Where the Devil Can’t Go

He shook his head. ‘My mama taught me, right from when I was a little boy.’ Using a wooden spoon, he scraped the onion and garlic into the hot oil of the pan, releasing an aromatic sizzle. ‘When there was nothing in the shops we’d take a basket into the countryside to find treats for Tata’s supper. In the summer, wild asparagus, lingonberries to make jam…’

Kasia smiled at the nostalgia in his voice. Janusz’s childhood, with its visits to his grandmother’s place, a crumbling farmhouse on the outskirts of Gdansk, was a million miles from her monochrome memories of a monolithic Soviet-built estate in industrial Rzewow. She loved to hear his boyhood tales of collecting warm eggs from the chicken house, or climbing up into the high branches of apple trees in the orchard. The funny thing was, even though his memories were so different from hers, they still made her feel homesick.

She tapped cigarette ash out of the kitchen window. ‘How did your mama know what was safe to eat?’

‘She came from a family of farmers, so she was a real country girl. She even knew how to make birch wine. In the spring, you cut through the bark’, he used his wooden spoon to demonstrate the lateral cut, ‘and drain off a few litres of sap. But you must be careful: if you make the wound too big the tree will die.’

Pouring a jugful of water over the meat and vegetables, he said over his shoulder, ‘October, November, I take the tube to Epping and go into the forest to look for mushrooms. If you get lucky, you can find boletas. I could take you, if you like – show you which ones are good to eat.’

There was a moment of silence as they shared the unspoken thought … if they were still seeing each other in six months’ time.

He threw a couple of roughly chopped red chilies in the pot. The dish’s final ingredients, a little sour plum jam and a cup of buttermilk, wouldn’t be added till the end.

He’d been sliding glances at her face while he cooked and was relieved to see that the old bruise on her cheekbone had faded completely, with no evidence of fresh ones. The warning he’d delivered to Steve had done the trick, at least for now. And according to Kasia, Steve had bought the story that Janusz was Kasia’s cousin over from Poland, which was a relief – he didn’t want to give that chuj another excuse to knock her about.

He opened the fridge and pulled out a jar filled with cream-coloured fat.

‘What’s that?’ asked Kasia.

‘Goose smalec for roasting the potatoes,’ he said, doling some into a roasting tray.

‘Ah, goose fat is good for you!’ exclaimed Kasia, examining the jar, ‘It helps you to lose weight.’ Then, on seeing his sceptical look: ‘It’s true – I read it in a magazine.’

Kasia might be blade-sharp, reflected Janusz, but like all Polish women, she had a vast collection of cherished – and often crazy – dietary folklore: a rich brew of Catholic injunctions, old wives’ tales from medieval Poland, and the crap peddled by glossy magazines.

Janusz brandished the jar in front of him and adopted a serious air: ‘Top government scientists are warning: too much goose fat can cause dangerous weight loss – please use it sparingly.’ Pretending to be insulted, she made to grab the jar back from him.

He caught her arm deftly, his big hand circling her slim wrist with ease. ‘Can you stay tonight?’ he asked. Best to get the question – and the phantom of Steve – out of the way early so that it didn’t overshadow their evening. She looked along her eyes at him, then nodded. ‘I’m staying at my sister’s.’ Breaking into a grin, he grabbed her by the waist and, ignoring her laughing protestations, danced her around the tiny kitchen.

Half an hour later, with a couple of glasses of a decent Czechoslovak pinot noir inside him, he settled into the big leather sofa and, wreathed in the aromas of the roasting potatoes and the peppery stew, let his gaze linger on Kasia, who stood examining the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves either side of the fireplace. He felt as relaxed and happy – the realisation rushed on him unawares – as he had with Iza, more than twenty-five years ago.

An image of her, sitting outside a harbourside cafe in Gdansk, flickered across his memory like an old home movie. One of her hands, wearing a red woollen glove, was curled around a steaming drink. She’d taken off her other glove and he was chafing the bare hand to warm it, laughing at how icy her fingers were.

He lit a cigar. To hell with the past, he thought.

‘There’s a Polanski movie on cable later, if you fancy it?’

His tone was careful – it wasn’t the first time he’d tried to rekindle her passion for movies. Despite her first-class degree from the world-famous Lodz film school, the last time Kasia had visited the cinema was to see GoodFellas.

‘Maybe,’ she said lifting one shoulder, before bending to pick up a discarded envelope from under an armchair.

‘It’s Knife in the Water. The one with the couple on a boating trip on the Lakes?’

‘The one with the psychol?’ She made a comic grimace that turned her beautiful long mouth down at the corners. ‘Too depressing!’

Oskar had once put forward a theory – which doubtless originated with his wife Gosia – regarding Kasia’s lack of enthusiasm for films. Apparently, she regretted abandoning her directing ambitions to marry Steve, and couldn’t bear any reminder of her mistake. In this analysis, Kasia didn’t stick with her marriage because of her Catholic faith, but because the alternative meant admitting she’d given up her youthful dreams for nothing.

Janusz was sceptical. To him, psychology was a slippery pseudoscience, without any empirical foundation. But now and again he found himself wondering if Oskar’s theory mightn’t contain a grain of truth.

‘You like my new outfit?’ she asked suddenly, doing a little catwalk sashay.

That put him on the spot: when she had arrived he’d noticed she was wearing a dress rather than her usual tight black jeans and T-shirt. But the longish black shift was the sort of thing a woman with a lousy figure might go for. Why would a looker like Kasia hide her body under a sack?

She sensed the hesitation. ‘You don’t like it?’

‘It’s…stylish, darling,’ he managed, ‘but I think you’d look good in something a bit more…figure-hugging.’

She cut her eyes away from him. ‘You mean an exotic dancer should dress like a whore?’

Kurwa! This was dangerous ground – it wasn’t the first time Kasia had gone all touchy over her job. It mystified him – if she didn’t like stripping why did she do it? And if she did like it, why be so uptight?

‘Of course not, darling. Anyway, you would look ladylike whatever you wore.’

She smiled at that, mollified, then came closer, wrinkling her nose at the cigar smoke – ‘Smells like a bonfire,’ she complained – before putting a Marlboro Light between her lips and leaning down for a light.

He took the opportunity, instead, to pull her face down to his and kiss her, properly this time. When she offered no resistance, he tumbled her onto the sofa and continued the clinch, pushing the dress, rustling, up her stockinged legs, desire humming between them. They had loads of time to make love before the oven timer started pinging, he calculated, and her tightly closed eyes signalled a green light.

Then the phone rang.

He cursed inwardly and for a moment was tempted to let it go to voicemail, but Kasia extricated herself and he caught her watchful look. He didn’t want her to think he had anything to hide.

His abrupt ‘Czesc?!’ was met with silence. Then a female voice, uncertain, said ‘Pan Kiszka?’

It was the dark-haired girl from pani Tosik’s restaurant, the one he’d given his card to. She told him her name was Justyna, but didn’t volunteer a surname. He apologised for his boorish manners, keeping half an eye on Kasia, who had returned to the kitchen. He could see her stirring the beef stew, ignoring the conversation, but something about the angle of her head suggested she was getting every word.

The trouble was, the girl was adamant that she had to meet him tonight, and when he suggested postponing, sounded like she might hang up. He was half-inclined to tell her no, but an undercurrent of urgency in her voice stopped him. Anyway, if he was to replenish his depleted cash reserves he needed to find the missing girl fast.

Thirty seconds later, he was jotting down the name of a Polish club in Stratford where the girl wanted to meet.

Janusz retrieved his cigar from the ashtray and joined Kasia in the kitchen. With a stab at a nonchalant air, he said, ‘Listen, darling. Something’s come up – a job I’m doing for someone.’

‘A woman?’ she asked.

‘Well, yes, the client is a woman, but an old lady – a babcia.’

‘And the woman on the phone – she is an old lady, too?’ Her green eyes had narrowed, and she would no longer meet his gaze.

‘Well, yes, she is young, but she’s just a contact. The thing is she insists on seeing me tonight, for some reason.’

Without a word, Kasia started to collect her things, her movements uncharacteristically jerky.

All his hopes for the evening teetered on a cliff edge. ‘Listen, Kasia,’ he said, aware of a cajoling note in his voice he didn’t like, ‘I can get there and still be back by ten, maybe half past, we can have a late supper.’

‘So I sit here and watch Sky while you go out drinking with a woman?’ She pulled a mirthless smile. ‘All the lies I have to tell Steve, making excuses so I can stay all night, and now this.’

Janusz felt the anger bolt out of him like an unleashed dog.

‘I have a job to do, money to earn! You are not my wife to tell me whom I can and cannot see!’ His voice boomed around the flat.