking it over
. "But on the other hand, it's an interesting professional experience." "Do
you also treat me as just another experience in your career?" I asked with concern in my voice.
"No," she smiled warmly. "I clearly treat you as a special person. As someone exceptional.
" "That's very kind," I smiled back. "You've put my mind at ease."
"Yes?
" "Really," I nodded enthusiastically.
"I'm very happy."
The story continued…
***
"You don't know?!!" I almost shouted.
The student by the wall looked up from his paper and immediately went back to his diligent reading.
"What do you mean, you don't know?!" I lowered my voice to a whisper, which still retained much of its former power. "Then why...?"
The feeling that it was completely none of my business, that I didn't know her at all, and a few other feelings, rose up beside me, but I ignored them.
"You're a professional killer," the word finally made its way through my throat. "And you don't know why you are? Don't you think that's a bit illogical?"
"And what in the world is logical from every point of view?" She suddenly took on a terribly philosophical tone. "Can you explain to me why you are who you are?"
"I'm a student because I want to obtain the necessary education," I began, rather uncertainly. "Because I want to get a good job and be able to support the family I'll start. Is that enough?" I asked teasingly.
"I'm in this because it's the way I've found to purify our reality. Is that enough?"
Gray eyes stared at me constantly...
***
"Did she convince you?
" "I think she succeeded. I don't know how...
" ***
"Thou shalt not kill, the fifth commandment," I said. "And how does that relate to what you do? Or perhaps you're an atheist?" I asked with some contempt.
"I'm a believer," she replied calmly. "The sixth—thou shalt not commit adultery, the ninth—thou shalt not covet, the seventh and tenth—thou shalt not steal," she recited, clearly emphasizing each word. "And which side, in your opinion, has more broken commandments on their conscience?"
It seems that somewhere in that space-time continuum, I was running out of arguments to support my position.
"But despite everything, it's still murder. You take someone's life, you take away their chance for improvement." I tried to defend my side.
"I always send a message first.
" ***
"A killer writing letters to his victims?" she sounded genuinely surprised. "If anything, that hasn't happened before.
" "Strange, but there's a certain, deeply hidden logic to it." I began to wonder aloud rather than engage in conversation. "A lone hero, destroying evil in the world and so on...
" "Did she look like a lone hero, fixing the world?" she returned to her specific questions.
"She might look like one, and she might even act like one," I said. "But the problem is, I don't think she was."
"So who was she, in your opinion?
" "Exactly. I can't think of a single word...
" ***
"How many were there?
" "Who were they?
" "How many were there that you killed?" "The question seemed simple enough, so I was surprised by the answer
, which was a reciprocal question. "And why do you talk about them as if they were all men?" she explained. "Do you think they're the only ones worth meeting? They're not usually the guys in black limousines and Armani suits; they're the ones visible, the ones the police are good at. I'm looking for the more deeply camouflaged, the ones who pose a real threat, sow true evil... But among them, there's no division into men and women. That's not how this world is structured.
" "Satanists?" I asked uncertainly.
"Yes, but that's only a small fraction. Ordinary people don't even know what horrors lurk in this world. You don't know much about it, people like you, Kowalski...
" "Very funny," I said cynically. "So how many?
" "Too many..." This echoed in the café rather pathetically. "Women too.
And to think that at the beginning it was so beautiful...
" ***
"She's been killing for several years," I stated, practically emotionless. "Since she was nineteen.
" "Did she choose herself, was she given orders?" The questions sounded more like a police station than a doctor's.
I began to closely observe the geometric structure of the ceiling coffers, simultaneously setting the gears of my brain in motion. Detailed questions... But that would be too much. Whoever controls the greatest machines of this world has a clear tendency towards exagerration. Oh, they have..."
***
"And what now?" I asked, more to ask than to achieve anything. "What will happen next?"
"It depends on what you mean," she replied succinctly.
I thought about it for a long moment. I gathered my courage and finally blurted it out:
"Stop," I said firmly.
For a moment, she didn't seem to understand, and then she smiled sadly.
"You know perfectly well I can't. That's how this world is arranged; you can't change your place on the shelf."
Pathos practically stank in the air. She gave me a long look.
"I can't. Sometimes I'd like to, but it just can't be resolved that easily." She put down the spoon she'd been playing with. "We won't meet again. Imagine, it's all because of this rain...
"
"Commissioner?" I asked.
"Excuse me?"
There was a long moment of silence, which neither of us really wanted to break. I sat down on the couch and stretched, stretching my back. The woman placed her notebook on the table. Game over.
"And what now?" I was the first to break the web of silence, shaping the space into a quivering soundwave. "Shall we pretend nothing happened?
" "Do you have a better option?" she asked rhetorically.
Since I didn't have one, I started to leave.
"Goodbye, ma'am," I smiled broadly. "I won't be going anywhere."
I turned around for a moment.
"You've fallen for those stereotypes, you know?"
She nodded. She knew.
A moment later, I was standing on the other side of the door with the gold handle. I thought it would be a good idea to freshen up. After all, I deserved something from life
…
Matylda entered the green bathroom and approached the small mirror above the sink. She smiled to herself. The wide smile seemed quite charming on her square face. Gray eyes gazed at her intently, yet amusedly.
"Leon would be proud of you," she said to the mirror. "You have a gift for storytelling."
In one swift movement, she pulled off her mask and unclipped her voice modulator.
"After all, my dear, you killed Kowalski."
She washed her face, changed in the stall, and left, turning off the light as she went.
***
A dark figure slowly emerged from the last stall and slipped out through the door into the hallway. Her eyes searched for the light green jacket and blond hair. In the void of description, besides the darkness, only the image of a twenty-centimeter-long blade hung…
RELATIVE END
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