I stood there holding the phone, and for a few seconds, I simply could not understand. For a week, Bogdan had been repeating that on Saturday he was driving to Tadek’s to help with the garage. He would take the drill and the socket set Tadek had asked for. He would be back Sunday evening. Łódź is about two hours away. Kołobrzeg is six. In the opposite direction.
I heard the water running in the bathroom and put the phone back exactly where it had been. Then I stood by the window and stared at the courtyard, at the playground that no one had used for years because the children from our block had long outgrown the swings. I felt as though someone had shifted the furniture in my head two centimetres to the left – everything looked as it should, but I could no longer find my way through.
My name is Jolanta. I am fifty-eight years old, and I have been with Bogdan for thirty years. Thirty years is a long time. Long enough to stop asking questions you do not want the answers to. I work in a primary school in Raków – I teach mathematics, third and fourth grade. Children that age believe that two plus two always equals four. I used to believe that too.
Bogdan came out of the bathroom, passed me in the hallway. He smelled of the same shower gel he always used – pine-scented, the one from Rossmann in the green bottle that costs about fifteen złoty.
“The courier is coming between ten and twelve,” he said, as if reading my mind. “I checked on my phone.”
“Thanks,” I replied.
And that was it. A normal evening. Yesterday’s broth reheated, the news on television, Bogdan on his laptop in the bedroom, me on the sofa with my students’ exercise books. Except I was no longer marking essays – I was watching him through the open door and thinking about Kołobrzeg.
Uncovering the Truth
I did not sleep that night. I lay on my back and listened to Bogdan breathing – evenly, peacefully, like a man with nothing on his conscience. Or one who had learned to sleep with it. At three in the morning, I got up for a glass of water. His phone lay on the hall table, plugged into its charger. The passcode was our old flat number, 37. He had never changed it.
I opened his search history. “Pensjonat Albatros Kołobrzeg,” “double room with sea view,” “restaurant Kołobrzeg near the promenade.” A booking for Saturday and Sunday. A double room. Not a single. Double.
I closed the phone and went back to bed. My legs were trembling, but not from the cold.
The Morning After
In the morning, Bogdan woke at six, as he always did before a long drive. He packed calmly – the drill, the socket set, a sports bag, a thermos of coffee. He kissed me on the forehead. Said he would be back on Sunday, no later than eight. The door clicked shut behind him.
I stood at the window and watched his silver Octavia pull out of the car park. Then I sat down at the table and made myself a cup of tea. The usual kind – black, with lemon. I drank it in small sips, thinking about what to do next.