‘Have you explained to him why I’m here?’ asked Cooper.
‘Yes, of course.’
Then the old man spoke again, more urgently.
‘And that was?’
‘He says the Canadian woman can go to hell,’ said Peter. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Did he say “sorry”?’
‘No I did.’
The old man continued to write. The pen moved slowly but steadily, filling in the lines of the page with solid, black letters that flowed and overlapped until they had created an intricate spider’s web, each word entwined with the ones above and below it. Cooper watched as Zygmunt reached the bottom of the page, turned to a new sheet and continued writing in an almost unbroken movement.
‘Why does your father refuse to speak English to me?’ said Cooper.
Peter shifted from one foot to the other uneasily. There was a silence for a moment, except for the faint scratching of the pen. Then the old man placed a firm full stop and looked up for the first time. The blue of his eyes was so pale that it was almost ash grey. Even the sky was only ever that shade
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of blue in the winter, seen on a bright, cold day From the top of the moors.
‘You don’t understand,’ said Peter.
‘[ understand that Mr I.ukas/ speaks English perfectly well. He knows what I’m saving to him. But he hasn’t the courtesy to answer me in a language I can comprehend.’
‘It isn’t a matter of courtesy. My father finds he isn’t able any longer to think in two languages at once. He’s working in Polish, therefore he’s thinking in Polish. Of course, he understands what we’re saving, but his brain isn’t able to translate his own thoughts in reply.
‘It’s a pity he’s forgotten how to communicate as well as he did with his English-speaking comrades in Sugar Uncle Victor,’ said Cooper, holding the old man’s stare. He was pleased to see an expression of pain drift across the blue eves, like the gap in the clouds closing for a moment.
‘Please,’ said Peter. ‘I don’t think this is helping.’
‘The police can call on the services of an official interpreter,’ said Cooper. ‘We have an entire list of them. But then it would have to become a formal interview, at the police station.’
Cooper hoped they didn’t reali/e how far he was fixing a kite. There was no way he could get approval to pa}1 for an interpreter. He shouldn’t even be spending time here himself. There was no official police enquiry that would justifv the use of resources.
Zvmnunt spoke for the final time-. The last couple of words
^ O 1 I
were said with a jerk of the head and an explosive sound made on the-lips, which sent a spray of saliva over the pages he was writing on.
‘What was that?’ said Cooper.
‘My lather says let the Canadian woman pay lor an interpreter herself,’ said Peter.
‘And the last part of it?’
‘And good luck to her.’
‘Oh, yes?’
I he old man lowered his head and went back to his writing. Cooper saw the black ink blur where his saliva had wet the page. But the pen skated over it and continued to How until it was
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approaching the loot of another page. Staring at it made his eves cross. There didn’t seem to be a single paragraph break in the whole lot.
Cooper turned and walked out of the room. Peter Lukasz followed him, closing the door carefully so that they were out of earshot of the old man.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘So you said.’
‘It isn’t you.’ said Peter. ‘He won’t talk to us in English either.
‘ o
Can’t, I suppose I mean. His brain just doesn’t seem to be able to cope with it at the moment.’
‘What is it he’s writing?’ asked Cooper when they were back in the hallway.
‘I thought you would have guessed that,’ said Lukasz.
‘No.’
‘For some reason, he can only write it in Polish. I think it’s all been there in his mind lor years and years, waiting to come out, waiting for him to pick up that pen. Finally, he’s decided to do it, before it’s too late.’
‘To do what?’ said Cooper.
‘To put the record straight. You see, my father is writing his account of the crash of Sugar Uncle Victor.’
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19
L/CI Kessen buttonholed Diane Fry in the corridor on her way
