The Polish Affair

For a while Jarek said nothing; rinsed the wounds left by the belt buckle, stopped the bleeding, applied court-plaster.

‘It’s ok now,’ he said. ‘And tell me why there is going to be no investigation?’

‘Because when they – in some days – find the colonel, he’ll have died by accident or heart attack, something like that,’ she mumbled while concentrating on arranging her longthickdarkhair.

‘I do not get it!’ he yelled.

‘What the fuck don’t you get, kid?’ she yelled back.

Easy girl, easy there! Control and self-control, always selfcontrol, girl!

‘Sorry, Jarek,’ she said and took a (very) deep breath. ‘I understand that it can not have been the very nicest of experiences to see your girlfriend kill your uncle – so what is it you do not understand?’

And she smiled caringly into his greeneyes.

‘You killed him…’

‘Yes?’

‘Then, it’s murder, isn’t it?’

She sighed, and whispered,

‘No.’

Then again she smiled; actually she almost laughed at his evident bewilderment and confusion.

‘Sit down, Jarek,’ she said calmly, warmly; ‘let me tell you about real life, all right?’

He did sit down, slowly; and stared up at her, still standing and dealing with her hairdo.

‘I am a professional killer (part time), as you know by now,’ she said casually. ‘But I am not a contract killer. The organisation I work for is no Mafia or any such thing; you could call it an international liquidation agency, and that’s almost all I know about that myself.’

She paused, looking in the mirror. If it was her own face or his she studied, was not clear.

Then she whirled around, faster than lightning – her mere movement stopped his hand before it got at the gun.

‘Leave it be, all right,’ she softly said.

‘The colonel had failed – SB killed Jerzy Popiełuszko and probably Stanisław Pyjas but let Wałęsa live,’ she calmly explained, ’but the colonel was still very powerful and dangerous. Now, these things are what I assume – I might be wrong, they don’t tell us weapons much.’

She paused with a tiny smile dancing on her lips.

‘Do you know Tennyson, Jarek?’

He was stupefied, almost petrified, but managed a nod.

‘I’m sort of light cavalry, you see, ‘she smiled at the double allusion.

Good girl, great going girl – back in control, girl!

‘Then,’ she dreamily whispered, ‘let me paraphrase: Mine not to make reply, Mine not to reason why, Mine but to do or die.’

For a little while she was thoughtful and silent.

‘You see, Jarek,’ she then went on, ‘This much I do know: Poland wanted him dead; Poland will not investigate – all you have to do is shut up and be shocked and then mourn at his untimely funeral.’

It was still a gorgeous May morning – well, late morning when they left. Less than three hours ago they’d made love under the waterfall.

Everything so green; birds singing so happily.

He kick-started his Jawa; for some seconds his greeneyes attempted to delve for the pearls deep in her bigbrowneyes; but she smiled shyly and shook her head gently.

They mounted; she leaned her head on his strong shoulder, embraced his firm body with her strongarms.

Down along the small river they rode; then on the road, downwards and gradually out of the mountains.

And then, there they were – at the airport.

‘Come with me inside’, she said.