

Andrzej Galicki

CANDLELIGHT STORIES

Montreal 2015

OTHER BOOKS IN ENGLISH

BY ANDRZEJ GALICKI

White Valley

At the Crossroads

Orion

CANDLELIGHT STORIES

Andrzej Galicki

Copyright ©2015 Andrzej Galicki

Smashwords Edition

Cover - painting "Never Ending Day" 1998

by: Andrzej Galicki

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the publisher and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of contents

1. Tatiana

2.Iza from Adria

3. Rusalka

4. Long, black veil

5. What would you do if she was alive?

6. Station Red Poppies

7. Few candlelight stories

8. The raft of Meduza

9. Bartek

10. Browarek

11. Beginning of the Book

12. Vampire Lady from Warsaw

Tatiana

Do you like old cemeteries, with their extraordinary atmosphere of almost perpetual twilight, shady canopy of trees, eternal smell of rotting leaves and the constant whispers that only a few are chosen to hear? If you are a nature poet, an old cemetery is the place for you. Here, the words themselves are arranged in poems. But beware, because you never know what you might find among these tombs covered in overgrown moss, especially after dusk...

Perhaps the story described in this book seems unlikely, but where does it say that only likely things are supposed to affect us in our lives?

***

At the beginning of October 1968, I began my studies in the Plock branch of Warsaw Polytechnic, Department of Civil Engineering. It was a whole new facility only recently opened - just in its second year of existence - and not everything yet was organized. The university did not have its own building and was located in the "borrowed" building of the Technical School. Students from outside Plock lived in rented, private lodgings or in the dormitory of the same Technical School. One wing of the dormitory was dedicated to academicians and a corresponding plaque was mounted at the entrance.

The College Dean secretary had just sent me there. The address given to me was Norbertanska street 11, Room No. 1.

The room was the closest to the main entrance. Inside, I found four metal-framed military beds on both sides and one table near the window. I was the first to arrive, so inevitably, I took the bed that seemed the most comfortable to me - the one on the left side, near the window. When I met the other three people assigned to our room, I found out that all four of us were from Warsaw, like the most part of students directed here. The next day, we all walked the long Kilinski street - which was named after a simple Warsaw shoemaker, who probably never thought that such a long street in Plock would bear his name - to our classes and so our first academic year began.

Autumn was beautiful, as usual in Poland. Kilinski street was lined with chestnut trees. On the way to lectures, we gazed at those shiny, brown balls looking curiously out at the world from between clusters of grass and kicked them down the road. With this unsophisticated fun, we considerably shortened the long way to our university.

I had never lived in a dormitory or boarding house before, so this sudden movement into the unknown prompted me to reflect on myself and to compare my personality with that of my colleagues. And here there was actually a shock, since it turned out that the comparison was not always to my advantage. In fact, the results were sometimes really embarrassing. I was neither the most talented nor the smartest. I was also not the strongest or the most hard working. And as a testament to my mediocrity, I realized that I was not even the laziest of the bunch, which was the last title I was counting on. But the result of comparison, however, was unable to break the deep conviction I had inside of me that I was different from all of them, that I was not the same. Maybe I was neither better nor worse, but certainly a little different. For a long time, I wondered what this difference was, and where my unshakable certainty of its existence came from. It cost me a few sleepless nights before I finally realized what was going on.

I just knew something they all did not know, but whenever I tried to explain it to them, my efforts were deterred by their indifference like a fat fly hindered by a glass window. There was no way to penetrate through the armor of their ignorance with the vague arguments I had at my disposal. The case was made all the more difficult by the fact that I only had a rough understanding of what I meant. I could not express it clearly using words. It felt as if human speech did not have a sufficient amount of sounds to convey my thoughts. This feeling comes back to me even today, when, in the middle of a conversation with some people I know, I can see in their eyes infinitely clear misunderstanding and impatience, waiting when I will finally be finished, because after all, they have something more important to say.

I shut down in such cases. I hide with my thoughts like a turtle in my shell, releasing only some banal jokes and pleasantries that are usually worthy of attention and interest. But that is now. Then, I was young and ambitious. I realized that the glass could be broken only by using special methods.

I've never been a good speaker, and so I decided to use the weapon, which is the charm of the spoken word. Of course, I mean poetry. I set aside for this purpose one of my academic checkered notebooks and an ordinary, blue pen. They were sufficient, as I had no intention, yet to publish my poetry. The more important thing was to learn first how to shout out the seething truths inside me. Trying to pass them off as something more was still a distant thing.

Writing poetry in the dorm was a completely impossible task. There, one could not even study in peace. How much more write poetry? I could probably also win for myself a reputation of ridicule, then I would be left alone, but that would stick to my skin forever. No, what I needed was peace and inspiration, complete isolation from those screams, curses, the sound of clinking bottles of wine and puking in the toilets, which are the ordinary, everyday sounds of a male dorm. As it turned out, I was extremely lucky. Only about 200 meters from the building where the student housing was located, on the very same Norbertanska street, there was an old, abandoned cemetery, where the mixed graves of both civilian and military from the mid-nineteenth century to the end of the Second World War were laid. I discovered the place while I was wandering around on my own and immediately fell in love with the prevailing mood there - the melancholic silence, scant streaks of light piercing through the dense foliage of large trees with apparent difficulty, the mysterious atmosphere suspended in the air. They were all just what I needed then.

The right side from the cemetery entrance looked newer, filled with graves from the Nazi war period and later. The left side, on the other hand, looked much more interesting. The old, crumbling gravestones and tombs seemed already forgotten, overgrown with moss and ferns and in the middle of them all stood a small chapel - orthodox style, which was likely where the funeral rites were once held. Walking towards this extraordinary sanctuary, I tried to read some of the inscriptions on the moss-covered sandstone panels.

It seemed to me that I could hear the exultant whispers of those who had been lying here for so long, as if they were rejoicing that someone might be interested in them that they had not fallen completely into oblivion. The sounds were not hostile to my ears. Rather, they sounded like they were greetings from the other side of life.

These were the graves of the Russian and Polish, the tsarist army officers lying side by side with Polish insurgents, the unsubordinated subjects of Russian annexation.

Once, while passing by one of the tombs, I heard a growl. I stood still, scared. The dark shadow flitted suddenly from beyond the grave and hid among the bushes. I could not exactly see what it was. Maybe a fox? I had heard that there were a lot of foxes lingering around cemeteries, but it seemed too big to be a fox. And too dark. I looked at the vertical plate of sandstone, where an inscription made in Cyrillic letters was still partially visible:

"Peter Ivanovich Zaharov

General- Major

Tatiana Zaharova

His daughter"

The rest I could not read, although it looked like some fuzzy dates and ornaments. The plate was cracked and had already been heavily nibbled on by the tooth of time.

"Why would a fox (or maybe not a fox) guard just this tomb?" I wondered. Guard? At least that was the impression I got.

I set aside that question, though, as I went back to the dorm happy with my discovery of the cemetery, which I did not share with my colleagues, of course. The place had become my place, my very own "creative sanctuary", and the place of my reverie.

It happened that in our room, only I was a student of civil engineering. Three colleagues studied at the department of mechanical engineering. They called me "bricklayer" and I called them "locksmiths", which seemed suitable. One afternoon, they had to prepare for the first test of the semester, a kind of trial test. I was obviously not concerned. When they opened the next bottle of cheap, cider wine in preparation, I took my checkered academic notebook and my blue pen out of my cabinet and hastily left the room.

The day had only begun to turn grey, but when I crossed the gate of the cemetery and found myself under the umbrella of spreading branches, I regretted that I did not take my flashlight with me. Pretty soon, it would be dark, and how would I be able to write my damn poems then? Well, I would just have to see. I walked towards the chapel, having already set my mind on its stone steps as my place of work. I firmly believe true art is born on the stones, not in a comfortable chair.

I sat down and opened my notebook on the first, yet clean page. I took the pen in my teeth and pondered. Around me, there was only silence, seemingly created for artistic inspiration. I took a deep breath, the heavy smell of ferns and rotting leaves slowly filling my lungs. Then, finally, I forced myself to touch the pristine white paper with the oozing tip of the ballpoint pen.

"Heavy clouds hung over the city... " - I started writing, then looked up at it. What clouds? Damn, there were no clouds up ahead. Through the gap between the branches, only a dark blue sky that was quickly turning grey could be seen. I could not start with a lie, for whoever begins to lie will supposedly lie for life. I struck out the first line and started over:

"Across a clear sky rushed puffy..."

You're the puffy idiot - I thought, and again crossed out the first line.

"In this quiet autumn evening... "

This time I stopped because I felt someone's eyes boring into me. Shivers went up my spine, from my waist up to my neck. Slowly, carefully, I looked up from my notebook. Before me, in the middle of the alley, sat a big, dark wolfhound which was looking at me straight in the eye, its gaze was deep and inquisitive, as only an Alsatian wolf could look in the evening in the middle of the cemetery. I tried to get up. I even grumbled "Sorry, sir" but he growled so threateningly that I stopped. I did not know what to do. Of course, poetry evaporated immediately from my head. My hand instinctively reached into my pocket and pulled out one of the "cuckoo" candies there, which I raised slowly to my lips. The beast followed my every move closely, ready to pounce on me at any moment. Its eyes suddenly sunk into my "cuckoo" as two ruby lasers (I had read about the device from the "Young Technician" magazine, so I knew what laser light beams looked like.)

"You, Igor, do you want a 'cuckoo'?" I asked suddenly,

surprising even myself with this name. How could I know it? I threw the candy at him. He caught it on the fly and devoured it immediately, not sucking or smacking like me. He simply snapped his jaw and the candy was no more. Then he stepped closer and let me stroke his big, shaggy head. I realized then that we had become friends.

From the depths of the alley, I suddenly heard whistling.

"Igor, where are you?" It was a woman's voice. The dog lifted his head and barked briefly, and on the path between the graves I saw the figure of a young woman heading towards us.

When she came closer, I saw that she was still very young and beautiful. She was dressed in a bright, long dress, the hem of which almost scraped the dirt. It had a bow at the front, just below the chest. It reminded of the clothes women wore in old movies. Now, the girls in college usually wore jeans and cotton blouses. To complete her rather absurd look, she had a small hat in the same color as her dress, and she held in her hands a small parasol with a thin, long handle that ended with an ivory knob shaped like a cat's head.

I looked at her in disbelief, not knowing what to say while scratching Igor behind his ears, which he clearly liked.

"You gave Igor a 'cuckoo' candy?" she asked, shifting her glance from the dog to me.

"I did. Otherwise, he would have eaten me. Is his name really Igor? Is he your dog?"

She came closer and sat next to me on the stairs.

"Yes, it is Igor, but he does not belong to me. He's a friend."

She folded the umbrella and set it down so that it was leaning on the stairs, next to the place where she was sitting.

"Do you live somewhere near here?" I asked another question, maybe one too many. Apparently, you should not ask a stranger personal questions. It is not considered good manners, but her presence here seemed to me so absurd that I could not resist.

"Oh, yes, quite near. I live with Daddy. My mother is away, somewhere near Moscow."

I noticed then that she spoke with a Russian accent, though it was barely audible, slightly dragging the middle or last syllable of each word, which added to its pronunciation a melodious sound so characteristic of this beautiful, Slavic speech.

"My name is Tatiana" she said, and first stretched out her hand in my direction.

"Andrzej" I introduced myself, extending my hand as well, though it did not encounter anything in its path except clear air. In one second, I became petrified with horror. Tatiana did not exist. I saw her clearly in the moonlight that streamed through the gap between the branches, where not so long ago I had glimpsed the already dark sky. I saw her pale, astonishingly beautiful face. I saw real disappointment in those beautiful black eyes under classical bows of eyebrows. Finally, I saw them brim with tears, and then suddenly, I stopped being afraid. I felt sorry for her as some indescribable despair was painted in her gaze. I ventured then to ask the next question:

"Why are you crying? Can I help you?"

"Are not you afraid of me? Why do you not run away?"

"At first I wanted to" I confessed. "But when you started to cry, I changed my mind. Now, I don't even think about it."

"I thought you were my chance. I thought you'd be able to touch me. It might possibly help me. But you do not feel me, just like everyone else. I am very disappointed."

"And Igor? Does he feel your touch?"

"Igor? Of course he does." She stroked the head of the Alsatian and the dog licked her hand with compassion. Then something dawned in her mind. She stretched out her hand in my direction.

"Can you lick it?" Asked she hopefully. "Maybe that would work?"

"I would prefer the other hand," I mumbled, pointing to the hand the dog had not licked.

Immediately, she reached out her other hand toward my face. I licked the air, nothing more.

"It's just as I thought" she whispered, disappointed. "It's not enough."

"What more can I do?"

"You have to believe in me, that's all. Igor believes. That's why he feels me. You'd have to know me better, but it could take a lot of time. Could we arrange to meet a few times and see if we will finally succeed? Would you like to take on this boring task?"

I agreed, of course. Each poet would have agreed, especially the one that has not yet posted any verse. So we agreed to meet again the next day. Tatiana smiled and sent me a farewell kiss with her hand. After a moment, her pale dress disappeared in the dark alleys of the cemetery. Igor stood up without a word. He wagged his tail and followed her.

***

The next morning before my classes, I remembered that I left my book of poetry at the cemetery, on the stone steps. It was still empty, a small loss for the art, but anyway, it was a shame to lose it. The A4-sized academic notebook with rigid covers cost a lot of a student's budget. After breakfast, I went there to retrieve my loss.

"What a strange place?" I thought along the way. Not for a moment did I doubt that I had suffered hallucinations yesterday evening. Maybe it was the damn poetry, causing my brain to climb to higher levels of imagination that it created the dog and Tatiana and all the rest. Or maybe it was some natural gas or the intoxicating scent of those ferns altering my brain? No, ferns, probably do not smell so it may be the smell of rotting leaves. The air was so heavy and musty, I remembered well. I might have inhaled some dross.

After crossing the gate, I stopped for a while, captivated by the beauty and mystery of the place. Through the spaces between the tree branches, the sun's rays fell in slanting streaks illuminating the old stone tombs, turning their lush green moss gold, and everything was bathed in a haze of morning dew which floated upward in billows as it evaporated from the leaves of grasses and shrubs under the heat of the morning sun. I stood there entranced for some time, savoring the view, which one could see only in dreams or in the classic paintings hanging from the walls of an art museum. Well, now I knew what my first poem was going to be about. Then I remembered my notebook. Passing by a familiar grave, I looked again at the faded inscription:

"Tatiana Zaharova

His daughter..."

Tatiana... It was a strange coincidence, but as it happens, hallucinations often mingle with reality. Much about it was written recently, especially in the U.S.A., where a lot of studies were done on the effects of substances such as LSD or marijuana on the human brain. The popular movement of "Flowers Children" had not yet ended in California, and from there it reached us here, but in a very miserable form, as the drugs were not available in communist Poland, even on the black market.

I moved on. This time, nothing jumped out from beyond the grave, the morning silence was disturbed only by the chirping of birds. I went to the chapel. My notebook was lying politely on the top step. I bent down to pick it up, and suddenly I noticed something in the tall grass, across the stone steps. I walked over and picked up a small, lady's parasol with a long handle. The cat's head shaped into a knob at the end of it smiled at me cheerfully. So, it was not a hallucination? She really was here last night?

My head started to ache. And what to do with the umbrella? Leave it here? Someone might take it. I went back to the dorm carrying the umbrella under my arm. Luckily, my roommates had left for the university, so I avoided awkward questions. I put the umbrella, straight in my clothes locker and also left to my classes.

***

In the evening, after classes, I waited for my roommates to leave so that I could take out the umbrella from the closet. That opportunity never came, however. They sat at the table and played bridge with "grandfather" - an imaginary fourth player. I do not play bridge. Somehow, I was never interested in playing cards. I took out my notebook from the drawer of my bedside table and left the room. It was more or less the same time as yesterday when I left the building. If she didn't show up, maybe I could manage to write something. I walked slowly, casually, kicking fallen leaves on the road, but it was just a show of indifference. My heart was pounding louder and louder with every step, and when I crossed the gate, I began to fear that the sound of it would wake-up those poor souls spending their last slumber here.

I sat down again, just like yesterday, on the third step from the bottom and opened the book. Igor showed up immediately. Again, it cost me a "cuckoo". (Luckily, I had a couple more of them in store.) I looked at my first page and read aloud:

"In this quiet autumn evening"...

"In this quiet..." Someone repeated my words in a singsong voice.

She stood next to me, coming out of nowhere, without any sound or announcement.

I composed myself and quickly closed the book.

"You write poetry?" she asked with a hint of jealousy in her voice. "I also wrote once, but I lost it, as I have lost everything I had."

"Is your name Tatiana Zaharowa?" I asked suddenly.

She sat next to me in the same place where she sat yesterday.

"Yes, it's my name. You've probably seen the tomb? Peter Ivanovich, he is my father. He was the commander of the garrison of the tsarist army here, in Plock. When he was promoted to Major-General, they gave him this position. It was a very important institution. The garrison had to defend Warsaw against the attack of the Prussian army. Mazowsze belonged to the Congress Kingdom. When we came here, my mother was already dead, I remember her a little. She is buried in one of the cemeteries near Moscow. My father and my governess, Mme. Rosalie, raised me. She taught me French and Russian. Polish unfortunately she didn't know, so soon after our arrival here, she packed her belongings and returned to France. Then, Father hired a Polish governess, Cecilia. She taught me to speak Polish. I thought that we were still in Russia. I could not understand then why people here spoke a different language, and why we were not liked here, which I noticed quite quickly. It was Cecilia, who explained everything to me. I learned a lot from her, not only to speak Polish."

I noticed that as she spoke, Tatiana tried slightly to touch my left elbow with her right. I felt nothing, although I wanted to so much.

"Too early, " she said sadly. "You still don't believe in my existence."

Today, she was wearing a dark gown, which was as equally long as yesterday's, reaching almost to the ground. Lace booties adorned her feet, all those garments that seemed taken from the theatre dressing room.

"Where do you get such beautiful clothes?" I asked. "I have not seen anything like this in any store."

"I have a closet full of them. Did you bring my parasol with you?"

"No, I left it in the dorm. Why do you use a parasol in the evening?"

"For the sentiment. It is a gift from Julian. Please return it to me on Monday if you could. I need to get it back."

We agreed that I would do so on the following Monday. She did not tell me why not before, as if she only had "days off" during the week. Perhaps these meetings drained her strength and she needed time to regenerate it. She tried to touch my hand in farewell, but again nothing came of it, so she sent me like yesterday a kiss through the air and walked away into the darkness with Igor following her every step.

I stayed still in place for a moment, pondering my strange situation. What was my reason for coming to meet with someone who was not really there? What the hell was it?

Ah, yes. It was because she attracted me with her unearthly beauty more than I could express in words. But could I lavish her with kisses made of air? She said that when I believe in her, I'd feel her. But how could one believe in something that does not exist? After all, I was studying to become an engineer, and for such people, only material things count. Everything else does not matter.

So, what was I writing my poems for? Because I am a romantic, incurable. Well, I had not exactly written anything at all except for this one, naive line. I lowered my eyes, opened the notebook and once again read yesterday's scribbling:

"In this quiet autumn evening

I would like to feel your warmth... "

I was dumbfounded. I did not recall writing anything like the second line. And anyway, it was written in clearly different handwriting; delicate equal letters. Could she have done it? Impossible. The whole time we were together, I didn't detach my eyes from her. I was even devouring her with my gaze, which was all I could since I was not allowed to touch her. I was looking at her like crazy. I couldn't help it. Now, I felt very uneasy. I really did not know what to do. Maybe I should extricate myself quickly from this mysterious story in which I had suddenly been immersed, but at the same time, I knew that I could not. I had already sunk into it all the way to the ears, and I did not have the slightest intention of retreating.

More than that, I knew that I would do anything she asked of me. I had fallen deeply into this sweet trap from which there was no simple way to run, a captive through and through.

***

Studying at the Plock Branch of the Polytechnic of Warsaw had at that time a huge advantage: Saturdays off. Professors and their assistants arrived from Warsaw on Sunday evening in a special coach and returned to the capital on Friday evening. That meant we had Saturdays and Sundays free. Sometimes, we managed to get to Warsaw with the professors if there were, of course, free seats. We just had to give the driver a tip and the matter was settled. But these two free days away from the rigors of every household had their own special charm. After we got to know the city, which as we learned had two movie theatres and several restaurants and cafes, we quickly worked out everything. One cafe we especially liked more than the others. It was called "Sunshine" and was located on the slope of the high, Vistula river escarpment, from where stretched a beautiful view of the queen of Polish rivers flowing below.

Once, I made friends with one of the students from my college. Her name was Barbara Wolska and she was a native from Plock. Here she was born, went to "Malachowianka" school and finally, began her studies at the same time as me and in the same department. She was a redhead and pretty, and she had freckles on her nose. Baska - as we called her - was not a girlfriend. Rather, she was a pal. She walked with us for a beer, cursing like us and it was better not to mess with her. Nothing was personal between us (at least, not yet then). Yes, once she tried to rape me, this is truth, after drinking a bottle of cheap wine, but I tore away. I asked the other day what made her crazy. She answered that she got bored with being a virgin and found me just at hand.

So I told her to pick another guy in our group. We were about 25 people, mostly guys. She replied that it had to be me, because they all had dandruff and did not brush their teeth.

From that day on, I knew that I had to be careful. I still liked her (perhaps even more), but I had to be on guard. Such amours were not in my head then. My heart was occupied with other matters.

There we were, in the "Sunshine", Baska and I, drinking our fill of beer. It was nice talking to her, as if we had known each other forever, and not just for a few weeks.

"You know what?" she said. "I have at home some good mushrooms; we can fry them, as my folks are not there. They went to Warsaw and will come back only tomorrow."

"And you will not be trying to fuck me?"

"Not yet. I'll wait until you wise up."

The proposal was not to be rejected. After two bottles of beer, I was a little hungry and the mushrooms smelled like crazy in my imagination.

Baska lived in a big old house on the street called Tumska. According to her, the house belonged to her family for generations, her father having described the history of his earlier ancestors.

When we walked in, she went immediately to the kitchen to cook the mushrooms and I looked around curiously as I stood in the large living room full of old furniture and family memorabilia.

After a while, the smell of fried mushrooms filled my hungry senses. Baska went into the room, with a hot frying pan and a roll of newspaper in her hands. She laid the newspaper on the carpet and placed the pan on top of it. Then she handed me a fork.

"Oh, my folks would give me a scolding if they saw how I treat my visitors" she said. "When they're not around I always do what is not allowed. That is my greatest pleasure in this damned house."

We ate the hot mushrooms straight from the pan, squatting on both sides of it. The mushrooms were great. We flushed them down with water "straight from the tap" as Baska announced proudly - probably, that was also prohibited.

Suddenly, the fork fell out of my hand. I jumped up and quickly walked over to the wall opposite where I was sitting.

On the wall hung a few old photos in sepia tone. One of them caught my attention. In it, four people stood in the town park next to a large flowerbed - two young couples. The ladies wore bright clothes, so long they reached the ground, while the gentlemen - sporty, summer suits. From one of these figures I could not take off my eyes. It was, after all, Tatiana.

"I know her!" I cried involuntarily. "It is Tatiana!"

"You're the loco" laughed Baska. "They have all been dead for long, a hundred years, maybe more."

But a mistake was out of the question. I'd have recognized this face anywhere, and moreover, Tatiana kept in her hand a parasol. The photo was not too clear, but I was sure that what I saw at the end of its handle was a cat head held upside down.

"Wait! I'll be back" I cried and rushed to the door.

"If you leave, I'll devour all the mushrooms" threatened Baska.

I came back in half an hour with the Tatiana's umbrella under my arm.

"Look," I cried, spreading it out. It was indeed identical to the one in the picture. I also noticed that in the photograph, Tatiana was wearing the same dress as the one she had when I first saw her, the one with a high bow pinned in. Baska looked at the parasol, then at me, then at the photograph, then looked at all three of us again over and over. For once, she was utterly speechless, not knowing what to say.

"No, it can't be the same one. Perhaps there are more umbrellas like this - she said carefully when she finally found her voice. "But why did you say her name is Tatiana?"

"I told you that I know her."

"And I told you that you are loco. All these people? They are ancient history."

"I know, but I know her like I know you, maybe just a little less. Why would I make things up? Anyway, where could I have taken her umbrella from? Wait, who are the people in the photograph anyway?"

"The one on the right is the grandfather of my father, and his wife. The one on the left, his brother. I know that he was lost somewhere in Siberia, having allegedly conspired against the Tsar. As for the chick next to him, I have no idea. I never asked."

Standing next to Tatiana, the young man had a handsome face, hair parted in the middle of his head. In one hand, he kept light leather gloves, in the other a black cane with a monogrammed silver handle. The letters were not readable.

"I think I saw that stick somewhere in the attic" said Baska "but that silver monogram, I cannot remember what the letters there are."

" I know. Those are the letters JW, Julian Wolski."

"Come on," she said. "There is an old suitcase over there. I remember that's where I saw the stick. If it is indeed JW, I will take back what I said about you being nuts."

Both of us moved to the attic. Fortunately, the electric bulb there was working.

In a heap of dusty junk, Baska found, in fact the suitcase that she was talking about. I felt my heart beat faster as she opened the lid. Among the old papers and junk we saw a cane with a silver handle lying inside. Attached to the timber were two silver letters - JW.

Baska looked at me with a strange expression.

"Fine. I will keep my word," she said. "You're not nuts. You're a real, normal, ordinary madman. The biggest I've ever met in my life. You should give autographs around."

I asked Baska if she could loan me Julian's cane for a few days. Of course, she agreed, but under one condition - that I would explain everything to her.

She heated up the rest of the mushrooms (she didn't eat them as warned) and we finished them together. I told her the whole story then, or almost all of it. I skipped my poetry and left out all that I felt for Tatiana. In the end, that was my private business. Baska listened without interrupting and I saw that she actually believed in what I was saying. Someone else probably would not have believed. I myself would not have believed it probably, but for her, it was all possible as she was herself a little crazy. And that was probably the biggest reason why I liked her.

"I'm a little jealous of this Tatiana woman, " she said. "I do not know why, but somehow I feel crazy about you."

"What are you? Jealous of Tatiana? But she does not exist anymore."

"Maybe not, and maybe yes. That remains to be seen. But I will not let her steal you from me. With whom will I go for a beer to 'Sunshine' cafe? Anyway, it is the only advantage that I have with you, but better this than nothing. You know what? I'll try to learn something from my old man about Julian. Who knows? Maybe his grandfather told him something about it."

We agreed to meet the next day in the amphitheater. Meanwhile, I looked again at the old photograph on the wall, took the umbrella of Tatiana, Julian's cane and returned late in the evening to the dorm.

***

Amphitheater was the name for the slightly recessed area in the shape of a crescent on the banks of the Vistula river. In the middle of it was a small stage, a few rows of seats arranged along an arc facing the Vistula with its beautiful view, an ideal place for outdoor performances. We sat next to each other looking into the distance. On the other the side of the river we could see the buildings of Radziwie.

Baska was eating an apple, which she had lifted from a street stall we passed along the way. I waited until she was finished with the apple, I was sure that she had something interesting to say, and that she was playing a game with me, a cat and mouse game. She ate especially slowly, and from time to time, looked at me askance, as if something was wrong about me. Finally, she finished her apple, and tossed the apple core away, into the bushes.

"My old man knows little, " she said. "Only what you have said. It is the oldest photograph in our house, maybe one of the oldest in the city."

"It's actually quite old" I agreed.

"But I discovered something more. In the same suitcase were several letters that Julian wrote from exile to his brother. He didn't write why he was sent to Siberia. He probably could not, as the letters had so many stamps of censorship. Everything must have been checked thoroughly. I have learned from them, however, that he was engaged to Tatiana and it was just before the wedding that he was exiled to Siberia on charges of conspiracy. Some Black Vasyl, a tsarist captain, accused him. When they took him, Tatiana poisoned herself, and her father's orderly, Igor, killed Vasyl. So much resulted from these few letters, I tell you, the real drama in the old edition. When are you going to see her? I'm coming with you."

"Next week" I lied smoothly. I knew that if I told tell her the truth, she would come regardless of my protests so it was easier this way. Baska looked at me and from her gaze, I was not sure if she believed me or not, but she said nothing. On our way, back from the amphitheater, she once again stole an apple from one of the booths. I wanted to pay for it, but she would not let me. She said that a paid apple tasted differently. We parted on Tumska street. After few meters I had turned, I asked:

"Will you ever be an adult?"

"Will you marry me then?"

"I'll be married to the lady, not to a scamp who steals apples" I replied.

Immediately I got an apple core on my head. I tried to catch her to drub her skin, but in vain. She was too fast.

***

Monday, the Locksmiths went to the movies to "Spring" theatre on Tumska street. They were playing "The Great Escape" with Steve McQueen. Damn, I wanted to see that movie. But I had of course other attractions planned for the evening. I took Tatiana's parasol, Julian's cane and my notebook, and carrying all of them, I left the room. After a while, I went back and took from my drawer a few "cuckoo" candies. I need not say why. The evening was warm and friendly. I walked slowly and my excitement grew with each step. What would happen to me today? What could be waiting for me behind that gate? Everything has its purpose, after all. Nothing happens without a reason, so the world is constructed.

On the other side of the wall, I inhaled as usual the warm smell of decayed leaves floating in the air, mixed with the scent of weeds and ferns. It seemed to me that I could hear them already saluting me with familiar whispers. I was not a complete stranger anymore, they greeted me kindly. Every visitor was probably entertainment in this place isolated from life.

I sat on the stairs, I already knew so well, leading to the chapel. I put the umbrella in the same place where I had found it, the cane with the silver handle at my feet and the academic notebook on my lap.

"In this quiet autumn evening,

I would like to feel your warmth... "

I could not concentrate, could not help but wonder about Tatiana. Would she come today? Surely she would. After all, she said she wanted to get his umbrella. Who was she really? And why had she chosen me?

"I would like to know you tenderly... " - I added the next line, but right after I closed the notebook on my lap, because I felt someone's presence.

Yes, it was Igor. I knew that he was my friend now, but just in case, I greeted him with a "cuckoo" thrown in the air. He clucked his tongue and the candy was gone immediately.

Tatiana showed up after a while. Igor was always the first to arrive, as if to make sure she would not be in danger.

She was pleased at the sight of her old-fashioned umbrella. Today, she was wearing yet another dress, purple this time, made of some glittering material. Beautiful she was like a dream, but when I tried to look into her eyes, they were melancholic, until the moment when her sight fell on Julian's black cane, the monogram on it visible. Then, she jerked her head violently and cried:

"It's you, Julian! I immediately felt that it was you. I knew that you would come back. I've been waiting for you for so long!"

She rose up both hands to throw her arms around me before I could utter a single word. Then, all of a sudden, she froze. The door to the chapel behind my back opened with a thud and a terrible form of a Cossack wearing the uniform of a tsarist guardsman appeared on its doorstep. From his black beard, blood flowed onto his uniform and in the pale moonlight it seemed also black, and in his hand he kept a naked broadsword. Tatiana thrust herself into my arms with horror in her eyes. I was also scared like hell that I was not able to produce the slightest movement. I felt her shaking against my body. Never before in my life had I been so scared. Only Igor showed his presence of mind. He jumped up like a spring and tried to grab the officer's throat with his jaws. The Cossack raised his hand at the same time with the broadsword and slashed horribly, tossing the poor dog somewhere far away, between the bushes. Then, the terrible apparition looked at both of us holding each other tight and quaking with fear. I closed my eyes. I preferred not to look at my own death up close. For a moment that seemed as long as eternity, I felt Tatiana's heart beating right next to mine, and suddenly there was a loud bang like a gunshot. After that, nothing happened. There was only total silence.

I opened my eyes and looked carefully.

The doors to the chapel were locked. There was no one around but us. Then Tatiana began to kiss my lips and the next thing I knew, we were suddenly both between the ferns drunk with their scent and with each other. My fingers began to entangle with the hooks and frills, as if they had a mind of their own. As for my mind, I could not even tell what I was doing and where I was. Then we made love to each other for a long time and ardently, as if we had both been waiting for this moment for years. When finally, the indescribable forces had faded completely and we lay exhausted between the bushes, listening to the murmur of the trees above our heads, Tatiana whispered:

"You believed in me Julian. Finally, you did. So long have I waited for this moment."

I did not answer. I didn't know what to say. Should I object that my name was not Julian? After having come here with his cane and his monogram, however, I was afraid that doing that could harm her. I chose to not say anything. Tatiana got up after a moment. She said only:

"Goodbye" and simply walked away into the darkness alone. Igor, this time, did not follow his mistress.

I did not even try to stop her, did not really know what was happening to me.

After a few moments, when my heart finally started beating normally, I finally got up on my feet and fetched my clothes. The moon could not be seen and there was only darkness as I went out into the street and headed back toward the dorm.

***

The next day, I decided to go to the cemetery before my classes to find the cane I had left there. Yesterday, it had not even crossed my mind that I had left it. My brain was working in some other dimension. It was necessary to return it to the owner, and besides, a part of me was hoping that it would fulfill the role of a "magic wand" and with its help, I could once again bring Tatiana to me and feel her heart beating next to mine. Who knew? If only this terrible Vasyl did not show up close with his broadsword...

At the thought of him, I stopped in the middle of the road. My feet just would not go any further. But I forced myself and with some trepidation, I crossed the cemetery gate. Welcome whispers didn't greet me this time. (Probably in the morning they were all asleep.) Turning next to the grave of the General-Major and his daughter, I stopped for a moment and said a short prayer.

When I came to the chapel, I started looking for my things. The cane was lying in the grass. I noticed the silver handle glistening in the light of the day without exerting any effort. I picked up the stick and walked up the stone steps, where Tatiana and I both sat yesterday, huddled together and shivering with fear. Now, in the light of day, the place had completely lost the atmosphere of yesterday's horror. I picked up my notebook, which for the second time had spent the night in the cemetery and opened it. Below the line previously written, one new line appeared before my eyes:

"To fulfill my dreams"...

"Fulfill my dreams?" I thought out loud. "What dreams?"

Now I did not have the slightest doubt who had written it, but I did not understand the meaning of the words. I closed the book and without fear, went to the door of the chapel and turned the handle. The door was closed, overgrown with cobwebs. Nothing pointed to the fact that someone had opened it recently.

I stood on the top of the stairs, where yesterday I had seen Black Vasyl - I was convinced that it was he - and looked around. From there, he had watched us sitting below in horror. I looked at my feet. The stone steps were splattered with something black. Blood? Perhaps. Some more spots could be seen at the right side of the stairs. The yellow leaves and grasses were spotted also. I went in that direction and parted the branches of the shrubs. Igor lay among the bushes terribly mutilated from the sword, and over his poor remains circled some flies.

So, I suppose it happened really. I covered him with a few branches and promised to come back after school to bury him decently.

***

In my class, I had already taken my seat when our professor began his lecture on geometry. This topic I liked the most. I had no problems with spatial imagination and did not understand why some students could not capture the rules of perspective or isometrics. Baska came in as usual at the last minute and sat on the empty chair next to mine.

"Something new?" she asked in a whisper.

I shook my head.

"Baloney" she said. "I can see it on your face."

I did not even move, apparently listening to the words of the professor.

She opened her notebook and began to scribble something on the last sheet of paper. After a few minutes, she tore it and placed it on my palm. I began to read:

"Then, at the Amphitheatre, I did not tell you everything. There was another letter. It implied that Tatiana was a virgin and that as long as she was, Vasyl could kidnap her and rape her. Then she had to become his wife. Some old Cossack tradition. That's why Julian found himself in exile from which he never came back. She was waiting for Julian to liberate her from virginity, probably because Black Vasyl was still after her."

I sighed deeply, full of admiration for Baska and her intuition. She grabbed a note for a second time and added:

"Do not go there. She will try to seduce you, and I intend to be the first."

This was too much for a friend from college. I turned my head toward her with a serious face, but Baska suddenly started staring at the teacher and didn't seem to notice it.

After classes at the college, I ate lunch in the student cafeteria and went to the warehouse room of our dorm to borrow a shovel. Thus prepared, I went to the cemetery. I also did not forget Julian's cane and my notebook. Who knew what could happen? Upon arrival, I made sure that there was not a living soul around (the extraterrestrial whispers I was already getting used to) and I laid all my stuff on the stairs leading to the chapel.

There was still a little daylight, so I easily searched for Igor in the bushes and dragged the body of the poor chap to the tomb of General-Major.

I started to dig. It was not very easy. The ground was rocky and full of roots, but after some time, the grave was ready, one and a half meters long and sufficiently deep, dug right next to the tomb of those who old Igor served so faithfully for many years.

Then I pulled the remains of Igor into the dark hole, feeling sorry for him so tremendously that I threw the rest of my favorite "cuckoos" into his tomb. I had started to like him so much. After all, we had a lot in common. We both loved Tatiana and "cuckoos" and liked old cemeteries full of secret whispers and ferns. I showered Igor's grave with soil and formed a neat mound with the spade. After saying a prayer for the three of them, I took the spade and returned to "my stone steps". I sat in my usual place with the notebook on my lap and the cane against my legs. I knew that she would not come anymore. I was even sure that she would not come, but something at the bottom of my heart murmured to me that maybe that was not yet known. Also, I counted a little on the cane of Julian. Who knew? It might work as a talisman.

I opened the book and wrote the next line:

"I'm waiting, I miss you greatly... "

I couldn't write anymore, I felt a strong pain growing inside of me. After all I had done, I could not just sit and wait. I had to do something. I must do something. I stood up, straightened up, and probably in order to throw out the pain, burning inside me, I shouted through the cemetery darkness:

"Tatiana! ... Tatiana! ... Tatia..,"

A rumble interrupted my scream from behind my back, and before I could turn around, I felt a terrible pain in my head which caused me to fall into complete darkness.

***

I opened my eyes with difficulty. I saw the blurry face of some saintly lady bent over me. Stars against a background of dark blue sky surrounded her head, which I could see upside down. In no way could I remember who the saint was, but I was sure that I had seen her somewhere before.

"Not bad" I thought, thinking that I had ended up in heaven, and that it could be a lot worse. My head ached badly. I tried to get up.

"Don't move. What the hell?" The saint hissed angrily with her familiar voice.

"It must be Saint Baska" I thought a little more consciously. I glanced down at my feet and saw the wall of the cemetery a few meters away.

I was lying on my back with my head resting probably on her lap.

"Lie still, " she said in a more normal voice. "In a moment, the ambulance will arrive."

And then again, everything faded.

***

The next time I woke up, I found myself in a hospital bed. When I realized after a while where I was, I tried to get my bearings in my mind. I didn't succeed, not really. My head was hurting a lot, especially at the slightest movement.

A passing nurse examined my pulse and called the doctor on duty.

He in turn examined my pulse and shone his flashlight into my eyes.

"It's not bad, " he said. "You had only seven stitches. I assume you have a hard head. This lady who called an ambulance said that you fell down the stairs. Is that correct?"

"Yes," I managed to creak.

"Well, well, I only asked because you looked like a samurai after a sword duel, the wound looks just like a saber cut. If it were a gunshot, I would have to report it to the police, but a wound from a sword? That is not even believable. Two days for observation and that's it. Then, you just have to visit us to have the stitches removed."

Baska came in every day, but only for a few moments each time. She did not want to talk to me. It was obvious that she was mad at me.

When I was released from the hospital, some invisible force pushed me to the cemetery. I found the spade I had borrowed, Julian's cane and my notebook and brought them all with difficulty to the dorm.

When I found myself alone, I looked into the notebook. Yes, there was one line appended, in the same handwriting as the other mysterious lines:

"Farewell, and do not think of me..."

That was it, nothing more.

I met Baska in the afternoon at the Amphitheatre. When I arrived, she was sitting on one of the chairs facing the Vistula and eating an apple.

"I bought it, " she said grimly, looking somewhere far away, beyond the river. - Yes, it was me who pulled you behind the wall of the cemetery. I knew instantly you would go there. I heard you yelling, so I found you. You were lying on the stairs and bleeding like a pig. Before someone found you, you would have been caput. You chose the right place for that.

"I know, " I said only. Nothing else came to my mind.

I handed her the Julian's stick which I had brought along.

"I'm returning your family heirloom."

"You can keep it. To me, it is associated with bad memories. Now, it's your turn. Tell me everything."

I thought for a moment.

"Will you marry me?" I asked suddenly. She looked me straight in the eyes.

"Let's see if you've wised up a little."

I looked at her, sitting in the orange rays of the setting sun and I smiled.

Actually, with a little help from a hairdresser...

Back to ToC

Iza from Adria

There are some people in Warsaw who still remember the Warsaw Uprising against the German Army occupation. Some of them even participated in fighting the German tanks with just a hand grenade or a bottle full of gasoline. Many died, either killed by the enemy, dying in war prison camps or simply disappearing forever. Still, they live on in the memories of their friends who survived, as survivors may move forward in their lives, but they will never forget...

***

Stefan put a jar of herrings and a bottle of cheap vodka on the table. Then, he went to the kitchenette and opened the cupboard, taking out a loaf of wholemeal bread, which he also put on the table. Finally, he got two glasses and some soda water. When everything was ready, he paused, looking around the apartment.

Nothing had changed. The same wallpaper still covered the walls of this attic, the same one he and Victor had put up before the war. There was still the same modest furniture, the same gas stove in the compartment. Only the tenant had changed. He had become much, much older, nothing else.

He looked at the calendar.

October 2, 1974.

Tomorrow will be the 30th anniversary of the capitulation of the Warsaw Uprising. Tomorrow. That meant they were still fighting today, 30 years ago.

He went to the window and opened it wide. Beyond, the Wild West began to darken. America had its Wild West. Warsaw had hers, or so they called the area in Warsaw, west of the Palace of Culture - the streets like Chmielna, Zlota, Panska, Prozna, and several others. Here, the surviving buildings, which even today bore the scars of the war with their old, ugly walls were surrounded by modern neighborhoods still in their infancy. Nobody intended to rebuild them. The architects were already planning on putting up modern housing estates in these areas. Meanwhile, the old and rapidly decaying hovels were waiting patiently for demolition. The tenants were left alone for the time being, because there was no place for them to be relocated just yet. In the evening, it was better not to go over to the area if you didn't live there, which is probably how the place got its name. And so it was until the beginning of the construction of the Central Railway Station, which appeared so suddenly that some of the houses had to be torn down soon because a place was needed for a modern, two-level intersection. Among them was a house on Chmielna street, where Stefan had lived for over thirty years.

He sat down on one of only two chairs in the apartment, lit a Sport cigarette and calmly waited.

After his smoke, he extinguished the butt in the ashtray, drank some soda water and went to the toilet. When he came out, Victor was already sitting at the table, on the other chair. A head nodded in greeting, which was sufficient for an old friend. There was no need to embrace on a good day, even though they had not seen each other for exactly a year. Then again, they had been meeting like this every year at exactly the same time and the same place ever since the end of the war. Neither of them had happened to screw up yet. And they both knew that as long as the house stood on the surface of the earth, they would be meeting like this, because they both needed it. And they would always talk about the same things for everything else was not important, it did not even matter, as only those events from more than thirty years ago were real. All the rest was just pure fiction, needed only to fill the silently passing time.

Now, however, everything was a little different. It had been since three months ago actually, when Stefan received a court order to leave the apartment. He was now, the last tenant of the old building. Everyone else had moved out long ago to new places. He was the only one, who refused to go.

And exactly tomorrow was the date of his eviction.

"How do you feel?" asked Victor, reaching for the pack of cigarettes lying on the table. Stefan felt that he sensed in his friend's voice a note of hope that something may actually or eventually be not so good, probably envious that he always felt so good and healthy while Victor looked so pale, almost transparent. In addition, Victor smoked. Not his own cigarettes admittedly, but he smoked nonetheless.

Stefan put some cucumbers and herring on the plates directly from the jar, cut a few slices of bread and poured vodka into the glasses.

"I have some trouble with the blood pressure, not much, but enough that it has become more and more difficult for me to climb up to the fourth floor" he said, immediately noticing that the other one's face brightened.

"Well, let's have a shot, " he proposed. "For old times' sake."

They clinked the glasses and drank.

"And you, how are you?" Stefan inquired. "Has nothing still happened?"

"Over there, always nothing happens" Victor answered. "That is the worst, I think. Nothing, nothing and nothing, just empty and hopeless nothingness ever since that day..."

***

"Today is the last day, " said Victor. "Probably tomorrow General Bor-Komorowski will sign the act of capitulation. We will have to lay down our arms and surrender to the enemy."

Victor was the commander of their squad. Lieutenant Vic, they had called him in conspiration.

"And what they'll do to us?" Asked Iza, who was a courier in their division.

From twenty-five of them, there were only three left. Stefan, who was the deputy commander, said:

"I say do not give up. We have enough weapons and ammunition to defend ourselves for a few more days. We must fight until the end, to the very last cartridge. If we surrender now, then it all will be for nothing. Our comrades all died for no reason, for free. I will never accept it."

His words revealed what had been troubling the three of them for the last few days, when they had learned that the uprising must collapse. Why exactly had they been spared? They had exposed themselves to the first line of fire as the other members of the squad and bore the same risk, yet why did they still live? It was not fair. They should all die together. If it was not going to happen, to the end of their lives they would feel what they felt now - guilt and shame. Shame that death didn't want them, despised them. Yes, it was as if they were worse than others, unworthy to die for the cause.

And yet they had fought fiercely from the very first day, from the first and to the very last, which was tomorrow because they had no doubt that tomorrow would be the end of it. They would have to lay down their arms and surrender. They still had a lot of arms left: two Bergmanns, a pistol and grenades, and a huge quantity of explosives, the supply for the whole division, protected from the moisture with several layers of carefully greased canvas.

During the night, so that none of the tenants could realize what was happening, Victor and Stefan dug a big hole in the basement, down to the foundation of the main wall. Once the hole was finished, they laid the explosives carefully inside the hole, and then covered them with old junk, so that the floor had an even surface and nothing suspicious could be noticed.

"How much do you think there is of this stuff?" asked Victor. "I mean, what it can do?"

"Just enough to turn this whole building into dust" Stefan answered. He had attended a secret training about explosive materials and he had a basic knowledge of how to blow up buildings. This is why the division commander gave him the task to look after the explosives. It was necessary to guard them as one's own life since they were already earmarked for a greater destructive action.

"You cannot do it, " said Victor. "Orders are orders."

"I 'm pissing off such orders. Who wants to surrender?" Stefan said. "If you want do it, do it. I'll fight on, or go back underground."

"Me too," said Iza. "I do not want to go to the camp. Anyway, you know what they do with the women."

"Very well. I've been outvoted" surrendered Victor. "After all, I cannot leave you."

In his mind, he added "together". He was jealous because he loved Iza, and Stefan was also jealous because he was in love with Iza also. Did Iza love any of them? They did not know and that was their big problem. She gave the impression that yes, she loved one of them, but it was not certain whom she loved more. Maybe she loved both of them equally? They decided that after the war, they would fight each other; only the death of one of them would bring a solution. If one fell, there the problem would end. She would have to choose the latter.

But for now, both of them were contenders and they both were precious as every insurgent was, especially the young and armed. Victor and Stefan both were young and armed. Iza also had a small Walther pistol. She had received it as a gift from big Walter, a German officer who was crazy about her - what an irony to receive the gun as a gift of love from the enemy. Moreover, he was the only man whom she had ever tried to shoot in her life, with poor results. Nonetheless, she had treasured the weapon right from the beginning...

***

They met in Kabaty forest in small groups where they underwent their training: drills, tactical training, lessons on handling different weapons. Their Polish instructor was sent to Warsaw from England. He was a commando officer, his nickname was "Star". Already, during the first training session, he asked if anyone had a weapon. Iza did not admit she had one. She was afraid that they would confiscate her small Walther. It turned out later that her fears were justified.

Classes were held on Sundays, disguised as a trip for a picnic outside the city. The girls took with them a basket of fruits, the guys something to drink and go. The place of the meetings was on the edge of the woods so they could watch the access road without being seen. The instructor brought the guns to practice with - where he got them remained his secret. Each meeting, they got to learn how to handle a different type of weapon, as you never know, what you will fight with when your time comes. After classes, they had orders to disperse in groups of no more than three people, and in the train or the bus, they had to pretend to not know each other, avoiding each other as much as possible.

They were thrilled by all the secrecy, although sometimes, their curiosity would win and they would start their inquiries when they will start to fight. The instructor would answer them casually "You'll know when you are ready". Nothing more could be drawn from him. Maybe he did not know the answer as well.

***

One of the most important nights of their lives came on the first Saturday, when, after passing the matriculation examination they met in Adria. Why in Adria and not in one of those cheap cabarets that were abundant in pre-war Warsaw? It was simply because they decided that way. They knew that it would cost them a fortune, but anyway, one only got to live once. There were four of them, all from the "Batory" high school, from the same class. They were finally adults. They could do what they wanted; all old prohibitions were no longer valid. New life, new people.

They got drunk quite quickly, viewing the 'for adults only' spectacle in front of them and smoking one cigarette after another. And it was then that they met Iza. She was a taxi dancer, beautiful and moving like a young kitten. She quickly realized that she would not be able to make a lot of money on them, but she liked them, especially Victor and Stefan and danced with them almost the entire evening. They were about the same age and it was a fact that drew her to them. Besides, she knew that she would have recovered her losses soon enough, and earn a surplus even, dancing with those old, fat hogs with their sticky hands and thick wallets. She hated them. They were the same each evening, boring and ugly. And these young guys? They were like the classmates from her school. Finally, she was able to stay with such clients and speak their own language. In vain, the restaurant maître winked in her direction, trying to tell her to take care of the richer customers but she pretended not to see it. Too good a reputation she had here to be afraid of losing her job. It was her best night in Adria as far as she could remember, dancing for her own pleasure and not under duress. She could not recall being so happy long before. And when the night was over, both Victor and Stefan escorted her home on foot, because they had no money for a taxi, which was even funny. Anyway, it was not far from Adria to Krochmalna street where she lived and the evening was so beautiful. From that moment, she already knew that one of them would end up being her lover, but she did not know yet which of them. All she knew was that she needed someone young to forget about her work, about those old, rich grandfathers and their sticky fingers.

After some time, when she still could not decide on one, they both became her lovers and she made it a point to spend time with each one separately. In this way, each of them had certain exclusivity for him, and although they were damned jealous of each other, they quickly became accustomed to such an unusual situation. They simply had no other choice. Both were already living in the same attic, and they had both started studying law at the University of Warsaw. Even so, they visited Iza's house at Krochmalna street separately, so each of them had time with her alone and it was a taboo to do otherwise. They never broke this rule. Other than Krochmalna, they often went places together - all three of them, either to the movies or to dance, and when someone would ask jokingly which one of them was her boyfriend, Iza responded also with a joke - both of them.

Once, they all went together to the National Museum of Art. They had a long walk through the halls full of old works hanging on each wall until all three stopped before a terrifying image. Some medieval painter had painted the scene of an execution on a wooden board. The painting was made without concern for perspective or proportions, in an old-fashioned way, but with great efforts in presenting the details. Namely, the scene presented was the skinning of some poor guy. It was a truly gruesome sight. The convict was attached to a wall with iron shackles, and two masked executioners tormented him without mercy. One used a knife to cut strips of skin from his body and the second, using blacksmith tongs, tore them from the poor wretch from the top to the bottom. It must have been a very unpleasant procedure and of course, the convict was not happy. A lot of blood around, the artist did not spare the gory details and you could see every hair on the victim's balding skull and the sparks of joy in the malignant eyes of his executioners. So appalling was the sight that for a long time, they just stood there watching it with horror.

"Is it possible that people did such things?" Asked Iza. She was really shocked.

"Maybe a long time ago, in the Middle Ages" Stefan answered. "Now, they probably do not punish like that. And by the way, I wonder what did he do, this poor fellow. They probably wouldn't have punished him so severely for nothing.

"No crime would be so severe to deserve this punishment. It is inhuman," said Victor. "That's why we study law, so that nothing like this will ever happen again in our world."

But they never become lawyers. The war began before the start of the next academic year. Insane Hitler invaded Poland, and everything went to hell.

***

The first bombing of Warsaw came as a real shock. Residents of the capital watched in fear and amazement as German bombers flew over the city, throwing their bombs on the houses and streets of Warsaw. The city, however, was defended bravely until September 27. Although after the treacherous invasion of Poland's eastern neighbor, it was already known that the Polish army would not be able to cope. Warsaw still hoped for a miracle. Despite the carpet-bombing, brave city defended itself over and over. Bombs killed tens of thousands of residents of the capital. Part of the city's population began to leave for the provinces, to relatives, to friends, wherever one could go, but most of the Warsaw population stayed. They had to defend the city. The defense lasted long, but the well-armed German troops prevailed, finally occupying the Polish capital and dividing the country between two aggressors.

Just like that, life in Warsaw was transformed. Enemy troops took over the main official buildings. On the walls appeared red and black flags with gruesome swastikas in the middle - the flags of the Third Reich.

More and more of them came. The streets were full of the gendarmerie patrolling on foot, on motorcycles and in cars. Some workplaces and schools got shut down. The others were forced to switch over to producing the needs of the invading army. Polish documents become null and residents of the capital received new identity cards with the German black eagle, together with riveted photographs and fingerprints.

It all happened slowly, gradually, in keeping with Germany's intention to "Germanize" the city. At the same time, however, the underground resistance movement also began to form, and this was the main motivation, especially for young people, to survive.

Stefan and Victor found work in a factory of kitchen utensils. Now, it manufactured the helmets for German soldiers and other equipment for the army. The factory worked efficiently and its employees received a passes to move freely around the city.

Then, the boys found contact with the underground movement. Thus, started the first clandestine meeting. It was not yet training, just a discussion of ideas. The organization started out slowly, after all, but there was a lot of enthusiasm, a lot of promise. Of course, its main aim was to fight the enemy and liberate the country, and in order to do this, they needed weapons and the best way to get them was from the enemy. As well, underground production began. Stefan started secretly after work hours, fabricating some treated metal sleeves. It turned out later that they were parts for a submachine gun "Sten", a copy of the English arm, very simple and effective in action, calibre 9mm Parabellum. They were not at all inferior to the originals, dropped later from the English aircraft piloted by Polish pilots - volunteers to help the insurgents. It was a pity that only a small number of these discharges got into the right hands.

Victor engaged in the conspiracy with great zeal, devoting all his free time and energy to it. Both of them however did not forget about Iza, and none of them, let the other see her more often than himself.

Iza, still dancing in the nightclub, also did what she could for the cause. A lot of important information reached the Polish underground headquarters through her mouth, as high-ranking German officers now frequented Adria. Hitler had sent to Warsaw many officers, some of them even knew a little Polish language. And those officers really liked to show off their importance and bragged as much as they could; sure the beautiful taxi dancer did not understand their intricate, military language. In truth, she really could not understand their words too much, but she had a good memory and that was enough. The staff of specialists compiled the received messages and separated them all into two categories: valuable and unnecessary.

Every Sunday they met, the three of them as before the war, and traveled by train to the countryside, to buy food.

In Warsaw, the food was mainly distributed through the system of food stamps, while in rural areas, it was still possible to buy meat and eggs. It was all very expensive, but you had to eat in order to effectively fight the enemy. Winter was especially difficult. The shortage of coal - it was also on consignment - made life miserable, causing people to freeze inside unheated homes. Those who worked for occupant had consigned goods and food stamps and as such, had better lives. The rest had to manage as they could. People were selling everything they had. First, went off all the valuables, including furniture and clothing. Flea markets were booming as street shops offered little goods for sale.

Once, Victor, Stefan and Iza met at the Iron Gate bazaar. Iza wanted to do some grocery shopping and they both promised they would deliver the goods together to Krochmalna street, where she still lived. They squeezed through the crowd of traders, those who traded whatever they had, since you could find a buyer for anything at all, you could make some money on any stuff. All of a sudden, it became spacious, the people parting hastily as the army patrol approached, walking slowly through the middle of the street. Three German gendarmes with their guns suspended from their necks marched nonchalantly, casting hostile glances from under their thick helmets. One of them stopped suddenly and grabbed by the neck a hen sitting in the basket of a female trader. The hen made a huge scream. She had no desire to be eaten by enemies and trader woman also screamed something and pulled her chicken to her side. The other two gendarmes roared, the bazaar crowd watched it all with the grim faces. Germans always took what they wanted, simple plunder under one official word: confiscation.

The angry soldier pushed the crone, so hard, that she fell to the pavement and then pointed his sub-machine gun at her. Iza, standing next to the woman, instinctively protected her, standing in front of her, before Stefan could stop her. The gendarme pushed Iza violently yelling something in German. Then Iza raised her hand and slapped him hard, straight on his fat, red mouth.

Deathly silence reigned around, even among the gendarmes who had become completely speechless. Stefan and Victor were already preparing to jump to her defense, but Iza calmly pulled something out of her purse and exposed it to the eyes of the soldier standing in the middle, who seemed to be the leader. He looked at Iza with amazement, then at this piece of stiff paper, then at her again. Finally, he snapped something in German to the others and they went away as if nothing had happened. Overwhelmed with joy, the hen returned back to her basket, but did not cease to inveigh the Germans retreating down the street. Quickly, Victor and Stefan pulled Iza out of the crowd. Both were pale with terror. They had been almost certain that they were going to lose her. Each of them could truly lose his own half, which together formed a whole, extremely alluring being.

"What did you show them?" Stefan asked.

Iza pulled the photograph out from her purse again. It had been taken inside the elegant interior of Adria. Iza stood in the middle, surrounded by four high-ranking officers of the Wehrmacht in their output uniforms. Both Stefan and Victor whistled with admiration.

"Well, with a photo like this, you are really safe" said Stefan.

Viktor, however, was still grim.

"Not for everybody, " he objected.

"From whom is she not safe then?"

"From whom? From ours."

"Why? After all, she works for our cause."

"Yes, but no one knows it, and if she will show this photo right and left, the news will get around that she is collaborating with the Germans, and that is also dangerous. She must save it for really special occasions."

Stefan ignored Victor.

"And the one that's holding you, who is he? And why is he not keeping his paws away from you?"

"That is Walter" Iza answered. "The staff officer, the one I told you about. He is always on the road and it looks like he is a very important figure. It seems in addition that he is terribly in love with me, but I just dance with him when I have to, nothing more than my contract requires.

Walter immediately fell out of the men's liking.

"Some fat Fritz" said Stefan.

"And the swine blond" added Victor. "Looks like a simpleton."

"Not fat, just well built" Iza rectified. "And not a swine blond, but a handsome blond man. Not a simpleton either, but a doctor of philosophy. In addition, he plays the violin."

Every word she spoke stabbed them directly in their hearts until they fell completely silent, ceasing even to talk altogether. Iza noticed it only when they came to Krochmalna, so in atonement, she tenderly kissed first one, then the other, and they agreed on meeting again the following Sunday.

Still, the men returned home in a gloomy mood. So far, they had only been jealous of each other. Now came along this swine blond, who, of all the insanities, played the violin.

"We will have to get rid of him" Victor suggested.

"Most definitely, " agreed Stefan. "Well, it is good luck for us that he is one of the enemies. We'll have no pity for him."

***

Months went by as quickly as weeks in work, conspiracy and trade. Each traded what they could - it became one of the favorite pastimes in Warsaw. The same coat could change four times the hands on Kercelak bazaar, each time at a higher price, before it found a new owner. In conspiracy, however, the task of acquiring weapons was most important. Whoever provided the organization with better armaments gained greater fame among the insurgents. Unfortunately, the first armed actions carried out on the enemy in order to obtain weapons turned out to be a disaster. After military action, the Germans conducted a roundup, followed by public executions and exports to concentration camps.

Sometimes they managed to buy a gun from a German soldier, who alone stole it from someone, and sometimes they managed to disarm a drunken soldier, but such cases were rare.

Once, Victor and Stefan, who just happened to have a bicycle with him, were passing next to the park. They met a German army patrol walking from the opposite direction. Of course, they descended from the sidewalk onto the street. If you didn't do it at the time, you could collect a fist in the face as a punishment - a warning to say 'do not forget who's the boss here, you dick'. After that, they passed near a building, on the ground floor of which were located a few shops, and on the corner a wooden public toilet with the door closed by hook. Into this particular toilet entered one of the Krauts. The other two waited outside. One of them began to rummage through his pockets, pulled out an empty cigarette pack and threw it against the wall. Then he called something toward the outhouse and together with his colleague went to the tobacco shop, which was about a dozen feet away. Stefan's eyes went to the toilet door, behind which sat Germany. These doors had the top cut off for better ventilation and on their upper corner you could see hanging belt and a part of the Bergmann's barrel. Stefan's blood rushed to his head. "A man can only die once", he thought. He quickly passed his bicycle handlebars to Victor.

"Wait for me on the other side of the park," he told him hastily. Realizing immediately what was going on, Victor jumped on the saddle and pressed on the pedals with all his strength.

Stefan went to the "backhouse" and quickly looked around. The street was empty. He grabbed the barrel of the machine gun protruding from above the door and with one jerk, pulled the gun out. Then, without thinking, he ran like a rabbit across the street, jumping over the low wall and falling into the park. When he was among the bushes, he looked back. Through the open door of the outhouse, he saw the German yelling something, frantically pulling up his pants. Stefan quickly transferred his documents from his jacket pocket to his pants pocket, wrapped the machine gun in his jacket and ran fast through the park, avoiding the wider alleys, until he was on the opposite side. There, Victor was already waiting with the bicycle. Stefan pushed the package under his arm.

"Get out of here. I no longer have the strength to run, " he blurted out panting. "Meet you at home."

Victor pressed on the pedals and vanished in a second. Here on the street was a lot of pedestrians and cyclists, so he mixed in with the crowd in no time. Stefan went to the nearest coffee shop and ordered a cup of coffee, taking his time to rest and regulate his breathing. It was a warm day, so no jacket was needed. After a while, nothing happened. It was clear the soldier did not see which way the robber fled. It had all happened so fast. After an hour of waiting, Stefan ventured back into the street. He circled a bit to calm his nerves before returning to Chmielna street. When he opened the apartment door, the first thing he saw was the barrel of the Bergmann pointed directly to his chest. At first, he was petrified. A moment later, he wanted to break the face of Victor for his silly pranks, but soon his anger disappeared. They both enjoyed their new toy just like kids, petting the black oxidized steel and trying it in front of the mirror.

"With a full magazine" admired Victor. "This is our first."

"It's a shame that it was captured in the crapper, and not on the battlefield" Stefan whined a little, but it detracted nothing from the value of the captured weapon.

***

Stefan poured the next glass.

It was already night. Even so, they had plenty of time before the morning.

"Another big night," said Victor. "As then, before the surrender."

"We never surrendered" objected Stefan. "We never laid down our weapons."

"Yeah, and now, we will not give up. Do you remember the first barricade? We worked to build it all night."

"That one I'll never forget. Even Iza worked hard with us. The hardest part was setting up the trolley car across the street. The rest was a trifle - the curbs, the bricks, and the furniture. People threw what they could from the windows. Everyone wanted to have his or her personal participation, something own in the first barricade. It was after all a symbol."

"Do you remember the first tank? It was something. It drove for about 200 meters from the barricades, stopped, turned its tower, as if wondering what to do next, then fired a cannon. It was a bang, remember? I thought I lost my ears. But it hurt us only a little. The barricade was solid."

"The trolley got damaged a lot" Stefan reminded.

"The trolley yes, but it went later for scrap anyway."

"And do you remember how the tank scurried away when the bottles of gasoline flew out of the windows? Like a crawfish, it ran away with those Krauts hidden inside it, and those behind it also flew away."

"Not all of them. Some stayed on the pavement, and from one of them we got our second Bergmann."

"Not all attacks ended so well. Always, one of ours got killed. Well, the new guys came. Everyone wanted to wear a white-red strap on his shoulder and the metal eagle on his cap."

"Those we had not enough of."

"But we had plenty of German helmets. With red-white stripes painted on them, those were like our Polish helmets."

"We still have a helmet like that in the basement."

"Do you think it might be useful tomorrow?"

"Good idea. The helmet is impressive, after all."

"Do you remember the first one who died?"

"I cannot remember him well. He was somewhat gray, expressionless. I still don't remember his name. He fell on the first barricade, near the trolley, just the other day."

"After that, there was fucking shooting everyday you could not walk normally even if you wanted to. People instinctively bent in the middle. After some time, they got used to it, so much so that even in their apartments, they were walking that way."

"Yes, I remember that and on and on, guys were falling one after the other. Not a day went by that someone did not die. And remember how Iza dished out orders? Such a reliable courier, you could say, that even while dancing between bullets, she had never been even scratched."

They fell silent at the memory, then had to drink again. Through the open window, the moon looked in, pale, cruel and merciless, throwing its glow on the faces of the last tenants of that house, sentenced to death. There were no curtains in the windows. What for? There were no neighbors across the street - all the other houses had already been demolished. The nearest neighbor visible from the windows was the steel roof of the Central Station, with the lit makeshift lamps of its construction site.

"It's because of them" Victor nodded at the newly constructed building. "Our house could have been good for another few years."

"Listen to you talking. The new train station is needed. And we? For scraps we are good, that's it. After all, who needs two old dotards like us? Well, I still admittedly do quite well, but you? You do not even collect your pension, so it's like you don't exist at all."

"No pension, so I cost this country nothing. And you, you cost so much and yet do nothing. So who is more needed?"

"All right, let it be. There's no need to argue. Tomorrow morning, the electricity will be cut off. It will already be the last step."

"And do you remember how we got buried during the bombing on Sliska street? I thought that was already the end of us. Then, I really got scared."

"I was scared all the time. It was just during the fights that I was not because there was no time to think. Other than that, during the whole damn uprising, I was peeing in my pants with fear."

For the first time in his life, Stefan had confessed what had been troubling him for so many years.

"Why didn't you say so before?" Victor asked.

"Because it was nothing to brag about."

"I was also frightened" confessed Victor. "But now, I 'm not afraid. I just feel nothing, completely nothing."

"Sure" Stefan gave him a look of irony. "Now you have no reason to be afraid. And you know what? Now, I am also not afraid. Of anyone or anything. They can pee in my pocket. I will ignore them thoroughly."

"Well, another one?" Viktor lifted his empty glass.

"Sure. Why not?" Stefan poured another round.

"How did we come out of the cave after the bombing again?" asked Stefan.

"What? Do you not remember? Iza found us. She knew all the passageways forged between the basements of the buildings. It was really great liaison work. She found us and the guys dug us up."

"Well, yes, and then we buried them. One after the other. In each yard around were the graves of insurgents and civilians."

Silence fell again. These were not easy memories.

***

October 03, 1944. On that day, in the morning, the surrender was announced. The Warsaw Uprising fell. The couriers had notified all still existing brigades that they had to lay down their weapons and surrender. All except one. Courier Iza did not appear, failing for the first time. Victor and Stefan rushed to Krochmalna, heavily disturbed. They looked around on the streets as anxious residents of the capital were preparing to leave their city. The signed terms of surrender guaranteed them and the insurgents safety and immunity after the deposit of arms. They were supposed to be treated as prisoners of war. Germany of course, did not keep these conditions and began to immediately send truckloads of people to the concentration camps.

As they walked towards Krochmalna, they saw the residents of surrounding houses leaving their dwellings laden with bundles of their most needed things. Their faces were gray, resigned, but at the same time, one could see they felt some relief. This was the end. The end of the shootings, the bombings, the end of sleepless nights in caves, never knowing when the next bomb would fall or where - on their house or someplace else.

Nobody knew what was going to happen next, what hell awaited them now, but at least, some of their troubles had come to an end and it just gave them relief. Maybe finally, the next night would be peaceful. Maybe they would eventually get some quiet sleep?

Finally, they came to Krochmalna. The house in which Iza lived was untouched by bombs. The walls showed indeed a lot of bullet holes, as in all the surviving homes, but some windows still had glass panes remaining.

They entered the stairwell and then they heard a gunshot. Immediately, both of them knew it came from her apartment. They rushed up the stairs to the third floor. The door was locked. They did not have a weapon. It had been announced earlier that those who were detained and found with weapons were to be shot on the spot, so they preferred not to risk it. But at this time, that was not important. Only she was important. They broke down the door and rushed into the apartment.

Iza was lying on the bed, her dress torn. In her right hand, she still clutched the little pearl handle of her Walther pistol, and in her heart was stuck a German officer's bayonet. She had bragged about that gun even before the uprising. Big Walter had given it to her as a gift for her personal defense and strictly ordered her never to go out to the street with it.

Big Walter himself was now leaning against the wall, his face contorted in pain. From between the fingers of both hands, which pressed the wound in his abdomen, oozing blood trickled out. One glance at him explained the entire situation.

Shortly after the surrender of the insurrection, big Walter came to stand up for what he believed was his own. As a conqueror, in his opinion, legally, he had a right to it. Iza gave him a ball from her small Walther gun and he drove the dagger through her heart. Stefan and Viktor were late for a few moments only. Without thinking, they grabbed big Walter by the shoulders and seated him on one of the chairs. He did not resist, but started to scream something in German when they attached him to the chair then gagged him thoroughly.

Then, they had to take care of Iza. They pulled the bayonet out of her, which Victor wiped on the pants of the German who watched all the circumstances unfold with terrified eyes.

They grabbed both ends of the covers on which she lay and carried her into the yard. There, next to existing graves of other insurgents, another one appeared. To those, who asked questions, they answered briefly - stray bullet - and no one was surprised. That was nothing unusual. Afterwards, they returned to the apartment in tears. It was the first time they both cried since the beginning of the war.

Without thinking or speaking to each other, they knew what would happen next.

"We do the museum stuff" Stefan muttered.

Victor nodded. The prisoner was untied from the chair, his hands tied instead to the hooks that the previous tenant of the lodging screwed into the upper part of the doorframe in the door between the kitchen and main room. Those, probably initially placed to suspend a swing for the children, were now handy for any other purpose. One leg of Walter they tied to the door hinge. To fix the other, they had to hammer two nails on the doorframe. They used whatever they could to tie him up. In the closet they found various belts. Stockings proved particularly useful for their purpose. Big Walter still did not understand, did not even try to break away from his bonds. He only mumbled something through the gag, but they did not pay any attention. Stefan knew that in the cupboard under the sink was a drawer with tools. He pulled out a pair of pliers and handed it to Victor. As for himself, he grabbed a sharp kitchen knife and with a few cuts freed Walter of his German army uniform.

"I told you, he is fat, " he said.

Then he began to incise on the white skin of Walter the vertical stripes, from the top to bottom, as it was depicted in the museum painting. Victor came up with tongs, and only now big Walter realized what was cooking. His eyes bulged out of his head with terror and he began to shake and squirm like a mad animal from all sides, so they had to tie him even more tightly. Already at the stripping off the first piece of skin, he looked like that poor wretch in the museum. After the second, he had probably had enough, because he fainted. But they also had enough. Victor picked up the little Walther and blurted out a bullet straight between his eyes.

Then he went to the bathroom and Stefan heard him throwing out, his body caught up in spasms.

When he came back, he was white as a sheet.

"We have to get out of here, " said Stefan. "Krauts can be heard on the street."

"We won't bury him?"

"Too much risk. If they get us, they'll do with us what we had started to do to him, but they will see it through to the end. That is for sure."

He turned out to be right. As they descended, they saw Germans already at a neighboring building. They were releasing long streams of burning kerosene from their flamethrowers straight into the windows of the building. The previous houses were already burning. A small group of residents who had not yet left the city gathered on the street, watching the spectacle with desperate faces.

Stefan and Victor went back to Chmielna street.

The mood was grave. They lost, in one person, a friend and lover. The punishment of Walter did not bring them any relief. On the contrary, their consciences weighed heavily like boulders plunged deep into their hearts once and for all, heavy and huge, impossible to remove. They avoided the Germans, their patrols sweeping the emptying city as they looted houses, getting whatever they could and setting what was left on fire from flamethrowers whose fiery tails reached up to the second floor of the buildings.

Victor had in his pocket Iza's small Walther, with which he had finished the existence of big Walter. He would not part with it for anything. It was the only souvenir he had taken from her apartment, the only reminder of the burden on his heart, which he knew would never go away for as long as he lived.

They decided to go their separate ways. Two young men walking together aroused great suspicion. After they parted, Victor disappeared around the corner of the next building, but a moment later, Stefan heard a loud - Halt! Then, it was the sound of a few gunshots, two or three short clangs of the Walther, and then two series from a Bergmann machine gun.

Stefan ran to the corner of the building and peered cautiously. Several Nazis were standing with their guns ready to fire, directed against the motionless figure lying on the pavement. Two German soldiers lay beside his motionless body.

"He did not give up," thought Stefan as he ran to the nearest gate, from where he knew he could get up to the cellars near Chmielna.

"He did not give up, and I also will not give up. I will shoot down as many of those bastards as I can. They won't take me alive," he thought further, already at their house, barricading the door with their cupboard.

The house was deserted. The inhabitants had left their dwellings. Stefan was the last one to stay.

"The last of the Mohicans," he thought of himself with pride. "Probably I will meet my end like him."

He went to the basement of the building and pulled out from its hiding place all the weapons they had left: two Bergmanns loaded with full magazines, a pistol and a German defense grenade on a long wooden handle. He took all of them upstairs to the attic. They had gathered there the water and canned supplies of food, living on them for a few days now. Alone, he could live on them for much longer. He sat down with the gun by the window, where in the moonlight he could see the street. He did not even notice when it became dark. He had a candle and matches, but he didn't light it. It could betray his presence. Almost all the windows in the area were dark so Stefan could easily see those who remained still in their homes as he did. He preferred to sit in the dark.

He lit a cigarette, covering the flame of the match with his hand. There were a dozen or so of them left. He needed to save them. Then again, tomorrow he would go through those abandoned homes. For sure there would be some cigarettes left. But for now, there was enough for a smoke so the task was not urgent. He looked at the photograph on the wall. The pale moonlight showed the three figures photographed at a country fair, hugging each other. Victor and him, with Iza in the middle, standing tall, smiling, holding in her hand a stick of cotton candy as she looked at the camera lens.

"God, she was so beautiful," he thought.

Only now, at this moment when he had some peace and was able to think, did he realize what he had lost today.

What had he lost?

Everything. Everything the most important for him. Only this place remained, the last thing they could still grab from him.

"Such dicks," he said out loud, bending his right arm at the elbow.

Suddenly, he stuck his head out the window and yelled as loud as he could in the darkness of the night:

"Such dicks! Well, come here, you motherfuckers. Come here and rip the guts out of me, tear off my balls. Come here, all of youuu...!!!"

No one answered him. From a distance, he could only hear the sounds of individual shots. Feeling tired, he rested his head on his forearm and fell asleep on the kitchen table, though no merciful sleep would ever again stray under the roof of this house on Chmielna street.

***

"So tell me again, how it was?" asked Victor. "You barricaded yourself at home, and then what happened?"

"Nothing happened. The Germans burned what they could burn, but did not come to our home. Maybe they got bored. I was here all the time. I was hiding, maybe because I got crazy. Finally, on the 17th of January, the Russians entered Warsaw. All the Krauts disappeared without a trace. Who would have thought that it would end like that? It was Stalin who had urged us to start the uprising, it was supposed to last only a few days before Red Army comes with help."

"Well, yes, yet we fought two months."

"And the Russians sat behind the Vistula river and rejoiced that they found such suckers. To fight the Germans with the blood of Polish patriots was for them nothing much better."

God, oh how they fell to be cheated like this! And by whom? Russians! Pilsudski probably would turn over in his grave if he only saw what happened.

Victor came back for the first time on the anniversary of the capitulation. He came there since every year for the whole thirty years now. Therefore, Stefan never renewed the apartment. He wanted everything to remain exactly as before.

***

They crushed the cigarettes in the ashtray and stood up from the table.

"Do you have a shovel?" Asked Victor.

"I have a pick in the basement, and a shovel also. Those should be enough. There is no need to dig deep."

They went down into the cellar, where Stefan turned on the light.

"The power is still on" Victor noted.

"In the morning, they will cut it off, after providing me with a court order."

He found the tools in his closet, then they walked together for a few feet, to the middle wall of the building.

"The central wall, " said Stefan. "It supports all the floors of the building."

He struck a pickaxe. It went fairly easily through the slab. The basement had no concrete floor. It was still the same compacted crushed stone mixed with some sand and clay, which was there before the war. That was enough as there was no water under the ground.

"Do you think this is not rotten yet?"

"Maybe not. The soil looks dry. Besides, we'll find out soon enough."

Stefan wiped the sweat from his forehead. He put aside the pick and with a shovel dug further, carefully, more cautiously.

Viktor stood leaning against the wall of the cellar, skinny and tall, one leg bent at the knee and the other leaning against the wall. In his mouth, he held a lit cigarette.

"He looks like Lucky Luke from the cartoon movie," Stefan thought. He was standing in the hole up to his knees almost, when he felt something hard under the shovel. He became extremely careful now. He pushed down slowly, gently, like an archaeologist. They saw an uncovered portion of waxed canvas. The first layer was really rotten. It disintegrated at the touch of a finger, but the next seemed to be intact.

"Looks good, " said Victor. "Dig up just a bit more around. It should be enough soon."

Then, they returned to the attic. Through the windows of their room the very first rays of the rising sun fell. Stefan went to the bathroom, washing his hands and face with cold water. The hot water was already out, because the gas has already been disconnected.

"We have to prepare ourselves for the arrival of our guests, " he said, and opened the cupboard near the bed.

Victor went to the window. On the construction site of the Central Railway Station were appearing early workers. Several silhouettes stood on the edge of the roof gesticulating. One of them wore a white helmet, clearly visible from a distance.

Victor looked down at the street.

"They're coming already" he said.

Two cars drove up to the front entrance of the building. One of them was a police patrol car.

"All right, " said Stefan. "Let us welcome them."

They went down. Just when they had descended to the ground floor, there was a knock on the main door leading to the street. Stefan began to move away the bolts and after a while, they both stood in the morning sun.

The district officer of police forces, Sergeant Kowalczyk, had already raised up his hand to rattle the door again. Next to him stood a clerk of municipal court with the eviction order in his briefcase and a functionary of the Municipal Council, a very serious lady with glasses. The policeman's hand hung in the air, then he raised it to his face and rubbed his eyes, still red from yesterday's libation.

"What the hell," he thought. "Did they make a movie here or something?"

On the threshold of the gate, they saw Stefan. He was unshaven. On his head was a streaked German helmet, white and red bands painted around it. Around his neck hung a Bergmann submachine gun and from his belt protruded old, German defensive grenade. He stared at the newcomers without a word. Reluctantly, involuntarily, the judicial clerk stepped back and cleared his throat, pulled out a briefcase warrant and began to read in his practiced, official tone:

"City Court Warrant for Mister..."

"Do you know son, where you can stick yourself this warrant? Do I have to show it to you in the presence of this woman?"

The speaker who was interrupted gave a look of astonishment, his hand with the paper dropped down.

Sergeant Kowalczyk slowly began to regain his senses:

"Here you, citizen. Do not try to scare off city officials with those theater accessories. You have one hour to leave the house before it goes to demolition."

"Theater accessories?" Stefan felt suddenly insulted. "Did you hear that, Victor? How this clown called my Bergmann? It is true that I got it in the crapper, but then we'll see who's the bigger joker."

"Who are you talking to?" Asked Kowalczyk, his face flushed. "Is someone there with you?"

"All of you, fuck off this place right now. If not, I'll set my dogs on you" Stefan shouted in reply "Stronger guys than you I have sent to hell, so with you I am not going to play games."

And to show he was not joking, he released a series of shots from the Bergmann over their heads. Sergeant Kowalczyk had a great desire to run away, but stayed because he was ashamed of the city officials, only to realize when he glanced back and forth that he was already alone at the gate, the white document stating the court order flying in the wind, and its owner having vanished into thin air. Sergeant Kowalczyk began to retreat slowly, with dignity, not taking his eyes from Stefan. Once he found himself in the patrol car, he opened the window and called out:

"I'll call the task force. You have to give up!"

"I will surrender when you return the crown to our white Polish eagle" shouted Stefan and the second short series of shots spurned the blue "disco" light from the roof of the police cruiser.

Kowalczyk rode away to a safe distance and turned on the police radio.

***

A group of the workers on the roof of Central Station turned toward where the shots were heard. Antek, a young engineer wearing a white helmet, asked:

"Does anyone know what's going on? I thought that building had long since been evacuated."

"Apparently, sitting there is the last tenant who does not want to get out - Grzelak, the foreman replied." He has lived there since the war, or even before, and says he has no intention to move out. Oh, look! He damaged police car."

They watched in disbelief at this unusual happening. After a moment, the police patrol withdrew about two hundred meters, and the building door shut with a bang.

"That's some story, " said another engineer in a white helmet. "I understand that you cannot move old trees, but this one has no chance. Sooner or later, they will chase him out of there."

He picked up from the surface of the roof a narrow, aluminum panel, and together with the foreman tried to install it on the edge of the roof.

"We cannot do it this way, " said the foreman. "Too low. We have to do it from the scaffold."

"You're right, " said the engineer. "We must do it from the outside, with hydraulic lifts, just as I feared."

"And when will we get those lifts?" asked Grzelak.

"They promised tomorrow, which means it may come next week, if all goes well. It's nothing. We have a lot of work to do on the ground level. These strips can wait their turn."

***

Stefan neatly bolted the door, and together with Viktor went back to the attic.

They were almost running. Stefan had not felt so young and so happy in such a long time.

"So, we gave them hell, huh?" called he, jumping two steps at a time. "Did you see the face of the old bitch? She was running away like a rabbit. And the clerk lost even his precious paper."

"Probably they will return soon, with support" Victor said cheerfully. "They have no idea what awaits them here."

There was still some vodka left in the bottle.

"Well, let's have the last shot" proposed Stefan. "For old times."

"And for those who are not here" Victor added.

They drank and huffed in the palms of their hands, as was the old Warsaw custom.

"Can you hear the sirens?" Asked Victor. "They are coming up."

Indeed, from a distance, they could hear police car sirens.

"I think it's time, " said Stefan. "C'mon."

They went down to the basement. The light in the building had already been cut off, but through the tiny window near the ceiling oozed narrow rays of the sun and it was enough. Victor again was smoking his inherent cigarette. Stefan knew that now was the moment to ask him about it, about what he never had enough courage to ask, but which he had been trying to summon his courage for. It was now or never.

"Tell me just one thing, " said he in a hoarse voice. "Because I need to know. Tell me. Why don't they actually let you into heaven? Is it because of big Walter?"

Victor nodded wordlessly.

"So, they won't let me go as well. Or maybe it has already been forgotten. After all, thirty years have passed."

"They will never forget over there. But do not worry, the two of us together, will be more fun."

From the outside suddenly croaked the sound of a megaphone. A male voice yelled something with a commanding tone.

"Do you understand what he's saying?" Stefan asked.

"They give you five minutes to leave the building. If not, they will start the assault."

"I like it, " Stefan laughed. "Just like old times."

They both stood at the edge of the hole they had dug in the morning. Stefan pulled out from his belt the German defense grenade.

At the end of its wooden handle was a metal cup. After unscrewing it, from the hole in the handle, he slipped a small ball with a strap attached to it inside. Stefan grabbed the ball in his left hand and looked at Victor 's eyes.

Victor nodded. Stefan pulled the ball vigorously and threw the grenade into the hole below. Three seconds. God, how long could three small seconds last? Those were the longest three seconds of his life...

***

A group of workers on the roof of Central Station headed toward the entrance hatch when they heard sirens. Curious, they walked back to the edge of the roof. Police cruisers lined up around the old house, however, keeping a safe distance.

After a few moments, they heard a voice calling something through a megaphone. From where they stood, they were unable to understand the words. Then, the voice stopped and there was silence, long and disturbing.

Suddenly, something strange happened. The house gasped and the basement windows above the ground burst out in clouds of gray, thick smoke, as if someone had stood on a couple of well-aged puffballs. At the same time, the bang of a powerful, although muted, explosion reached their ears and the building moved like a living thing, as if it had suddenly woken up and wanted to say something.

But it could not. The middle line of the roof began to subside slowly, the building gradually changing shape. It became lower, wider and wider, until finally it exploded into a thousand pieces, and dark gray dust, covered with a thick layer the police cars and the uniforms of police officers. The workers on the roof stood petrified. Something like that nobody had ever expected.

"So he has gone to heaven" the foreman Grzelak, said.

The overman Paciorek, disagreed with him as usual.

"Those, who commit suicide, do not go to heaven," he said with the air of someone who knew what he was talking about.

Back to ToC

Rusalka

Imagine yourself sitting on the shore of a lake, hidden from the rest of the world in the bushes of sweet flag and thinking that you don't want to live any longer. What could possibly happen? A lot of things, but the most extraordinary is to meet in such a moment Rusalka, one of the most mysterious beings to ever live on this planet.

In Slavic mythology, Rusalka is a water nymph, a beautiful lady-demon who lives in a waterway. According to old beliefs, the Rusalkas were a kind of mermaids living at the bottom of lakes. At night, especially when the moon is full, they would dance on the bank or in the meadows. When they meet some handsome men, they would seduce them with their songs and lead them away to the river to their death. Probably today, no one believes in them anymore, but I do. Why? Because I've met one. Just listen to my story...

***

Who has bigger worries - adults or children? When I was a little boy, I've heard it ad nauseam:

"Do not worry, Andy boy. You are still young. There are still a lot of things you don't understand, but you will when you grow up."

And so I waited and waited, thinking I would understand everything one day, yet never had I felt at such a loss, never had I had a moment when I didn't want to live, as I had then, as a little boy, while sitting on the shore of the small lake Czerniakowskie in Warsaw's suburb Sadyba.

I sat hidden from human sight in the reeds, by the water of the lake, away from people and school, on top of my hated knapsack, with my eyes blankly staring at the muddy waters.

I heard that in such cases, some adults decide to commit suicide. But how to do it? And more importantly, how badly does it hurt? Maybe I could drown? The water was right there in front of me, but how do I enter it? I did not know even how to swim.

Never later, as an adult, have I had similar thoughts, and so no one can ever convince me that children have fewer problems than their parents do.

Do adults lie down on the sidewalk, waving their arms and legs and screaming like mad, as I did once when I was a kid? I have never seen it.

It was in such a mood, after classes, that I sat behind a clump of sweet flag, and in front of me, on my knees, I held my biggest enemy then \- my school student's report.

There, under the heading of today's date, the word "unprepared" had been written and next to it was my note of history. And it was neither a three nor an ugly two, which would have been possible to show at home. No, it was something worse, something that did not even fit on the scale of school rating at the time. It was a note one, or as we called it, a chump. And the sad thing was that I had actually prepared myself at home a little bit, maybe not so much but still, a little. I've always had - and have to this day - a problem with remembering the dates.

When our teacher, Mrs. Tochka, put me in front of the blackboard and when I saw all those malicious eyeballs staring blindly at me, just waiting for me to stumble, it turned out suddenly that all the numbers I knew escaped somehow from my head. I could not remember any date - absolutely none.

The class went wild with joy, because they had all suddenly experienced a sense of self-appreciation and I dragged myself back to my seat with the note one in my student's rapport, the only once I had ever had in my life.

I stared at the ugly mark grimly as I sat on my school bag near the water. It wouldn't have been such a big problem if it was only a chump. That I could rewrite neatly as a four, only a good color of ink was needed. But this stupid word "unprepared" was written next to it. This could no longer be converted.

Should I lose my report? I already did it a few times. Just try to make it sign fast by my mother without reading and show it back to the teacher? Next week was planned the parents' meeting. The cat would get out of the bag anyway. Or, kill myself? Maybe it was the only solution left, nothing else came to my mind.

Suddenly, I heard something in between the sweet flag clumps. It sounded like a quiet whine, something like a small dog whimpering. I listened intently. The sound was repeated, and after a while, again, but this time more silently. I stood up and pushed through the reeds. Something was lying on the other side of a clump, about two feet from the water. Something like a girl, but a strange kind. Entwined in seaweed so I could not see her clothes - or whether or not she had some on - her hair was dry and tangled and through the narrow gap between her squinting eyelids, I could catch a glimpse of greenish eyes.

She opened them with difficulty when I leaned over her.

"Water," she whispered.

"Boiled?" I asked stupidly. At home, I was allowed to drink only boiled water from the kettle, never straight from the tap.

"From the lake, idiot. Pour some water over my hair."

I did not understand what she meant, but I did what she wanted. I scooped some water in my cupped hands and poured it over her head.

"Good," she cried happily, and then pleaded "More of it."

I poured more water over her head until it had turned completely wet. Then she sat up with a sudden burst of energy.

"Did you try to drown yourself?" I asked curiously. "How is it done?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"That's what I've wanted to do, but I do not know how."

"Why would you want to do it?"

I did not know why, but I started telling her about my problems. I even showed her my shameful student's rapport assessment.

She took my rapport in her hands, then returned it to me after a moment without saying a word.

I told her everything - that no one liked me, that the guys from Orezna street were always trying to bully me whenever I passed by, that Mrs. Tochka, our history teacher kept embarrassing and ridiculing me during the lessons of history and Russian language, and finally, that I did not want to live any longer.

"Where do you live?" I asked at the end when she did not comment on my tragic tale. "May I bring you here some clothes?"

She shook her head and pointed toward the lake.

"You live in the lake?" I asked in disbelief.

"Yes - she answered seriously." You still do not know who I am?

"I think some tadpole maybe. I heard there are tadpoles over there."

"You're the tadpole" she answered angrily as if I had insulted her and threw at me a clump of seaweed. I barely had time to dodge it.

"I'm Rusalka" she said proudly. "What does that tell you?"

"I think I've heard that name before, but what happened to you here, on the bank?"

"I fell asleep ashore and the sun dried my hair. When we, Rusalkas have dry hair, we die. You just saved my life."

"You should always carry with you a jar of water then" I advised. "What do they do the Rusalkas?"

"You really don't know? We lure the losers like you to the water, seduce them, and then drown them." She looked at me with her gleaming green eyes. "Do you still want to drown?"

"Looks like a little bit less than before."

"I do not want to drown you, because you helped me, but may I at least seduce you?"

"Seduce? How do you do it?"

She gave me a puzzled look.

"This you also do not know? Have you ever played a doctor game with a girl?"

"Only once. This Jadzka from the next street, dragged me one day into the gooseberries, and began to show me how to play the doctor, but her father came and slapped my back with the branch of a tree. I never tried it again after that."

"Well, seducing is quite similar."

"You mean we touch each other?"

"Right. That is how it begins."

"And then, you slap me with a branch?"

She rolled her eyes and raised them to heaven.

"You really are stupid. But anyway, I like you because you wet my hair. I have to go back, I'm afraid that I too deserve a note one today."

"Why?"

"I did not seduce you nor drown you. I broke the rules, so the punishment will be hard. They can even drive me out of the lake for that. Here, in case we do not see each other again, let me give you a souvenir. Do not lose it."

She pressed something into my hand, then dove into the water, disappearing within seconds. It was strange. Usually, when someone dives into the water, ripples form a round shape, but now, the water simply closed above her without leaving the slightest trace of the waves as if the surface had not been disturbed at all.

I looked at my hand. In my palm lay a small object. Such an ordinary snail shell, like the ones I drew during the lessons in biology. The only difference was, this one was silver.

I did what all kids do with shells - I put it to my ear.

And I heard a faint 'pic, pic, pic' as if the heart of a snail who had lived there once was still alive inside. All of a sudden, I felt something strange. A sudden burst of energy shook my entire body.

I put the shell in my pocket, and since then, have never parted with it.

On the way back home - somehow my meeting with Rusalka had changed my mind about not wanting to live anymore - I looked in my student rapport. To my surprise, the page I had been looking at earlier had changed. I blinked and read again the note made by my history teacher. It said: "Well prepared" and the grade jotted down was 4 instead of 1.

I walked down Orezna street - a decision I deliberately made. From a distance, I saw them preparing to give me a beating. I walked closer, nonchalantly, and suddenly, as if my arm had a life of its own, I smashed my satchel against the ugly face of Lulek. (This one was the worst of them.) He fell down, grimacing in pain, unprepared for my attack. I kicked the second scamp in the shin, sending him howling sorely and the third one fled the street in panic. Since that time, they always moved out of my way, proving a line I read once in a book that you only had to stand up to bullies once. As for the shell, I have carried it with me all this time, and when I was sad, or having a bad day, I simply raised it to my ear and listened to its faint 'pic, pic, pic' for a moment. It always helped.

I came many times to the lake, but Rusalka did not show up any more. Could it be that they really chased her away from the lake? I wondered. But I knew that one day I would meet her again. I still had to thank her after all for her gift and for the modification in my student diary.

***

Vienna, 1980

Four of us sat in our apartment on Opelgasse street, milking a cow.

For those who had never been in Vienna and do not know what it means to "milk a cow", a short explanation: a cow is a big, bulky bottle of wine. That night, she stood on the floor, in the middle of the room, and we sat on four chairs around, each of us with a glass in hand. The wine was white, as gentle slopes that are ideal for growing white grapes surround Vienna. In Austria, they produced more white wine than red. I even remember the scandal, which erupted on Grinzing, when one of the innkeepers got caught coloring the white wine with beets just in order to satisfy the appetite of some French tourists for red wine. Poles are not among the harsh tourists. In France, we drink red wine. White in Austria, pure Stolichnaya in Russia, in Crimea we drink kumys. We could even drink kangaroo's milk in Australia if it only contained alcohol. There was no disgrace in adapting to local customs, whereas it is a great shame to stay sober for too long. It was damned depressing, in fact, causing man to fall into complex, tiring thoughts.

"Me, I submitted my papers to migrate to Australia, " said Waldek as he took a sip from his Viertel. Viertel is a quarter-liter glass and there are only two types of it: empty and full. Mine was empty, so I filled it up. The others immediately consumed their own and also filled them. No one wanted to be left behind.

"Why to Australia?" I asked.

"Because they have the shortest waiting time" he answered. "I've already had enough of waiting. The work in Feibra is driving me crazy."

Feibra was a private advertising company and its Pole employees complained as much as possible. Most of its jobs, like the one Waldek held, consisted of dispersing leaflets in private homes and apartments.

"It's too hot in Australia, " said Must. "Your balls will get baked."

His name was not Must. Rather, it was his nickname because he often used the phrase "Must be must."

"Fuck Australia and the USA." Said Marek, with whom we shared the apartment. "Fuck Canada also. And fuck this whole emigration too. I'm going back to Poland. I've got a wife and a child and I've made enough dough for a new Polski Fiat. I'll put it on the road and I'll drive a taxi. I do not need anything else."

Marek had both feet firmly on the ground. He came to Vienna just to make some money. He worked with Waldek, in Feibra, coming home each day dog-tired. His after-work routine was always the same. He would put his swollen feet into a basin of warm water, then after eating something, he would walk to a nearby "heurigen" for an "ein viertel weisseweine". Never, of course, has it ended with one only.

A "heurigen" or "gasthaus" was an inn, of which there were plenty in every Bezirk. There was something to eat over there, but most of the clients went there to enjoy cheap white wine or beer. You could also listen in here to the specific language of Vienna, called the "Winner Dialect".

Arriving to Vienna, German tourists often had problems with understanding the language. But I started my "Viennese schooling" from the bottom, which means just from the "heurigens". Therefore, I mastered this dialect quite quickly, and "ein viertel weisseweine bitte" I could say so smoothly that I could be mistaken for a native Viennese of the lower spheres. When the conversation goes beyond this only sentence, trouble began, of course, so I kept repeating it again until I got another glass of wine.

I liked Marek for his honesty. He never pretended to be anything more or less than what he was. He was not interested in politics. He was a straight thinking guy, the genuine kind. He came to Austria just to make money for a car and start a taxi business with it. Once the money had been made, he would return to Poland to his wife and kid and piss off the rest.

Many Poles I met in Vienna were not so honest. They claimed that they left their country only for ideological reasons, but when you observe their conduct, you could easily see that money is the only thing they have on their minds. Earn as much dough as possible, and then we'll see what will be more comfortable, go back to the country with the money, or remain in this Rotten West. I had little respect for them, much less even for those who sought out their German origins, or anything at all that would link their family roots to Germany like: his grandfather was a Volksdeutsche or something like this. Those could move to Germany, where they immediately received lodging and money from "social benefit", then they disavowed their Polish origin and peeled head high at the sight of every gray Polish citizen. But of course, each man has his own history.

Through our apartment have already gone generations of Poles who went on exile. It had everything you needed for life: pots, plates, cutlery and three beds with beddings. There was also a pram under one of the beds, proof that some of the previous tenants had multiplied themselves out of boredom while waiting for a visa to a country that chooses to embrace them.

There were mainly four countries to apply to for immigration: USA, Canada, Australia and South Africa. Where to go and where you could most easily "settle down" was a favorite subject for each "cow milking", so I could hear a lot of stories before making my decision.

As for Must, he chose South Africa.

"If you want to go there," he taught me "remember, they'll ask you if you're a racist. This is the most important question. Over there prevails Apartheid and some Poles, to ingratiate the embassy, say they do not like black people. Visa is refused immediately. Sure, so soon after you master their language, they will give you a gun and tell you to shoot to blacks, but they want you to do it out of love, not hate."

"And would you shoot them?" I asked.

"Must be must, " he said. "But I'd rather prefer not to. A black man is still a man, although black."

"In Australia, there are some black men also" Waldek said. "But those, Australians, are different somehow. They sit somewhere in the scrub, don't go to the cities."

"In the bush" Marek corrected as such conversations he already knew by heart. "Sitting in the bush and hunting with boomerangs."

"And if you apply to the U.S., it is a long time to wait?" I asked.

"Longer than to Australia, but not as long as to Canada." The United States is good. It is easy to find work there and there are a lot of Poles. There is even a district in Chicago, where all the people speak Polish. You rent an apartment there, you buy an old car and immediately you become an American. You just need to get work, but there's no problem with that."

"And Canada?" I continued my inquiries. "Also a long time to wait?"

"For the visa, the waiting time is about half a year" Marek answered. "Those who went there have written that at the beginning, the Canadian government helps you to learn the language in school and provides you with other benefits. After you finish school, they help you find a job. To compare everything, Canada is probably the best. It offers free medical care and social help for all those who do not work. And if you go to Alberta, you are immediately at work in petrol. There is now a boom in the oil fields, so you can get a job even without learning their language. And some of the guys are still sitting on social help benefits after a few years and working in black, but such a lie does not pay up in the long run."

So much information at one time. We all had to digest it quietly, and here, the cow was almost empty. We poured what remained of its contents to our viertels equally.

"Must has to jump for the wine" proposed Marek. "It's his turn now."

"Must be must, " said Must and ordered contribution for the next cow.

***

In Vienna, the place I liked the most was Grinzing.

It was the tourist district, full of wineries, large and small, the waitresses bending under the weight of trays full of glasses of wine and steaming platters of various meats. Cigarette smoke hung constantly in the air and buzz of drunken voices filled all the rooms up to the ceiling.

Over there, it did not seem right to be sober. Sobriety in Grinzing was as obscene and ridiculous as being naked inside a clothing store. And there were a lot of choices to get screwed. Of course, the main drink was white wine in a variety of types and flavors. Some ladies procure a must, it was a drink a little sweet and slightly fizzy, not yet wine but more than juice, pleasant to drink and with a low alcohol content. Only the most seasoned connoisseurs drunk sturm, which was the product of the turbulent phase of fermentation. Cloudy, whitish, and capable of causing unforeseeable physical and psychological effects, even long after it has been consumed, this drink was definitely not for everyone. We visited the Grinzing rarely. It was too expensive for our budget, a place mainly for tourists. The Viennese had fun while riding out of town. There, on the sunny hills, surrounded by vineyards were scattered heurigens, the owners of each serving their own wine products. Those places were charming. You could tuck there the grapes growing on the vines just over the tables. But those places I experienced later. The Austrians, with whom I worked, often took me with them on Fridays after work to celebrate the end of the week with a few viertels of weisse weine. Tourists rarely frequented those restaurants. You had to have a car to find them.

In the center of the city, however, there were quite a few large wineries like: Augustinerkeller, Zwolfapostelkeller, and many others. These were often deep cellars, hence the word 'keller' was used in the names of many of them.

There was no shortage of entertainment in this beautiful old city, which I still remember after so many years with extraordinary sentiment. Then, however, the main topic that intrigued my colleagues and me, was emigration and finding any job in order to have money not just for living, but also to indulge in life's pleasures, that are not available to the owners of empty pockets.

Soon, it became clear to me that one great advantage the Poles had was their national trait which is godliness. Well, everyone knew there was a Polish church in Vienna. Every Sunday crowd of the faithful gathered at the church during the service and stood on the street in groups. The Austrians were amazed at what a God-fearing nation we were - such a large church and yet we could not all fit inside. If, however, the naive Austrian asked himself some trouble and looked inside, he would see that most of the "faithful" were on the street, and the interior of the church was not filled up. Because outside was running the "exchange market". Here, the exchange of information such as trade contacts took place, along with other meetings - all the different kinds like buying and selling. Oh, Christ once banished such people from the synagogue, but ours prudently gathered themselves outside the walls of the House of God and that's why their sin was not so severe. For me, though, the "exchange market" was not necessary. When I was looking for work, I simply took out my silver scallop and listened to its faint 'pic, pic, pic' then bought a Viennese newspaper Neue Kronen Zeitung, circled an ad that interested me in pencil and two days later, I was already assigned to work for an engineering company. With my knowledge of German, it was like a real miracle. How can you not believe in the power of the shells?

"If you find a job for 25 shillings an hour, it is already very good" said Marek. "This you can earn in Feibra. If you manage to get a job at a construction site, you can get up to 35 shillings, but it is the exceptional happiness."

My shell got me a job for 80 shillings an hour and without haggling. My colleagues believed me only when I showed them the section of my payslip after the first payment.

***

We sat at the wine in Klosterkeller, as was the custom when we said goodbye to someone who was leaving Vienna. Marek remembered such farewells by the dozens, but this time, we gathered to say goodbye to him. It was evident looking at him that he was not completely at peace. He was glad, of course, to be going back home, yet just before leaving Austria, something in him snapped. Probably he was not sure if he was doing the right thing. His eyes glazed over after the third viertel of white wine.

"I'll be missing Vienna, guys," he confided to us. "Vienna and all of you, and everything that I experienced here. But I'm taking it all with me and I will keep it here deeply."

He put his hand on the left side of the chest, where he wore a stuffed wallet with his hard earned shillings.

"You may always come back," I said. "Your bed will be waiting for you."

"You won't take someone else in the apartment?" Asked Must, very surprised. "There have always been three or four people living here."

"I do not want anybody." I said. "The apartment is not very expensive. I prefer to live alone, but as long as I'll be here, the place of Marek will always be waiting for him."

I also got the feeling of the significance of the moment.

"Gdansk shipyard is still on strike" interjected Waldek. "Things there are getting more and more serious there."

Of course we all listened to Radio Free Europe and the Voice of Washington. We knew what was happening in Poland. We followed the developments of the first strikes. The radio and press in Austria gave out up-to-date information. In contrast, Polish radio was not worth listening to. From Free Europe Radio, for the first time, we heard the name Walesa. We waited for every broadcast, and a lot of new information circulated among the Poles in more or less distorted forms.

"They will outsmart them, " said Marek confidently. "A few days more, and the workers will return to work."

"But I tell you that this can create greater turmoil" Waldek maintained his position.

Most of us did not believe it.

"Nothing will be done. The riot police will come and it will be over" Marek defended his opinion. "If not for the neighbor from behind the Bug River, we would have a chance, but there, the Red Army is already waiting for an excuse to see us on a visit of friendship."

This was also my opinion. If I believed that in Poland something would change, what would be the sense of our exile?

After the fourth viertel we hugged Marek as we should and promised him our undying friendship. After the fifth, he was ready to stay and go back to work in Feibra and the sixth viertel brought the end to our goodbye party. We strolled over to Shnellbahn on our shaky legs and ordered the train to drive us to Margaretengurtel station. From there, it was just a few steps away to Opelgasse.

After the departure of Marek, I remained alone in the apartment. Indeed, I did not want a roommate, and I could afford to stay there on my own.

In the meantime, through the agency of emigration, of which there were a few in Vienna, I submitted my visa application to the Canadian embassy and anxiously waited for what would come.

A week after the departure of my roommate, I become homesick for a sound of Polish language. I went to our Polish church on Rennweg street, and precisely "by the church" to hear if there was some sensational news from our country, whether or not something happened that I did not know of. I walked from one group of Poles to another. Soon I knew that the wool to produce sweaters was the last greatest demand in Poland, what was the latest exchange rate of the US dollar and the Austrian shilling, and in which store you could always find the Favorit brandy and coffee for the best price, the products you could send to Poland to help fellow countrymen, while also making extra money on the side.

If I had called loudly that I was looking for a partner for an apartment, immediately I would have heard from several candidates.

If I would call that I was looking for somewhere to work, I could have more than a dozen in no time. Those were the two hottest topics on this "marketplace".

The end of summer was hot. Chestnuts slowly ripened on the trees. Many streets here were lined with chestnut trees, perhaps that is why some Poles called the Austrians "Chestnuts". It was not even malicious, but rather given with sympathy. Those, whom I encountered so far, were extremely polite to me and friendly. We could not understand why complete strangers, people on the street, or on the staircase greeted us politely without any reason with their "Christgott" and even smiled to us friendly. In Poland, for something like this, they would be taken immediately to the nuthouse.

After the end of the mass, when people left the church, the crowd of "exchange market" outside also became thinner. It reminded me that I was still also a Catholic, so I went inside to spend some time alone with my conscience.

And that was when I saw her.

***

The church was almost empty. Only a few people had been inside.

She sat in the last row of benches, her back to the entrance. I recognized her immediately because of her greenish hair - like a tangled cluster of seaweed. Never before or later had I seen such hair. I looked at it closer - it seemed to me to be dry.

Her elbows were supported on the back of the bench in front of her, her face buried in her hands. It seemed to me that her slim shoulders were shaking. Was she crying? Or maybe it was a trick of the shadows of the clouds slipping in through the windows of the church? I was not sure.

I went to the stoup, scooped some holy water in both of my hands and poured it straight into her greenish hair. I did not even think I could be wrong. After all, I did not even see her face.

She jumped up like a spring and turned in my direction. Yes, it was she; the same thin face, albeit older with the same luminous, turquoise eyes. They looked at me now with rage and she opened up her mouth, presumably to give me a load of shit, when suddenly she froze.

"Oh, it's you," she said, her anger fading. "How did you find me here?"

"I've been looking for you. First, around Czerniakowskie lake, but you disappeared into thin air, then I came here, to Vienna where I finally found you. That's all."

"Well, all roads intersect in Vienna" she said. "Let's go. You can tell me the rest along the way."

We left the church. I looked at her in the light of day. God, she was beautiful. As we walked down the Parkring street, along the city park, I noticed that there was no guy who would not look at her.

"Thank you, " she said.

"For what?"

"For pouring water on my hair. Once more, I felt like myself even just for a while."

"You did not look very pleased."

"I thought it was some stupid joke. After all, I did not know it was you. Where do you live?"

We walked on foot in the direction of the Danube, her hair drying out quickly as it waved in the wind.

"I live at Opelgasse. We can reach it on foot. Do you want to see it?"

"Yeah, probably a hole with a broken table and two chairs?"

"There are four chairs, " I said indignantly. "The rest of it matches."

"Do you have a good cup of coffee?"

"Of course. I drink only Jacobs coffee. I also have a jug and paper filters, as the Austrians have."

We went up to the third floor and I opened the door with pride. I immediately saw that my apartment did not impress her, though she tried not to show it. I put some water into the kettle, while Rusalka walked slowly around the apartment and viewed it from all angles.

"And where is the toilet?" Asked she suddenly.

"What do you mean where? In the hallway."

"In the hallway? It is shared with the others?"

"Yes, but I have my own key."

I poured my Jacobs coffee into our cups and pulled two of my four chairs to the table.

"So, tell me then" I started. "Why did you disappear so suddenly?"

I was surprised that I did not feel intimidated by her at all. Usually, I was very shy around girls, especially pretty ones. Now, sitting in front of me was the most beautiful phenomenon in the world, and yet I did not feel even a tinge of fright. I was completely at ease, though I had no idea why it was so.

"They drove me out from the pool, " she said. "As I feared."

"Was it because of me?"

She nodded.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't think about it. I do not regret it. I've visited some parts of the world. It was really interesting. Anyway, now that I've met you, I might be able to fix it somehow - she added with a sudden gleam in her turquoise eyes."

"You do not want to drown me now?"

"No, maybe not now. We shall see about it later."

I did not want to be drowned here now, years later, but as for the seduction, as she mentioned before, this I would like very much. Never in my life had I seen such a chick. Even a rock would get excited, not only me, the poor Polish immigrant on a forced vow of celibacy.

I think she noticed it right away, but did not try to use any girly coquetry. She knew, moreover, that it was not necessary for her.

"How long you been here?" I asked.

"In Vienna? I arrived here today. Straight from the train station, I went to church as I always do for moral support."

"So you have not found a place to stay? Maybe you'd like to stay with me?" I blurted out jokingly.

"Well," she replied quite naturally. "We need to clean up here a little and then it will be quite tolerable."

I could not believe my ears. How was it possible for something like this to happen to me? At this point, I started to get a little nervous.

"Where is your suitcase?"

"I have no luggage. I'll go to the store and buy what is most needed. I always do in a new place. I do not like to travel with luggage."

The more I talked to her, the more she amazed me. When we finished our coffee, Rusalka said:

"Come on, let's go."

I stood up without the least opposition and we headed downstairs. We took the tram, which was called Stadtbahn here, until Mariahilferstrasse. There, in the department store, she bought a few clothes and toiletries. She bought them without measuring and changing, unlike women usually do. The manufacturer's brand or the price of the dress or blouse she chose also made no difference to her. What was important only, was the size and color. All chosen garments were in greenish-gray tones and hugged her form (as I later realized), giving on an image of extreme harmony and elegance. With astonishment, I found that for her purchases she spent without hesitation as much as my monthly salary, even though everything fit in only one large bag of the department store.

"And now we go for a dinner," she decided afterwards. "We have to celebrate our meeting. Is there a place that you like?"

I suggested Grinzing, of course.

We took a taxi. There, in Grinzing, we found ourselves in the midst of an international crowd, among the narrow streets of this old part of town. It was still warm, the weather was pleasant, and the multilingual crowd enveloped us with the atmosphere of relaxation and merry holiday bustle. We were on one of these streets where even Polish speech could be heard from time to time when finally Rusalka chose a small but stylish gasthaus, from which was heard the sound of Tyrolean music. Oh, what an evening we had!

We drank white Austrian wine while enjoying roast wild duck, then dessert came and wine again, this time sparkling, and again music and singing. Rusalka sung in German with the locals, and her voice was clear and wondrously melodic, differing significantly from the other voices, which were simple and boozy notes of convivial Austrian Bauers.

She sang glibly, as if she had been born here, until all the peasants of the neighboring tables went silent, listen to her singing, and their eyes were fixed on her with expressions of drunken praise.

I was proud and jealous at the same time. I did not understand. When we were already on the street, I asked her how she knew German and Tyrolean folk songs so well.

"This is not German, " she responded. "This is Austrian. German I do not like too much, I remember it from the time of the German occupation in Poland and the Warsaw Uprising. Austrian is different. For me, moreover, language is of secondary importance. The most important is the melody. And singing, singing is my true nature. You should know that by now. All the books say it."

We went back to my apartment at Opelgasse. She did not even try on any of the purchased clothes, just immediately went to bed and seduced me.

And it was probably the easiest seduction, she had ever done. I did not show any resistance at all. I was even surprised by how easy I was.

***

Since Rusalka stayed to live with me, everything changed. Completely. Suddenly my apartment became clean and neat. Everything lay in its place, and in the air was a subtle aroma of seaweed and sweet flag. When I returned from work, dinner was ready. In general, we ate fish and shrimp. She did not like meat.

"It reminds me of a human too much," she once said.

This comparison surprised me since I had never associated meat with men.

On Saturdays and Sundays, we ate generally in gasthauses, which were countless in Vienna. Sometimes, we would come to my favorite Grinzing, other times to the cafe at Kärtnerstraße.

I told her of course that I had applied in Vienna for a Canadian residence visa, but she showed no interest in leaving for Canada, or anywhere else. As for my part, I could not imagine the possibility of leaving Austria without her.

I never said it out loud, though, crying silently rather than risking hearing from her lips a verdict on our separation.

She sang a lot, and usually strange songs without words and I could listen to her for hours. She would sit on the couch, combing her greenish hair, and from her lips would come out these wistful, seductive vocals. Sometimes, she sang in the evenings, sitting in the open window and always after some time, on the sidewalk, she gathered a small crowd of drunken men, returning home from neighboring gasthauses. I was a little annoyed by her popularity, or maybe I was just jealous? Maybe I wanted to have her singing and everything else about her only for myself. It even caused a little ruckus when one of the listeners climbed on a chestnut tree growing by our house to better hear her singing. He had probably drunk a few viertels too much, because he fell on the sidewalk and broke his leg. A Bezirk police officer, which arrived by bicycle to explore the situation, also fell off his bike and strongly harmed himself. He did not show up any more. Later, the weather got cold and we had to close the window.

To be more precise, it was me who felt cold. She never was, though her skin was always cool to the touch. Only when we made love she did get hot as fire, hot and voracious, ready to burn everything in its path, without compromise or negotiation. I was not in danger. I subjected myself with the greatest delight to all her whims. She was my passion and delight and I knew that once I got my visa, if she told me: - Tear it up - I would, without a second thought.

I asked her once about her hair, why now it didn't have to get wet.

"I'm not like I was before," she said. "Can you not see that I'm now the same as everyone else? But since I met you here, I've felt... Something is changing. Who knows? Maybe one of these days you will have again to pour water over my hair."

Indeed, something began to change. Not between us, fortunately. We still loved each other the same way, a love that was young and crazy. We walked the streets of Vienna huddled together. We sat in the park, at the Ring, before a golden statue of Strauss with a violin in his hand, listening to his famous rolls, light and playful. We ate together our favorite sandwiches - leberkasesemmel mit kleine gurken - as we sat on a park bench, and walked to the Prater, where we tried to ride every possible crazy machine with fear and excitement. Of all the machines, Rusalka liked the 'Wave' most of all. She could ride forever on this crazy carousel, shouting and laughing alternately, as if she was still a child.

Yes, our love stayed the same, but other things started to change.

I realized it when I noticed the first snail on the floor.

I picked it up carefully, and showed it to her:

"See? The real snail, has quite the same shell as the one I got from you."

She looked at it sadly.

"Let's go, " she said. "Let's put him on the grass."

We brought it outside and lay it on the lawn. Rusalka acted like it was a funeral. Sure, the snail did not jump for joy or run happily across the grass, but it was still better here for him than with us in the apartment, where at any moment someone could trample him. What made her so worried?

She was sad up until the evening. Then, she looked intently at my silver scallop and said:

"Do not leave home without it. It will protect you and remind you of me always. Even when you are gone, I will always be close to you."

I asked her what was wrong, sensing a deeper meaning behind her words, but there was nothing more I could squeeze out of her.

Meanwhile, the second snail showed up. And then a third one. And every time we brought them outside on the lawn, Rusalka had on a sad expression, though she was not so sad as the first time. I sensed in her something new, a growing atmosphere of anticipation. I also noticed that when she combed her greenish hair, more often than before they stayed wet for a long time and I knew that this was not a good sign.

***

The autumn rains came. Rusalka becomes clearly animated. We left on long autumn walks and brought down on the lawn more and more snails, which strangely kept coming to our apartment. We went out despite the rain, she straightened and happy, exposing her face to the raindrops falling from the sky, and me, with my head hid behind the ridiculous pink umbrella found under my bed, the kind I certainly would not dare to wear in the street normally. Going so once along the waterfront of the Danube river, we passed just beside one of the gasthauses. The door of it opened and one happy and boozy Bauer went out into the street right in front of us. He looked at Rusalka and I saw that he could not tear away his sheepish eyes from her face.

"I'm hungry," she said suddenly. "Let's go in here. I want something to eat."

When we were inside of the gasthaus, she asked me to sit down at a table and order something before she got back from the toilet. She walked away quickly.

I was worried, because she was strangely excited and talked differently than usual. I waited a short while and then went out to find her, not because I did not trust her, but because I was worried for her. For anything, I did not want to lose her. She didn't go to the washrooms of course. I opened the door to the street and saw her silhouette running after the dark shape of a stranger disappearing in the darkness.

I ran also in that direction, hiding in the shade of the trees growing along the waterfront. Before I could reach them, though, I heard a splash and a strangled cry.

She returned briskly, I could barely take refuge behind a tree.

When she passed by my tree, I ran to the waterfront. At the same time, a pair of hands desperately struggled over the water. I gave the end of my umbrella and helped poor Bauer scramble on the shore, pulling him by his Austrian doublet. His Tyrolean hat with its tassel unfortunately sailed down the river.

He shook himself like a dog out of the water, clattered something I could not understand and with chattering teeth, galloped towards the taxi stop. I went back to the gasthaus. My Rusalka was already sitting at the table, and the waiter just brought our favorite noodles "mit Leberkäse und kleine gurken" and two viertels of white wine to wash it down.

She did not ask me anything. I also did not mention a word about what I saw. I thought I would eventually figure everything out by myself.

***

In the meantime, I lost my colleagues. Rusalka intimidated them too much. They did not know how to keep her company. She was just too beautiful. And her turquoise eyes, the gaze of which seemed to penetrate through every surface, caused desire and anxiety on every guy on which it fell. I saw it all in their behavior. Me, I simply loved her. Others were afraid of her. It did not bother me. I liked it the most when we were alone. Then, I was really happy.

Several times it happened again that she escaped from the house all by herself under the pretext of evening meditation in the solitude of the banks of the Danube. I let her go out in the evening rain, then ran after her in the shade of the trees and pulled out some poor fellow out of the water, grabbing him by his Tyrolean suspenders. I do not know how many of them I pulled on the shore this way. Maybe five, maybe six. Until one evening, when we watched TV together, we heard on the news that the police were looking for a witness, "Auslander" with a distinguished pink umbrella. Not a word more.

We looked at each other. I got up, wrapped my umbrella in old newspaper and immediately carried it to the trash.

***

This was no ordinary week. Everything was different. It got warm, supposedly warmer than usual for this time of year. I received the Canadian visa of my dreams. Rusalka returned from an evening walk wet and happy. Had she finally managed to drown someone?

In our apartment, next to snails showed up little green frogs. Those jumped over our old, tattered carpet amusingly. We had a lot of fun hunting for them, the skillful beasts constantly managing to escape from between our fingers and run hiding under the beds. At the same time, we had to be careful not to trample on any snail. They wandered about wherever they liked because we became bored of bringing them down to the lawn.

Suddenly, I found myself facing a dilemma, the worst problem to solve. I did not know what to do. I had already resigned from my work. I had said goodbye to my friends at one goodbye meeting with Austrian white wine, in one of the Vienna heurigens, and my Canadian visa was sitting in my pocket.

Rusalka did not request me to tear it. Quite the opposite, she led me to travel agencies and told me to buy a one-way ticket to Montreal with the Canadian airline "Air Canada", and so I did.

On Saturday, we went to Grinzing. I suspected that this would be our farewell evening. We drank white wine in the same gasthaus where we spent time together for the first time. We kissed while the sound of Tyrolean music drifted all around. She was happy and I pretended that I was too. She noticed my make-believe, however. She put her hand on mine and said:

"Enjoy this evening with me. You know that afterwards, I have to go back. Over there is my home."

"They forgave you your sins?"

"Yes. I 'm free now. I can go home."

"How will you get to Czerniakowskie lake?"

"That is not a problem. All the waters of the world are one big body of water, somehow all connected together. It is easy to get from one to the next."

"I thought you were going to fly with me to Canada."

"I have to go to my place. I cannot even make it to next week. Tomorrow, we part."

We drank our white wine holding hands, and the tears from my eyes formed puddles on the wooden table like small, carefully shaped Czerniakowskie lake.

After leaving the restaurant, we took the tram to Vienna center. Both of us said goodbye to the city. We stopped at Kärtnerstraße, probably the most beautiful Viennese street.

Here, my mermaid stood under a streetlight, leaned on her back and began to sing "Lili Marlene".

She sang as if she had known the song from childhood, and the crowd that had gathered around listened in silence. After she finished, the applause was great and warm.

"It was for them," she said. "My goodbye to them. I really liked them, and their city also."

We returned home on foot, and after returning, we made love half of the night in the midst of green frogs and sweet flags that in the meantime had grown around our bed. We made love to each other tenderly, fondly and for a long time, wanting to remember it for always, up until we fell asleep.

In the middle of the night, I opened my eyes. Rusalka stood over me and stared at me with those turquoise eyes shining like lanterns, in which I could see the moonlight flowing into the room through the open windows.

I tried to move, but I was not able to. I could not even raise my head nor move my hand or foot.

She leaned over and kissed me on my lips.

"Farewell" she said. "And do not forget me."

She was covered only with a pale green shawl, which she had received as a gift from me, nothing else. She looked again in my eyes, smiled and walked out of the apartment. I collapsed back into a deep sleep.

When I woke up in the morning, the apartment was empty. There were no frogs or snails, even the sweet flags from around our bed had emigrated somewhere.

I jumped up, threw on my clothes and ran down the street. It was empty. When I came to the quay of the Danube, I saw her scarf hanging on a tree branch but before I could approach it, a gust of wind tore it from the branch and gently lowered it to the surface of the water. For a moment, it remained on the surface, but quickly spun out with the current and disappeared into the depths. This was our farewell. I had to go back home and to pack my only suitcase. I had a flight to Montreal waiting in the afternoon with a transfer in Zurich.

I put my hand in my pocket and took out the shell she had given me the very first time we met, gripping it tightly. For sure, I would never forget her.

Back to ToC

Long, Black Veil

This story is inspired by the beautiful American ballad "Long Black Veil" from 1959.

***

She left her bike leaning against the entrance gate and walked in. Surely, no one would steal it now, late at night. She walked as quickly as she could down the narrow alley under the light of the stars and the moon. It was good that she remembered this path well, good that the night was cloudless. Even so, she still felt foolish. What in hell came over her to be hanging around at night here, at Wilanow cemetery, with a long black veil on her head? She probably looked like a ghost from a pre-war movie in her ancient, black dress that had only one ornament - a small gold brooch with a cameo carved in ivory and pinned under her chin.

She looked at her watch, holding it closer to her eyes. Five minutes to midnight. Yes, she was just in time. He was born 80 years ago, precisely on September 15. Who knew? Maybe this was going to work? True, that seemed quite unlikely, but it could nonetheless. After all, in books, things like this often went well. And life, as they said, was more improbable than the most fantastic novel.

Just what should be done now?

She found the grave, a simple stone slab, near the fence. It was at the very end of the cemetery, a place for "the others". Why? A long time ago, when the fence was somewhere else, the tomb was outside the cemetery wall. That was why. She knelt down so that she could see what was engraved on the plate. Even in the light of the day, the inscription was barely visible, much more in this faint light.

But she was sure that it was the right tomb. On the corner of the stone slab stood a stump of wax, what remained of the candle she had left there during her recent visit along with a few withered stalks, all that was left of the flowers she had brought.

She took from her coat pocket a new candle, lit it and put it in the middle of the stone slab. Then she covered her face with black muslin, made a sign of the cross on her chest and folded her hands in prayer, remaining very still. If at that moment she had turned suddenly, she would have noticed that she was not alone, that someone was watching her intently from afar, but she did not. She knelt there frozen like a statue, lost in her thoughts and focused at the same time.

***

Grandma Ludmila was always dressed in black. Ever since Tereska could remember, her beloved grandmother wore only black dresses. Once more decorative, with flounces, over the years more simple and ordinary, but always black.

"Why?" wondered Tereska.

Grannies of her friends were also dressed in dark colors, so it was a custom that all grandmothers wore dark - that way, you could tell that they were grandmothers - but not necessarily always black. But grandma Ludmila was dressed so even when she was not yet a grandmother. True, the old photographs did not yet have any color, but black has been always different from brown in the sepia pictures. Even when she was still young and beautiful, she wore black dresses and hats. Sometimes, her face was even covered with a light veil of black tulle. Why?

"It's mourning," was always the answer to Tereska's question. As if that explained everything.

"What a terrible disease, this mourning," she thought, particularly since there were so many wonderful colors which would look lovely on her grandmother. She was, after all, still pretty despite her wrinkles and gray hair. In fact, she was certainly the most beautiful grandmother in the world.

They lived together, her mother, grandmother and her in the office annex of the former property administrator. Her mom, as one of the few people around after the war, who was capable of reading, writing and arithmetic, graciously received from the newly created municipality an accounting job, although she received some frowns of disgust because of her origins, and a modest apartment in this building next to the palace, which now belonged now to the municipal authorities.

Her grandmother, having seen the palace looted of furniture and everything that had once belonged to her, with her own eyes, often stared blankly out the window at the large building that was once her family home. For her, nothing material mattered anymore. She had been "in mourning" for a long time and after losing in Katyn her son (Tereska's father), she had already lost everything that she could lose. Well, not quite completely everything. Her granddaughter, after all, still remained. And whenever Grandma looked at Tereska, her eyes took on a special glow, as if she still had a tinge of pride and hope that maybe not all was lost, that maybe this little girl would be able to do something that she had not succeeded in doing, something that would make her life still worth living. They played with rag dolls together, and in the evening, told stories about the balls in splendid palaces, where the young princes danced quadrilles with beautifully dressed ladies, once upon a time that would never return (if it ever really existed at all).

Fortunately for them, Tereska's mother was a completely different person. Once she had acquired a certainty that her husband would not come back (even though she had never received an official notice of his death), she decided that for the good of her child and all of them, it would be better to go with the flow of the political current, not swim against it. She took proposed her job in the community, received a modest salary and housing and after some time, at the instigation of the chairman Sojka, with whom she was on good terms, joined the Communist Party and attended the party meetings where she spoke often and loud so that soon nothing could endanger her family. To her friends from the old times, few of who still remained, she would say: You have to surrender the past to win the future. Better that, than be destroyed immediately. Was she right? Maybe so. Tereska was never sure. Those who really fought to the end no longer existed. The others had made their choice.

In Tereska's room, Comrade Stalin hang on the wall, gazing benignly at her, and at school she learned of the first readings - how good Uncle Soso liked the kids. And it was not true that he ate them for breakfast as some whispered in dark corners. Some of them were simply malicious, such as this nasty Franek, the son of a tractor driver. Well, they threw him out of his lessons for such talk and told him to come back with his father.

In a nutshell, that was the world of Tereska: fun with her grandmother, a Mom who was always too busy for her and her school.

Wait, there was someone else. It was Tomek. He lived not far away, in the old manor carriage house that, after the war, had been converted to housing for workers of the Production Cooperative, a very special organization created by the communist system. Tomek was about two years older than Tereska, and it was a big difference. He was already so big that he was almost an adult, though he still went to primary school. When they met for the first time at the stream, Tomek showed her tadpoles and said that when they grew, they would become very real frogs. She did not believe him at first, but when she found out later that he was right, she believed his every word from then on.

Tereska differed from the rural children. She spoke and dressed differently, and so was often ridiculed by them. "The Heiress" – some spoke of her with contempt. But when Tomek taught her how to give a strong blow to someone who was laughing at her, the jokes stopped. And when she learned to kick in the ankle so that the stars appeared in one's eyes, her authority increased immeasurably.

Tomek had his passion: bred rabbits. He kept them in wire cages near his house, and after school he would feed them with weeds and carrots stolen from the fields of the cooperative.

He let Tereska play with them, and she learned to love them for their long ears and cuddly faces to their always-twitching noses and busy mouths.

Sometimes, when one rabbit was jumping on the other, and Tereska asked why they were doing it, Tomek, who, after all knew why, blushed and could not answer her. Or did not want to.

Tereska realized then that the rabbits were doing something she should not do, and she felt ashamed, too, but did not stop loving them.

Once, Grandmother, returning from an afternoon walk, saw them together. At home, she asked Tereska who the boy with whom she was playing was. Tereska replied that he was Tomek from social housing, and that everybody knew him well. After that, Grandma took Tereska on her knees, hugged her tight and enveloping her with her scent of lavender, she said:

"Remember this, Tereska, because you'll hear it from me only once."

"It does not matter whether you live in social housing or in the palace as we used to. There is only one thing important in your life. Love. I hope you will never forget it."

And Tereska remembered that forever.

Grandma had her own secret. Once a month, always on the fifteenth, she escaped from the house in the evening to go for a walk, as usual dressed in black. When Tereska became big girl, having grown older and bigger while her grandmother became older and smaller, she began to worry about those walks.

Her mother was generally too busy to care, taking extramural studies for working students on University with the intention to be an accountant and break free from the provincial office where she worked, maybe go somewhere to Warsaw.

Tereska once tried to persuade her grandmother to let her accompany her on this evening trip, but she firmly refused. The next month, Tereska decided to go after her grandma without her consent. Once the old woman had left home, Tereska put on a coat and followed her stealthily. It was not hard. The black silhouette of her grandmother was visible from a distance on the dirt road. At this time, Wilanow had no many housing estates, only cultivated fields and some small, rural buildings. Tracking her grandmother happened to go smoothly. Actually, tracking was not the right word. Tereska was not spying on her grandmother. Her only concern was that nothing bad happened to the old lady during her evening walks.

Great was her surprise when Grandma, after reaching the wall of the Wilanow cemetery, disappeared behind the gate.

Tereska accelerated her pace. Things had suddenly become intriguing. What could she be doing so late in the evening at this local cemetery? There was indeed their family tomb, but they went there every time on All Souls' Day to light the candles and lay fresh flowers on the grave, and no one made a secret of it. This time, however, her grandmother went to the other side of the cemetery and soon, she disappeared from sight.

Where had she gone?

For a long time, Tereska circulated those narrow alleys in the gathering dusk, until she finally found her.

Seeing a faint light in the distance, she came closer and after a few steps, she breathed a sigh of relief. Yes, it was her.

Granny stood over one of the graves at the end of the cemetery, just under the wall. The flickering flare on the burial plate mined from the darkness her profile - a tiny, hunched back covered with a black veil that waved gently in the breeze.

It was a picture poignantly beautiful and sad at the same time. Some grim tragedy seemed to be lurking in the darkness surrounding the place.

Involuntarily, Tereska took a few steps forward, slowly, quietly, so as not to disturb the silence.

"Come closer, my child," she heard all of a sudden.

She walked over and stood next to her grandmother. For a moment, she kept silent, staring at the flickering flame.

"Now you know," said the old woman. "Well, it's good that it happened."

"Whose tomb is it?" asked Tereska.

"Janek Barski," grandmother replied. "The one I really loved. He died tragically. Because of me and through me. I have never forgiven myself for that. I cannot talk about it now, but one day, you will learn everything, I promise you. Who knows? Maybe it will keep you from committing my mistakes?"

Grandma went silent and all the way back; she did not say anything more. They walked together in silence down this country road, bats passing quickly over their heads, accompanying them after they crossed the cemetery gate. "Those are the souls of those who did not get to heaven?" Tereska wondered. "Or maybe they are already in heaven. Maybe for them, this is exactly heaven? Strange that somehow no one returns from there to tell us what it's like."

***

The years passed. Tereska's mother finished extramural studies and received a dream job in Warsaw. Not only that, she married Mr. Sojka, who, thanks to the support of the communist party, was promoted to the municipal authorities and together, still thanks to the support of the communist party, they got an apartment in a newly built residential area. Tereska remained in the old apartment in Wilanow with her grandmother, preparing for her final exams. The Wilanow community ended up being abolished, and the Burgh Wilanow became attached to the city of Warsaw. As for Tomek, he no longer had time for breeding rabbits. He was busy studying at the Polytechnic Institute of Warsaw and continued repairing his motorcycle, Junak, which became his next passion.

Grandma died in the spring. She was already very old, and was buried in the family tomb at Wilanow cemetery. Before she died, she whispered to Tereska - Remember him - and of course, Tereska immediately realized whom she meant, so she visited the cemetery once a month, always on the fifteenth, continuing to fix two candles on two graves, one for Grandma and one for the unknown Janek Barski.

After the death of her grandmother, she looked in her old trunk. She found there a couple of thoroughly worn black dresses, hats and veil, but there was something else, as well.

A diary, written without a doubt by her grandmother's hand. The handwriting was nice and neat, but a little haphazardly, without too many dates or explanations, the chronological record of events interrupted sometimes with a cryptic exclamation point or a question mark.

At the end of the diary, between its last pages, Tereska found the letter. It was undoubtedly written by a male hand and began with the words: "My Dear." Tereska put it down on the table and opened the diary on the first page.

***

"Why just today I started to write this diary I do not know. But maybe that's why, because today I found out something strange and I still do not know if I can believe it. Yesterday morning, I went over to the stream, to watch tadpoles swimming in the shallow water. And then, a boy came up to me and we watched the tadpoles together. After some time, he caught one, scooping it in his hands, and showed it to me up close. It was very funny. Then he said that when the tadpoles become adults, their tails would fall off and they would change into ordinary frogs, such as those who were jumping on the meadow.

I told him it was rude to lie, but he said he knew everything. He was the son of our state administrator and he was already attending the country school.

Then he said something even more terrible. He said that some unkind people also had tails.

I did not believe him. He was surprised that such a big girl like me did not know about tadpoles. Probably because I do not go to the school. He knows everything from his school.

I would like to ask my governess about it, but I'm too ashamed. I wonder if my governess knows about tadpoles."

***

The first diary entries were written with a quite childish handwriting, using violet ink.

***

"Today was my birthday. I received a gift, wonderful gift - Pony, a small horse. At first, I was afraid of him, but he is very polite and does not bite. And he lets me stroke his chin.

The groom put the saddle on him and I rode around the courtyard. Konik, as I named him, which means just a small horse in Polish. I like him so much, but he is not allowed to sleep in my room. He must sleep in the barn, along with the large horses. Janek said that Konik will never grow bigger, and that he knows this from his school. Janek is the boy who told me about the tadpoles. My governess is stupid. Even Konik recognized that and tried to kick her.

She said of him in French: "Une bête méchante." I also wanted to kick her for this. She is the bête méchante. Not familiar with ponies, not familiar with the tadpoles either. I wonder if she went to school at all?"

***

"I love Konik very much. I ride him every afternoon. Janek assumes the reins and guards me so I don't fall off. I keep getting better and better and they say that when I get bigger, I can ride a real horse. I do not like that idea. It is as if my Konik isn't real. I do not want any other. "

***

"Today, I fell into the pond. I did not drown because the water was shallow, but I wet my dress and got very scared. If it was deep, I would have drowned. Janek pulled me out and my mother gave him a chocolate as a reward. Konik also would have saved me I think, but when it happened, he was in the stable. Janek had to promise my mother that he would be careful watching me around. He is two years older than me and bigger, and besides, he goes to a real school every morning with the other children. I wonder why I cannot go to the country school like the others. Maybe the school is too expensive?"

***

"Janek told me once that there was a wounded insurgent hiding in our barn and that if another uprising came, then he would borrow a pony from me and join the insurgents.

If he wants to, he can do it, but I'll never let him take away my Konik. They could kill him over there. Anyway, Janek would not be accepted because he is still too small. Konik would also probably not be accepted for the same reason.

It was the January Uprising, about the insurgent hiding in our barn, nobody was allowed to say a word. Apparently, in the village, gendarmes then searched all the buildings. Janek heard it all from his father. He also told me that if he was already born at the time, the uprising would have been won. I think he is right. He is very brave.

Somewhere around, the battle took place. Jack showed me the pistol he found there, the rusty iron pipe with a wooden handle. He hid it in the hay as it could be handy for the next uprising, when he grew up. Apparently, they do not accept the girls to join the uprisings, even if they have a pony. Let them be. I will not beg them for acceptance. "

***

"I learned that when the January Uprising collapsed, Romuald Traugutt and other leaders were sentenced to death at the Citadel. I told Janek that I would not let him go to the next war, even if he was already grown up. Oddly, he looked at me and told me not to be afraid. He will not leave me with that governess, who does not know even about ponies."

***

"I have not written a word in a long time, and time passes. Konik is getting smaller or perhaps I'm getting bigger. I do not know what is more true. Mom said that next year, I will go to the private school for girls in Warsaw. The school is located in a beautiful park and surrounded by a tall iron fence. Papa does not want to agree. He thinks I should just be educated at home. Mom thinks that here, I do not have suitable company. She believes that I spend too much time with the son of the administrator, who is only interested in the horses in the stables, which was as it should be. She says I need to have my own circle of friends, that I am already too big for homestead familiarities. I don't think so, but this school has me really excited.

It is a school for well-born girls. I was a little glad, and a little worried. Finally, I will be in a real school. I'll have a lot of girlfriends, but I could not take my Konik over there. Janek also will stay here. I do not know whom I will miss more. But it is still far away. A whole year is like an eternity."

***

Tereska set aside the diary of her grandmother. She wondered how little she knew about that time. Her grandmother rarely talked about her childhood and her youth. She thought about coincidences that occurred in their lives. The meeting with the boy at the same stream. You can see the tadpoles had been there forever. Janek was interested in horses, Tomek in motorcycles. Grandma went to Warsaw, to a private school. Tereska was planning her studies in Warsaw also. She wondered what this year would bring her?

After the death of Grandmother, her mother wanted to take her to her apartment, but Tereska definitely refused. She did not like to live together with her mother and Mr. Sojka under the same roof. He always tried to be very polite, but for her, he remained forever a stranger. Moreover, Tereska was almost an adult and soon, she would have the right to exist as a lawful resident of this small apartment. Soon after, she would begin studying at the Polytechnic School, as Tomek was doing, mostly to show him that she was just as good as him, although her Mom insisted that she should have chosen economic faculty. But Tereska knew it was not for her, that it was boring.

Engineering, now that was interesting, such as the construction of bridges, which would stand about a hundred years or longer. And everyone would remember who built it. And the economist? He fills several volumes with numbers during his life and no one knows about him. Little exciting. She would build such bridges, like no other ever built, and on each bridge she would have a plate with her name on it. And when Tomek passed her bridge on his Junak motorcycle, every time he would have to read it, whether or not he wanted to.

Some other guys also had bikes, and also invited her for a ride. But Tereska did not want to go with any of them. She only had confidence in Tomek. With those others, she had nothing to talk about. They were stupid and boring.

Often, Tereska wondered: "Was it interesting attending a private school before the war?" She would have to return to her grandmother 's diary when she had some free time to find the answer, but for now, there was a lot of work to do. Her high school final exams were approaching so rapidly.

***

She got her high school diploma with no problem. The Polytechnic School Admission Exams also went perfectly well. She chose the Faculty of Civil Engineering, with her specialization to be selected only in her second year. She would, of course, choose the construction of roads and bridges.

Other than that, something important happened. After graduating from high school, she organized a private party, at her place of course, since she was the only one of the whole class who had her own place. Tomek was also invited. They drank a lot of wine and it felt very good trying to behave like adults, smoking cigarettes and kissing. The only thing was when everyone had gone home, she and Tomek found themselves suddenly in her bed, and suddenly, it happened. Until then, Tomek had just been a friend, no more nor less. Now what? What was she going to do now? What to do?

Tomek put on a smile, pretending to know what they did and that it didn't bother him, but she saw from his reaction that he was pretty scared. The day after, he brought her flowers and tried to explain. She tried to calm him down, but she was also anxious. She told him that it was not his fault that they were both under the influence of alcohol and so on. Besides, it happened only once and now, it was over. But when Tereska passed the entrance examinations to Polytechnic School, he again brought her the flowers and wine. And again, they found themselves in her bed without knowing how. Damn!

Does a person have the right to know what is happening to him? Theoretically, yes, but not always as you see.

Sometimes, some things happen by themselves whether we like it or not. And she still wanted it, more and more. They decided to get married as soon as Tomek finished his studies. In the meantime, they would leave things as they were. This notion calmed them down somehow, but since then, Tomek has begun to neglect his baby, his Junak motorcycle.

***

"We came to Warsaw in Papa's automobile. Stanislaw sat behind the wheel. He had a large face, a bushy mustache and a driver's cap with a lacquered lid. When we passed the horse carts, Stanislaw slowed down and loudly trumpeted, trying to tell them to get out of the road.

He did not trumpet at the flock of geese, those were not important enough and I suppose the geese thought the same about us, because they hardly listened and we nearly crashed into one of them. Stupid goose. Fortunately, she jumped out of the front of our automobile in time.

I was happy and sad at the same time. Before leaving home, I said goodbye to my Konik, gave him sugar cubes and long stroked his velvety muzzle. But I didn't say goodbye to Janek. In the morning, he disappeared, even though he knew that I was going to school, and this for a long time. I suspect that he hid somewhere, so as not to see my departure. Maybe that was better. We would probably both have just wept.

Warsaw is not far from Wilanow. Before noon, we were in the courtyard of the school. In addition to our auto, three others were still in the driveway and one small carriage, as well. Stanislaw untied my trunk, which was attached to the back of our auto, and two servants carried it to my room. With both my parents, I went to the office of Ms. Wisniewska, headmistress of the school, a very nice lady. After presenting me, my parents had to return to Wilanow. And here a tragedy happened: I started to cry like a child. Then my mother wept too. Even Papa looked uncomfortable.

Ms. Wisniewska comforted us, saying that it was normal and that almost all the girls cry for the first time. Then we had to really say goodbye. My parents went out to the courtyard and I went with my preceptress, Ms. Wieslawa, to my room where my trunk was waiting for me as well as Stasia, my roommate for my first year. I was told that the new girl has always lived with one of the older ones in order to facilitate the introduction of the new one to the school rules."

***

The next few diary entries, made (as a result of the content) rather irregularly, talked about life in a boarding school, about the school itself, new friendships and new girlfriends. Tereska read aloud now, as Tomek, who was already in her apartment as a "permanent guest" listened with equal interest. From time to time, they both commented on this other life, both of them taken aback by it, as if they were viewing an old, pre-war movie, something which we do not know is true or just a figment of the filmmaker's imagination to stimulate the curiosity of the viewer.

Most of the entries were not too interesting, but there were parts of quite special importance.

***

"And here, we have Christmas. So far, my mother has visited me at the guesthouse of my school once a week, sometimes two, but now I could go home for two whole weeks. It was the worst holiday in my life so far. Mom, all the way home, spoke about matters of no importance. I knew she was hiding something. It was not until we drove to our property that she dared to say that my pony was dead. After I left, it stopped eating and died despite the efforts of the vet who even kept him company in his pen in the barn at night. For so many months, she hid it from me, but it was no longer possible. I felt devastated. I left my best friend and let him die from longing for me. I felt bad and unworthy.

But I tried as I could not to fall to pieces. I was no longer a kid, after all. After greeting everyone and after hearing a hundred times how I had grown up and become more beautiful, I stealthily ran to the barn and leaned over the pen of Konik. Then everything inside me snapped. I cried and cried and I could not get it under my control. I remembered all the beautiful moments we'd been through, like the first time I got on him and how he tried to kick my stupid governess.

Then, someone touched my back. I turned around. It was Janek. Same as usual, but a little different, somewhat taller and almost an adult.

"He couldn't make it," he said "he died of love for you."

And then I cried again, leaning my head on his chest and after a while, we both cried like beavers embracing, standing. He began to stroke my hair for comfort, and then kissed the tears from my cheeks. Suddenly, I felt something strange, so I turned quickly and ran to the palace, to my room, closed the door and didn't appear downstairs until the next morning."

***

"Surprise! This Christmas Count Ratajko and his son came to stay with us. They are an old noble family and their property lies somewhere in the Podlasie region. Papa and Mr. Ratajko have known each other for many years, from their youth. They used to revel together in Paris. Now, they rarely see each other. I remember his son, Michal Ratajko, from when he was here recently with his father. He was then about twelve years old, serious and super boring. It might have changed, we'll see. If not, I have to brace myself for a boring Christmas.

I calmed down a bit after Konik's loss, but I often think of him, particularly of how he used to walk me around the courtyard like some big pooch and slide his muzzle under my arm just to get me to stroke him. No, it is enough. I might cry again. Since there is no longer any pony, I rarely get to see Janek. I do not go to the stables. He, too, has been avoiding me since our last meeting, as if he is frightened by something."

***

"They arrived. Michal Ratajko has changed. He is even more serious, and even more super boring than before. Where do I hide? I expected the worst from my parents. We were seated at the table next to each other and from time to time, I see them sending us their stealthy glances. I'm scared. I do not know what to do? Count Ratajko is a widower and is very rich. He mentioned, yes, jokingly that if we could combine our two estates, our families would grow in power. Even in Warsaw they would have to respect us. Fine, if that was what he wished. I wouldn't mind our families being connected, but not at my expense. I would rather die.

Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. I wonder what I'll get as a gift from Santa Claus?"

***

"Christmas Eve. We sat at a long table in the dining room, and after dividing the wafers, we ate a traditional Polish Christmas Eve dinner. I could not refrain from looking toward the Christmas tree, under which a stack of boxes with presents had piled up.

Finally, the moment came. When I was little, our old butler, Ludwik was dressed up as Santa Claus. Now, he is too old and no longer does it. The role of Santa Claus was played today by my mother, without the white beard, of course. Then again, I have ceased to believe in Santa Claus for a long time.

I received a lot of gifts. I was most pleased with a gown, straight from Paris. Maybe Mom will let me take it to my school. There is of course a strict rule concerning our dresses. We were all supposed to wear the same navy blue dress with a white collar and cuffs, but I just wanted to show that dress in front of all my girlfriends.

When all the gifts had been unpacked, there was a definite highlight. Count Ratajko asked us to head to the front terrace of the palace. There was a surprise waiting for me - a gift from Michal. We all put on our winter coats, as the frost was in the air, and walked out to the front of our house. There, I saw a miracle.

A young English mare stood in our frozen courtyard, her coat the colour of brandy, like what men drink after meals in the library while smoking their smelly cigars.. She had such thin hocks, it's a wonder they can maintain her weight. I stepped down the stairs, came closer and reached out to her beautiful head bathed in the glow of the silver moon. She sniffed my hand and we immediately knew that we loved each other without limits. I stroked her velvet nose and whispered in her ear:

"You will be called Brenda and you will be my best friend."

Then, by chance, I looked at the person who was holding the bridle of Brenda. It was not a stable man. It was Janek. I smiled at him and he nodded. For a moment, I saw something in his eyes, something that I did not pay attention to at that time. It only returned to me later at night when I lay under the covers, recalling from my memory the happenings of the day. In his dark eyes, I had seen the pain. Then, I had not minded it. I was completely absorbed by Brenda, but now, I see it clearly. He was suffering. Yes, he looked like he was going to lose me forever. Maybe he knew something I didn't know? Maybe everybody knew something of which I did not have the slightest idea?

Brenda was gorgeous. I promised myself I'll try her the next day and thank Michal Ratajko warmly. He actually brought me joy, and not a small amount."

***

"Let's go somewhere," said Tereska. "I'm tired of these derivatives and the integrals, and Monge projections are killing me."

They took a blanket, a few sandwiches and compote of rhubarb, and then both boarded the Junak motorcycle. They passed through the royal park in Wilanow and rode on and on, until they reached the Konstancin. Along the way they paired up with one brave motorcyclist. He added gas, but his motorcycle did not attain the same speed as our Junak. Tomek waved him goodbye and rushed on ahead. After a while, they reached the birch grove they had spotted earlier and spread out a blanket under a beautiful white tree.

"Who was it?" asked Tereska.

"The motorcycle guy? A friend of mine, from school, Piotr. He boasted that he has the best motorcycle in the area. But as you can see, he does not. Pannonia is not like Junak. My engine is a four-stroke, 350 cc with modified head, which increases the compression ratio. Not a chance."

"And why does your bike have a white tank and fenders? Did you paint it this way"?

"No. Years ago, I bought it at auction. It used to be a police motorcycle. That's why it has those white streaks. I repaired its engine and it revs like a dream."

"Is it possible to buy a house at auction?"

"How come, a house?"

"One day, I'll be a civil engineer. I can also renovate it and it will be like new."

"I thought you were going to be an engineer of bridges?"

"Can we buy a bridge at auction?"

"I do not think bridges in Poland can be privately owned."

"You see. It must be a house."

"Why should you buy a house? After all, you have a palace. Maybe one day you will get it back. From what I had heard, the new government has started to return some estates to their previous owners."

"My Mom says that there is a small chance. Anyway, what can be done today with the palace?"

"What do you mean what can be done? We will put up a large breeding farm of rabbits. Remember my rabbits? Can you imagine having breeding cages in every room?"

"Yes. The rabbits will be on the second floor. On the first, we will restore old motorcycles from auction."

They remained still, thinking about such a prospect, so serious and responsible for both of them.

Then Tereska pulled out of the bag her grandmother's diary and started reading.

***

"Michal Ratajko turned out to be an avid hunter. Our neighbourhood was full of grouse. When he found out about this, he asked Papa for a guide. Papa gave him Janek as his guide and one of his shotguns. Since then, they both disappeared for whole days, while Papa and Count Ratajko spent time in the library, talking about business and politics in the clouds of cigar smoke and with a bottle of English brandy at hand.

I took care of my Brenda, combing her and stroking her velvet muzzle, and when the weather was suitable, I would tell the groom to impose its saddle. Then I dressed myself in my riding habit and Brenda and I would ride along dirt roads covered with snow until dinner. Once, we came back home out of breath from the fresh air and the happiness, and at the table, I bragged about my exploits with my Brenda while Michal talked about how many grouses and hares they brought to the palace kitchen. He and Janek, at the time of Michal's stay with us, became inseparable companions. I was happy for them, because otherwise, they could hate each other as it was already clear what the Michal's father and my parents were plotting behind my back.

When the holiday season came to an end, Count Ratajko and his son returned to their estate, while I went back to my school. My trunk was already packed and Stanislaw was ordered to prepare the automobile for the road so we could set out the next morning.

In the evening, I went to the stables, saying goodbye to Brenda. I long caressed her and spoke in her ear, telling her about my pony and promising her that I would soon come back to her.

I was about to leave when I felt someone standing next to me. It was Janek. I asked him to keep an eye on Brenda and send word to my father if he noticed in her the faintest signs of melancholy. He promised me. And then our hands met on a long, horse head. I felt something like a sudden contraction inside of my hand, then a kind of hot feeling, and a second later, we were right next to each other, snuggling into each other tight and still, as if time had stopped for us on the spot.

It seemed that both of us had no idea what to do, and after a few moments, I came to my senses and ran back to the palace, trying to calm my thoughts which were running like crazy around my head, seemingly having no way of being able to go back inside it."

***

Tereska stopped reading, or rather something interrupted her. She heard a loud flapping of wings and a huge shadow passed over them. Tomek jumped up off the blanket.

"What is it?" exclaimed he in surprise. "Did you see anything?"

"No. When I lifted my head, it flew away. Maybe a big bird?"

"It must have been really great. I felt a rush of air from its wings."

"You know what? Let's go back now," said Tereska. "Somehow, I feel like something is off."

Indeed, she felt a sudden anxiety, not fear, just anxiety like something disturbed her internal order and it was hard to find what it was. They returned to Wilanow without further adventure and the diary of Granny Ludmila returned to its usual place on the shelf of books.

***

There was a period of preparation for the exam session and finally the exams. Reading the diary, of course, was moved to another time.

Tomek also had his exams, though that did not cease his attempts to improve the efficiency of his Junak. Within the framework of a technical experiment, he tried to ride on fuel enriched with ether, which he gained somewhere. As a result, he obtained even greater speed, but burned the engine so he could not therefore proclaim the experiment to be successful as the rebuilding of the motor awaited him.

It was not an easy task. Buying the parts, even occasionally from classified ads, was a big expense for his student pocket.

***

The subsequent pages of her grandmother's diary talked about school, about life and activities in the classroom and the friendships outside them. Weeks and months went by and nothing remarkable happened. Finally, it came, the perfect summer vacation.

"With what joy I boarded the shiny automobile of Papa waiting for me in the courtyard of our school. I begged my Mom, who came to fetch me, to let me sit in the front seat, next to Stanislaw. I figured in my head that if I sat there, I would sooner find myself at home. Along the way, she told me all the news. Not all were happy. Well, old butler Ludwik, who once dressed up as Santa Claus, passed away. We will miss the lovable old man. The new butler is not yet home. Brenda is very well. Janek runs her around the courtyard everyday to keep her in good shape, but no one rides her. This honor is reserved only for me. When we finally pulled into the courtyard, a surprise was waiting for me. In addition to Papa and our servants, Michal Ratajko came to welcome me home. He came to visit us, this time alone, under the pretext of hunting pheasants with Janek. Have their lands been completely deprived of all animals? But this time, I was glad to see him. Ever since he gave me Brenda, my attitude towards him has changed considerably and somehow, he became a little less boring. This time, he brought me a fantastic gift also \- a beautiful ladies' riding saddle in black leather with silver fittings. It was beautifully presented on the back of my mare. Already, on the second day after my arrival, I had to try out both of them right away.

I was with Brenda everyday. As soon as the weather allowed, we wandered around our charming surroundings, the same time as Michal and Janek roamed the surrounding woods on foot on the trail of small game. They became really close friends despite the difference in their statuses. Once, they wandered far into the wild forest and a disaster happened. They came upon a female wild boar with her piglets unexpectedly. Furious, she attacked Michal and badly injured his leg. Janek carried him on his back for half a day to the nearest village, from where the horses were sent immediately for a doctor. This said that any more delay with the disinfectants and medications would result in Mr. Ratajko losing his leg, perhaps even his life. This case further intensified their friendship and Janek, despite his protests, accepted a gift from Michal - a valuable German hunting rifle."

***

"Since then, Michal Ratajko has been in the guest bedroom of our palace nursing his leg under the supervision of a physician, who looked after him every day, changing his bandages in person.

Michal was very proud of his wound. He regretted only that it was not in full sight and he could not brag about it without removing his pantaloons.

One morning, I went for a simple ride around our meadows. I asked Janek to accompany me, because it seemed to me that Brenda had a slight limp at the trot, even though a quick visual inspection of the hooves and fetlocks did not reveal anything wrong. Janek was supposed to go after me on our other horse to watch Brenda's trot for a longer time.

Janek, after graduating from secondary school, helped his father in the management of our estate. It was planned that he would take over his father's position, and as his office was not far from the stables, he was always on hand and despite his young age, knew a lot about the horses. After we ran a few miles, he caught up with me and said he did not see anything suspicious. Maybe it was a temporary indisposition of my mare, though he was certain it happened more often to race mares than to common country horses. Maybe he was right, and maybe it was a clever trick of my mind feverishly working. So badly did I want to stay with him, even for just a little bit, as we had a little opportunity for doing so at home.

We stopped after an hour of riding to give the horses a rest. It was my favorite place, the sunny birch grove, saturated with the scents of summer and the singing of birds. And then, something happened that I have long been secretly dreaming of. We became lovers, just like that, unable to deny our own needs and our love. I loved him and he loved me. How could it not happen?"

***

Tereska stopped reading. Emotion did not allow her to continue. She had to master it, keep it under control. She went to the kitchen to prepare tea and Tomek, who had been sitting in his chair, also moved.

"After all, they had no chance to be together," he said when Tereska returned with two steaming cups. "Her family would never have agreed to their marriage."

"Of course they wouldn't have," confirmed Tereska. "We, too, would not have a chance a hundred years ago. Now, times have changed. In my bedroom still hangs on the wall this portrait of Stalin. Out of sentiment. Actually, I should burn him for what he did to my father and to the thousands of others, but thanks to him, I have you, so I left him there. Let him hang. He is already harmless."

She paused.

"You know, as I was reading this diary, I have been having very strange feelings. On the one hand, I feel that I do not know my grandmother at all, and on the other, I know exactly how she feels, as if her words were describing my life... "

***

"The rest of my holiday passed like some golden dream. Janek and I met almost every day. As usual, I told the groom to saddle Brenda if only it did not rain, then Janek waited for me in our birch grove. So, as not to arouse suspicion, he left home long before me, under the pretext of inspecting the land. We loved and caressed, still getting to know each other. My older school girlfriends taught me, of course, how not to get pregnant, especially Stasia, who proved to be a treasure trove of such wisdom. I was lucky that I shared a room with her.

After some time, I could not imagine myself parting with Janek and at the mere thought of going back to school; I tended to fall into panic. In the evening, we played cards with Michal. He was very sorry that he could not accompany me on my horse escapades, but he promised that when he came next time, he would be practicing horse riding with me.

I nodded insincerely and pretended to grieve because of his injury, hoping that I could play the role well. Did I feel guilty? Probably not. Michal was not my fiancé, not yet, then at least. I was free and I could do whatever I liked. I was not of age yet, it is true, but in the end I will be. And I was praying a lot that the stupid idea of proposing to me would not occur to him in the meantime. I would not have a choice. I would have to do what my father tells me. This has been forever in our customs. Well, they did not burn the witches at the stake anymore, but if my conduct was discovered, it was hard to say what could happen to me.

At the end of the summer, Michal was strong enough to return to Ratajewice, accepting the invitation of my father for my next vacation, or for the winter holidays. It seemed to me that I noticed that they exchanged a knowing look when saying goodbye. I had no idea what I can do to spoil these plans of theirs, especially since my mother seemed to totally agree with them.

Then, my time to return to Warsaw came. All the servants stood by the main door to say goodbye to me. Our administrator apologized for the absence of his son, saying that some extremely important issues forced him to go to the water mills, but he asked to submit his respectful farewell to the young heiress.

Of course I understood that he wanted to facilitate an easy separation for both of us. Maybe he also feared his own emotions. Who knows?"

***

"That's it for today," Tereska gently closed her grandmother's diary. "And you know what? Tomorrow is exactly the fifteenth and a Sunday. Why don't we go and visit granny? It has been a long time since I paid her a visit."

"All right," said Tomek, "but only under the condition that we will also try to find the birch grove from this diary."

***

The next day after breakfast, they left Junak by the gate and entered the cemetery. Spring-cleaning was already under way. Between avenues you could see assembled piles of last year's leaves and twigs. The trees were also gearing up for the upcoming summer, sprouting new leaves in spring fragrance and lush greenery.

They came to the family grave of Tereska. At the black stone slab were the names of her great-grandparents, grandfather and the latest addition - her grandmother. There was also a symbol inscribed with the name of her father and his presumed date of death - 1940 - below which was only one sentence:

"A place of eternal rest - Katyn".

Where the remains of her previous ancestors lay Tereska did not know exactly. Grandma mentioned something about an old family tomb in a remote end of the palace garden, but it crumbled down a long time ago and the land was ploughed out for farmland by the tractors of the Production Cooperative, which proved to be very little operational so that it was eventually liquefied.

The mansion of Tereska's family was very old. Grandmother recalled that her family lived there before King Jan Sobieski settled in Wilanow and that they visited the royal balls during the glorious days of the monarchy. One of her ancestors was even in Vienna and participated in the victory of Polish hussars over the army of the Ottoman Empire led by Grand Vizier Kara Mustafa Pasha.

Or maybe it was just a family legend? Time and wars had tarnished traces of history. Grandmother spoke little and the girl's mother did not want to talk about those times, completely absorbed in building her own career inside the communist party.

Tereska laid the wreath she had brought on the tomb, lit a candle and said a short prayer. Then she pulled on Tomek's sleeve.

"Let's go to him now, " she decided.

They walked to the end of the cemetery and stopped in front of an old board, under which lay Janek. Tereska thought quite differently of him now. He had become to her someone close, like a family member.

"Do you know what happened to him?" asked Tomek.

"I have no idea. Grandmother never talked about him. I hope that we learn about it from the diary."

She fixed the candle on a plate and lit it.

Tom raised from the ground a tree branch and swept away the debris from the grey slab. On the stone surface could be seen, even read, the letters carved many years ago.

First name, last name, date of birth: 15 september1880...

"It's already almost eighty years, " he said.

"Yes, it will be eighty years on September 15th. I wonder what would have happened to me if they had gotten married? I guess I would not be in this world."

"Who knows? Maybe you would, but elsewhere. And maybe we still would have met. It's better not to change anything. Let things be as they are."

At that moment, they heard the flapping of wings and the torch flame flickered and died. Tereska lifted her head, but saw nothing.

"Is this the same bird as back then, in Konstancin?" she asked.

"I do not know. I did not see it then and I still didn't see it now. It must be damn big and fast."

Tereska lit the wick of the candle again.

"Remember the trees that grew there in that forest?"

"In Konstancin? Birch trees, I think."

"Is it possible that it was the same birch grove?"

"Of Grandma and Janek? Everything is possible. The distance is correct, but I think that there are a lot of such birch groves around. Besides, they may not even be the same birch trees. Birch is probably not so long-lived, is it?"

"I do not know, but it does not matter if the old trees are replaced by new. The forest is still in the same place. Can you get there from memory?"

"I think so. We were planning anyway to find the place if we could."

They returned to Junak, which was waiting patiently by the cemetery gate. After a winter repair, the engine ran like new. In half an hour of driving, they reached the spot they had visited before. Tereska walked thoughtfully through the trees, seized again by a strange anxiety.

"I'm sure it's here," she said. "Yes. I feel the presence of my grandmother."

"After over eighty years? No kidding. Absolutely impossible, not even in a fantasy novel."

"And yet I feel something. Look!" exclaimed she suddenly.

She bent down and picked up something from among the grasses. It was a small gold brooch with a cameo, carved in white ivory on a black onyx background. It was all stained with dried up dirt. Tereska pulled out of her purse a handkerchief and wiped it clean.

"Real gold!" exclaimed an astonished Tomek. "Shines like a new one."

"Looks like it was made the old fashioned way."

"Do you really think it's her? And no one had found it in a hundred years?"

"If it was buried in dirt, it's quite possible, after all. It is not Downtown here. Nobody walks by. Or maybe it was waiting just for us? Maybe it's a sign? Let's go home now; I need to find out what happened next."

Tomek had been silently hoping to find another way of enjoying this place, but he understood that amours had to wait for another occasion.

He kicked the starter and the four-stroke engine of Junak rumbled steadily.

***

In the diary, pages again followed describing school events, everyday life in the dormitory, friendships and hostilities, as it usually went between the girls in such an environment.

From time to time, there was a little mention of a house. For example, a new butler came in place of the late unforgettable Ludwik, accepted with the references of someone. There was news that Brenda was doing great. Daily exercise in the yard kept her in impeccable form. Ludmila could not wait for the end of her school, especially since at the end of the year, a ball was going to be held, jointly with the male private school, so she finally would be able to wear her gorgeous ball gown from Paris, which she had tried so far only in the evenings among her friends. She would have to ask her Mom to bring her something for her neck, since her favorite cameo brooch, which she had received from her parents on her sixteenth birthday had been lost in the birch grove during her last visit there, not turning up in spite of all their efforts.

Tereska and Tomek looked at each other in disbelief. So it was this very place, this secluded birch grove, which was impossible to miss when you were young and in love. It was this place her Grandma and Janek had spent time in when they were so ardent lovers and it seemed like the "magic place" had not lost its power even after such a long time.

Finally - Tomek, who was now a believer, spoke:

"We know it is the same brooch."

The said piece of jewelry was now on the coffee table in front of them, cleaned and polished by Tomek with toothpaste so well that after so many years, it looked like new again.

"How beautiful," said Tereska. "A truly angelic face."

"It is so hard to believe," Tomek remarked. "What a coincidence. Just impossible."

"Impossible things do not exist in this world," Tereska replied. "And if something happened, it's no longer impossible."

She held the brooch religiously, and despite the enormous temptation, did not dare to try it yet.

"It's not the right time," she said. "First, I have to read this diary to the end."

***

"The awaited holidays have come. Finally, I'm home, among those I love. Well, maybe not all. The new butler Franciszek somehow did not arouse my sympathy. Probably, I still could not get over old Ludwik, or maybe it was because he had red hair. I do not know. Somehow I do not like him. Brenda was pleased to see me and the very next day after my return, I went for a morning walk. Upon my return, a surprise was waiting for me: a carriage from Ratajewice.

This time Michal has arrived with his father. It foreshadowed nothing good, but I pretended to be happy. I had not even seen Janek yet, and here they were, both already imposing themselves on me. Even a beautiful mantle made from precious fur that I got as a gift did not cheer me up, and only the thought of meeting with Janek in the stable, by Brenda's pen, improved my mood a little. He already knew what was coming and now I had to comfort him. He was so devastated.

"You know what?" I said to him. "Let's run away. We'll get on horses and run as far as we can."

But he was too adult for such childishness. He said he would not do any madness that could hurt me. He would rather lose me than make me unhappy. Why is it that men are so hopelessly stupid? They do not know that happiness is located in the heart, not inside the head. It felt as if he was also against me and I felt completely lost.

Christmas Eve came. It was the moment that I feared the most. After giving each other gifts, Michal, who was very touched, took out from the pocket of his black frock coat a satin box and handed it to me. I opened it slowly, knowing well what was inside. What else could it be?

The beauty of the ring I saw inside surpassed all I had seen previously. A large sapphire surrounded by diamonds sparkled wonderfully in the middle of the box. And then, Michal asked my parents for my hand. I did not hear what they answered. For a moment, I stood petrified, whereupon I burst into tears and ran upstairs to my bedroom, leaving the black box on the table. Everyone thought it was out of disbelief at my good fortune, and that I was lying on the bed with my face pressed into the pillow, spasmodically choking tears of joy."

***

"Yes, it was the most difficult holidays of my life and I just knew there were more like it to come. All my future, my whole life had been decided by my father with the help of my mother. My opinion was not of the slightest importance. If I rose from the Christmas table and shouted - No! No! No! I do not agree, I love another! - Everyone would have thought of me as ridiculous. And if I even hinted that my lover was the son of the administrator, a man of lower status than mine, the ridicule would have added yet indulgent understanding and I do not know which is worse. They would call it the silly infatuation of a schoolgirl and Janek would immediately be thrown outside our estate. His father also and my situation would not change a bit. After all, they know better what is good for me. For me and for the family fortune, and thus also for themselves. Only one thing remained to me: to be silent.

I met up with Janek furtively in the stables, near Brenda's pen, sometimes somewhere in the snowy country. The winter was not a good time to hide our love. Our birch grove buried under snow and there was nowhere that could give us shelter from the frost.

Jack suffered the same anguish as I did. Hunting with Michal, which he could not avoid without arousing suspicion, was painful for him. They still remained friends, but I think in a different way. Michal spoke to him often about his courtship and his plans related to me, but his every word hurt Janek's anguished heart more and more.

The wedding date was set for next Christmas, when I finished my school. I had one year left to prepare, my last year of relative freedom.

I returned to my school broken and resigned. It was the last year of my education. My friends envied me the ring, my wedding and the planned journey to Venice, yet all I wanted to do was cry."

***

"Poor grandmother," said Tereska. "I do not know what I would have done in her place. What cruel times. How could they treat their own children that way? How could they give away their daughter in marriage without her consent?"

"And to a handsome young earl, who in addition to the title had a huge fortune as well," joked Tomek. "It's really barbaric."

"Easy for you to laugh, because you've never been a girl. No title matters, nor the amount of wealth. The most important thing is what it feels like here," and Tereska put her hand on his left breast.

"Where? Show me." Tom held out his own hand.

"Get off me." Tereska slapped him on the wrist. "I would, however, never have agreed."

"How would you know? Maybe I'm lucky that there is no Count at the hand?"

"You'd better get the hell out of here, or he might show up." She sighed. "That is all for today. I have a lot more to study for tonight. Tomorrow we have exercises on the strength of materials."

And Grandmother Ludmila's diary went back on the bookshelf. Later, long into the night Tereska could not sleep. She tried to imagine the dilemma of her grandmother, but it was too difficult. How could you force a girl to be married against her feelings? After all, it was no longer the Middle Ages. Immense curiosity burned inside her. What was going to happen? Once or twice even, she reached out her hand to the diary, but her loyalty to Tomek won. She wanted to go together with him through this, especially difficult part of her grandmother's life.

***

"Ever since I started school, for the first time, I did not want to go home. I prayed that the school year would never finish, that I would always remain here with my girlfriends and I would never grow up. My prayers were not heard or maybe they had been heard, but God decided that the school year should still end. We drove down the same route as always, and again, I had to answer the same questions as I had every year before, and when my mother started talking about my preparations for the wedding, I wished that I would die immediately, but it did not happen.

Only Brenda in the barn could dry my tears for a while.

My family, seeing my melancholy, smiled indulgently.

"It is normal," my mother said. "Before my wedding, I was also confused. I lost my appetite and they had to feed me by force. Otherwise, I would have died of hunger. But it will pass, my child. You'll be happy once you choose Michal."

With my entire force, I restrained myself not to explode. But I did not choose him. No one even bothered to ask me for my opinion.

However, when I tried to think about my situation soberly, I had to admit that I was also lucky. When Count Ratajko, who was a widower after all, visited us for the first time, and when the thought of the real purpose of the visit, first occurred to me, I was not quite sure which one was the candidate, father or son. The Count was not so old, a gray-haired, handsome gentleman of refined manners. With his title, he could surely turn around the heads of most of my school girlfriends.

Meanwhile, the summer was coming to an end. Michal had become an increasingly common, sometimes unexpected guest, in our home, already adopted by everyone (except me) like a family member. I still met Janek from time to time in the birch forest while horse riding - these meetings have never failed but they were not merry meetings. Melancholic sighs escaped from my chest while he generally remained silent, resigned, trying from time to time to cheer me with some jokes.

We avoided, of course, physical displays of affection since I was officially engaged. Sometimes, we simply touched hands with our fingertips. Sometimes, I felt the fleeting brush of his lips on my cheek as a gesture of goodbye. It was not much, but it was a lot. It still gave me some strength. They could take away my freedom. They can put me in a cage, but what is hidden in my heart belongs to me. I will not give it to them.

October came, the month that has forever been etched deeply in my life. My parents went to visit our relatives. I managed to stay in the palace, faking a migraine. I decided that I had to say a proper goodbye to my lover as he deserved. The next such opportunity could no longer happen before my wedding. I went down to the courtyard and from there to the stable, remaining there and caressing Brenda until he came. He was pale and sad as usual, yet when he looked at me, his eyes gleamed.

And then I did something I should have never done. I set a rendezvous to meet him in my bedroom. And, as soon as possible. I told him how to get to my room so that no one should notice. It was supposed to be our farewell forever."

***

"We made love to each other a long time and with passion, and for the first time, not on the grass, but in a real bed, in my bed, which my legally fiancé had not yet shared. We made love not as lovers, but as husband and wife, because we decided to stay that way together in our hearts.

The palace seemed empty, my parents were gone, and service men as always in such cases get buried somewhere in the corners. Did I feel guilty? I do not know because I was not thinking about it. I only knew that even for one second, I did not regret my decision. Tears of happiness ran down my cheeks. He kissed them and also wept. I do not know how long it would have lasted if we had not heard the sound of hooves from the court. Janek hurriedly got dressed, kissed me goodbye and left, wisely guiding himself to the side corridor.

I still lay dreamy and suddenly sleepy and after a while, I fell asleep. It seemed to me that I heard in my sleep some uproar, some clamor, but everything was completely indifferent to me. I was already in another world."

***

"When I came to my senses finally and went downstairs, I found out something terrible. In our house, a crime had been committed.

The butler Franciszek, lured by the noise, came to my father's office and saw Michal lying on the carpet with a broken head. Above him, with a brass candlestick in his hand, Janek was standing, trembling and pale as death. He did not even try to escape. He simply stood there, moving the terrified look on the faces of the servants, who gathered around as they were alerted by the screams of the butler. Without resistance, he allowed himself to be overpowered. Hastily, the summoned police took him into custody just when I was peacefully sleeping in my room."

***

"That's some story," said Tomek. "A real thriller drama like the ones we see on television. Do you think all of it is true?"

"I think so. Grandma wrote this diary herself. Why would she make it up?"

"I also think so, but it all seems so improbable that I do not know what to believe. Read on. Probably we are close to the end?"

***

"The trial was held in a week. According to the testimony of Janek, when he was walking past my father's office, the door to it was open wide. Michal was lying on the carpet, with a bloodied face. Janek only picked up the candlestick thrown across his body and leaned over to see if Michal was alive.

Nothing more he was able to say. When asked by the judge Surkov what he was doing in the palace during the absence of the owners, he was silent as a grave.

Unconsciously, I jumped up from my place. I wanted to cry out his innocence, but at the same moment, he looked at me with such despair that I sat back on the bench without a word. His eyes were screaming: Nooo!!!

I knew he would not be able to survive if I had covered myself in disgrace because of him. But on the other hand, I also knew that only a miracle could save him. The butler's testimony was devastating: Janek leaning over the body of Michal with the murder weapon in his hand, the bureau drawer of my father open. The lack of any explanation for his presence in the palace during the absence of my parents sealed his fate. Everything seemed clear: Michal, who arrived unexpectedly, entered the palace and caught the thief busy looting the drawers of my father's desk. Janek, in defense, grabbed the candlestick and...

The judgment was immediate: Guilty!!!

I screamed and then fell to the ground unconscious."

***

"I lay without my senses for five days.

The summoned doctor said I had a case of meningitis. He did not leave my side, letting my blood and doing other miracles to save me. Unfortunately, he succeeded. In the meantime, Janek was sentenced to death. He was executed, then buried outside the walls of the Wilanow cemetery. The execution took place in the morning. Apparently up to the end, he claimed that he was innocent.

The butler Franciszek left his post, saying that he did not want to remain in a house where a crime had been committed, and left in an unknown direction.

For me the world ceased to exist. My life also."

***

All that was left was the last, short entry in Grandmother Ludmila's diary:

"Our red-haired butler was arrested at the Czech border. In his suitcase was discovered the Bank bonds stolen from the drawer of my father's desk, which were never found. Under sharp questioning of police, he confessed to everything. Michal surprised him during the robbery and, in panic; he grabbed a candlestick, struck the young count in the head and fled with the bonds in his hand. He returned only when he saw Janek from afar hurrying into the office. Now, there was someone to blame. All this gave me only a slight consolation. Janek was lost forever, and it was entire my own fault.

My parents decided to move his tomb inside the cemetery. They found however that it was easier to move the part of the fence, so his peace was not disturbed. I do not intend to continue writing this memoir. It won't bring my happiness back, and I hope that no one will ever read this.

Miserable forever... Ludmila".

***

Tereska put down the booklet with yellowish pages and looked sadly at Tomek.

"Money. Titles. Fortune. All of it is not enough for a person to be happy," she said. "My grandmother had it all, and yet she was the saddest person I have ever met. I really miss her. I wish I had known all this before."

"What would it change? You said it before; she didn't want to talk about the past."

"Yes, but I would act differently towards her. Now, I feel a little guilty."

"And what happened next? Did she get married after? Wait a minute. Your last name is Ratajko. How is it possible if Michal died?"

"Can you not guess? The wedding took place, only a year later, after the end of the mourning. The bridegroom was Count Ratajko, the father of Michal. For Grandma, it didn't matter, and he did not mind that his young wife was in eternal mourning. He thought it was for his son. You know what? I am already an adult. I can write an application so that the palace can be given back to me. After all, I am the rightful owner. Do you think that an engineering salary is good enough to support such a house?"

"I think that one is not, but two can do it, especially when we begin to breed the rabbits."

"And rebuild the motorcycles, I agree," said Tereska and Tomek held out his hand, which she took, sealing off their agreement.

"Wait, wait," Tomek said suddenly. "There is still a letter inside. Maybe you want to read it?"

"Perhaps later," Tereska replied. "Now I am really tired."

***

"My Love..."

These were the first words of the letter that was stored between the last two pages of the diary. It was one sheet of paper folded in four, without the date or recipient. It was such a letter out of nowhere, as Tereska called it in her mind.

"My Love, I love you so much and will never stop feeling it. I'm waiting for you, because I know that someday we will be together again and only this one is important: We. When you lean over me, I will feel your scent. I will feel the ends of your veil stroking the stone slab and it will be like you touching my skin with your fingertips.

I'm waiting and I know that everything can change. Things can begin anew. I know because He told me. Then, when it happened, I heard the flapping of wings and I felt something carry me up. I found myself here, in this waiting place, and I have been waiting for you since.

And He also told me that on my birthday, exactly at midnight, everything can be reborn and given a chance to live again, and that there is always a chance to rectify mistakes. The sign will be the white face of an angel on black onyx. We just need to find someone who can help us, who will think of us at this point. I know that this person exists and with all my confidence, I expect it to happen.

I love you more than ever. J."

***

Tereska folded back the letter and looked at Tomek. Both of them were deeply impressed by what she read.

"How is this possible?" she asked. "How could this letter have reached her? Surely, she didn't write it herself. There is no doubt, since a different hand, a masculine hand, wrote it. And what does it mean? I'm beginning to regret that I chose engineering studies, not psychology. Maybe then I'd know better what to think about it."

"Maybe it's better not to think about it?" Tomek suggested. "The Church calls such cases, simply incomprehensible dogmas. Perhaps in secular matters, there are also dogmas. Perhaps some Soviet scientist could explain it to us. They always know better, but we do not have any on hand."

The face of Tereska showed that she had no desire for jokes. She went to the calendar on the wall.

"Do you realize that the fifteenth of September falls tomorrow?" exclaimed she suddenly in a panic.

"So what? Do you have any idea what to do?"

"Not yet. I need to think things through. There is still time."

"What is there to think about? This letter from the dead man? We have no idea who wrote it and when. Only your grandmother could explain it, and yet, she is here no more."

"You know what? Could you please leave me alone now? I really have to rethink everything again," said Tereska and despite the objections of Tomek, she gently pushed him out of the door. As soon as she found herself alone, she picked up the letter and read it several times, then with an overwhelming expression opened the closet door, where at the bottom of the old trunk lay the black dress of grandmother Ludmila.

***

Tomek knew that Tereska was up to something. For half the night, he watched the light in her window. When it finally went out, he decided to wait a few more minutes to be sure. He did the right thing. After a moment, a figure dressed in black took the bicycle in front of the house.

Tom ran behind the bicycle at a safe distance, so that she could not hear his footsteps. She would not forgive him if she realized that he was following her, but he could not leave her alone at such a time.

Now he stood, hidden behind the trunk of a tree, and watching her silhouette from afar as she knelt in the dark, only slightly illuminated by the orange flames of the candle. He looked at his watch. It was almost midnight.

Tomorrow, they both would laugh about this nocturnal adventure, but at the moment it was not fun. He even noticed with amazement that he was afraid. He did not know exactly why, but purely and simply, he felt fear.

With admiration, he thought of Tereska: Brave she was. Maybe not reasonable, but certainly brave.

Suddenly, he heard the already known sound of a huge flap of wings. He looked up, but saw only a starry sky. When he lowered his eyes, the place where Tereska had just been standing was empty. He forgot about his fear and with sudden panic, rushed in that direction.

When he arrived there, he stumbled on a protruding branch in the dark and fell down, hitting his head hard on the stone slab of Janek Barski's grave. There, came the darkness.

***

"What were you doing, son, in the palace during the absence of its masters?" judge Surkov asked, tinting the Polish words with his strong Russian accent in a funny way.

Standing at the podium, Janek was silent as stone. A trickle of sweat ran down his pale forehead. His lips pursed tightly, testifying eloquently about his decision to be silent.

"I am asking you for the last time, if you have a witness, or an alibi? What were you doing in the palace at such an hour?"

Ludmila jumped up from the bench. She opened her mouth, but Janek gave her such a pleading look that she closed it immediately. Sitting beside her, Tereska called out:

"Speak! Speak right now the whole truth, or for a lifetime, you will be in mourning!"

Then Ludmila proudly raised her head and looking straight into the eyes of the judge, began to speak.

***

Tereska sat by the stream, watching tadpoles floating in the shallow water.

The boy who walked by, stopped.

"Did you know that when they grow up, they would become frogs?"

"Yeah, I know. After all, you already said that to me."

"Do you remember?"

"I remember, but less and less."

"So what? Did we do it?"

"Great. We did all right. Grandma no longer wears black."

"I also remember less and less. Do you think this is a new life?"

"How come, silly? It's still the same, just a little different."

"So, let's go, take a look at my rabbits..."

Back to ToC

What would you do if she was alive?

Sometimes, when you come back after many years to the place where you grew up, you can see the things in quite different ways than before. Some places you remember, don't exist anymore. Some are completely unchanged.

The same goes for the people from the old times. Some are not there. Others are older, changed by time and stress, maybe beyond recognition. But while they have changed on the outside, their inner "I" will remain the same forever.

***

He stopped at the corner of Marszalkowska street and Jerozolimskie Avenue. So, here he was again. Here at the very heart of Warsaw. It was a beautiful, sunny day. The air smelled of summer. A small flock of pigeons flew in circles high above him, their silvery wings glinting in the sun. So this was how it felt like to be back home.

He smiled. And here he thought things would look completely different. When he left this city more than thirty years ago, he dreamed about coming back on a white horse, or at least in a white Cadillac El Dorado filled to the brim with exotic beauties. And yet, what did he have to show? He stood by this Rotunda, which he could remember so well from years ago, no different from the guy standing next to him, who the whole time did not move beyond his smelly hole. He settled in his place forever comfortably and farted around, moaning and grumpy, but still was standing. Who knew? Maybe even this guy was right standing like this.

Paul arrived yesterday through Boston and Frankfurt. He still felt Paul, though slowly, gradually, Pawel (his original Polish name) began to wake up in him.

He looked around curiously. Actually, not so much had changed here. The Rotunda still stood in its place. (He still remembered how it looked like after the gas explosion in 1979, reducing it to a poor, miserable skeleton.) The good old Palace of Culture and the tall and narrow box of the Forum Hotel both looked as they did years ago, which is like a feast for sore eyes.

What about him? Had he also changed? Well, a little changed perhaps. His vision of a white Cadillac had become blurred somewhere along the way. That was all. With his once fat account in Citi Bank, he could have been able to afford a few such Cadillacs, but the need for it disappeared somewhere in space, evaporating with time. And his bank account had shrunk considerably following the recent downturn in the stock exchange. Maybe this was the change that he felt? Nothing more? So why did Paul feel different from Pawel? Had he really changed during those years he spent on oil rigs in search of "liquid black gold" on several seas and oceans of the world? He had thought so, but now that he stood here, looking around, he felt like he and this place were still the same.

With a time, he threw his English words more rarely. Polish words returned quickly to his head, where he had set them aside temporarily but had never really forgotten. They returned quickly and willingly while he talked with passers-by, listened to street bustle and read the signs on shop windows.

He looked at those windows as he headed in the direction of Constitution Square. The goods on display were little different from those he had seen in American cities, probably also wearing the same labels "Made in China" or something like that. Had the world really gone crazy with this Chinese fever? Everyone must be blind not to see that all the Chinese imports were ruining their country's own economy. Or maybe there's nothing that can be done about it. The Chinese race would flood the world - or so an old prophecy said.

He came to the Constitution Square, looked around and sat down on the free bench on the east side where he could catch some sun on his face.

After a few minutes, he felt someone sit down next to him, on the same bench. He raised his eyes and looked at the intruder. It was some geezer, wearing a tattered coat and a woolen cap on his head, his gray, unshaven jaw turned towards the sun. Seeing that he was being watched, he smiled amiably and started to talk.

"You would not happen to have, my friend, some spare money for a bottle of something, would you?"

Paul (and increasingly Pawel) reached into the side pocket of his jacket where he kept change and felt a twenty zloty bill.

"I'll give it to this junk. It will wash him away," he thought, handing the bill to the man. The old man accepted willingly. He even asked what Pawel would like to drink and what kind of glass he wanted it in and Pawel was about to dismiss both questions when suddenly, he jumped to his feet.

"Ludwik?" asked he in astonishment.

"Finally, you recognized me!" the old man exclaimed happily. He was obviously amused.

"I recognized your voice, but not right away."

Pawel looked with amazement at the unshaven face of his friend from years ago.

"My God, it's been like ages! What are you doing? How's it going?"

"How's it going? Living on a thin pension, of course. How about you? You probably have also already retired. We were in the same class, after all. I remember that you left the country. To the U.S. was it? You did not want to get involved in politics?"

"Oh, that was before the Solidarity movement. There were no politics, then yet. But now, when I turned on the TV in the hotel, I found discussion from the Sejm. Tricky stories are going on there."

Ludwik grimaced.

"And to think that we spent so much time fighting. We got jailed, passed persecution and martial law. For those punks to make a circus in our Sejm, it's disgusting."

"Do not worry. In the United States, the Congress turns into a circus also. The only difference is that the average American does not have a clue. He prefers to watch American Idol than listen to hypocritical politicians talk."

"Well, over there, they had time to learn how to lie decently. Those here are just learning the first baby steps. But let's stop talking about them. What about you? How are you doing?"

Pawel gave a brief narration of his life between an empty apartment in Houston and drilling rigs throughout almost the whole world, wherever oil deposits were discovered at the bottom of the sea.

"Interesting life," Ludwik muttered without conviction. "You've traveled the world."

"At the beginning, it was interesting," agreed Paul. "Very much so. But then, it became a routine. You sit in front of your computer and you calculate the diameters of pipes, bolts, flanges, and with time, it gets boring, just like everything else. And the scenery, it is also not so rosy. Platforms are generally built far out at sea. Sometimes, the nearest town is several hundred kilometres away. The opportunity for excursions does not pop up as often as you think."

"Do you have a family?"

"How could I have one with this lifestyle? Sometimes, it felt easier to meet a whale than a woman. Even if I did meet some, none of them would like to sit home alone and wait for her husband. After all, who the hell knows when I will be back? What about you? As I recall, you were studying philosophy. Have you finished?"

"I have."

"And then, what?"

"I was an assistant at the university. Then I lectured. Finally, I gave up on it, so I am not even entitled to a full pension."

"How so?"

"How can I explain it? I think I reached too high level of knowledge, that I came to the same conclusion as many philosophers before me, from Socrates onwards."

"I know that I know nothing?"

"Exactly. How can a guy teach philosophy when he knows absolutely nothing?"

"He cannot. Otherwise, all the students wouldn't learn anything. Not the funniest social perspective."

"Well, so I gave up teaching. Socrates said that you should not lie. Do you believe in life after death?"

"Yes. A little bit."

"I believe it. I also would say that the more honestly you live, the better life awaits you after death."

"Oh. If that's the case, I think I need to improve myself."

"Never too late. You know what? Maybe you could drop by my place for a glass? I live next door from here. We could stop by the liquor store along the way to enrich my modest bar."

Paul agreed, curious to learn more about his old friend. In the store, an odd bottle with murky content drew his attention. The label said "Siwucha".

"And what's this muck?" he asked Ludwik.

"Hooch for snobs," Ludwik said. "You want to try? I do not drink it often. I use the cheaper stuff out of necessity."

Pawel paid for two bottles. The 20 zloty he previously donated obviously went into oblivion.

Ludwik lived in the state studio apartment, the one right under the roof, on Lwowska street. It was really close.

What caught Pawel's attention the most about the apartment were its walls, which were completely bare. No decorations. No family photos. Just completely and exactly nothing. As for furniture, there was a table and some necessary equipment, nothing more. It was a truly Spartan interior. Or perhaps like a monastery. It was hard to tell which description was closer to the truth.

Ludwik brought from the kitchen, two glasses, two plates and an open can of sardines. After another trip, he brought half a loaf of bread and a kitchen knife.

"Sit down," Ludwik invited his guest. "We'll talk."

They each drank a glass of murky vodka, which to Pawel tasted strangely.

"You probably have enough petrodollars in your account now. Is it difficult to count?"

"I had," Paul admitted. "Recently, I lost a lot of it."

"The crisis in the stock market? The previous one or the new one?"

"Both. First, there was the dot-com bubble, now, the real-estate bubble. Well, we are coming out of it, but I do not think I'll get back what I lost."

"I do not invest in anything. Money is not important. Socrates said that only truth and virtue count in life. Material things do not matter."

"So probably he would have lost a lot also. What did he know about the stock market?"

"You're wrong, dead wrong. A good philosopher would not have lost. Besides, he would have been too smart to deal with such nonsense as stock."

"What are you talking about? What does philosophy have to do with finances?"

Ludwik sighed deeply.

"Do not play with the things you don't know," he said. "Stock exchange is run by the psychology of the crowd. Psychology and philosophy go hand in hand like two bald horses in one harness. Do you know who was the greatest financial trader in the U.S.?"

"Certainly not me, I know that."

"His name was Jesse Livermore. He was the richest man of his time in the U.S. And do you know what he did to get better results? He studied psychology! See? And philosophy? This is the main science. All the sciences of the world are subordinate to it."

"I know Livermore. He was my hero. But do you know how Jesse Livermore ended up? He went bankrupt and committed suicide. I do not think his philosophy of life was the best. Anyway, from what I know, Socrates also committed suicide. Maybe it is better to keep away from philosophy."

They drank the next glass of strange vodka. This time, the Siwucha tasted better as alcohol often did the second time around.

"Is this truly the taste of moonshine?" Paul tried to remember the taste he had forgotten a long time ago. He remembered only that it was something nasty, but now, after paying a high price, he had to admit it tasted quite good. "Just a minute, when was the last time I drank it? It must have been maybe thirty years ago?"

"Socrates drank his poison because that was the judgment of the court," Ludwik enlightened."The death was a penalty for disobeying the rules of the society in which he lived. He could have ran, but he did not, for he was proud and too honest. He loved truth and justice. But we really don't know a lot about him, as he did not leave a single written work. He was a speaker and dialectician, but not a writer. His student, Plato, wrote "The Defense of Socrates". Maybe his philosophy was too perfect for those times. As for this American, Livermore, from what I just recently read about him, he also died because he had to. He married a widow. She had four husbands before him. Can you believe it? And you know what? All of them committed suicide. Did he have a chance? "Une femme fatale". From such a woman he should have stayed away, not from philosophy. He often went bankrupt anyway, but finally left behind about five million dollars, which before the war was a lot for someone bankrupt."

Ludwik excused himself for a while and went to the bathroom. Through the door not closed completely (the custom of the majority of men living alone) could be heard a long, philosophical piss. Then Pawel did something, something he would never have done without the two glasses of Siwucha in his stomach.

When they entered the room, he noticed that Ludwik had walked quickly to the table, picked up some photograph in a wooden frame and put it "face down" on the table. Now, Pawel could not help himself. He reached out and lifted the frame to his eyes. The photo was an old one, black and white, taken with Ludwik's first amateur camera. Pawel remembered well this camera of which Ludwik (back then Lutek) was very proud. The small camera of the Soviet brand Smiena appeared to them in the past as a piece the art. The young girl in the picture was holding on the handlebars of her bike. Someone else also had his hand on the same bars, but the figure was not visible. On the picture was shown just a part of one hand.

"He cut me off, the motherfucker" Pawel thought suddenly, his temper rising even though he did not know why. As he heard the sound of the toilet flushing, he hastily put down the photograph as it lay before, face down on the table.

"From what you are saying," Pawel returned to the subject they had been discussing "a good psychologist, or even better, a philosopher should be the best investor, because he can predict the behavior of other investors, and thus the moves of the stock exchange market."

"A good philosopher should. But he never will, because he does not need the money. Those who dream of wealth, yet do not have a clue about the emotions that control the human mind, they have no chance."

"And you. Could you do it?"

"Of course. If I wanted to, in a few weeks I could make a fortune."

"Have you tried?"

"Why should I? I have no motivation."

"To convince me. Apparently your Socrates walked the streets and chatted to strangers just to convince them of his rationales."

Ludwik thought about it.

"For this, just one meeting would not be enough."

"I'll meet you here as many times as you wish, and each time not without "Siwucha"."

The face of Ludwik lit up suddenly.

"Well, we can try it."

"Will you try in the U.S. stock market? I have no idea about the Polish."

"I think the same laws rule every stock exchange market in the world. But I need some material. Tell me what's going on in the U.S. economy and bring me some stock charts. Print the charts of the American stock exchange from last year and the five past years."

"There are a couple of indexes. The most important indicators are: Dow Jones, Standard & Poor's and Nasdaq."

"The biggest. I want to include all fields of economics."

"Standard & Poor's 500 will do. Five hundred items."

"All right. And a bank, possibly the greatest. Money is ruled by money."

"Maybe Citi. In this case, it is my bank. Does that bother you?"

"No. It's even better. You'll be involved. And what is at the moment the economy in the U.S.?"

"Overall straits. The real estate market was so inflated because of the unsecured loans, which it all started to fall apart. Banks gave a loan to buy a house to anyone who was able to sign it, without checking whether the person is able to pay it off or not. Then, financial institutions began to trade these loans among themselves. They even created insurance funds for these loans. They also began to trade on an international scale, the true pyramid scheme based on greed, lies and deceit. Not surprisingly, it started to collapse. The first failure was "Countrywide", a huge financial credit institution. The Bank of America acquired it as a result. Now, the next two financial institutions, Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, are in trouble. People are not able to repay the loans. The banks confiscate thousands of houses and don't know what to do with them, because nobody wants to buy them. Unemployment is increasing. People are not buying new cars. General Motors, Chrysler and other companies are standing on the brink of bankruptcy. One branch of the industry pulls down the other. Everything is produced in China, American factories closing down their gates. Besides, USA is running two wars at once, with no end to either in sight and that costs a fortune. The Congress is corrupt and bribed by the banks. They run America. I do not know when this will all be over."

"Probably not soon," Ludwik said thoughtfully. "The larger the country, the longer it takes to carry out economic reform, and the U.S. is a huge country. Besides globalization, the economy has become a worldwide monster, one great machine printing money, so it is not easy to manage. It's like trying to drive ski slalom with a road roller. But I do not mind. The worse the better. When people panic, it is easier to guess the mood. The most difficult is when there is peace and nothing happens. Next week, we begin. Bring all the material that I asked you for."

Pawel stood up from the table. The second bottle of Siwucha remained intact.

"You would not know what's up with Helena, would you?" asked he casually as he extended his hand in farewell. He noted that the face of Ludwik twitched suddenly and his eyes involuntarily ran into the reversed photo lying on the table.

"What would you like to know?"

"Well, just the general stuff. What is she doing? How is she doing?"

"Immediately after you left, we got married," drawled Ludwik slowly, watching intently the face of Pawel. What he noticed on it gave him clear satisfaction. It was written in his eyes. After a while, he slowly added

"She's now dead."

"She's dead..." repeated Pawel unconsciously. "Dead..."

He was clearly upset by the news.

"Yes, for several years now. She passed away suddenly."

"I'm sorry. You have my deepest sympathy. I would never have expected it."

"What would you do if she was still alive?" asked Ludwik in an unexpectedly aggressive tone.

"I would have liked to see her, that's all. Actually, I was hoping to see her. Too bad."

They said goodbye and Paul went out into the street in the August twilight, a bit tipsy and quite badly shaken by the news of the death of Helena. In the photo, she had been holding the handlebars of her bike and just the two of them were photographed then with this Soviet camera of Ludwik. He said later that the image did not show up clearly. There was not enough light or something like that. Apparently, he just cut Pawel off. He wanted to have Helena for himself, the scoundrel.

Paul walked slowly toward the Krakowskie Przedmiescie Avenue, thinking he would walk that way to the European Hotel where he was staying. "Well, this should make a good walk before going to sleep" - he thought.

***

Paul well remembered that day, as if it was yesterday, even though it had probably been about forty years ago. Long time. He even remembered the makes of their bikes. Helena had a Goplana bike in a willow green color. Lutek had a black bicycle of Popular brand; in fact, the most common PRL bike, and Pawel had his navy blue colored Maraton. It was a half-course type bike. At the back wheel, it had a three-speed derailleur, and the front handlebars were bent down in a "ram" style.

It was a school trip during high school. They met on a Sunday morning, in front of the school building, inspected each other's bikes (at the time, the bike brand was for a young man as important as the brand of a car today), and set out. The group rode slowly, one by one, down Sobieski Alley, then Avenue of Wilanow. Once they reached Wilanow, the PE teacher who had organized the tour ordered for them to stop at the ice cream booth.

Lutek had his Smiena with him. He took a group photo of all with ice cream cones in their hands. After a short rest, they went further in the direction of Jeziorna until they reached the forests of Powsin. Along the way, every now and then, one of the guys sped ahead of the group and tore forward, to show how good he was on the bike. The day was beautiful. It was May, after all, ideal for cycling.

Pawel noted that Lutek, from the start, stayed close to Helena. He was always the first to hold her bike or to fart in her tire as his classmates maliciously commented. Each of them wanted to be close to her. She was certainly the prettiest girl in the class. But nobody acted this way. It would not be well seen by others and you would only put yourself up for ridicule. Ludwik somehow did not mind. Helena ostentatiously was not paying attention to him, but you could see anyway from her behavior that she liked the fact that Ludwik was riding after her, unable to take his eyes off her shapely ass hidden under tight-fitting shorts. She did not have to turn around to know that. Girls feel the gaze of boys, even from behind.

Once they reached Powsin, the PE teacher riding behind the group took the lead and soon they found themselves in a nice grove on a hill with a murmuring brook. There, they decided to set camp.

They all sat on the grass and took out their sandwiches and thermoses from their backpacks. Some did not eat immediately, watching what others had to eat. Some exchanged their sandwiches. Everyone knew, after all, that a sandwich prepared by another mother tasted differently. Then, most of them scattered throughout the woods looking for mushrooms or running after squirrels.

"Take a picture of me with my bike," asked Helena.

Lutek, who was obviously nearby, jumped up immediately with his Smiena.

"Or maybe you and me," joked Pawel, passing just next to them.

"Sure, Pawelek, you too," said Helena. "Stand on the other side of the bicycle."

Pawel stood then and leaned on the handlebar with one arm on it. He looked forward and saw that Lutek, who was readying the camera to take the photo, had a furious expression. They heard the snap of the shutter and this time, Pawel felt his hand touching the hand of Helena. It felt weird, like an electric discharge. He looked at Helena immediately, but she smiled, looking at the lens as if she had not noticed anything. That exact moment was captured in the photograph that supposedly did not show up. Yet the bastard had simply taken his time toying with how to set up the camera so that he could crop the picture as he wanted. Only the hand of Pawel did he fail to cut, perhaps because he was afraid doing so would damage Helena. Only now the cat got out of the bag, after so many years and in addition, by chance. He was angry with Ludwik but at the same time, he wanted to laugh. It reminded him of a joke he had read somewhere on the internet:

"Tell me something that will make me joyful and sad at the same time," asked the husband.

"You have the longest dick of all of your friends," the wife replied."

He laughed aloud until someone stopped and stared at him in surprise. All right, the Siwucha working well.

The string of cars moving slowly through Krakowskie Przedmiescie Avenue drew his attention. What kind of cars did they drive now in Warsaw? Where had the Warszawas, Syrenas and Trabants gone? And where were the small Maluch Fiats?

The more questions he asked himself, the more he realized that he had a screw loose in his head and he decided it was better going back to the hotel and sleep off this Siwucha stuff.

***

Prom.

That was the first time Pawel felt the gaze of Medusa.

It took place in a large, decorated hall, the tables laden with snacks and glasses of wine.

The prom is not a normal school party. The difference is huge, groundbreaking. For the first time, you can officially have a drink and smoke cigarette in the open, not in the washroom. You can ask to dance with the young biology teacher. You can smash the face of the math teacher who was unjust to you... No, not that last one, although it would have been nice to try.

They danced to the music of some little-known local rock band, drank much, smoked and increasingly soiled the toilet, which was characteristic for the majority of proms. The more fan there was to be had, the dirtier the toilet became (at least, the one for men). They danced hot pieces in groups, romantic stuff in pairs. Lutek kept asking Helena to dance. Each time, she replied that she was tired, but when the band started playing "Love Me Tender", a favorite tune of Pawel, she did not refuse him. They danced in the twilight huddled together, more and more lost in the romantic melody, until blue sparks began to jump between their bodies, and the whole room blurred into one gray background all dotted with the red glints of cigarettes. And then, in the mirror that occupied the entire wall, Pawel saw in the crowd the face of Lutek, his eyes like Medusa's. They were sharp, stabbing him as dagger-like rays, which reflected off the glass panes straight at him. "Luckily, that's in a mirror" - he thought, uneasy. Yet at the same time, he was surprised to feel the satisfaction that Helena preferred him, not this pompous guy who always seemed to know everything better.

They danced a few more pieces glued to each other, surrounded by the blue, romantic cloud, which as a shield protected them from Lutek's deadly gaze. When finally they returned to their table, Lutek regained his philosopher's eyes, whereas he and Helena felt a kind of strange. He especially. Helena was dreamy and absent while he was seized by some peculiar anxiety, enjoyable in the beginning, then growing less and less, maybe because his balls had started to hurt and he had no idea what could be done about it.

He walked Helena home after the celebration. Before parting, they kissed, but not seriously, rather more to see how it would feel, how it would work. And it turned out that it worked better than he expected because his ornaments ached again. Shit. Girls do not have such problems?

There were also a few private parties before graduation. It happened sometimes that one of them had his or her "old folks" traveling and they had a "free place". Never, of course, was such an opportunity wasted. They put on some records, gave out some wine and the fun was on. But all this was not serious then, just a child's play. Sometimes, they managed to persuade one of the girls or two to undress so that she was only in her bra, but generally, nothing more occurred than embracing and caressing during a dance or on the couch.

Those who had big mouths bragged, of course, about how many girls they had already been with, but no one ever treated them seriously. No one perhaps, with the exception of one guy, the philosopher. He somehow was never able to take a joke and certainly not one associated with Helena. He and Pawel were still close classmates, friends even, but as soon as Helena showed up on the horizon, Lutek immediately stiffened, throwing a hostile look at him. He, for his part, played the game coolly and felt indescribable satisfaction whenever he managed to drive Lutek crazy.

***

Paul took out from a plastic bag a bottle of Siwucha and put it on the table.

Ludwik smiled like a horse at the sight of a sugar cube and went to the kitchen for glasses.

Paul looked around. Not a trace of the photograph in the wooden frame on the table or anywhere nearby.

"Is it possible that this man was once married?" he thought, still looking around the room. No trace of women, even women from the past remained, like a vase for flowers or some hand-made napkin, anything of the sort. Then again, perhaps such great sorrow smashed his heart after the loss of his beloved wife that he had removed from his view all traces of her? With a philosopher, anything was possible.

Ludwik came back from the kitchen with two glasses. Paul put on the table the prints of the stock charts made on the hotel printer.

"Well, this is what I needed," muttered Ludwik after reviewing the charts one by one. "Today I will start to analyze it."

"Technical analysis or analysis using the tenets of Socrates?" Paul teased with a smirk.

"Neither. The Ludwik's analysis. I've done preliminary research and roughly understand the market situation. Generally, all coincide with what you said last time. The situation is clear. The great road roller is getting closer and closer to the edge, and now it has come too close to it to stop. What is beyond this edge? Maybe a small hole. Maybe a precipice. We do not know, but we'll find it out, and soon."

"Are you sure you are not overreacting? I read yesterday in the Washington Post that we just come out of the hole. They have some good financial analysts over there."

Ludwik poured the Siwucha, a pleased expression on his face as he watched the murky liquid fill his glass.

"He's predicting" thought Paul. He knew that some could tell the future with coffee grounds or tea leaves, but with booze? About this he had never heard. They drank.

"Newspapers? TV?" Ludwik spoke." There is a single term for them all in English, which you certainly know very well: "Bullshit". We live in an age ruled by money. All media are controlled by the corporations to whom they belong, and in turn, by those that finance them. You do not even need a philosopher to understand that. But I have to convince you that a good philosopher can predict the movements of the stock exchange, if only he wants to. Of course he can. You just have to understand that this will have a purely rhetorical meaning. I do not run a financial consultation firm. In your doings, your own brains should guide you."

They drank the next puppy glass.

Ludwik was getting more and more passionate about his theory. He obviously swallowed a bug. Pawel never had any doubt about his extraordinary talents. The real challenge was to persuade him to do something. Once his feathers had been ruffled, he did not rest until he had proved his case.

"When we meet next time, I will present you with my charts." Ludwik went on. "For now, based on what I can smell, I can assure you that there is no possibility of a swift exit from the hole. Do not believe in that crap. The stocks will, of course, move up and down, but a serious dip is still ahead of us. Your Citi Bank is not interesting, too stable for now. Much more interesting is the other bank, Goldman Sachs. They are extremely strong. Can you believe that US Secretary of the Treasury was before the CEO of Goldman Sachs? Do you know what that means? Other banks will fall, but this will go up a little, and it's probably soon, in two or three days. Bring me the weekly chart of Goldman Sachs please. And another one, that of Lehman Brothers bank. They may be a surprise."

Paul promised to bring the two graphs. They drank again, silent for a while.

"How did she die?" Pawel asked suddenly.

Ludwik stopped and stared at the wall somewhere over the head of Pawel.

"Just died, that's it," he said finally.

Pawel knew that nothing more could be drawn from him for now. Besides, he didn't like to be intrusive. They decided the date for next week's meeting.

On his way back, Pawel traversed the same route as before. He was not surprised anymore by seeing western cars on the streets of Warsaw. More and more of Pawel he discovered in himself, less and less of Paul.

The next day, he bought by Internet sizable stake in Goldman Sachs. "Let's see what happens, " he thought. "What will come of the first attempt."

He did not believe in the ability of a philosopher, but he believed in the possibility of Ludwik. This guy always managed to achieve what he was aiming for. Or at least, he had so far. For instance, with Helena, she seemed once to be unattainable for Ludwik. But as it turned out, that was for a limited time only. Finally, he got her also, the stubborn dude.

As he walked, he could not help but wonder.

How did he do it?

***

It was their last private party.

Helena was set to start her studies at the Academy of Dramatic Arts, Pawel at the Politechnica of Warsaw and Lutek - everybody knew where he was going. They met this time at the place of Helena, a big, nice apartment on Avenue Ujazdowskie. Her parents were out of Warsaw so she promised to throw a fantastic party. And it was fantastic. They drank wine, listened to their favorite music and danced. Sometime around midnight, when they had all consumed enough alcohol to put them in a state of sweet oblivion, Helena pulled the sleeve of Pawel:

"Come on, it's our song." With the notes of "Love me tender" drifting in the background, they started dancing and Elvis' voice, soft as velvet, made them both float in the air as they swayed to the rhythm of the melody without thinking about anything real. Nothing else mattered. Only the two of them existed, lost in some far-off place, thinking the melody would never end. It did end however, and as soon as it did, Helena pulled Pawel towards her bedroom. When they were inside, she locked the door.

She let him undress her and they plunged into this new game, so far reserved only for the adult world, the world in which they found themselves suddenly in without the warning. That evening, Helena ceased to be a virgin and Pawel, though it was not his first time, felt that this time was not the same as before. It was something more, something more serious.

"I've been wanting this for so long and it finally happened," Helena said later. "I wanted to do it with you because if you were not here, I'd have to opt for this bloated crocodile, Ludwik. I do not know how I could survive it. He would probably consider the whole night how he should remove my bra in the most logical way."

When they came out of the bedroom, the gaze of Pawel fell on the mirror hanging in the hall. It hung on the opposite wall of Helena's bedroom and at that moment, exposed the crowd dancing in the living room in a cloud of blue vapour of cigarette smoke to the tune of Roy Orbison's "Pretty Woman", and that was when Pawel saw the eyes of Medusa for the second time in his life.

Lutek immediately realized what had happened. In those piercing daggers of his pupils reflected from the crystal glass, Pawel saw all the hatred which could be unloaded with one glance. He tried to withstand it for a moment. After all, why should he feel guilty? He didn't steal anything. It was Helena who decided what she wanted, and she chose him for it.

And then, something strange happened. The mirror cracked with a piercing sound under this gaze, not shattering into small pieces as sometimes mirrors do, just snapped with one thin, diagonal line crossing through the face of Lutek, dividing it into two unequal parts. It seemed that no one else noticed it, though. Only two of them.

Everybody had guessed what had happened in the bedroom. Such things happened sometimes at parties like this and they had learned to recognize from the faces returning from hiding, who today lost his or her virginity. They all watched him and Helena with a mixture of discretion and envy, while the eyes of Ludwik become neutral again. He returned to his previous discussion on the superiority of university study over technical courses and no one but Pawel knew what was going on inside his soul.

***

Rumor spread that the bank Goldman Sachs received permission to change its profile.

From an investment bank, it became a financial holding institution, greatly increasing its features and importance. Its shares on the New York Stock Exchange jumped in three days. Pawel earned during that time about 50 thousand dollars and immediately sold the shares.

"This guy really is a genius" he thought, going into the next meeting. "Either that, or he's a complete lunatic. To such a punk, different things could come by chance."

Ludwik was happy as usual at the sight of the Siwucha bottle and immediately went to the kitchen to fetch glasses.

"Well, let's see what you brought here," said he, spreading the graphs Pawel had brought on the table. He was muttering something under his breath as he studied the papers intently, hovering over them. Then, he finally straightened.

"All correct," he announced happily. "You have to admit that my predictions have proven themselves."

"It could be a coincidence," objected Pawel. "Something that only happens once does not mean anything."

"Of course, it will be more than once. I promised you that."

"I made a lot of money on your predictions and I'd be happy to share it with you."

"Are you crazy?" Ludwik exclaimed indignantly. "You do not think that I'm doing this for the money, do you? I haven't fallen so low yet, and I hope it will never happen."

"Listen. After all, you like this Siwucha. If you had money, you could buy a whole box of it. You could even buy ten boxes, or as much as you want."

Ludwik gave him a pitiful look.

"Forgive me, but your mind must have become really primitive while you were on those platforms. You have ceased to understand how the brain works. If I had so much booze, I could not look at it. You know the old saying that money does not bring happiness. Putting at your fingertips everything you ever dreamed of only deprives you of these dreams at the same time. In the end, you lose completely the desire to dream and to live and you die. I know a lot of such cases."

Pawel had to admit Ludwik had a point. He also knew such cases.

"Have a look at my charts now," said Ludwik spreading on the table his own papers.

Aside from the black printed curve of Standard and Poor's stock exchange index, three others lines were drawn with different colored pencils: blue, red and green.

"What are those?" Pawel asked curiously.

"Stock market exchange rates are the results of the transactions of purchase and sale entered into by individual investors, banks and various financial institutions such as hedge funds which in recent years have multiplied a dime a dozen. Does that sound right?"

"Exactly."

"Added to this is the manipulation of the Federal Reserve in the form of printing new money and lending it to the U.S. government and the government finally juggling the level of the interest rates of bank loans and taxes, right?"

"That's right. How do you know all this?"

"Internet cafe. I forced myself to go through a little bit of research you see, to prove to you the superiority of philosophy over the other sciences, even specialized ones."

"So far, there's not too much philosophy in it."

"Wait, this is just the beginning. Transactions are executed by a lot of individual human beings, which together form a common mechanism that governs the movements of the stock exchange, isn't that right?"

"Exactly. Jesse Livermore himself couldn't express it much better."

"You see! And what governs the decisions of these bodies? Two emotions. Greed and fear. They are also the principles enunciated by this guy Livermore. And here we begin with psychology and philosophy. The blue line is the curve of greed described across the chart of Standard and Poor's 500 index. And the red curve is the panic line, the curve of fear."

"And the green one?"

"Green? This line is the most important. It is the output line of blue and red, or the trend curve of Ludwik." In his voice could be heard the sounds of fanfare. "Now you see what happens?"

"I see only that your chart is very similar to the curve of the S & P 500."

"Similar? Almost exact copy of it. And this "almost" is the key here. Look closely. My line goes clearly a little ahead of the index chart! The rapid changes in the exchange rate on the line of Ludwik are those called by Livermore as "pivotal points" and as you see they always precede the changes in the direction you can see on the chart of the S & P 500."

"I agree, but then, everyone can draw lines on any chart so, that such changes happen in the desired locations."

At this point, Pawel regretted what he said. Ludwik looked at him with a mixture of pity and contempt as a rich man looking at a beggar before throwing a penny into his hat. He put a piece of parchment in front of Pawel.

"Here, on tracing paper, I scratched my curves before the real time, exactly in the same scale as on the graph you brought. And then I copied them exactly on your printout. Do you understand now what you have in front of you, you small-brained animal?"

Indeed, it was hard to believe it. For a moment, Pawel was so impressed he lost his capacity for speech.

"See what's going on here? We just crossed the next pivotal point. On the stock chart, it is not seen yet, but on the curve of Ludwik, the line turns sharply down and starts to drop like a stone. Well done, you sold the bank shares, you could lose a lot." He chuckled happily. "Watch out. Now, it will probably be very hot in the financial market."

"How so?" asked Paul in disbelief. "I thought everything was just starting to go up. How is this possible?"

"You read the papers again? I warned you before about that. They manipulate the human masses like a herd of sheep. Anyway, read if you must, but at least do not believe them."

"And on what basis do you draw your lines of greed and fear?"

Ludwik thought for a moment.

"Those are investor sentiment lines. Maybe I'll tell you about them next time when you've been convinced of their validity."

***

Pawel left the apartment of Ludwik well impressed. He walked slowly through the streets and thought.

If the minds of investors were governed by fear and greed, how come Ludwik could capture the feelings of thousands, if not millions of people?

He walked just along the Ujazdowskie Avenue until he stopped unconsciously in front of a gate that looked familiar from years ago. Walls of hewn stone and the frowning faces of gargoyles stood on either side of the entrance.

Yes, Helena lived here once. He wondered if she still had her celadon Goplana bike?

"Oh, what am I fucking going on about?" he chided himself silently. Helena was now dead. He looked at the gate again and moved on.

The decision was made. The New York Stock Exchange opens at 9:30 am Atlantic Time, which is about 3:30 past midnight in Warsaw. He set the alarm clock and bought some shorts of Lehman Brothers. This bank was mentioned recently by Ludwik. If this time also, Ludwik's prediction would come true, it would mean that this crazy guy was a genius. At any rate, he would find it out. Buying shorts is actually a reverse transaction, wherein money is made when the relevant company's stock goes down. And this exact operation is indeed not buying, but selling borrowed shares. When they go down, you must simply buy them back. Simple as pie, right? One important detail: they must go down. If it becomes the opposite, then it's a flop. Well, he wondered what was going to happen tomorrow.

It turned out that the alarm was not necessary for him, as he could not sleep anyway. He made one of the biggest investments in his life before the morning and after that fell into a heavy, restless sleep.

***

Yes, it was their last school party. Their whole pack soon spread out. They met new people. New friends appeared from new places. Studies took most of their time. Those who went to work immediately fell into another vortex of life, not to mention those who got married. They simply sank into the ground.

Pawel tried repeatedly to meet with Helena. Once, he even "accidentally" ran into her while for the twelfth time walking near her home. After a brief conversation about nothing in particular, she said she was in a hurry, deftly turned her face to the side before he could kiss her goodbye and then flew away into the depths of her staircase. During one of these walks, he met Ludwik, who also passed there "accidentally". They went together for a beer, but not one word out of their mouths fell about Helena. The issue was a "taboo" between them. There were not too many phones at that time in Warsaw, probably less than before the war. The news about the fate of common friends reached them sporadically, mainly through the mouths of people they accidentally met. That was just the way Pawel learned that Helena was tied up with one well-known actor and teacher at the Academy of Dramatic Arts and it was how he learned that upon her graduation, she also became an actress, though her roles were rather mediocre and rarely was she shown on the screen. She walked away from the life of Pawel, but left a painful sore in his heart. Whenever he saw her lover and later on, her husband, on the screens, immediately over his head flew a sweet thought: "I had her first, not you clown, and maybe even you don't know it." After that, he always felt better. It worked like a charm. Later, news reached him that they split. The actor's attention went to another female student and Helena was left alone. Perhaps that was the moment Ludwik acted. The whole time, he was lying in wait across the doorstep of her home and he must have grabbed her with his claws while she was abandoned and helpless. Pawel at that time became Paul, and slowly learned how to drill holes in the rocky bottom of the sea, so he knew nothing about it, but it all could very well have happened this way. Why not? Eh, life is life...

***

Within five days, the shares of Lehman Brothers fell by 75 percent. Hard to believe. The money Pawel earned by buying shorts made him again a wealthy man. Going to Ludwik's apartment for the next visit, he bought two bottles of Siwucha. "He deserves it" thought he with enthusiasm. "Whatever he is, he has a head on his neck. I have to admit it."

Pawel even began to wonder if the University of Warsaw gave summary courses of philosophy for adults, or maybe a streamlined program for retirees, or even some basic training for amateur philosophers.

Ludwik opened the door in an old, tattered gown, his face heavily ragged. He was unshaven. At the sight of vodka, his expression cheered as usual.

"I see that you did well." he creaked with a shabby voice.

"I did great," Pawel corrected. "I'd like to renew the proposal of distribution of profits."

Ludwik just waved his hand at the unworthy deal.

"That's good enough for me," he said, pointing to one of the bottles Pawel had brought. (He had already opened it even before bringing glasses from the kitchen.)

"He is completely dry," thought Paul. "How could she have agreed to be married to such a drunk? Or maybe he started drinking after her death?"

Ludwik came back from the kitchen and immediately poured Siwucha into their glasses.

"Well, cheers!" he said, and drank everything to the last drop.

"Have you prepared a Ludwik's curve for today?" Pawel inquired anxiously.

"Take it easy, buddy. Take it easy. First, the medication. Drink it or you will lose your turn."

Pawel forced himself to drink a few sips. His throat was constricted due to his excitement, making swallowing difficult.

Ludwik poured another round.

"The first was for Socrates, now for his student, Plato!" he pronounced as he raised his glass in a toast, now with a more normal voice. "Just do not tell me you won't drink for him!"

Pawel forced himself again. This time, it went a little better.

Ludwik quickly regained his usual form. He pulled out of the dresser drawer a roll of paper and threw it on the table. Pawel carefully studied the graph.

"Again, going down?" he pointed at the green line on it with an expression of amazement.

"As you can see, the Ludwik's curve does not lie. It promises to take another leap down. And no wonder. From your greed, you created the crisis. There may be even few more such jumps down."

"After all, banks are completely at the bottom. They cannot go lower."

"Of course they may. In this business, the word 'cannot' does not exist."

"Could you tell me in the end where you take these indicators, you know, those you mentioned - greed and fear?"

Ludwik poured again. He was now in an excellent mood.

"I promised you that I'd tell you, so I will. But it will be of no use to you. You are not a philosopher."

They drank again. Pawel's throat started to function normally.

"You see, I know English quite well. While working at the University, I often used this language in communication with other universities, especially in the U.S. Even now, I read some magazines every now and then, especially if something falls into my field of interest."

"But you told me you do not believe the newspapers."

"And I do not. I do not draw my news from the newspapers, but from the Internet."

"Do you think the Internet does not lie?"

"Of course, it does, just like a newspaper. The difference is that on the Internet, everyone has the right to express himself. This is the genius of this invention. There, apart from the official websites of various newspapers and financial institutions, there are various sites of blogs from different domains of life. When you sign up to any of these sites, such as "Twitter", you will find financial blogs on the economy and U.S. stock exchanges without any problem. There, each investor can write what he thinks about this subject and can exchange opinions with the others, especially regarding what in consequence decides the movements of the stock exchange".

Pawel tried to grasp the logic of this reasoning, which was needed for this next round.

"If they know which way the stock market will go, why announce it on the blogs?"

This time Ludwik was upset a little.

"Who said they know?" he screamed and out of nervousness, poured another round. "They know shit! I told you that I need only their opinion as indicators for my curve."

"Brilliant and simple at the same time" Paul said appreciatively. "And you convinced me that it really works. There is only one thing I don't understand. It seems to me that everyone, the average mortal can make such an analysis. What role does philosophy play here?"

"Oh no, not a mere mortal can do this. Not even a mediocre philosopher or psychologist. You see, because these blogs are so popular, in addition to investors, there is on them a huge amount of paid scums. They call them colloquially as "bashers" and are paid by various institutions to spread false information about companies to pump their stock up or down. There is a huge amount of them and if you take their voices into account, your rates will not have anything to do with the truth. I learned to recognize them correctly and that's why a good philosopher is needed here. Not just any. The only one who has reached the magic level "I know that I know nothing" is able to do this."

Pawel listened, stunned. Here lay before him on the doorstep the key to the greatest treasure in the world, but it was barred from him with an armored glass pane. At the same time, here, in his torn dressing gown sits an unshaven dude, crossing that pane both ways without effort, and he does not care for it at all. Suddenly, he felt like a prisoner walking in the tiny courtyard of the prison, watching with envy an ordinary fly passing from one side of high wall to the other, completely indifferent of which side of the wall it was sitting on.

"You are really brilliant," he said honestly. "I'm starting to actually believe in the superiority of philosophy over all the teachings of the world. It is really amazing."

"Your next visit will be the last," said Ludwik. "If you will be convinced ultimately, you have to consider taking a certain step."

"What is it?"

Ludwik walked over to the dresser. For a moment, he rummaged through one of the drawers, then pulled out an object wrapped in old pajamas. Pawel watched him curiously. Once the fabric had been unwound, it turned out that what was inside was the alabaster bust of a bearded man with a high forehead on a pedestal of some darker stone.

"Who is the guy?" asked Pawel, intrigued. "Is he your master, Socrates?"

"You guessed it, man. You're making progress. Thank you for not confusing him with Jessie Livermore. Well, you have to promise me that if, during the next time I see you, you become completely satisfied with the outcome of my analysis, you will execute a dignity kiss on his forehead and repeat the same thing about philosophy that you just said to me. I want him to hear it."

Pawel promised eagerly. Ludwik carefully set down the bust of the famous philosopher in the middle of the table and went to the kitchen for a moment. He returned a third time with a third glass, which he set directly in front of the master. It was necessary to open the second bottle. They drank without hors d'oeuvres for the health of Socrates and Plato and other philosophers that Pawel did not even know existed.

"Why do you keep it in a drawer?" asked he with slightly tangled and longer words.

"When I broke up with science, I felt unworthy of him. He fought to the end for the matter in which he believed. He sacrificed his life for his ideas, although he was offered an escape. I escaped, although I could fight. You gave me my last chance, so he goes back to his old place. Now I can look directly into his eyes."

***

When Pawel found himself on the street, it turned out that someone rearranged all the flagstones and walking on them became quite difficult. He needed some time to get used to a new way of stepping so that his head was as high as possible at the top of his body. After passing a few blocks, his sense of balance had somehow returned. "I wonder if that Socrates guy also drank Siwucha" - he wondered silently, but there was just nobody around to inquire. Suddenly, he noticed a familiar place. Once again, he stood before the gate with gargoyles.

"What if I go inside, only to see the yard? It will be interesting to see how it has changed" he thought.

The yard had not changed, at least, not too much. "Wait, how was it again? You turn out of the gate then to the right, then up the stairs to the second floor. No, I will not go there yet. What the hell? After all, she is not there anymore... Well, yes, but at least. I see the door. I wonder if the doors are still the same" - he thought chaotically while holding on to the wooden railing.

He stood before the door panting a little, waiting for his breathing to return to normal.

"Not the best thing to do in my condition. It's only the second floor and I'm like this. I will need to work on myself..."

Suddenly, from behind the door, he heard the music. He could not help putting his ear to the door frame.

"Love me tender, love me true,

All my dreams fulfill

For my darlin' I love you

And I always will... "

He heard the bell. At the same time, he noticed that his finger was on a white button, pressing it firmly. He jumped from the door. What the hell was he doing? And what should he do now? Run away? Too late. He heard footsteps and then the door opened slowly.

Helena stood in the doorway, staring at him without a word. She was not even shocked at seeing him, just maybe a little surprised.

"Finally, you showed up," she said after a while. "I was curious if you would remember me. I must admit to you that I was even kind of waiting."

"What? Did you know that I had returned?"

"Of course. Ludwik told me about it. He said, you didn't even ask about me." She opened the door wider. "Come in. You look as though you are stuck to the doormat."

Pawel tried to take a step forward, which was not an easy matter since his legs were suddenly so stiff in the knees.

Helena looked at him attentively and laughed.

"You've been at Ludwik's place again, haven't you? It's his fault you're this way? Siwucha?"

Pawel nodded without saying a word.

"Sit down here on the couch. I'll just make you a strong tea. It will help you a little."

He kept his eyes on her as she walked into the kitchen. No, she had not changed. The same blond hair, she had was pinned up high just as she used to wear it and she still had the same shapely figure and that beautiful face. How did she do it? Elvis finished his singing. Pawel reached clumsily for the turntable and pushed back the needle. It was, after all, still the same long-playing record. Something creaked, but Elvis obediently began to sing from the beginning.

"Remember this tune?" asked she as she placed a cup of tea before him. "This was our tune."

"How could I forget? After all, it was then... " He stopped abruptly, not knowing what to say next.

"That we loved each other," she finished the sentence for him. "Now, I think it was the most beautiful night of my life. All the rest, they were all mistakes and disappointments. I paid dearly for them."

"What about Ludwik? Why did you break up with him?"

"Break up? You don't believe that we ever were together, do you? We have seen each other sometimes, as friends from the old years. That was it. Anyway, I do not think that there is a woman who could live with such a freak under one roof."

Pawel sipped his tea, then began to laugh quietly, long and continuously, unable to stop. Once he had regained his composure, he apologized and said:

"And you know, that night years ago was also the most beautiful night of my life. I know this for sure, and tonight is probably the second."

They sat still for a long time, listening to Elvis and remembering those silly years when happiness leaked between their fingers like water, and they did not even try to tighten their fists to stop it until the water had escaped completely, leaking down to the last wet and happy drops.

Paul felt tired, damn tired. He stood up to say goodbye.

"Are you crazy?" she exclaimed indignantly. "I will not let you go in such a state. It is still the middle of the night. You can sleep until the morning right here on the couch, and in the morning, you go back to the hotel."

She kissed him good night on the cheek and disappeared into the bedroom.

"How does she manage to still stay so beautiful?" wondered Pawel as he stared at the closed white door.

***

In the early morning, the noise of the agitated street woke him up. Remembering where he was, he got up from the couch where he had fallen asleep in his suit, covered only with a blanket. He walked over to the mirror in the hallway, the same mirror that had burst then, under the killing effect of Lutek's gaze so that he could take a look at himself. The mirror was a whole piece now. It had surely been repaired. But he himself - was a ruin. "I cannot show her my face in such a state," he thought in panic. He fixed his hair up as best as he could then went on tiptoe to the bedroom door, slowly opening it.

On the bed, her back to the entrance, lay a woman no longer young. Heavily wisps of graying hair fell across her lean back, a back which twitched slightly from time to time. Was she crying?

Pawel closed the door as gently as he had opened it, walked past the hallway and slipped out into the stairwell.

***

The next three days were like a carousel. The stock exchange rates were bouncing around like mad. The Dow Jones plunged three, four or even five percent per day. Something like that Pawel had not yet seen.

Finally, when the price of the Lehman Brothers shares declined by another 95 percent, Pawel withdrew everything from the market. He had earned enough on his shorts. He felt obscenely rich. Going for the last visit to Ludwik's apartment, he took with him only one bottle of Siwucha. He did not want to commit the same mistake he made previously.

"Do you know what happened?" he asked when Ludwik came back from the kitchen with two glasses.

"I know," replied Ludwik. "Lehman announced that they have applied for bankruptcy protection. The bank is almost dying. Probably you earned a lot from it?"

"So, what's next? What will be next?"

"What do you mean what? You will kiss Socrates on the forehead and loudly declare that philosophy is the most important science in the world, to which all others are subordinate."

Pawel accomplished the request of the philosopher without a murmur of complaint.

"Did you not prepare a Ludwik's curve for today?" asked he with a tinge of disappointment as he gestured at the empty table.

"Why? It is no longer needed. My task is complete. I do not care about the rest."

"I am just wondering what will come next. If a bank like Lehman goes bankrupt, it will be a disaster."

"They will not go bankrupt. Be calm." Ludwik admonished him.

"What do you mean they won't go bankrupt? What are you talking about?" Pawel was amazed.

"Did Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac go bankrupt? The government practically bought them using taxpayers' money. And you see what just happened with AIG? Exactly the same. Yet the managers asked for huge bonuses. They proved to be too big to let them go bankrupt. And Lehman is even bigger. It is one of the oldest and most important U.S. banks. You will see what will happen in a few days. I do not know how to trade, I absolutely do not care. But if I were an investor, I would buy the shares of Lehman with all my existing money. Those will go up like crazy right after the government announces the bailout. The transaction of a lifetime. A second time will not happen."

He emptied the contents of his glass and went to the toilet, of course, not closing the door behind him. Pawel pondered deeply. What Ludwik had just said came as a surprise. He was going to withdraw himself completely from the market, but after what he had heard? Ludwik was a magician, and the magician a genius. That meant he certainly knew what was going to happen next. If anyone knew it, he would.

Should he buy a lot of Lehman shares as Ludwik had suggested just for the sport even? After all, he could win a lot of money and it was pushing right into his hands. Yes, he should, but it would be the last time. Really the last time. Definitely.

Then he looked for a second towards the hallway and froze in horror.

Through the half open door of the washroom, he saw a small mirror hanging on the wall. And in the mirror, he saw for the third time in his life the Medusa gaze. It lasted only a fraction of a second, but it was enough. He felt a trickle of cold sweat running down between his shoulder blades.

When Ludwik returned to the room, Pawel apologized to him and said he had to get back to his hotel because he did not feel very well. Ludwik did not try to stop him.

"Only once in a lifetime," he muttered only to himself thoughtfully before he said goodbye. Then they arranged for the next meeting, though neither of them sounded serious about it. Maybe they both felt that they would never meet again?

***

He roamed the streets and tried to calm his rickety nerves. What the hell had happened to Ludwik? Why the sudden hatred? Where had it come from? And then, a glaring idea came suddenly to his brain. He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and thoughtlessly allowed himself to be pushed aside by passers-by hurrying off somewhere.

He found out! Yes, Ludwik learned that Pawel had met Helena! That Pawel knew that Helena was alive! That she and Ludwik were never married. What a humiliation. But how could he have learned about it? How did it happen? Well, Helena said that they were in contact. And she had no reason to conceal the fact that Pawel had come to her place. Now, everything was clear. Pawel returned quickly to his hotel. Now, what he needed was some peace.

***

After two days, when he checked the web page of Yahoo Finance, big headlines screamed: "The Lehman Brothers bank went bankrupt". The share prices fell again by 75 percent to two cents per share. Trading was halted. Pawel sat in front of his laptop and felt like a big block of ice. Until yesterday, he had hesitated to buy these shares with everything he had. Until yesterday, the words of Ludwik rang in his ears: "Only once in a lifetime". He even put his finger on the button to press BUY, when once again the last glance of Medusa appeared before his eyes. He slammed the lid of the laptop and did not open it until now. Ludwik knew what would happen. When he had proved his point, when a defeated opponent had already executed a kiss on the forehead of Socrates, the time came to settle personal debts. Just by chance it did not work out, he underestimated the strength of his gaze.

Early in the evening, Pawel stood before the gate with gargoyles. He was dressed in a light suit that was appropriate for late summer and in his left hand, he held a large bouquet of flowers. Maybe he could still manage to make things right. Apparently, time could be unwound only if you really wanted it to. He ran lightly to the second floor, this time with no sign of fatigue. He pressed the buzzer.

She opened the door almost immediately, as if she had been waiting for him, young and beautiful as ever.

Upon seeing the flowers he had brought, she smiled.

"Enter, please," she invited. "I will put on our Elvis right away."

Back to ToC

Station Red Poppies

Sometimes, you wake up and the story you remember from your dream is so realistic that you are not quite sure if it was a dream or reality. It happens from time to time to everyone and that shocks nobody. But if inversely, some occurrences in your life become so dim and obscure that they could be a dream, then you hope you will wake up happy that it was only a nightmare.

So, better take life as it is. After all, what is the difference between a dream and real life if you cannot change either even just a bit?

***

When I finally found my compartment, it turned out that my window seat was already occupied. A pretty girl in a black dress decorated with red poppies sat on it, fanning her face with a newspaper folded in half.

"Oh, is this your place?" asked she, suddenly sensing my presence and perhaps, a bit of my hesitation. "Could I sit here for a while by the window? Somehow, I do not feel comfortable."

I agreed, of course, though I wondered for a moment, if she was not so pretty, would I also have agreed? I was not so sure about it. Here, in this train that went from Warsaw to Vienna, everyone was so nice and friendly. There were plenty of smiling faces while a few were a little mysterious, occasionally throwing furtive glances at their valises placed on the shelves. Their minds were absent. Probably, they were thinking that after crossing the Czech - Austrian border, they will be finally free and they were impatient to make the most of that freedom as soon as possible. In their minds, they were probably jumping and waving their arms, yelling: "Faster, faster. Hurry up. C'mon..."

How differently the same people would look like crowded to the limits in the coach of a passenger train from Koluszki to Warsaw for instance, exchanging hostile glances with one another. Strange, being close to someone should foster a sense of friendship. Inside the trains, however, the effect seems opposite.

I picked up my suitcase. It was not especially heavy. The heaviest burden were four bottles of export-quality Vodka Wyborowa wrapped in my personal garment for security reasons. I sat down at her place, luckily next to the door, and as befitted an elegant bachelor, immediately asked about her health, proposing even to open one of my four bottles in order to strengthen her fragile condition.

Iwona (as later turned out to be her name) politely refused while thanking me for the offer, but the man who sat opposite me said that why not? Even willingly, but only when the train started moving. We absolutely could not touch it before, because that would easily jinx our trip. That's when we found out that his name was Karolczak and that he was working on the railroad, and if anyone knew about trains, he did. He surely knew best about jinxes on a trip. The lady who was sitting beside him said that she was going to see her daughter, who was studying at the University of Vienna, and next to her sat a fat man. He looked like a butcher, but as it turned out, he was a professor. Opposite him sat a slimmer guy with a beard and glasses, which made him look like a professor while, in fact, he was only a butcher.

The lady who was going to see her daughter began to tell about how her girl dressed and what kind of car she drove. We all figured out from that what kind of university, she was studying at. And then, I said that I was going to visit Vienna because I had never been there and will be back in two weeks. Karolczak told me that as soon as the train started moving, he would explain where there was a camp for refugees, even though I did not ask about it, and the girl in the black dress with the red poppies on it said nothing, though she already looked much better. I started to wonder if she would let me go back to my place, but then I did not care too much for it because the very fact that she was sitting on my spot produced between us a connection, a thread of intimacy which was nice.

Then the train started and Karolczak looked at me meaningfully.

I took out only one bottle of Wyborowa and handed it to him, saying that I had not brought glasses. Now, the lady who was going to her daughter (Mrs. Wera turned out to be her name), took out of her bag a small box and opened it. Inside were six beautifully carved crystal glasses. She said she could lend them to us, but we had to be careful not to break them because they were a gift. So Karolczak poured and told us to call him Karol, because everybody called him that way and we drank for a happy journey. And then everyone was introduced, though I must have not been listening when the Butcher and the Professor were introduced, so those two names I never could remember.

Just then, the Professor asked if we had heard about the strike in Gdansk, but none of us had. Iwona, who looked quite better, probably because she also had a drink in spite of her prior refusal, although only half a glass, opened the paper which she had been using as a fan and said that in Warsaw Life, there was no mention of it. The Butcher added that he was not interested in politics. He was going to Vienna to work since the butcher stores in Poland were already empty. The government had sold everything possible to the Western banks in order to pay back its loan and now there was nothing left to trade. In Vienna, he was promised a good job in a meat warehouse, and when he will make some money in Vienna, he would return to Poland to open his own shop. Then everything would be better. The Professor did not approve of it. If the Poles would build the West, who would build Poland this time?

Well, I told him that I knew a little about building because I was a builder and in Poland, we built everything we could afford and we ran out of money. Who knew? Maybe we should tear down what we had built and return it to the Western banks as we had borrowed too much. They listened to me, all with reverence because they saw that I had three more bottles of vodka. However, I did not have the chance to touch those because when the first one became empty, the Butcher immediately pulled out his own bottle and Mrs. Wera found some Prince Polo wafers coated in chocolate. It got merrier and merrier until an old woman walking down the corridor peeked in for a small glass because as she said in her compartment, all wore lamentable faces and she feels alone and there was no one for her to have a drink with. She had a sparrow hawk nose with a wart and wire-rimmed glasses, which made her look exactly like Baba Yaga from the children's books. She was much more cheerful than Baba Yaga, though, that we immediately liked her, and after a while, even more because she said that she had with her an herbal homemade tincture that could treat all ailments and she would let us try it later. The Professor, however, said that he does not believe in any tincture. He was going to Vienna to meet academic biochemists and believed that the only true, approved medicine was effective and that home remedies were all based on medieval superstition. But we debated with him and gave him a thorough lecture until he felt insulted and drank two more rounds without a word. Butcher, on the other hand, become more talkative after a few rounds and he started to tell what they added to the sausages to make them heavier.

"I want to visit some museums and go to a concert of the Philharmonic Orchestra," Iwona suddenly said.

Normally, I would rather go to a rock concert than hear the Philharmonic Orchestra, but I found myself saying: "I'll go with you wherever you want. Just let me earn the money for the tickets."

After the next round of Wyborowa, all became even happier, and as the conductor came to check our tickets, he said that ours was the most cheerful compartment in the whole car and that he almost wanted to drink with us, but he shouldn't because he was on duty. After he left, Mrs. Wera started crying suddenly, saying that she was really going to Vienna to take her daughter back home to Warsaw before she became a real whore at this street university. Then, Professor asked Karol about the location of the refugee camp he was talking about. He did not want to know it for himself, rather he wanted to know as a tidbit of general information. Karol explained to him that the best way to learn was to go on Sunday to a Polish church. There, he would find out exactly everything he needed. Iwona kept silent, her head already rested on my shoulder. (I had exchanged places with Mrs. Wera to be close to her.) She was almost asleep even though she drank less than the others, and I was already pretty much in love with her.

I was staring at her knees when the compartment door opened and this witch with the sparrow hawk nose entered with her tincture for all ailments. Suddenly, it turned out that everyone had some ache somewhere. Even the Professor had to drink a shot, because although he did not believe in tinctures, he had to try, just for the sake of science. Then it was even more fun for a while, and later, it turned out that I had probably closed my eyes and drifted off without knowing because a sudden jerk woke me up. I sat up, deathly silence prevailing around me. When I looked outside the window, I saw that the train was at the platform of a small railway station and on the board attached to the wall of the building, I saw the inscription: STATION RED POPPIES.

***

No one knew why we stopped, but after some time, the door of our compartment opened and the conductor announced that there had been a mechanical failure and they had stopped here at a railway siding to check what happened. Clearly, there was going to be a delay. The train rolled slowly to the side track and after half an hour, it turned out that the failure was serious, so much so that they would have to ask for a second locomotive to be sent from Warsaw. In the meantime, the station building was equipped with toilets and we had to make the most of the situation.

Iwona and I went outside. It was night already, but a very clear one, so we decided to walk a little across the field to stretch our joints. Following the narrow lane around the station, we came to a gentle slope overgrown with weeds and wildflowers.

Suddenly, it became as clear as daytime, and then we saw a lot of red poppies in between the blades of grass. They stretched out their petals towards the light, probably thinking that the day had begun and watched us surprised. We walked to the top of the small hill and looked down at the fluffy carpet covering the meadow.

"Let's roll over?" suggested Iwona.

She did not even wait for my answer. She just lay down on the grass and began to roll down the slope, her dress that was also full of poppies merging with the meadow in a swirling cloud of flowers. I did the same thing, pursuing her until I caught her at the bottom. Then again we ran up to the top. We had to hold our hands to keep our balance since the meadow was still spinning around in our heads.

"And now, together," said Iwona.

We lay down on the grass sideways and rolled down the slope, embracing each other tight, first slowly, then faster and faster, and the scenery behind her face changed with every moment: meadow, sky, meadow, sky and so on without end. Along the way, we started to laugh at the same time and we could not stop laughing all the way down.

Once we stopped spinning among those poppies, I felt her hips against mine, spurring the beginning of what usually happens in such cases. We saw each our reflection in each other's eyes until they become hazy and we united with the meadow, completely lost in its rhythm, smell and color.

We lay still for some time, listening to the murmur of the grass above our heads as the breeze blew. Little by little, the stars lost their extraordinary clarity, the darkness spreading. Even the poppies, which had been tilted curiously over our faces, watching us, were closing up as they returned one by one to their interrupted sleep.

We rose from the grass and looked at each other.

"What happened?" asked Iwona.

"I'd like to know, too. Anyway, I'm not complaining. But next time, do not roll around in a meadow with a guy, because what happened can happen again."

"I am not complaining, as well. It was great."

Suddenly, she squeezed my hand.

"Our train!" she exclaimed.

I ran after her as fast as I could. What if the train had already been repaired? What if it left without us? We ran back the way we thought we came, but it was already dark and we could not really remember which way to go. We must have been nervous or maybe our heads got screwed around in our heads from rolling around in the poppies, because we failed to find not only the train, but also our poppy slope. We struggled through the thickets, walking for some time along the stream. It was getting darker and darker and I began to fear that we had crossed the Czech border accidentally. At any rate, we had to ask someone where the Station Red Poppies was located and we continued walking until finally, we saw the light.

It streamed through the open door of some small building, a hut rather, and as we approached cautiously, the door opened wider, as if inviting us inside. It was an old, abandoned hen house. Horizontal perches rose gradually on the rear wall and across it was a wooden table at which stood the old woman we knew from the train, pouring her herbal tincture into the crystal glasses of Mrs. Wera. Most places on the perches were already occupied. In the front row, we noticed all the friends from our compartment, some of them letting out a sigh of relief.

"Finally, here they are."

"I wonder what took them so long?" asked another.

"Can you not guess? See, she has a crumpled dress."

"And he has weeds in his hair, and in addition, his fly is open."

"Well, well. That's their private affairs. Just let them sign the attendance list and we can start."

Baba Yaga gave us two crystal glasses filled with the tincture.

"Drink it, children," she croaked. "Everyone has signed in already."

We drank \- it tasted good - then we took two seats next to each other on the nearest free perch. In the meantime, I turned to the wall and stealthily zipped myself up.

"Well, let's begin," the old woman crooned.

The lone light bulb hanging above the table on the wire was constantly twitching and in the shadow of its light, the old witch looked like a bald cock with a crooked nose and her wire-rimmed glasses emphasized her comical appearance even more. But nobody laughed or even was surprised. Everything seemed to be quite normal.

"We are here to decide something," continued the Rooster. "Why now? Because it is just now that they are starting the first strikes on the coast of the Baltic Sea. We do not know what will come of it, but we should strike while the iron is hot. We will not sit here folding our hands or twiddling our thumbs and allow this opportunity to slip between our fingers. We should regain power and rebuild our country!"

There was a sound of enthusiastic applause mixed with clucking. The old cock was right. He had said exactly what the vast majority of those present felt. Only the train conductor did not express enthusiasm. He had a sour face and immediately drew attention to himself.

"Maybe he is a member of the Communist Party?" someone whispered from the side.

"Yeah, you better keep an eye on him," someone else said also in a whisper.

"First, I think we should express our wholehearted support for those who are on strike," the cock crowed with fervor. "Who's for this motion and who's against?"

They were all cautiously for it. Only the conductor tried to protest, then he started slowly to move sideways, towards the door. It was quickly discovered however, and he was immediately tied with last year's straw, his conductor cap pulled over his head so firmly that he could not see or hear.

"What is wrong with the existing system?" the Rooster crowed again. "And why do we want to change it? Please, feel free to express yourself."

After a moment of silence, there was a collective cluck.

"Not all at once," reminded the Rooster. "Please speak one at a time."

First perked up Karolczak, whom they called Karol.

"I 'm working on the railroad, like that one," he pointed with disgust to the tied conductor. "And for two years, I did not receive a raise, yet he probably got one." Again, he pointed to the man slumped against the wall.

"Everything is more expensive. A pound of ham already costs a hundred zlotys and the ordinary sausage, they have made into some kind of minced meat so they could put more paper and bones into it. This one here... " this time, Karol pointed to the Butcher, "he admitted to it. Those at the top, they have their special shops, and no one even knows how much they earn."

"I never said anything against our system," yelled the Professor who looked like a butcher. (You can see that I was not the only one mixing up the two.) "But now, I have something to say. We are missing freedom of speech! Freedom of conscience! I had once a student, a lazy nitwit and a dunce. And his father called me to his office in the Committee of the Communist Party and said that if his son will not make it to the next year, I would never forget it. And such duffers rule our country."

Then the Butcher, who looked like a professor jumped to his feet and started screaming: "Yes, I was putting things into the sausage. I was putting paper too, and I will do it again, because the others did, and whoever did not do it would be kaput. If you entered the hen house, you would cackle like..." He looked around and did not finish, simply sitting down.

"And I demand the girls to be paid better than now," Mrs. Wera interjected. "I do not want my daughter to have to travel so far just to earn some money. What's the matter? Why should a girl from a good family have to rush around the world to meet decent customers? In her own city, she would be under the eye of her mother, but in our city, all men are bums. Everyone wants to get something for free."

All the others started to complain at the same time and each had something clever to say, so in the end, Rooster stopped the random chatter and exclaimed:

"Requests for proposals now, please."

For this, the Professor again spoke up and offered to set up a new political party, which would henceforth rule the country in a democratic way. And it had to be called the Democratic Party. That was clear. And that anyone, for example, him, could stand at the head of the party, of course, provided that the party found a financial sponsor because otherwise, it would not be able to move ahead.

Only then did we notice two men sitting on chairs against the wall behind the table. They both had black suits and hats and leather briefcases on their laps - the diplomats for sure.

"And what would be the program of this party?" asked one of them.

"The program would be very simple," Professor answered. "Stick with the West and America. I will introduce a democratic system of government, like that in western countries. There will be freedom of speech and of the press. And all the commies will go to jail."

Immediately, several people displaced themselves on their perches and moved in his direction as a sign of support.

One of the men sitting against the wall opened the briefcase lying on his lap, pulled out a wad of bills and laid it on the edge of the table in front of the Professor. Immediately, a larger group of train passengers shifted in the direction of Professor.

"And I do not agree!" the Butcher cried indignantly. "We have to stick with the Russians because they are hungry forever. Everything can be sold to them. And in America, Polish ham is in every store and what do we get from this? Peanuts. I suggest another party, the Social - Democratic Party ruled by democracy also, but not breaking up with the Eastern bloc. That will be our program."

The second of the men in black suits reached into his briefcase and a second stack of banknotes landed on the table, in front of the Butcher this time. The large group of listeners took perches near their new leader.

Then Karolczak, whom they called Karol, became really furious. He jumped on the foot of the roost on which he was sitting and waving his arms, cried aloud:

"And I am not asked for an opinion? I know the best because I work on the railways and railwaymen know, maybe with the exception of that one there... - He pointed again to the wall. - What are you guys here fucking around with? What kind of worms has eaten your brains out? Trust in the West? Stay with the East? What nonsense. We need to maintain relations with these and those. Poland as a country should be open in all directions, be modern and cosmopolitan. End the old complexes. End reopening those old wounds. There will be a new era of open borders and broad horizons. Our democracy will be based on genuine political dialogue with all our neighbours, regardless of language or geographical location."

This time the two gentlemen at the wall reached for their cases and on the middle of the wooden table, the third pile of bills was erected, not smaller than the neighbouring two. The other participants of the meeting encircled Karolczak who looked around the hen house with a proud gaze.

Iwona and me, we found ourselves at the very end of the perch and the place next to us was completely deserted.

"And what about you?" asked the Professor, astonished. "For what kind of party do you vote?"

"Me?" I started speaking uncertainly. "I...I...For none."

"How so?" the Butcher exclaimed. "Your homeland is in need and you do nothing? And where is the determined attitude of a good citizen? Please join either party. You have the right to whichever you want. From now on, there is full democracy. There is no compulsion. The old days are gone. Go ahead and choose your side."

"But I really prefer not to. When I was little, I was a member of the scouts organization, but I was thrown out for lack of subordination and since then I have not been interested in organizations. And politics does not interest me at all."

"Do you know that you can be accused of anarchism? Do you realize the seriousness of the situation in which you put yourself?" the Butcher asked nervously.

"And you?" the Professor turned towards Iwona. "What party are you going to choose?"

"None, like him," Iwona moved closer to me as a sign of solidarity.

General movement could be seen in the hen house. Some were condescendingly in favor of our stand, others not really. There were also some who began to send us downright hostile glances.

Then, Karolczak stepped back into the action. He remembered probably the remaining three bottles of Wyborowa resting in my suitcase and decided to rescue us from oppression.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen. The political ignorance comes out of you all. In any democratic system, there is a place for independents. Just think, what would democracy be if everyone had to belong to the party? That would be no democracy at all but an incorporated dictatorship. It will not be like that here. Let those two remain as non-partisan citizens. Those are also needed. Indeed, if such citizens are not there, who will be working for the prosperity of our country?"

The last question was an argument of irrefutable logic. All present began to look at us with greater interest. A sort of respect could be even noticed in their glances.

"But there are only two of them," someone suddenly said doubtfully.

And again there was silence. This time, the problem was more serious.

Finally, Karolczak once again showed a flash of his extraordinary intelligence.

"We have to marry them!" cried he with relief. "Let them multiply, and then there will be more of working class. It even seems that they have already begun. Is there a priest in the room?"

There was no clergyman around, but there happened to be a retired City Hall judge. It was decided that with the lack of a priest, he was enough. None of us were asked for our opinion. They put us in front of the table from which all the money had disappeared in the meantime into the pockets of the new party leaders and the judge began to blab the lines stored in his memory. The problem occurred when the rings were needed, but the cock immediately produced two thin bracelets with a straw and they fulfilled this role. After a few minutes, we were husband and wife. The sacramental "yes" went so smoothly over my throat that I almost did not notice it and our hot kiss sparked a storm of applause.

The old cock, which was the secretary of the meeting jotted down every word we said, which he enrolled in the minutes of the meeting. (By the way, without asking anyone 's permission, he signed himself up for all three parties at the same time.) He called ours the first wedding in a free country and so everyone must celebrate. Immediately, he began to fill the crystal glasses of Mrs. Wera with his herbal tincture. Iwona and me, we drank first, and then the rest of the guests gathered, with the exception of the two men in black suits who had somehow left unnoticed. Then the train conductor was freed, as everything has already been decided, and he could hear nothing anyway. The tincture of Baba Yaga began to work immediately and after just a minute, I felt almost invincible drowsiness.

***

Later, I vaguely remembered passing the Polish and Czech border and then the Austrian as well. I slept like a log until the train finally stopped at the Vienna train station.

Each of the passengers grabbed his suitcase and not looking at the others, sailed along with the crowd along the platform, where they reunited with a slow stream of humans laden with suitcases, rhythmically shuffling towards the exit above which hung the sign: AUSGANG.

Iwona and me, we left the car last. Neither she was in no hurry nor me. We stood on the deserted platform looking at each other intently.

"Well, what now?" I asked her. "Is no one waiting for you?"

"Not really."

"Yeah. Me neither. What do you want to do?"

"Me? Stupid question. We're going to look for a place to stay."

"We? How come we? Together?"

"Of course. After all, we're married."

"You, too? You had a dream that we were married?"

"It was not a dream. Look at your hand."

I quickly rolled up the right sleeve of my shirt. I had on my wrist a straw bracelet neatly braided by the old rooster. Iwona showed me hers, also on the right hand.

I stood there with my mouth open in surprise and for a moment, I did not know what to do with myself, what to say.

"I was speechless, too, when I saw my bracelet in the train. You slept like the dead, but I checked your wrist. You also had one. So it's probably not a dream."

"They really married us? It was not a dream?"

"There is no choice but to believe since we have these damn bracelets."

"But why did you say yes?"

"I do not know. Maybe I wanted it. You? Why did you agree?"

"I thought I loved you."

"Now you don't?"

I thought for a moment.

"It seems to me...it seems to me that perhaps...yes...but we don't know each other at all..."

"We don't know each other?" She became suddenly outraged. "Don't tell me this guy who in one night made love to me and married me did everything in his sleep!"

"Well, well, don't just turn around. It was you who seduced me, after all. Weren't you the one who suggested rolling in the field of poppies?"

She looked at me for a moment, as if wondering whether or not it was worth continuing the discussion, then probably deciding on the latter, she grabbed the handle of her suitcase and said briefly:

"Come on. I'm beginning to get hungry."

"I guess you're not pregnant yet?" I suddenly remembered what kind of task we've been charged with before our wedding.

She looked at me the way a cannibal would look at a missionary, but did not answer.

After leaving the train station, we stopped on the street.

"And where will we be looking for an apartment?" I asked. "Do you think that someone will rent an apartment to a Polish guy who has no job, no money, does not know the language and who, in addition, has with him his wife and a child made in his dream?"

"You are starting to sound like a man. Before you do anything, you worry that you will not succeed. Come on."

***

It turned out that Iwona had a plan. She came to Vienna at the invitation of her aunt, with whom she had planned to stay for a month before returning to Warsaw. As for me, I had thought to stop for a bit at my friend's place. He was living in Vienna temporarily and working unofficially to make some money and bring it back to the People's Republic of Poland. He lived in a rented apartment along with several other "tourists" from Poland, so one more single air mattress on the floor would not make a huge difference to them. But Iwona decided to introduce me to her aunt first. She was in Vienna last year, so riding the straßenbahn was not a problem for her.

"Let's see what my aunt will say," she decided for both of us.

I did not argue. It seemed we both feared that if we lived separately, our "straw marriage" would crumble.

Contrary to my fears, her aunt even cheered. Iwona introduced me to her as her boyfriend. She did not want to arouse suspicions of her aunt with a ridiculous story from the Red Poppies railway station. Any normal person who listened to such a story would think that we were nuts and would have sent us immediately to the loony bin.

"Your fiancé will stay with us," decided her aunt. "Another man in a shack makes no harm, and Hans will have someone to watch football with. Maybe he will even go into the Gasthaus less often."

Hans came home from work before the evening. He was a big, always happy Austrian fellow.

"My good old chestnut man," Iwona's aunt presented him.

Immediately after dinner, he turned on the TV, where an international game of football was being shown between Austria and another team. I had to see the whole game with him, who slapped me from time to time on the shoulder while saying happily:

"Ya, Ya!"

One of the Austrian players drew his attention particularly. His name was Prohaska and he seemed popular then. Once Prohaska scored, Hans cried like crazy:

"PROHASKA!!!"

And we immediately drank a glass of white wine each. When instead the ball fell into the Austrian grid, Hans did not scream, but we had to drink the wine anyway. After the match, Iwona and I went for a walk through Vienna's streets. Her aunt lived near Mariahilferstraße, the most commercial street of the city, within walking distance to everywhere. Iwona, who already seemed to know Vienna quite well, showed me around with the air of a tourist guide. I looked at the display windows curiously, surprised by the ridiculous prices. Why must something cost 19.99 shillings and not 20 like in Poland? From the beginning, I had never understood that and probably never will. We walked into a chic department store and drifted between racks with lots of beautiful clothes on hangers, of course, all hellishly expensive. I did not care how many nines after the decimal point the tags had. I could never be able to afford them anyway.

"I bought this dress with the poppies exactly here," said Iwona. "With my first earnings and of course, it was on sale."

"I'll buy you an even prettier dress one day," I joked half-heartedly. "Maybe I'll find a job digging ditches or something like that."

"Here, nobody digs the trenches with a shovel. Machines do everything. And everything you learned in Poland will not be useful for much if you don't speak the language... Wait!"

She suddenly squeezed my hand. I stopped mid-stride.

"What is it?"

"Nothing, probably nothing. It seemed to me that I saw someone..."

We went on exploring the next floor in turn. After we went back out to the street, I invited Iwona for the ice cream, so we sat on a bench by the street with ice cream in hand. And here I thought that it was enough just to cross the border and life had changed for me so suddenly. Well, they know well what they do by not letting us leave our country without the passports which are so hard to obtain. Otherwise, all the people would come here and stay.

After returning home, I got some good news: Hans has already been in his favorite Gasthaus and they needed someone to work there, though it might be "in black". The job was hard, but easy - handling the kegs of wine and beer in the basement.

"Arbeit sehr gut, sehr gut, ya, ya..." Hans repeated, each time patting me on my back. "You start Monday."

Iwona went to visit the owner of the hotel where she worked as a maid the past year and found that she could also start on Monday. Everything could happen in Vienna. It was an enchanted city and could not be otherwise.

I visited my colleague the next day. I brought with me one of my bottles of Wyborowa (the other two I gave to Hans as a gift, which had put him in such a great mood that he patted me even stronger on my neck and cried his ya, ya.) My colleague introduced me to his roommates. There were three of them, coming from various Polish cities and trying somehow to make two ends meet while waiting for their visas to the United States or Australia. The most interesting of them was Lolek. Lolek did not work anywhere. He had no time for it. The smart Warsaw sparrow knew everything and could cope with any situation. Right after the second glass of wine, I had learned from him that wool was the best stuff to send now to Poland, what kind of toilet soap they bought in the country and for what price and in which Jewish shops at Mexikoplatz, you could get it all the cheapest. He knew all the owners of these shops. With many of them you could get along in Polish. They liked him all because he knew how to bargain almost as well as they did. He was not very keen about language, but it seemed he was doing quite well in his Viennese life, showing that while the street university could not give you a diploma, it was an excellent school for practical living. Lolek sent packages to Poland through friends going back or the friends of friends, or through the train conductors and truck drivers, smuggling it in various corners of railway wagons or their trucks.

But the trade was not the sole source of his income. At night, Lolek was involved in telecommunications as he said. Mainly, he operated a big part of the urban telephone network. Using a piece of paper, he blocked the hole through which the public payphone returned change to the client. The phone would then work well, but not issue any change. The change only returned to Lolek, who occasionally made the rounds of his network to collect his extra income. It took more than a little cunning and dexterity of one's fingers to lock and unlock the machine so that it was not visible from the outside.

We became friends with Lolek later. With all his cunning, the guy was extremely friendly and helpful, pouring funny jokes out of his sleeve and one could not dislike him even if one wanted. And for such a greenhorn like me, he was a real treasure trove of practical wisdom.

The next time we met, I complained to him about the high charges for phone calls to Poland. He looked at me like I was crazy.

"And why the hell do you pay for calling?" he exclaimed.

"What do you mean, why? I pay to speak to my family."

Lolek sighed in despair.

"Look." He drew from his pocket an object unknown to me. "Do you know what this is?"

"I have no idea."

"This is a gas lighter, the same one you use for a kitchen stove."

Now, I looked at him in amazement.

"You talk through the lighter?"

"You don't understand. It is an electronic lighter. You place it near a pay phone display and press the trigger. The electrical charge it gives off, gets the phone module gets crazy and all of a sudden, it will show 150 or 200 shillings. You can talk all you want."

"Isn't it illegal?"

"Sure it is, but only if you get caught. Therefore, after you charge the phone, you immediately give the lighter to some guy outside who moves away with dignity. If you get caught in a phone booth with the lighter, you are done."

He paused before continuing.

"Another way is to use the sword. You need a thin, elastic flat metal band with a length of about 35cm. You enter it into the money slot at the right angle and when you feel a slight resistance, you start to tap it down. The stupid phone thinks that the taps are the coins. When you see the sum you wanted on the display, give away the sword to the guy outside. It is as dangerous as the gas lighter."

Such lectures cost me a viertle of white wine. I never regretted it though, as it was not an expense. It was an investment in knowledge.

***

My work in the Gasthaus really did not require great intellect. It was amazing how much beer and wine one could enjoy in this singing nation. The great advantage of this work was the fact that I was most needed in the evenings and on Saturdays and Sundays. It was great, because Iwona and I had decided to enroll in a German language course during the day. It gave us the opportunity to extend our visas and apply for work permits.

When I asked Lolek how he took care of visa problems, he muttered carelessly that he had some fake papers and that was good enough for him. He pissed the matter off. Making money was important for him and the formalities had been created just in order to avoid them neatly.

For our own use, Iwona and I received from her beloved aunt a small room with a bed. Iwona's aunt was not a bureaucrat and did not require us to present our marriage certificate to her. My claim as the fiancé of Iwona was legal enough for her. Everything worked fine. We had a little time for ourselves during the day, but the nights, oh these Viennese nights...

Monday both of us had free. Of course, that made Monday our favorite day of the week. We wandered around Vienna, exploring various nooks of the old city. Once, we went to the large store that sold numerous books and newspapers, rummaging through magazines, curious if we could find some interesting news from Poland. Suddenly, Iwona squeezed my hand like she had done in the department store.

"Look," she whispered. "It's her, again."

I looked in the indicated direction and saw our familiar old woman from the train. She stood in front of one of the shelves, flipping through pornographic magazines.

When she realized that we had seen her, she winked from behind her wire-rimmed eyeglasses.

We moved toward her, but she disappeared from our sight behind a group of American tourists who had just entered the store. When we got to the place where she stood, she was no longer there, seemingly having vanished into thin air.

"Was it she you saw back then, on the first day?" I asked.

"So I thought. I was not sure, but now I am. She disappeared just as suddenly as now. I wonder what she might want from us?"

"I think it's just a coincidence. Maybe she lives somewhere nearby."

Iwona nodded without conviction. To be honest, I also did not believe in coincidences.

After a month, I noticed that something was happening with Iwona. She was somehow becoming lost in her thoughts, absent-minded. Something did not give her a peace. In the end, when I pressed for an answer, she said:

"I have not had my period recently. I didn't want to tell you anything, because sometimes it comes late, but now it is almost certain..."

I was speechless from the shock.

"What? You're saying..."

"Well, it looks like you'll be a daddy."

"How could this have happen?"

"Remember the first day of our journey?"

"You mean at the Station Red Poppies? So it was not a dream?"

"Of course not. I never doubted it. I wonder what we shall call him."

"Of course, Poppy."

"What if it's a girl?"

"It cannot be, because then, she would have to be called Poppy Head."

"Are you happy?" I asked anxiously, seeing that she did not look especially enthusiastic.

"A little, yes, but it worries me a little also."

"What are you worried about?" I was confused.

"Because we probably have to return to Poland soon. And there, things are not going well. I thought we'd stay here longer, until all the political problems have been resolved over there."

"Nobody knows what will happen there. Now, we need to consider all possibilities. You know what? We'll talk to Lolek. He has certainly met cases like ours. I'm sure he will give us good advice."

"Okay, but let's not talk yet to my aunt, not until I am sure. I do not want her to panic."

We decided to celebrate the news by going to the Prater the next Sunday.

***

The big Ferris wheel rotated slowly, majestically above the amusement park, its small cabins rising up. From them, viewers could not only watch the panorama of the Prater, but almost the whole of Vienna. In the treetops below us, the first golden leaves could be seen.

"It all looks so beautiful from the top," said Iwona. "It was worth it to spend those few shillings just to see this view. And you know, before we go, I would like once again to ride the Ferris wheel in the evening. When it is dark, you can see all the city lights. It must be a breathtaking view."

I agreed with alacrity. I was also curious how Vienna looked from above at night. I reminded her that later that evening, we should meet with Lolek and wondered what he would have to say about our new situation. We spent the whole afternoon exploring Prater, riding all the devilish tricks and machines. A man could not be bored there. And when dusk fell over the city and the electric lights gave the world its own dimension and mood, Iwona said - now - and led me back to the Ferris wheel, silhouetted against the dark sky. We took our place in the metal gondola and the wheel moved. Our cabin slowly climbed to higher and higher levels and soon we found ourselves over the treetops, roofs, and still were climbing up. Unfortunately, the weather decided to play a joke on us. From over the Danube, clouds suddenly appeared and soon, a clap of thunder was heard, followed by the next one. Soon enough, we were plunged in the middle of a real storm with thunder and lightning. We were lucky that the cabin had a tin roof on which the rain began to patter, playing us a serenade. Iwona snuggled up to me and when I held her, I felt her trembling with emotion. Suddenly, a deafening crash was heard around, and the lightning crossing the sky blinded us for a moment. Iwona cried. I also heard a strange sound unintentionally torn from my throat.

On the bench in front of us, we suddenly saw our familiar old woman from the train.

She gave a friendly laugh, seeing the daze of fear we were in.

"Yes, yes, kids. It's me again. What a pleasant meeting, right?"

"Yeah... Yeah..." I stammered without conviction.

"Some herbal tincture of mine?" She pulled out from somewhere the small flask we knew well full of brown liquid.

"Rather not, thanks. We drank some coffee recently," I muttered, not really to the point. Iwona was not able to utter a single word.

"You will drink it later in the evening," creaked the old witch and she pressed the small bottle into my hand before I could protest. "And do not forget about your job. Poppy should be born in our country." She added.

This time, I also was not able to answer. She waved farewell and disappeared in the flash of another lightning and thunder that for a long time resounded, roaring in our ears. Iwona and I remained silent, not talking until our feet touched the solid ground.

"What does she want from us?" asked Iwona when we were already on the street. "We did not promise her anything."

We long wondered about this problem, so engrossed by different considerations that we had not even noticed when we got to the gate of the house where lived Lolek with his colleagues.

"Just not a word about the crone," I warned Iwona. "He'll tell everybody that we've gone mad."

She agreed with me naturally.

***

Lolek lived on the third floor. There were still four of them. Although my colleague from Warsaw had returned to the country, his bed did not have long to wait for the next passenger. However, now, Lolek was waiting for us alone. His colleagues had gone to the nearby Gasthaus to celebrate something.

"What???" he shouted when we told him the news. "You're pregnant? Congratulations!!! Well, your problems have been solved."

"How so?"

"All you have to do is let this baby be born here. He'll be a native Austrian citizen and nobody will be able to move you out of here. Remember, do not do stupid things and do not go back to Poland for the birth. Such an opportunity will be lost for him and for you. But, wait a little, this we must celebrate, and yet I've got nothing for a drink. I suppose I can just jump out..."

"No. Do not bother. We both do not drink, but you if you want..."

My hand hit a rounded shape in my jacket pocket. I put the flask of herbal tincture on the table.

Lolek unscrewed the bottle, sniffed it and immediately poured himself half a cup. Iwona tried to protest, but he just cried: "For the health of your baby" and drank everything in one gulp.

"Fair, that stuff," he said, and blew out air with satisfaction.

We got up and said goodbye. We had yet a long walk home ahead of us. When we were leaving, I noticed that our host was already strangely sleepy and on our way home, we discussed the piece of advice our friend Lolek gave us.

"We have to say everything to my aunt," decided Iwona. "Now I'm sure of it. If she agrees that we stay with her until the birth, we will stay here. If not, we go back to Poland. I do not want to bear my children in an unfamiliar place. When Poppy grows, he alone can choose where he wants to stay. At least, he will be able to decide of his own free will."

We were passing a small street named Opelgasse when our attention turned to strange, wistful vocals, wailing rather without words. Several men stood on the sidewalk under a spreading chestnut, listening to this serenade coming from the window of one of the apartments on the upper floor. The girl sat there in the open window and combed her long, greenish hair and her voice was so tempting that I also lifted my head and I could not tear my eyes from her. Iwona tugged at my sleeve.

"Let's go," she said firmly. "Our house is still far away. Maybe we should use a shnellbahn. There is a station somewhere around."

"I wonder who it could be?" I asked myself out loud. "Such singing. I've never heard someone sing like that."

"You better not listen," she replied shortly. "It's a Siren. You stay away from her."

"The Siren on the banks of the Danube?" I asked, surprised. "Or maybe it's a mermaid from Warsaw on vacation?"

Iwona did not answer. As we walked, I realized the air had a smell of autumn.

***

Contrary to our fears, Iwona's aunt was very happy.

"Of course, the child must be born here," she said firmly.

"Ya, ya" added Hans. He patted me on the shoulder several times and went to his cellar to fetch a bottle of white wine.

"You two have to marry immediately," Iwona's aunt planned. "Maybe we'll do the wedding in Vienna. I do not know if that's possible. I'll call your mom."

"After all, we are already... " I started, but I bit my tongue when Iwona kicked me in the shin.

"Please, Aunt, let me talk first with my mom," Iwona continued negotiating with her aunt while Hans and I sat down with two viertles of white wine in front of the TV. The football match of Austria had just started. It was about a cup of something. Hans and I made a bet for another bottle of wine about how many goals Prohaska would shoot this time.

***

Overall, our situation was great. We had a place to live, we were both working and at the same time, taking a German language course, and in addition we were expecting our first child. All that remained was to wait, to see what would happen next. Winter was approaching, and the situation in Poland had not resulted in the best way. The strikes involved a number of large industrial plants. Solidarity grew in strength. What was going to happen next? This question troubled all the Poles in Vienna.

We were worried very much that the great national political movement was not going to buckle under the brutal violence of the authorities, or even worse, fraternal "aid-attack" from the east. Daily we watched the news on television where Poland has been always the headline.

Once, sitting before the colored TV screen and listening to some discussions of government representatives with a group from the opposition, Iwona and I both become stunned for a moment. We saw without a doubt in the crowd on the screen two familiar faces: the Butcher and the Professor. Both were speaking wisely and fiercely debated. And when the discussion turned to Karolczak called Karol, I stood up from my place to turn the TV off, but Iwona stopped me abruptly.

"Look!" she cried out loud. "It's her!"

Yes, our Baba Yaga in her wire glasses was writing something in a notebook. She must have taken a swing of her good herbal tincture, because once again, she had turned into a bald cock and yet, nobody was surprised.

"What could she be doing over there?" Iwona wondered.

"Maybe she is acting as the official spokeswoman."

"Do you think that those punks can come to power?"

"I hope that Solidarity will not allow them to, but in politics, anything is possible."

"Still, it is so lucky that Poppy will be born here. Now that I think about it, it really is for the best. By the way, what happened to Lolek? He hasn't shown up for a long time."

"I heard that he returned to Poland, right on the second day after our visit and no one knows really why."

We looked at each other seriously.

"Do you think it was the herbal tincture of Baba Yaga?" asked Iwona.

"I'm afraid that yes. Someone had to go back with them after all. We failed, so it ended up being him. But I bet nothing good can come out of this exchange. He is smart, yes, but hard working? Probably he now operates all the phone booths in Warsaw."

"Do you think so? But over there, every other public phone is broken. I think he's rather trading hard currencies somewhere on the street market."

Meanwhile, over Poland, inexorably dark clouds slowly crept across the blue sky.

Back to ToC

Few candlelight stories

Do you like spending relaxing evenings with your friends, a glass of red wine in your hand, the crimson liquid shimmering under the yellow glare of the candlelight? Do you like listening to their stories about things that happened directly to them, or more often, to someone they know, or even more often, to someone known by the person they know? Do you like to listen to the night insects play their monotonous music at night while the pale moon shows its mysterious face in the small, square window of the room in the country house where you and your guests have gathered? Do you like hearing stories that seem strange and impossible during the day?

Now, at night, the things called impossible do not exist. That's why you have to be cautious. Very cautious. Do you really know all the people gathered around this small table with the burning candles and the bottle of red wine, which is tinted just like blood? If you are not sure that you know all those faces protruding from the darkness with their excited expression and their eyes shining in the candlelight like the eyes of wolves, well, be careful beyond all imagination, because impossible things can happen and once they do, you will be in for an evening you will surely never forget.

***

The wooden villa near Otwock was surrounded by a wired fence among the pine grove, peaceful and quiet, the perfect place for someone who wanted to live away from the hustle and bustle of the city, from the glitches of the trams and the smell of the car exhausts. A quiet, still house in a quiet, peaceful place.

"Yes, I would like to live in the place like this when I retire," I joked as I approached the metal gate.

"Before you start to think about retirement, you must begin to work," said Halinka, my friend from college and current girlfriend, soberly.

She was studying at the Faculty of English Studies, University of Warsaw, and although we were both on our last year of University, the prospect of work still seemed distant to us. Maybe subconsciously, we were chasing out of our minds the thought that soon we would become like our parents, this other, confusing human race (with which there is nothing really to talk about), revolving around the boring and irrelevant matters of life, such as the bills for electricity and gas while dismissing the really important things such as the Top Twenty of Radio Luxembourg hit list, so casually, as if it was possible to live normally without them.

I raised my hand to press the white button located on one of the gateposts.

Barbara, Halinka's friend from school, had inherited this house after the death of her grandmother. She had moved here and despite the protests of her parents, lived alone in this sanctuary, calling it her new headquarters. This was a dream place to encourage the development of her inner self, something she had been seeking fervently since she studied at the Faculty of Psychology of the University of Warsaw. So far, she was still engaged in this pursuit and I wondered if today's meeting had something to do with it or if it was just an ordinary private party to boost our morale and preserve the memories of our student days, the end of which was approaching relentlessly.

We heard a buzzer and the gate opened before us. Barbara stood on the porch, waiting for us with the inviting smile of a hostess.

"It's nice that you came," she said, taking from my hands the bottle of red wine I brought with me.

"We are still missing Basia and Piotrek but they are probably coming by the next train."

She led us right into the living room where we found Nina already sitting on the couch. Of course, with her was the inherent Jacek while under the window sat a guy whom Barbara presented to us with a mysterious expression:

"Karl, my friend from Munich."

We knew that she was recently in Germany and that she had friends there, but he looked to us like someone more than a mere acquaintance. A thread of familiarity connected these two. Something visibly intimate lay between them.

Just as Barbara had predicted, within half an hour, the bell rang and Basia, with her boyfriend, Piotrek, appeared in the parlor.

"Well, we're all here," said Barbara after greeting the new arrivals and introducing them to Karl and vice versa. We all drank herbal tea and nibbled petit fours while beyond the windows of the living room; the sky was slowly getting gray. From time to time, we could hear a dog barking nearby on his chain, or the hooting of an owl somewhere in the forest among the trees. Other than those, silence reigned all around. We sat there listening to the almost uninterrupted silence. For us, the people of the city, it was very surprising to the extent that even the girls stopped talking to each other just to hear it.

"No wonder you call this place the Sanctuary," Halinka finally spoke. "It is indeed a temple of peace. Do you not feel uncomfortable here sometimes, especially at night?"

"Because it is quiet? That's what I love the most about this place, this infinite peace. Do not think, however, that at night, it is really so quiet here. When night falls and the forest falls asleep, then the house wakes up. It is all wood and a wooden structure, as explained to me by one engineer I know, is never completely rigid. Something around it creaks, squeaks, moans and groans, mostly just at night, when no noises could be heard from the outside. Sometimes, I feel as if the house is talking to me, as if it is telling me old stories for bedtime. But I know that it's doing it out of sympathy for me, so I don't feel scared at all."

Barbara stood up and pulled out of a drawer in the dresser eight white candles. She placed them on tiny saucers around the top plate of the round table standing in the middle of the living room, and next to each candle, she set a crystal wine glass.

"Grandma has equipped me with everything," she said softly. "Furniture, home furnishings, all her belongings. Nothing has changed. Every object is in the same spot where she had left it. It gives me the illusion that she is still present here, that she never left her old house."

An involuntary shiver went through my spine and I could say the same happened to everyone. If Barbara was deliberately trying to build an atmosphere of mystery and anxiety at today's meeting, she had managed to do it perfectly well. Meanwhile, she began to light the candles on the table. Six yellow flames lit up the dark interior of the lounge filled with old-fashioned furniture and the ancient trinkets of Barbara's Grandma.

Then Barbara asked Karl to fill the glasses, the red wine shimmering under the glow of the candlelight, which bounced off the crystal and sent ruby lights into the darkness of the room, illuminating the wallpaper as well our pale faces.

Barbara asked us to move our chairs near the table and we obeyed. Before each of us stood a glass of red wine, followed by a lit white candle, the combination of which created quite an unusual mood of romantic mystery.

"Let's begin our meeting today. First, let me thank you all for coming. I'm really glad that I have such friends." Barbara raised her glass. "To your health."

We each drank a sip of dry wine, and our hostess continued.

"I have to admit to you that this evening is not on my side so completely selfless. Of course, I wanted to introduce to you Karl, my friend from Munich. Also, I'm going to use you today. As you know, of course, I am just starting to write my master's thesis. As a subject, I chose parapsychology. You probably do not really know what it is about or what it entails. And no wonder since it is still under discussion whether parapsychology is a science or a pseudoscience, whether it has any rational applications in life or it is just a useless invention of those who believe in the supernatural."

"Will we call out ghosts? Great!" Halinka got excited.

Nina also showed an unhealthy agitation.

"Not at all," Barbara calmed them down sternly. "This really is not about having fun, but for my master's thesis."

"And what do we have in common with ghosts?" Piotrek inquired anxiously. "We are all still alive, aren't we?"

"Give it a rest with these spirits," said Barbara. "Although, you know what? Now I remember as Grandma told me that it was in this living room that they used to entertain themselves with a spinning saucer. Before the war, it was supposedly a fashionable form of entertainment. But this time, we are not going to do that. This is about something else. Apparently, in the life of every human being, regardless of whether he believes in this kind of phenomenon or not, there occurs some events that cannot be logically explained. I would like to ask you to recall here such a kind of event, which you have by chance encountered in person. At the same time, I reserve the right to use this material in my work, of course without giving names. I have not told you before what this meeting is about, so you would not have time to invent stories. No. The events must be true, events you experienced in person, and not just some exciting fairy tales you've heard of."

Silence fell over the room, so profound you could almost hear the wheels in our heads turning, but try as we might, no one could conjure such a phenomenon from memory.

"I see that I have to take the first step to make the task easier," Barbara said finally. "I'll tell you what happened to me during my visit to Munich."

She took a deep breath as we all strained our ears to listen.

"I was alone in the heart of the city, on Marienplatze," Barbara began. "After drinking a cup of coffee at one of the cafes, I wandered around the surrounding streets, looking at the facades of old houses and shop windows. It was a beautiful, sunny afternoon. The old town had so much charm that even for a moment, I was not bored. I also did not feel lonely. I simply had a gorgeous time that was until something strange happened. After passing one of the blocks, I heard the voice of my grandmother who was already dead then. I froze. Grandma pronounced only one word: Angel. That was all. She said it as clearly as if she was standing right next to me. I looked around. There was a gift shop nearby and on its display window; I saw the small figure of an angel made of something like alabaster. It sat quietly on a rock on which was inscribed "Munich", the usual souvenir made in China.

Then another thing happened that I absolutely couldn't explain. The angel looked straight into my eyes and nodded gravely. I was so shocked that I couldn't move from the spot where I was standing. Then all of a sudden, I heard a loud bang.

A great piece of stone cornice fell on the sidewalk just a few feet ahead of me, smashing to smithereens. I froze in terror. After all, I was walking in that direction and if I had not stopped, I probably would have been crushed. The next thing I knew, he was standing next to me. Karl."

She looked at him.

"He asked how I was doing and he was so caring and nice that I told him everything. He looked at the angel, too, and explained that it was battery operated and that it would really nod its head from time to time. I took a closer look. Indeed, it was just as he said. But why did it nod just at the moment when my grandmother said "Angel"? I could not come up with an explanation. All I knew was that they both saved my life. I presumed this event was an accident, which could not be explained in a rational way, and so I finally decided on parapsychology as the topic for my thesis. I hope that maybe I will be able to explore this issue a bit and understand what has happened and why."

"And Karl? What happened with Karl?" someone inquired.

"He invited me to have a coffee with him, which I really needed to calm my nerves. And of course, we became friends. Karl lives in Munich, where he was born, but his mother is Polish, so his Polish is not bad. He came here just to visit me and you know what he brought me as a gift? Look at the chest of drawers."

Everyone looked at once in the indicated direction. In the middle of the commode innocently sat a small angel perched on a piece of rock. Under him, in the light of candles could be seen the inscription "Munich". Satisfied with the impression, which he had made, the angel nodded and then froze again thoughtfully.

"Interesting story," said Piotrek. "Well, in the presence of such a witness... " he nodded to the angel "we have to believe it."

"I also remembered something," Halinka said quickly, as if she feared that someone could interrupt her. Indeed, at the end of Barbara's story, we also began to remember some strange stories. Suddenly, each of us could not wait to tell it.

"When I was a child," Halinka started her story. "I spent the holidays every year with my sister in the countryside, with our grandparents. My sister was older and calmer. She often regarded me an eternal nuisance. I would act like a country urchin, climbing over the fences and up the trees, as a result always scraping my knees and getting plenty of bruises on my skin. What interested me the most though, were the horses.

There were two of them - a big, strong chestnut and a smaller, gentle bay mare. This mare I was allowed to ride when I reached my thirteenth year. Initially, I rode bareback in circles around the yard, and of course under the watchful eye of my grandfather. The next year, however, I could ride on a saddle and also ride the horse alone. During my third vacation, I could take the horse without any questions and we would wander wherever our eyes lured us, through meadows and fields, along the dirt roads. How we both enjoyed those walks tremendously. There was one only condition: I was not allowed to take the horse when it just finished working in the field the previous day. A well-deserved rest was more important to her than our escapades.

Now, there was a deep ravine near the village and this ravine plays a role in my story. One of the dirt roads leading to the neighboring village eventually ended in a wooden bridge spanning over the ravine. I rode that way with my Bay many times. I liked to listen to my horse's hooves banging over the planks of the bridge.

Then one day - listen closely to what happened - my mare rebelled. She stopped in front of the bridge and froze. There was no way to make her move ahead. She did not want to step on the board. No requests or threats helped. She became stubborn like a donkey. I tried one last time. We moved back for a good hundred meters, then I broke her up a little bit faster, kicking my heels into her sides just to give her more enthusiasm, but having reached the bridge again, she suddenly stopped in her tracks. And she whinnied.

And it was not a normal whinny, I tell you. She whinnied in such a marvelous way that you could almost say it was human. It was almost as if she was saying: "Nay... ay... ay... ay..."

It shocked me so much that immediately, we turned back towards the house and I escorted Bay to the stables. In the evening, we learned that the bridge collapsed just under one motorcycle rider. It turned out that the wooden beams supporting it were already rotten and finally gave way under the weight of the motorcycle. The horse would not have had a chance since it is much heavier. The motorcyclist survived, but landed in the hospital. If it had been me, I don't know what would have happened. It may have been the end of me. Anyway, I felt that on that day, Bay saved both our lives."

Halinka fell silent, and we also spent a few moments in silence, contemplating the strange story. Indeed, Halinka's story was something extraordinary. I was grateful to Bay for saving my Halinka. Whom would I love if she had died? She had never told me about this event before.

"A talking horse, huh?" Jacek broke the silence, "It seems to me that there was a TV series about it. The horse's name was Ed, or something."

"Yes, but that was in America, and over there, many impossible things happen," replied Barbara. "Anyway, Halinka, that was a touching story. The behavior of your horse could, of course, be explained by the animal's instincts. Animals are able to sense danger which humans cannot, probably because our brains are too busy with logical thinking. But the fact that Halinka heard in this horse neigh a human "Nay", and I completely believe she did, can be possibly classified as a paranormal event. Thank you, Halinka, for this story. It will certainly be useful in my work."

Barbara asked Karl to refill our glasses and asked if anyone else had something to say. Piotrek, who had been shifting uneasily in his chair for some time, spoke the next.

"First, allow me to say that I originally did not believe in such things. I thought these were invented stories, or mere coincidences made more sensational by crafty storytellers to generate interest and induce the unhealthy excitement of the listeners. But I changed my mind after some events I witnessed, also during the summer holidays. As you all know, I am an avid motorcyclist. As soon as I got my first bike as a gift from my parents, I spent all my free time on it. It was a Hungarian Pannonia motorcycle. Not very high-performance, but a foreign bike anyway. I spent a lot of time blowing and blowing on it, rubbing all the chrome parts with a clean cloth so that they always shone like new. Of course, neither you guys nor anyone who has never had a new motorcycle can understand this.

Once, I drove from Sopot to Warsaw. The girl who I was on vacation with allowed herself to be picked up from the "Non-Stop" disco by one sucker, just because he had a car. She preferred to return home on four wheels rather than just two, so I was traveling alone. The rain caught me on the way. It was already close to Warsaw, but it was raining so terribly and dusk was already falling, so I decided to spend the night somewhere along the road. I knocked on the doors of some cottages on the outskirts of Jablonna, I guess. Finally, I found a host who allowed me to spend the night with my Pannonia in his barn. He didn't even ask for money, just asked me not to smoke inside the barn. It was not a problem to me since a lot of my money was spent on gas, there was none left for cigarettes, and so we immediately hopped from the rain to this dry barn. It was quite a large barn with stacks of hay on both sides and at its center stood a black hearse. I was a bit surprised. Normally, I probably would have looked for another accommodation but it was raining too hard and I was too tired to sulk. I found some strength to wipe the chrome motorcycle parts dry, closed the gate of the barn and threw myself on the hay. Then something happened, which to this day, I cannot explain.

The feeling that something strange was happening awakened me. I opened my eyes and got up on one elbow to see a pale light inside the barn. It came from this old style hearse, the kind pulled by horses, with glass all around the cabin. The rear door opened noiselessly and someone came out. The figure was pale and dressed in white, like a real ghost. But it was not a ghost. The guy was wearing a white linen dress, and on his head, he had a white, cloth hat, not the airy garments that ghosts like to wear. I thought it was someone from my host's family. Either that or I was seeing things because of my weariness. Meanwhile, the guy did not pay any attention to me. He headed for the exit and disappeared into the downpour, leaving the gate open. I collapsed again into a deep sleep and slept like a baby until dawn.

As soon as I woke up, I went through the still open gate to the yard and when I saw my host bustling around, I asked him of course about the night visitor. He was astonished beyond measure, and as soon as I described the appearance of my night encounter, the host stiffened suddenly, his face going white as chalk.

"Come with me," he invited and threw himself on his WFM motorcycle.

Along the way, he shouted to me that he was working part-time as a municipal pallbearer and that last night, he had just buried his brother in law, who was a baker by profession. In the blink of an eye, we arrived at the priest's house. After hearing my story, the priest got in his Syrena car and we drove to the cemetery, picking up a gravedigger and the wife of the deceased along the way. We followed the priest and after us, half the village ran like crazy on foot. As soon as we got to the cemetery, they all began to dig up the grave frantically.

At last, we saw him, the same person I had seen the night before. Though he was supposed to be dead already, he started to choke, and his eyes were wide with terror. He told everyone that he had a dream that he woke up in a closed coffin. What a dream it was... The village quack did not recognize the lethargy and signed the death certificate. He had to change his profession after this incident because no one wanted to be his patient anymore.

The funeral party previously prepared for and postponed because of the storm took place now of course. If not, the vodka could get spoiled. I was stranded in the village, since right after the "resurrectionist" I was the highlight of the village meeting and had to endlessly recount my encounter with the spirit. After each glass, I was doing better and better. Finally, I was able to leave a few days later, but I have never forgotten the incident. Since then, as you would have guessed, I have looked at supernatural things a little differently."

"Now, that story is really out of this world," remarked Barbara. "If only I could believe it is true. As we all know, Piotrek likes to fantasize a lot."

At that moment, Piotrek stood up, and with a solemn face, pulled out of his wallet a folded piece of newspaper.

"For all of you who doubt me, read this. This is the only time in my life I have ever been described in the paper. I always carry it with me."

The half page of the "Evening Express" folded in four parts wandered around the table. The unusual case of our colleague was described there exactly like he said, although more briefly. It was just a small column, in fact, but it all made sense. We looked at Piotrek with more respect. He was in the paper, in the company of famous people, the people who mattered. Admittedly, Express provided only the first name and the initial of Piotrek, but we all knew it was he the article was referring to. Any doubts about the authenticity of his story had been dispelled.

"What about you, Nina?" Barbara asked. "Have you ever had such an experience in your life?"

Nina, who in her life had all kinds of experiences, was somewhat reluctant to answer.

"I'm not quite sure if what once had happened to me was supernatural," she began carefully. "Maybe it was a pretty ordinary event, but listen."

My grandfather was a taxi driver when I was a kid. He had an old type of a Warszawa car, the one called hunchback, I think. An old model. The new one had not yet been produced and he was immensely proud of his vehicle. Well, once, he drove us after a Christmas family reunion from Pruszkow, where he and my grandmother both lived, back to our apartment in Mokotow. The weather was awful, the rain seemingly mixed with the snow. I sat next to my grandfather in the front seat and felt very important because I had to watch the road carefully. My parents and my younger sister sat on the back "couch" of the car.

It is not far from Pruszkow to Mokotow, but the roads were worse then than they are now, and visibility in such weather was minimal. Grandfather specifically chose me to have the front seat. As he said, he needed a pair of young eyes next to him.

In my father, who of course, had a few glasses of vodka inside, he had not too much confidence.

The road was narrow. The yellow headlights of our car bounced off the falling snow while the wipers worked diligently to keep the windshield clear. Even so, I had to strain my eyes so I could not accidentally overlook a stray dog crossing the road as many of them wandered around then.

After riding a few miles, it seemed to me suddenly that I saw a shadow, something moving on the road, but it disappeared as quickly as it had showed up. I said nothing because I could not even describe what it was. My grandfather also kept silent. But after a while, I saw it again, so I called out to my grandfather that I had seen something.

"What did you see?" asked Grandpa. "I did not see anything."

"Someone was probably on the road waving a handkerchief as if he wanted us to stop," I tried to explain what I had just seen but the road ahead was empty again.

"E... you must have seen an illusion," said my grandfather, but I noticed that he started staring more attentively at the streaks of rain and wet snow illuminated by the headlights. At one moment, we both saw the shadowy figure waving something in front of us stubbornly. It disappeared after a few seconds to appear once again, desperately waving in front of us. The third time, my grandfather could not stand it and stopped the car. Three of us went out - my grandfather, father and I, despite the warnings of my mother that I should stay inside. I wanted to go out. It was me who saw this thing, whatever it was, after all, and I thought that I had the greatest right to see up close who was barring our path. But to my disappointment, no one was nearby. The side of the road was empty. In contrast, across the road lay a huge bough broken off from a tree under the weight of icy snow.

We froze in terror. If Grandpa had not stopped the car, we would have possibly died since my grandfather could not certainly halt the car on this slippery road on time. We would have crashed into the bough and been thrown off the road. It was such a big bough indeed, and both men had great difficulty moving the obstacle aside to clear our way. This is my story.

"Not less puzzling than the previous," said Barbara. "Which is why I do not understand where your doubt is coming from. It is a very typical example of some supernatural intervention in our lives. If it did not happen, it could have been a complete disaster for your family."

"Yes, but there is still something at the end of this whole story. Later, after returning to Pruszkow, my grandfather gave his car a thorough check-up. And guess what he found? A dead moth right behind the glass of the reflector. Back then, car headlights were not as sealed as they are now. The glasses were installed separately; the reflective bowl also, yet in some way, a moth got inside. It warned us, but paid with its life, dying from the heat of the lamp."

"That does not detract from your story at all," comforted Barbara. "A moth in winter time? This alone is not normal. Extraterrestrials and supernatural beings do not have a body. They must use something to warn us of danger. Sometimes, it can be an animal. Sometimes, another man and sometimes, even a physical object as in the case of my little angel."

Once again, she pointed to the figure standing on the dresser.

As if to confirm her words, the angel nodded. We all laughed nervously

"Well, and you?" Barbara turned to Jacek. "What are you hiding from us?"

Just as Jacek was about to speak, she got up.

"Oh, no, wait a minute," she cried suddenly. "What kind of a hostess am I? Girls, please help me."

All three disappeared into the kitchen and soon, we smelled the aroma of fried sausages.

In the meantime, Karl again took care of filling our glasses with wine. As he did, I could not help but study him. Karl seemed to me somehow different. Different how? I did not know. I had no idea what this otherness was. Maybe he was a little paler than others? Or perhaps he spoke less often than we did? But then, that was understandable. After all, we did not know him. Or maybe it was because he lived in Munich, where people were probably different? That was quite normal.

The sausages were served with fried potatoes and spinach, all of which were delicious. Then, of course, there was coffee, tea and home-baked apple pie. As we ate, we forgot all about our stories, completely absorbed in the pleasures of the palate. Barbara turned on the lights, but the white candles on the table remained lit, reminding us that we had to return to our stories soon.

It happened after the empty plates had already left the table to be cleaned up in the kitchen. Once more, the presence of Barbara's grandmother lingered as if she was still living, the atmosphere of unreality returning among us. And then, as if on cue, I heard the first clap of thunder and the sky between the trees shone over the horizon.

"It seems to me that a storm is coming in our direction," noticed Jacek. "Somehow, it enhances the atmosphere of terror. Do you not fear anything?"

The girls denied it with a laugh.

"Well then, I'll tell you my story." Jacek went on. "It is neither long nor terrible, yet another story of the summer vacations. I wonder why the most interesting things always happen during the holidays. Haven't you noticed? The rest of the year, it seems to be boring and monotonous."

We nodded, of course. Every kid knows that the rest of the year is just to fill the time between the school vacations, which is when life really unfolds. Everything is in just those two months for which you have to wait so long, and which seem to be, furthermore, twice shorter than the others.

"One summer my friend Maciek and me, we went for our first auto stop tour. Back then, auto stop booklets were handed out at tourist offices only to persons who had completed their 16th year of life. We still lacked a little bit, so Maciek swindled the booklet from his older brother, along with his map and some kilometer coupons. We used this one booklet for both of us, as we already knew that adults invent the rules just so we could break them. I don't know about you, but to me, it seemed that all the things which could make us happy were forbidden to us like riding on the steps of the tram, smoking, truancy, going to the movies allowed for those above eighteen years, spitting on the sidewalk, littering and all that. What was not forbidden to us? Not too much. Just going to school and learning, which was exactly what we liked doing the least. Or at least, some of us did not like it, including me."

"Well, now, you're a real adult," said Barbara. "Are you allowed to do everything?"

"Maybe not everything, but quite a lot. Anyway, back to the story. So Maciek and I went on our first hitchhiking holiday. The tourist office had blown up the idea of hitchhiking in the newspapers and on the radio so many drivers willingly took hitchhikers, especially those drivers who had already won a prize for kilometer vouchers in the auto stop lottery. Most of them, however, were reluctant to give us a ride, afraid of hooliganism or vandalism as on the trail, you could actually come across very different kinds of people.

The real thrill of hitchhiking is accumulating kilometers. Of course, it is important which way you are going, but the number of kilometers you will pass in one day is more important. We did not go far on the first day. The best lift we had, took us only a few dozen kilometers maximum and in the evening, we found ourselves near Dzialdowo, still close to Warsaw. Such a shame. We felt hungry as wolves, so we lit a small fire near the road and began to bake the potatoes we dug from a nearby field, the only thing we did not lack on our auto stop trip.

Then, we heard steps from afar. Someone was walking along the shoulder of the road. It was a girl. As she came closer, we realized she was a little older than us, and that she was dressed in Polish made jeans with a backpack on her shoulders. She sat next to us at the fire and without asking, she took from the heat one of our potatoes.

"I am Henka from Lodz," she said. "You are probably from Warsaw?"

We nodded.

She peeled the potato, often stopping to blow it because it was probably too hot and ate the potato without a word. Then she stood up, threw the backpack straps over her shoulders and said:

"Do not get into the pickup truck with the blue tarp."

With that, she disappeared into the darkness.

We would have probably forgotten about her if we did not see her again in identical circumstances, this time around Mragowo. The second time, she also helped herself to one of our potatoes without asking and before fading into the darkness of the evening, she reiterated her warning. We tried to call her, to ask what she meant, but she did not even look back.

What could we do? We met many pickup trucks along the way - it was a hitchhiker's favorite vehicle - but none with a blue tarp. Tarpaulins were generally gray or greenish, with varying degrees of fading, but never blue so far.

We wandered across the lake country, curious to know the local people and their lifestyle. Nothing teaches self-reliance so well as hitchhiking. We rode from town to town and met new people every day. Sometimes, we slept out in the open air on top of haystacks, sometimes, in a barn, not always asking the owner for permission. This first hitchhiking trip was one big adventure. We were always hungry. We had little money, but apples clipped from some orchard in the evening and the potatoes from the fire always rescued us from starvation. One morning, after spending the night in Ostroda, we decided to continue in the direction of Olsztyn. Just after we left the city, one pickup stopped beside us, kicking up the dust from the side of the road with its wheels.

"Where are you guys heading?" inquired the driver of the car. "To Olsztyn maybe? If so, get on the back."

Without even thinking, we grabbed our bags and were about to jump in when both of us stopped suddenly in mid-motion. The canvas on the pick up's chest was tight-fitting, faded from the sun and rain, but it was clearly blue, especially at the seams and folds of the material. We didn't get on.

The driver shouted:

"If you don't want to get on, then that's fine, losers," and drove off, kicking up another cloud of dust.

For a long while, we stood there by the side of the road, wondering if we made the right decision. We did not feel comfortable with missing a ride, especially since the pickup truck was empty. In addition, it was going exactly in the direction where we planned to go.

"The cab smelled of vodka," said Maciek, who was good at making excuses. "It's better that we did not go."

Fortunately, we waited only half an hour more. A large Lublin truck took us, with an open chest and two benches on the sides. I liked those the best. Sitting up high, you can see the landscape far to the horizon and the rush of warm air whips your skin and pulls your hair as if trying to tear each strand off your head. That is the real taste of freedom.

Halfway to Olsztyn, our Lublin truck slowed down. From afar, we could see a ruby and sapphire "disco" light of a police cruiser flashing in front of us on the road. Slowly, we drove near the accident site and it was when we saw the pickup with the blue tarp impaled on a tree. On the side of the road lay two bodies.

One of them we recognized as the driver. The second body, to our surprise, belonged to the girl in blue jeans. Next to Henka from Lodz lay her backpack. The police officers had not yet covered them so they both lay with their pale faces exposed to the sun, as if they still wanted to catch some tan at the last minute. Neither Maciek nor I knew what to say, or even to think. To this day, I have no idea what it was all supposed to mean. After all, if she knew the pickup with the blue tarp was dangerous, why did she get on it? To this day, this question still bothers me. If someone could give me an answer, I will be deeply grateful."

Again, silence fell, none of us knowing the answer to Jacek's question.

Barbara sighed. "Well, if some supernatural powers are trying to contact us, they would do it their own way. That does not mean we can actually read their message using our mundane way of understanding."

She turned to me. "Now it's your turn. So far, you have not said anything. Have you also had this kind of experience in your life?"

I was silent. How could I tell them that the time for my story had not yet come as my story had not started yet and I had no idea how it was going to end so they should wait calmly and patiently because it is near. It is right there, within reach. I feel it in the air. I can almost see it...

I decided to buy myself some time.

"How about we let Karl have his turn now?" I suggested. "He is, after all, our guest. It is not proper for him to wait so long."

My suggestion was aided by another bolt of lightning, after which was heard a prolonged clap of thunder. The eyes of all present turned from me to the window and then fell on the face of Barbara's guest, who clearly felt somehow uncomfortable, already beginning to squirm in his chair. From the corner of my eye, I saw Barbara trying to help him and she was about to open her mouth to say something, when suddenly, an even more violent explosion shook the air and a sudden blast of the storm opened wide the window and swept through the small lounge, extinguishing all the candles on the table.

The room went dark. In the darkness, we could hear the stream of rain coming through the open window, the droplets crashing on the wooden floor and creating quite a splash. One of the girls screamed. Some guys cursed (maybe it was me). Someone abruptly pushed back his chair.

Suddenly, electric light flooded the room. Barbara stood at the door, with her hand on the switch.

"What's with this weather?" she said, pouting. "And why tonight, when I have guests?"

She walked quickly to the window and shut it, turning the brass handle tightly.

"I'll wipe the floor right away. Please do not move from your seats. Karl, you can pour some wine in the meantime, right?"

She was answered by the silence. When we looked, Karl's place at the table was empty.

"Has he been blown away?" joked Barbara. "Well, I will go look for him immediately."

She left the room and returned after a while with a mop and a tin, galvanized bucket.

"I have no idea what happened to him. He's nowhere to be seen," she said as she cleaned up the puddles.

"Could he really have been blown away?" asked Halinka. "The blast was exceptionally powerful."

"Blown away?" Piotrek had a doubtful expression. "An adult guy like him? I think not. Maybe it was the lightning."

"Lightning?" Barbara's eyes grew wide. "Lightning couldn't have vaporized him! If he was struck, something should have been left. Some powder. Some bones, maybe. Yet here, his chair is completely clean."

We looked at the chair Karl had been sitting on. True enough, the wood gleamed with old varnish. There was not the smallest speck of dust there.

"Or maybe he became afraid of the storm and jumped out the window," Nina said. "He even looked scared."

"If he was afraid of the storm," said Barbara, who just finished wiping the floor "he would not run outside. He would rather hide somewhere inside the house, and he is nowhere to be seen. He didn't leave through the front door. The latch is locked from the inside."

"Did you look under the beds?" asked Nina, still not giving up.

"I had no time. If you want, you can help me. We have to search the entire house."

"The husband of my aunt once disappeared also like that," Halinka said. "He was found only after the war, heavily worn, but my aunt was happy anyway."

"I'm not going to wait for the next war," said Barbara. "Come on, everybody."

We spread around the house, looking in every possible nook and cranny, inside the cabinets and under the beds. Under one of them, Piotrek found a porcelain potty of Barbara's grandmother, but Karl was not there. Jacek returned with a flashlight from the attic, all entangled in cobwebs.

"Spiders, yes. The attic was full of them," he said. "But no one was called Karl. I asked."

Barbara, however, was not in the mood for jokes, her face more serious than usual.

"We should go to the garden and check if he is there," I suggested, more to calm her conscience than from my own conviction. "After all, it just stopped raining."

"Indeed," she agreed, looking out the window. "We'll turn on the lights in all the rooms. That way, we'll see better."

Then we walked throughout the entire garden, across and around. It was no use, however. We found no traces of Karl.

The garden gate was latched from the inside with no indication that it had been tampered with. Yes, he could go outside and close the gate behind him. But why would he do that? It seemed unlikely that a foreign guest would jump through the window, scared by the lightning, and then race into the black, unknown forest.

We returned to the living room, resigned.

"Maybe we should dig the garden?" Nina threw out the idea without conviction.

"Are you nuts?" Halinka snapped. "Who would have time to bury him? Piotrek? He seems to specialize in digging up corpses."

"I did not dig," Piotrek defended himself. "I just watched them digging."

"Do not quarrel," Barbara scolded them. "I'm calling the police. I see no other choice."

"Can't we just wait for him to come back?" Nina muttered. "Maybe we should give him some more time?"

Without a word, Barbara went out into the hall, where on the wall, next to the door, hung a phone. We heard from the hall chaotic shreds of conversation. The tone of Barbara's voice was enough to testify about her nervousness.

"In the beginning, they did not want to come," she complained after her return. "They said that they do not have enough people. It was only when I said that he is a foreign guy from the dollar zone and that his disappearance would have political repercussions that they agreed. Pretty soon someone will come here."

"Maybe they will send a dog?" Nina wondered out loud. "A good dog would come in handy."

"A dog? And how would we get along with him?" Jacek worried.

"What do you mean how? Halinka will speak with him. After all, she already spoke with a horse, so she should be able to handle a dog as well."

After a few moments, a police car's headlight swept through the living room, and then froze.

"They came," said Barbara. "The police station is just near."

She went out into the hall to open the door.

"I'm Lieutenant Balski," said a voice in the hall. "Well, where is this missing person?"

"Why are you asking me, where?" answered Barbara. "It's me who wants to know. That's why I called you."

"Are there any witnesses?"

Barbara widely opened the door to the living room. There were two policemen. On the heels of the man who called himself Lieutenant Balski stood a young corporal, obviously fresh out of police school. He had with him a leather service briefcase. When they saw all of us in the living room, they stopped. They looked at the extinguished candles and bottles of wine on the table.

"Some party you were having here," remarked the corporal. It was evident that he was trying to use his "adult" voice.

"Not really a party," Barbara corrected him. "Just the usual social reunion."

"Well, this was not usual, if your guests disappeared in the darkness."

"Only one has so far."

"Only one, eh? But so far, he has not been found."

Barbara had to tell them everything exactly as it happened while the young corporal was carefully filling out his report. In the meantime, we had to give him our personal details and submit our signatures.

"Where do I put the cross?" he lowered his voice and leaned closer to his boss to ask for some guidance. "I have here boxes for 'injured', 'wounded' and 'killed'. There is no box for 'disappeared'."

The Lieutenant said nothing.

"And I got even have 'kicked by a horse' but I do not see 'disappeared'" the corporal added. "Do you have a horse here?"

"I do not have any," said Barbara, and then she pointed to Halinka. "But she had a bay mare once. She even spoke to her."

"My father also had a bay mare, but she never said anything," the corporal chimed up, now with his normal treble.

"We need to search the house, then the garden," Balski said. "And finally we read and sign the protocol."

The search, of course, showed nothing new. There was no sign of Karl in the air, in the water or on the ground.

"He sure cooked us a good surprise," said Jacek. "And he seemed to be so decent, so nice".

"We will notify you as soon as we know something," Balski said before leaving. "He might find himself in the morning, somewhere in the area."

Halinka and I decided to stay overnight with Barbara at her request. The other guests said goodbye and left for the station to catch the last train.

***

We slept long enough, up until nine o'clock at least. Luckily, it was a Sunday.

Still no sign of Karl around.

When, after breakfast, we sat down together over coffee, the doorbell rang.

Lieutenant Balski appeared in the hallway. He accepted Barbara's invitation to have a cup of coffee and sat down at the table, right on Karl's chair, with a thoughtful expression.

"So what?" Halinka asked impatiently. "Did you find something?"

The Lieutenant looked grimly at our faces.

"No, we did not find anything," he said finally. "And I am sure that I will never find him. I really have no idea what's going on here."

"Is he dead?" Barbara asked in a strangled voice.

Balski looked at her for a moment longer before he answered:

"We have just received a telex from Munich. This man has been dead for a year now. He was killed in an accident. A large piece of cornice fell on the sidewalk just where he was standing. I already verified all the details so a mistake is impossible. Do you have any of his belongings, anything to prove he was here?"

"No," answered Barbara, her face a little pale. "He arrived without a baggage."

"I propose to close this case," said the Lieutenant. "Let's classify it as a misunderstanding and forget about everything. If it was one of your jokes, congratulations. It was very funny. If not, I still cannot help. As you know, in our forms, there is no box for 'disappearance'."

After Balski left, we drank another cup of coffee. I no longer had to tell my story out loud. It had already been told.

Back to ToC

The Raft of Medusa

'The Raft of Medusa', the famous painting created by Théodore Géricault from 1818-1819, depicted in a thrilling way the horrifying scenes of a shipwreck, a well known tragedy in which the captain abandoned his crew and passengers, leaving them for certain death. This is history - brutal, cruel and true.

But what does it have in common with the post-war memories from the ruins of Warsaw? Or with a romantic acquaintance from the Louvre museum in modern Paris? Who knows? Maybe all these stories, spoken and unspoken, have something in common, indeed, and they are all crossing over at the same point somewhere far beyond the horizon. In eternity, perhaps?

***

Zoliborz lay in ruins. Sulkowski street also lay in ruins. Every other house in the area had either been burned or bombed, the survivors of the Warsaw Uprising returning to their homes after the passage of the war only to find the ruins and ashes. Some houses remained standing, but they were already occupied by others, and the returning owners had to fight the new settlers in order to return to their own homes. Others tried to settle where they could. Often, ruined cellars were used for housing. The families camped in them all, of course without electricity or running water, the courtyards full of rubble used as primitive backhouses. Even the people were not the same as they were before the war. Indifferent to pain and suffering, they fought each other for survival. There was a constant struggle between families for every square meter of housing, for any remaining usable material from the ruins - clothes, furniture, and finally and most importantly, for the piece of bread hastily delivered by authorities to newly opened shops. These were adults, toughened and made cruel by the savagery of war. The polite and gentle were gone. They did not survive the occupation and concentration camps. The children were also different, even crueler. But it was not the cruelty that stemmed from a necessity for survival. Rather, it was born of the worst kind of atrocities sucked out with their mother's milk, blood tainted with the sights of smashed heads of drunken fathers and their neighbours, infused with the stench of moonshine and rotting mash in the cellars. In spite of all that, there was also, of course, carefree fun, fun in the rubble of collapsed buildings, where human waste and unexploded bombs could be seen scattered around. Explosions were heard so often that no one was surprised by them any longer, and the kids sometimes spread mysterious whispers in the evening, about who lost an arm or leg today and on which street. That was the city of Warsaw and its first residents after the war.

My parents bought the remains of a bombed-out villa on Sulkowski street and began to rebuild it. With the energy and enthusiasm of my father, the house was soon suitable for residence, although it was not finished until quite a long time later. Building materials were not bought in stores. Those did not exist. Instead, they used the bricks from demolished houses collected from the streets, purified from old mortar and plaster. Those were used for reconstruction. The city was recreating itself like a tremendous monster, regenerating limbs by devouring the old ones, those that were no longer fit to be used.

The boys had fun, of course, mainly playing a pretend war, often using real guns found somewhere in the ruins. The bravest took on the dare to disarm unexploded bombs while the young ones pretended to be on the hunt. In the ruins of the houses were many feral cats and chasing one of them among the rubble in an attempt to break his neck with a piece of brick was real fun. Cats are extremely vital creatures. Sometimes, we had to execute many accurate throws just to make them stop screaming and throw their bodies around like a man possessed by some evil spirit.

When the girls found a dead cat, they held a funeral for him. To start, they beat in an iron, rusted, heating boiler lying behind our house with a piece of metal rod. This gave a very dignified, deep sound similar to the sound of the church bell.

Then, they wrapped the cat, or rather, what was left of it, in a piece of cloth and carried it together somewhere, where they previously dug a small hole in the ground.

"How did she die?" One of them would always ask the same question.

"Cancer" another answered, stating the grim secret.

New was this disease, until recently unknown. It must have been really terrible as even the adults spoke its name in a whisper. Tuberculosis was common knowledge then. Hundreds of people were dying of it. But cancer? This was different. No one knew exactly what it was and no one dared ask because the word alone created widespread fear and respect.

This was Sulkowski street after the war. Very few people were interested in who General Sulkowski was. Perhaps he was one of the Russian troops, some wondered as many streets got new names of communist heroes, but again, no one inquired. Everyone had more important things on their minds.

The kids there had yet another attraction. On our street lived a redhead girl. Nobody knew her name. We just called her Redhead. If she played with us on the street, we could get used to her presence. She melted into our crowd easily. But she was too polite and calm and she was not allowed to leave the house. That's what set her apart. Whenever she showed up in the window of her room on the first floor of one of the untouched houses on our street, the passing children stopped on the ruined sidewalk and cried together "Redhead, Redhead!!!" until she fled in tears into the apartment. There were unwritten, strict rules governing the children's world. The most important was this: You have to do what the other kids do, especially the older and stronger ones. If someone broke this rule, he or she became exposed to the ridicule and contempt of others. It was unbearable. In extreme cases, the ridicule was followed by complete isolation, but being treated as a "leper" was the worst of all.

***

When the debris was cleaned up from the streets and the first garbage truck began to ride around, it was a real event for the boys. These were large trucks in silver-gray color, the back of each open and with a narrow platform from which the garbage man managed his professional duties. For us, this platform was a real magnet.

We ran after the garbage truck from one dumpster to another and when the garbage man went into his seat next to the driver after throwing the garbage with his shovel, the older guys jumped on the platform to get a free ride to the next dumpster. At the beginning, the driver and his helper would stop to chase us away, but later, they gave up. They must have become accustomed to us.

Once, I also dared to ride on the back of the garbage truck. I jumped onto the platform and looked with pride at the buildings moving backward. After a few meters, my colleagues jumped back on the street. I did not know how to do it and the truck suddenly picked up speed. It took me a few seconds to realize what had happened: we had jumped on the platform at the last dump and now, the garbage truck was driving straight to the main dump, somewhere outside the city. I stood on the platform paralyzed with fear, the figures of my colleagues becoming smaller and smaller until they were simply dots in the distance.

"Jump!" I heard their cries.

Driven by fear, I did something that was the biggest mistake I could have made. I jumped off the platform with my back facing the direction of the ride.

Just like that, the world spun and disappeared, leaving nothing but darkness. I wasn't even sure if the darkness existed or if I was only imagining it. I had no idea how much time had passed - An eternity? A second? - Until I felt someone touching my hand. Redhead stood bending over me, her blue eyes staring intently into mine. "Do not die," she told me, her words somewhere between an order and a plea. "It is not the time yet."

"I am not planning to" I answered indignantly. "I was born not a long time ago."

"That's good," she said. "My name is Magda. I will need you one day."

And she disappeared. I saw myself lying on my back on the sidewalk surrounded by a group of several people, some of whom I recognized as my playmates and one young soldier with his girlfriend. "He's dead," said the soldier indifferently to the girl. And they left holding each other's hand.

I saw it all as if from above, but the view did not last long. After a while, my vision blurred. I closed my eyes and when I opened them, I saw the sky above me, and the hard pavement was under my back.

I rose heavily from the sidewalk, all my bones aching.

"Well, you smashed your head on the road," said Mundek. "Next time, you should jump in the same direction in which the truck is moving."

"And there, on the side, there was a chain" added a second boy. "You could have held on to it."

I was not willing to go home and explain why I was covered in bruises. Moreover, the guys went right to the Wilson Place to shoot the carbide and I could not pass up such an opportunity. My head was still foggy and it stayed that way until the evening, but it was not the end of my experience for the day.

During the shooting, sometimes "misfires" occurred and of course, that day, it just so happened that I was the unlucky victim.

The art of shooting carbide revolves around the fact that the tin can has a piece of carbide inside and we pour a little water over it. The carbide begins to emit a flammable gas, probably hydrogen. It is then we quickly close the tin cover, and on the bottom, where previously, we pierced a small hole, we put the lighted match. Usually, this is followed by a loud, deafening explosion and the cover of the can ends up flying a good few meters ahead.

Usually. Sometimes, though, the can explodes in your hands, injuring your fingers with the sharp edges. Totally unsuitable for this kind of fun were the American cans of powdered milk from UNRA. These were made of cardboard and though covered with a thin aluminum coat from the inside they looked like a sheet of metal, they shattered at the first shot without making too much noise. When the carbide was already weathered, or too little water was added, the amount of gas produced was not enough to cause an explosion. Then red tail of fire gushed from the opening in the bottom of the can. We just called it a "dud". Of course it happened to me. I returned home with a burnt hand, head in a daze and tattered clothes. None of that was unusual.

What was unusual was that as I passed by the house where Redhead lived, I looked up and saw her sitting on the windowsill. When she saw me, she waved her hand before disappearing from my sight.

***

The day was great. Pasquale and I sat just on top of the roof, we had recently mended, the panorama of the roofs of Paris stretched out before us. The view was really fabulous, like sitting on a raft in the middle of an undulating sea, which shimmered in the sun, its living waves reflecting the sun's rays. Warm air blew constantly; lifting up from the streets below the smell of baked bread and cheap wine as it usually did during the lunchtime.

A big book of poems could be written just on the subject of the roofs of Paris. The mere sight of it was enough to make someone fall in love. The typical, traditional roofs were generally steep, covered with dark slate, which glistened in the sun as the surface of the water, while in other places, the graphite was concealed under the shade of the clouds, giving the impression of infinite depth in a variety of shades and hues.

Among this ocean, the islands could be seen stretching towards the sky. Of course, there was the Eiffel Tower, the white silhouette of the Sacre Coeur Basilique, the Notre Dame Cathedral and the golden dome of the Invalides Palace glittering in the sun. There were others as well, which, even after spending a month in the city, I still did not know yet.

So far I had not reached the top of the Eiffel Tower and it turned out later that up to the end of my stay in Paris, I would not get higher than the first floor where the elevator delivered tourists for free. Then again, I'd met a lot of people born in Paris who had never visited the top of the Eiffel Tower. I found myself there only after seventeen years, when I came as a tourist with my wife, my camera and a tourist guide under my arm, hoping to get to know my old Paris. By then, my small little hotel nicknamed the "American Hotel" was no longer there, as well as also the majority of my old friends, but the Eiffel Tower was still standing in the same place where it used to, still creating the same emotions of admiration and resentment like: What is this pile of useless scrap metal doing in the heart of one of the most beautiful cities of the world?

Marc Chagall supposedly frequented the restaurant housed in the tower, saying that he liked to eat there because it was the only place in Paris where he could not see the Eiffel Tower. He placed, however, the image of tower in the mural covering the ceiling of the dome of the Paris Opera. Love and hate at the same time? This was probably the attitude of most Parisians towards this structure. Now, it has already merged with the landscape of the city that it has become absolutely indispensable.

Pasquale was eating something with enthusiasm from his canteen. My lunch was, like always, the same: half of a crispy baguette, one litre of milk and two bananas. It had been like that every day for over half a year. Only that and nothing more, nothing less. I was almost always hungry, but in great physical shape. I could thoroughly enjoy the sight of all the firm muscles of my stomach.

Pasquale was an Italian, but had lived in Paris for many years. Large and loud, he had the appearance of a bully. He had the attitude, too. Few could stand working with him. Apparently, he tried to throw my predecessor once off the roof because he talked back to him. As for me, I did not care what he had to say because I did not damn understand him, and I think he liked me for that and I liked him too. Whenever he looked for me, he would walk around the building and scream 'Kurwa Macio'! They were the only Polish words he knew and he probably thought that was my name. After eating lunch, we descended from the roof down to the nearest cafe on the corner, where we had a small cup of black espresso coffee while standing at the counter, sometimes with a small glass of senorita rum or Calvados.

The company where I worked (of course in black) dealt with the renovation of apartments or entire buildings. The owner usually added one floor up if it was still possible. In many buildings of the Parisian streets, one could easily distinguish recently added floors, sometimes one, sometimes two of them. They differed in style from the lower floors, simpler, lighter and cheaper than the original levels. Pasquale and I, we were in charge of dismantling the old roofs and after a team of masons added the next floor, we built a new roof atop, usually lighter and of course cheaper. The original roofs were covered with stone slates generally, sometimes with zinc tin. We made the new roofs, mostly with galvanized steel sheets, hardy to work with and not so long lived as zinc, but much cheaper.

After work, I would return to my American Hotel to change and relax a little. This was, of course, the cheapest hotel I could find in the area, but I really wanted to live there. The hotel was located at Rue Brea, next to the intersection of the boulevards Montparnasse and Raspail. From a tiny balcony of my garret on the seventh floor, I could lean over a little and see the statue of Balzac made by Rodin on the little square at the intersection and a piece of the terrace of the famous cafe La Rotonde, where Impressionists once gathered. Who knew? Maybe Modigliani himself lived once in my room? Maybe he was even poorer than me? I was working as a roofer's helper. He painted his blind portraits, which no one wanted to buy in his lifetime. We both came to Paris to paint, after all. We both were young and full of enthusiasm. There was only one thing that made us different: he painted and I did not. After a day of work on the site, I came home and was able only to fall down on my battered couch, which had probably already seen enough in its long life, and I slept like a log for an hour or two. After waking up, I went down seven floors using the stairs since there was no elevator there to buy a baguette from the corner bakery and from the next, small store, a can of meat or black olives and a bottle of cheap wine, Prefontaine, such that only clochards and I drank. Then, I climbed back up to my seventh floor. The stairs up to the fifth floor were covered with old, red carpet. All the rooms on the sixth floor were equipped with the toilets. On my floor, there was no red carpet and there was just one, shared toilet in the hallway with just enough space for one to stand over a hole in the floor. For me it was enough and it was good. Oh, how wonderful life was in this city, especially in the evenings. How could I close myself up within the four walls of my attic and paint while outside, the dusk brought all of Paris to life?

***

The streets of Paris in the evening it was a completely different experience from during the day. The sea of lights and neon signs put to shame my memories of Warsaw, in the evenings shrouded in eternal twilight and shadows.

Here, the street lanterns and the neon signs of the theaters lighted the main streets brightly. People sat on the terraces of cafes, drinking wine, smoking and eating supper, all in a fun, relaxed manner, without the anger or the wrangling. Everyone had a place waiting for him. And if not, then a few corners away the next cafe was. Nobody was really drunk and no quarrel was heard, no cursing, unless it was for the sake of telling a joke.

Before some terraces sidewalks were lined with home-grown artists, musicians and jugglers alike, who showed their not always smart tricks or played music on whatever they could or could not, and after the completion of their artistic program, they would take off their hats and gather their "hard earned" francs and centimes.

Indeed, merry were the Parisian nights. The wine I drank with my supper still humming in my head, I felt the atmosphere of the great world. You know what they say. Paris is the navel of Europe.

After leaving my hotel, I would stop first to say bonsoir to lady Lou-Lou, a local prostitute who made regular rounds with her small dog on a leash. Such a lady deserved to be treated politely. After all, who could tell? Maybe someday she would show mercy to a poor thingy from a communist country and give me for free? So far it had not yet occurred to her. Probably I needed to wait patiently a little longer.

I walked down the boulevard Montparnasse to the Rue de Rennes. As I did, I looked at the shop windows and watched the street performances by the jugglers, spoke French with the beautiful girls (of course, only in my imagination) and felt very proud of my worldly life of a roofer's helper.

The French language was a real problem. Why the hell did people invent so many languages? Why couldn't one suffice, for instance, Polish? It would make life easier for everybody.

I liked hanging around in the Latin Quarter, but at the same time, it took the most discipline to resist the smells of food from the small restaurants nearby. Tunisian sandwiches all stacked up and the aroma of meat roasting on vertical turnspits introduced my stomach to a state of eternal hunger. Over time, I began to feel like a fakir on nails. They probably learned to love the pain. If you love it, the less it hurts.

***

It was a Friday. After seeing the panorama of the roofs of Paris, a sight that captivated me as usual, I put the two banana peels into the empty milk cardboard box. (I always liked to put away things neatly.) From the baguette, of course, not a trace remained. Pasquale and I went down to have our everyday espresso. On the way, I threw the milk box into the plastic bin for rubbish. As usual, after my lunch, I did not feel hungry, but also not overly stuffed. We went to our regular cafe at the corner and ordered two small cups of black espresso at the counter. This coffee cost then from one franc fifteen centimes to a franc twenty-five depending on the café bar. What a good time it was. Coffee at the table was more expensive, plus tips, and yet another price was set for coffee on the terrace in front of the café. We always drank it at the bar. On Fridays, we usually took something extra, and on that day, we ordered two small glasses of rum. Pasquale led a lively conversation with the patron, the man behind the bar. I obviously had no idea what they were talking about. Two Algerians from our construction site standing next to us spoke Arabic. (Of course, I also did not understand them.) That was when I clearly felt someone watching me. Immediately, I looked down to see if I had failed to button my fly. The old pants, which I used for work was not exactly new or perfect. Anything could happen. No. This time, the fly was all right. Why then would someone watch such an ordinary, boring person like me? Carefully, I raised my head and immediately froze. At one nearby table, an adorable girl sat alone, clearly looking at me. Of course, I looked to my right, then to my left and back just to see if maybe she was looking at someone else. No, she was looking straight at me. I shrank somehow in my tattered shirt. What could she possibly find interesting about me? I, for one, could find absolutely nothing. Certainly not my working outfit. But apparently French ladies sometimes have the weirdest taste. What to do? Should I approach her? What if she asked me something? What should I say? Complete panic gripped me suddenly. What should I do?

Then, Emmanuelle discreetly gestured to me with her hand, as if silently inviting me to her table.

One of the Algerians whistled softly through his teeth and Pasquale, who always noticed every pretty girl in sight, stopped clucking his tongue, impressed, which happened to him rarely. Feeling the stares of my colleagues, I could not chicken out. Reluctantly, I approached her table and looked into her eyes questioningly, blue eyes under long, dark lashes. (Oh shit, what a beauty she was.)

I called her Emmanuelle because her hair was cut very short, almost like a boy. (Only back then, the boys wore long hair). Emmanuelle was at this time the title of the latest erotic movie and half of the girls in Paris had their hair cut this way. I knew this movie only from the posters, of course, who knew? Maybe I would get to see it for Polish money when it gets released in the People's Republic of Poland in a few years. There was a small chance of that, however. There was no way our censorship would let such a film pass. The public might get shocked too much for communist authorities.

In response to my questioning look, Emmanuelle gave me a clear reply. Without a word, she pointed towards the empty chair on the opposite side of her table.

"Oh, boy," I thought. "She wants to talk to me."

I sat on the edge of the chair, not wanting to leave a dirty spot on the red plush upholstery with my roofer's helper ass. Besides, sitting this way made it easier for me to bolt if she asked me for something. I could pick myself up and run fast to the door, then straight on to my roof. Over there, she certainly wouldn't find me.

"You've probably just recently come from Warsaw?" she started with a clean accent from the Vistula riverbanks. "I am desperate to talk to someone in Polish."

"Why do you think I am Polish?" I asked, completely surprised.

"Very simple. I was in Warsaw last year. I saw such shirts in the Centrum department store."

"Well, it is hard to hide." I touched the collar of my chequered shirt from Wolczanka. Supposedly, it was made from the best fabric in Poland, made for export, national trademarked product quality No. 1 with a price of 150 zloty. Now, it was relegated to a rag on the back of a worker who renovated roofs "on black".

During this time, Pasquale and the two Algerians left the cafe, the Algerians looking at us with insolent curiosity and Pasquale giving me an almost scolding glance. Emmanuelle smiled.

"I see that you have to go back to work, but maybe we could meet again sometime, for example, on Saturday evening. You could tell me a little bit about our Warsaw. I'm dying to know what has recently changed in my city. As for the place, do you already know a café closer to the city center? I'm here by accident. It is a bit far for me."

"Of course, I know. For example, La Rotonde" I responded using the tone of someone who had been frequenting the place.

"Great! Emmanuelle cheered. "That is in my area. So maybe tomorrow at seven, we'll have coffee together?"

She held my hand in farewell and said:

"My name is Lena, not Emmanuelle."

"How did you know that...?"

"Again, the simple answer. Now in Paris, everyone calls the girls who wear this kind of hairstyle by that name."

"Ah, yes, really simple."

And then I realized I hadn't yet presented myself so I pronounced my name and darted towards the street. I flew, not ran, to our roof using invisible wings propelled by otherworldly excitement.

***

She was already sitting at a table for two by the window. I noticed immediately that she ordered only a cup of black coffee, which really calmed me. Such expenses, of course, lay within my capabilities. I hoped that she was not hungry; it would not be proper to run to the next bakery after half a baguette.

She was dressed differently from yesterday. Then again, I had noticed a long time ago that the girls in Paris dressed differently every day. Why?

I was also, of course, dressed differently. I was wearing pants with well working fly and the best of my three shirts, which I had never used for work.

She held my hand and asked me to sit down.

I also ordered a small cup of black coffee.

"In this coffee shop, once, Impressionists used to meet" she said. "Are you also an artist? Maybe a painter?"

"A real painter maybe not. Just a kind of painter. I do something from time to time for fun, but here somehow, I have no time for such foutaise."

"Foutaise? You should just go on and do it. Paris is the capital of art, after all."

"Well..." I lit up. "But for me, everything here is so new and interesting. I really cannot focus only on painting. Everything interests me."

"With time, that fascination will pass away. With me, it was the same. Have you been to the Louvre yet?"

"Of course. I go over there every Sunday." (Because in those good times, the entrance to the Louvre was free on Sundays.)

Somehow, I could talk with her so freely as if I had known her for a long time.

"I also like to go there. Maybe we would take a tour together sometime?"

I agreed, of course, with enthusiasm, but after a while, I began to fear that after visiting the Louvre, I should maybe invite the lady to dinner. Or could I perhaps persuade her to eat something before leaving her house? But how should I say it in the most elegant way?

Or maybe we could just eat Tunisian sandwiches from the street kiosk?

It remained to be seen. For now, I answered her questions about the recent events in Poland and the more we talked, the deeper I sank into the bottomless well. I only saw what was going on in her blue eyes and nothing more. It felt as if we had known each other since childhood. There were no mental inhibitions, not a trace of shyness. And yet when I looked at her bare shoulders, her beautiful face and the patch of smooth skin exposed by the neckline of her blouse, I trembled with excitement.

"I should not lose her," I thought. "I must not lose her, but what could I do? Maybe, after all, I had to go crazy and invite her for supper to a restaurant?"

She talked only a little about herself, mostly asking questions. As a result, after one hour, she knew almost everything about me and I almost nothing about her. After another hour, she proposed me a meeting at the main entrance of the Louvre eleven o'clock in the morning Sunday. That meant the following day. She proposed it to me herself and I could not believe my ears. Did I agree? What a question. With a passion, of course. What caught my attention, by the way, were her furtive side-glances from time to time, as if she was afraid she was being a tracked, short look in which I seemed to get a glimpse of something like a flash of anxiety. But perhaps it was only my imagination. I knew her too little to be sure of that. She said goodbye while shaking my hand, which freed me from the feeling of burning excitement. Then she thanked me, rejecting my proposal of walking her home.

When later that night I analyzed our meeting as I lay on my rickety couch, it seemed to me that I saw a silhouette of a man rising up from one of the remote tables and leaving the cafe a little later than Lena, but probably it was just an object of my imagination.

I paid without regret the bill for two cups of coffee. Nay, I even threw a pretty solid tip to the waitress who fortunately was not too intrusive and did not remind us every few minutes that in a cafe, one should not just harp, but also spend money.

After leaving La Rotonde, I went down the boulevard Montparnasse and headed towards the Rue de Rennes, it was my favorite part of this beautiful street. I stopped by the record store along the way, investigating the recently issued long plays but of course, without the intention of buying anything. Why should I when I didn't even have a gramophone in my room? Further down the street, I walked into one of the next cafés - there was no shortage of them - and ordered a large glass of red wine, "un balloon rouge" as they call it here.

So refreshed, I wandered on. I stopped for a moment in front of the sandwich stand. The most I liked to look at were the Tunisian sandwiches, large round rolls filled with meat, lettuce and sliced olives. I looked at them for some time, but did not buy one, so again, I felt a few francs richer, because I could have been tempted and bought but I hadn't. This evening stroll on Montparnasse was my greatest pleasure. I returned to the hotel around midnight.

"Bonne nuit, Madame," I said to the concierge, then scrambled up to my seventh floor with the toilet in the hallway and my banged-up couch, tired and happy, and the Parisian melodies drifting in from the open doors of nearby cafes rang in my ears for a long time.

***

She came exactly on time, striding into the lobby where the box office was located. Louvre back then was very different from what it is now. It looked more real without the imposing glass pyramid and most importantly, on Sundays, admission was free of charge. It was a real chance for the masses to see and appreciate the art.

I was walking among the numerous tourists along the counter, looking at the posters when I saw her. She walked in my direction, dressed in a light mini dress, which gracefully flowed over the curves of her slim body, and the insolent looks of other guys chased after her. That didn't surprise me at all, though I still felt suddenly angry at them. It felt as if they were trying to steal something from me that was not mine yet, but could soon be. Something about her face was familiar to me now, something I did not notice yesterday. It is quite different when one sees a girl's face from a distance as now and when one beholds her from the other side of a small café table. Anyway, it could just be an illusion. All Polish women are a little similar to each other, even in Paris. Who would have thought that this beautiful girl was going to meet me? I moved from my place, suddenly awake and rushed toward her. I think it amused her, my haste. She smiled and just like yesterday, held out her hand in greeting.

"I hope she is not a lesbian" I thought suddenly in a panic. Most of the girls give at least their cheeks to kiss at the second meeting. In Paris, after all, the customs should have been even freer. Or maybe she really only wanted to talk in Polish and nothing else?

"Hi," she said. "Which wing do we start with? I have not yet explored the Egyptian collection. What do you think?"

All of these antiquities suddenly no longer interested me. The most interesting exhibit for me now was Lena, so it didn't matter which way we went.

The Egyptian department was located right on the ground floor, which was no wonder. After all, who would want to lug all the stone statues and sarcophagi up to the higher floors?

We walked not so much saying anything as we went from one exhibition hall to another. Lena carefully studied the descriptions on the labels affixed to the walls. I studied Lena carefully, her every movement and gesture, every word and comment on each antique she examined, which for me did not present great importance. She was the most wonderful and priceless discovery, and I still had so much to discover about her. I knew already that I had to explore her to the end, mentally and physically, to know her thoughts and dreams, because certainly she has some dreams, like any of us. And who knew? Maybe it would be me who would end up fulfilling those dreams.

I looked into her eyes as closely as I could, to try and see if I could guess her feelings. Suddenly, her eyes shifted somewhere to the far corner of the great hall in which we found ourselves. There, next to a huge sarcophagus painted in gold was a man standing in a light-coloured suit, a man with Mediterranean features, perhaps Italian or Sicilian, examining the illustrations covering the gold, wooden lid of the sarcophagus with high interest.

As soon as he saw that we were both looking in his direction, he opened the folder of the museum guide and looked inside it indifferently, heading towards the next room without one glance in our direction. Something in his look puzzled me. Had I seen him somewhere else before? Suddenly, I felt Lena squeeze my wrist tightly. "Do not look at him," she said quietly. "And never get close to him. He is very dangerous."

"Dangerous?" I was amazed.

"Yes. He always carries with him a dagger and a revolver."

It froze me completely. "What the hell?" I thought. "What shit did I get caught in again?"

That day, however, I learned nothing more. Lena answered my questions casually until at one point, she stopped answering them entirely. I realized that it was better to leave it alone for now. If I was too pushy, I could lose her forever, and this I would have never forgiven myself for. As for the Sicilian (as I called the stranger in my mind), I did not see him again near us, neither with his revolver nor without it.

We stopped thoughtfully before a small sculpture depicting an Egyptian writer. The scribe looked directly into our eyes, as if to acquaint us with some secret truth contained in the document he was writing.

After visiting the section of Egypt, Lena said she was tired and needed to go back home. I was disappointed a little bit. I was already prepared even to invite her for lunch, not a hearty lunch, but something lighter, like coffee with cream and croissants at a nearby cafe, but what happened next gave me again a glimmer of hope for a bright future. She suggested that we could visit a section of the Etruscan exhibition next Sunday, at the same time. Then, without even waiting for my answer, her lips brushed against my cheek and she disappeared into the crowd of tourists at the exit to the courtyard of the Louvre before I could say anything.

For me, the Etruscan culture, whatever that was, could exist or not. I cared very little about it so far. But not this time. This day, it had become extremely important to me, to the point that I turned on my heel and headed to the room where objects from this ancient civilization were exhibited. In the section of Egypt, I had little to say, while Lena spouted out names and pulled facts out of her sleeve, which made me slightly uncomfortable, so I decided to make up for my deficiencies next week. Young, handsome, intelligent, with a basic knowledge of Etruscan culture - this was what I was supposed to be next Sunday. Before I moved from my place, it seemed to me that I saw a light-coloured suit bound in the direction in which Lena left, and for a moment, I thought it was the Sicilian, but the man's face was not visible so I could be could be wrong.

***

The next week seemed to me mercilessly long. We started just another roof at the Rue de la Roquette. Before dismantling the old roof, we had to set the wooden platform along the existing roof gutter based on the brackets protruding from the windows of the highest floor. I walked through the gutter with the boards on my shoulder six floors high without any protection. The cars driving on the street somewhere below my feet were the size of matchboxes. Not the first time my earlier experience of working at a steel construction site in Warsaw proved helpful to me. Back then, I had to go even higher to make the site inspection, however, without the boards on my back.

After building the platform, a wooden skeleton was added above the roof in order to support the water resistant canvas. The one on de la Roquette street was in the color of bright azure.

Under this guard, we started the demolition of the old roof. At first, we took off the original covering built with slate and with an electric davit, we transported demolition material in buckets directly to the street. There, we laid it in a pile by the entrance gate or in the courtyard. After completion of the demolition, it was supposed to be transported to a garbage dump outside the city.

The work was hard and dangerous, but the incredible panorama of the roofs of Paris compensated for the risk, at least until the azure canvas was installed. We had a lot of work. The hours rushed forward like crazy. To me, however, my longing extended the time mercilessly. I had no idea how I was going to last until Sunday. All the time, Pasquale was yelling something to me in French, Italian and Spanish (his wife was Spanish). Fortunately, he didn't speak Polish, but "kurwa macio" was heard after every other sentence. I was quietly doing my work because I did do not understand what he was yelling. The job was not very complicated, so we stayed in this strange Italian - Polish symbiosis. He was glad that he finally had a helper who did not talk back. I was glad that I did not understand his chatter and everything would have been fine if only Sunday was a little closer, if a time took pity on the poor heart of a Polish worker in a foreign land and ran a little faster.

In the evening, I embarked again on my favorite route: Boulevard Montparnasse, Rue de Rennes to St. Germain, the fountain at St. Michel and beyond, to the Latin Quarter, where I got a glass of red wine from one of the cafes I passed by, then farther and farther along boulevards with a head full of dreams. At the same time, I watched my steps well because I came up with the idea that it would be good to find a fat wallet with curled corners and wads of money squeezed with a red rubber band, lying on the sidewalk and waiting for me. And inside a lot of cash, the banknotes, exactly one hundred thousand francs. I did not know why I thought of this sum exactly. Maybe it was the largest amount of money I could imagine. And then, what? I knew the answer to that. I would take her straight to the French Riviera. We'd be living in one of those expensive hotels on the seashore, which I had seen in brochures, and sunbathe naked on the beaches.

Wait a little. There was no way I was going to let her strip naked when there were other guys around. Me, I could look. Rather, I must look, but not the others. No way.

And in the evenings, we could go to a disco or have dinner at a restaurant where they served "les fruits de mer". A lot of such restaurants were also here, in Paris. In front of their entrance, on a slightly sloping countertop, was spilled crushed ice and over the ice, you could see the different kinds of fish displayed, as well lobsters and clams, and other stuff that you don't even know. Even the oysters come in several types. To places like this, I would take her in the evenings, and after returning to the hotel, of course, we would order champagne in an ice bucket from room service, as in the movies. During those intoxicating nights, we would make love up until morning and through the open door of the balcony, we could hear the sounds of the accordion of the street musician playing his nightly serenades. Not bad, huh? All I had to do was go right down the street and watch under my feet carefully. After two or three hours of strolling, it turned out, however, that there was no wallet today waiting for me to discover so I walked to the nearest metro line and I returned to the station Gare de Montparnasse, scrambled up to my seventh floor without a lift and jumped on my couch, whacked but happy.

***

Finally, the eagerly awaited Sunday came. At half past ten, I walked around the square in front of the museum. It was the real Tower of Babel, the air filled with such a mixture of languages from all over the world, some of them easy to recognize, others not. I could even hear our national "o, kurwa" from far away.

Exactly at eleven o'clock, I saw her.

She approached with her unusual walk, which immediately made my heart beat faster. On her shoulder hung a small, white bag suspended on a long belt. She was keeping it close to her body with her left elbow and her every move seemed to be so easy, unforced and natural, with a finesse that could only be seen in some young women and animals.

She took my hand and let me kiss her on the cheek.

"We're good," I thought. "We're beginning to make a progress."

Just as we decided on the previous Sunday, we started to look at the collection of objects representing the Etruscan culture. I was soon so damn bored with all those vases, cracked shells and necklaces that I forgot all about my earlier reconnaissance, while Lena, for the second time, showed good knowledge of the subject and explored the exhibits with a real interest.

"How do you know all this?" I asked, surprised.

"How?" she gave me a puzzled look. "It's simple. I studied art history at the Sorbonne."

Well, as always, she had a simple explanation alright. At least for now. We wandered quite a long time among the antiques. I watched her furtively, timidly, wondering if one day she would be mine, when suddenly, I noticed that her face froze, taking on a different expression, some determinate concentration. I looked in the direction in which she was looking and saw him again. The Sicilian was hidden behind one display case so that he could watch us through the double glass. I had not noticed him before because instead of a suit, he was wearing gray trousers and a brightly colored shirt. By doing that, the rascal changed almost completely, but I had got him now. When we got out of the museum, I was going to drag him into some dark alley and with the old Warsaw custom, break his neck. But then I remembered Lena's warnings. What if he really had a gun? If so, maybe the Warsaw way was not the best. I needed to go with something more.

"Why he's following you?" I asked in a low voice. "Do you want me to chase him away? Or maybe we should call the police?"

She squeezed my hand tightly.

"Can you help me get rid of them? They watch my every step. I'm completely trapped, please!"

My heart was beating fast. In this her "please" was a request and a desperate cry at the same time. A stone would have shrugged, so much more the helper of an Italian roofer in a foreign country.

"Of course," I spoke solemnly. "I'll take care of him."

"No, not now. Next Sunday, I'll tell you more. Enough sightseeing for today. Anyway, I can see that you're not a fan of Etruscan art."

"Indeed, I would prefer to see some paintings for a change."

"Of course. Next Sunday, we will visit the halls lined with European paintings. Happy now?"

This time, she allowed me to give her a goodbye kiss on each cheek and disappeared into the crowd, leaving with me the subtle scent of Chanel No. 5 and a considerable load of excitement. What the hell was going on here? Who was haunting her and why? How could such a thing happen in a free country?

And why didn't she want to go to the police? Was she entangled with some spies or involved in some scandal? Maybe it was one of the networks from behind the Iron Curtain? Absolutely not. They had their own agents. They didn't need to use the Southerners.

As I looked, the guy in the colourful shirt was no longer visible on the horizon. I left the Louvre courtyard on a sunny Parisian day.

***

Jarek and Sophie lived not far from my hotel. Jarek, the artist from Krakow, painted small pictures of the Parisian streets in a naive style - the shop windows with pots full of blooming geraniums, the views of Montmartre, Champs- Elysees in the pouring rain and on a bright, sunny day, Place Pigalle, of course, with the visible red windmill on the roof of the Moulin Rouge cabaret. From them, he had made a modest living for many years, as an artist should. He never made enough, but he always had some money for red wine and marijuana, two elements that an artist should never lack in Paris. Sophie was his muse. She gave him love and inspiration. With her beautiful body, she also served as his model whenever he suddenly felt like painting something ambitious. The whole of their tiny apartment was decorated with her portraits in which Parisian galleries were not interested. The cheap, commemorative view of Paris streets was something else. A tourist, upon his return home, hangs it on the wall just to remind him of his stay in Paris. And the true art? It is only good for dreamers. Very few painters are able to make a living from it.

We sat together on the couch in their chambre de bonne on the Rue d'Odessa on the sixth floor and exchanged awkwardly looking twists of marijuana. Sometimes, one of their friends came in and each of them as a rule wanted to have a smoke.

Smoking that stuff together made it more fun, hence the English name "joint". Together, we could proceed to have very philosophical discussions about the sense of life and existence, about our planet and the whole cosmos. The problem was that the discussions were conducted in French, so few of this I could understand but little damage was done. But the next day they also remembered little of yesterday's talks and every evening, they had to reinvent the wisdom of their life.

For the production of "joint de Paris", we needed a used ticket from the metro. It was a small piece of thin carton, which we rolled up like a strudel to make a mouthpiece, on the narrow end of which we rolled cigarette paper in the shape of an elongated funnel. Through the wider end, we placed the crushed leaves of weeds while compressing them with a match, then we turned the end of tissue and the joint was ready. In a similar way, we would prepare the twists of hashish. Hashish was a bit stronger than marijuana, its appearance, color and texture resembling a dried cow shit. Crushed and mingled with tobacco cigarettes, it was used to produce the same kind of joints.

Yet another product used by "artists" in order to elevate their inner self to higher levels of understanding was hashish oil. The dark, thick liquid that was used simply to spread over the regular cigarette from the outside and the joint was ready. This way, the ordinary cigarettes immediately become extraordinary. I called it the "poisoned cigarette" and I never liked this stuff too much. For me, "one good shot of vodka" drank customarily on the banks of Vistula river was the best reinforcement of my mind, but here, in Paris to not pass for a freak, I used these dirty tricks from time to time in "high society" circumstances.

In contrast to an ordinary cigarette, the smoking of this stuff was quite different. You had to inhale the smoke deeply into your lungs and keep it there for some time. After several seconds, you exhale, and you would get what you paid for, that strange feeling of timelessness. Yes, the time had changed its dimension, so at least I felt. It was like stopping time in place. Time was so close that I could almost touch it. Once, I could remember it even moving backwards.

I just returned from my friends after the meeting ended and I stopped at the intersection of boulevards Raspail and Montparnasse, waiting for the green light. When it finally came, I went on the pedestrian lane with a group of passers-by, slowly, slowly. Every time I was "on a high", I did everything very slowly, so at least I thought. Now, before I came to the sidewalk on the opposite side, I suddenly noticed that I was staying again in the same spot and waiting for the green light to come. It scared me a little. After returning to the hotel, I locked myself in my room and for the rest of that evening, I did not leave. Since then, I decided to be more careful. Too many zombies could be seen around the streets with a "haunted" appearance, their hair flying and their eyes filled with noting but emptiness. I didn't want to become one of them.

***

Meetings with my friends filled my afternoons on the days preceding the next Sunday Until finally, I lived long enough to see the highly anticipated Sunday morning.

I dressed up in my new stretch shirt, "Polo" made of 100% nylon, which I bought previously on the street stand. It was in a light blue color, same as the hue of the Parisian sky as seen from the repaired roof when the weather was nice and when the night wind just cleared the car exhaust smog in the air. Dressed up, I checked my appearance in my dark, spotty mirror hanging on the wall. It was not bad. From between the spots, a brave Parisian roofer (in the mirror you could not see that he was only a helper) looked at me, my blue "Polo" shirt looked as if it was bought yesterday from a Warsaw Pewex store.

I left my apartment confident and proud of my classy appearance. At the bottom floor, I said bonjour to the concierge, putting in my welcome greeting all of the Parisian accent I possessed. I walked on foot, not hurriedly. I had a lot of time. Along the way, I absorbed the smells of coffee and fresh croissants from the cafe doors left ajar.

"Why not enter one and join them for a cup of coffee?" The thought flashed through my mind.

"No," I answered myself immediately as usual in such cases. If I could smell it, that must suffice. Besides, it might yet happen that Lena and I would go somewhere together. Finally, after the visit in the Louvre, we could go somewhere. It will be our fourth meeting, after all, and in the end she will have to decide on something. The platonic love in our current relationship was probably not for me. I had no idea how to eat it.

Today, we arrived at exactly the same time, almost bumping into each other. She kissed me on the mouth and immediately pulled my hand toward the entrance, before I even had time to react.

"Today, we are seeing the European paintings, remember?" she exclaimed cheerfully.

I was pleased that she remembered. It was actually the only department of the museum that interested me. Really, I could spend hours there gazing at the hundreds of these extraordinary pieces of canvas, which until then, I had only known from reproductions in albums and photos in newspapers. Now, I could see them all with my own eyes, within reach. I experienced moments when I could not resist, so I waited a long time in front of the painting of one of my favorite masters until no one was looking and touched the canvas quickly, furtively. At the time, I felt a shiver of excitement as if I had touched the hand that painted the picture. If you were an artist, you would understand what I meant.

Touring one room than another, we got to the Hall of Rubens. His fundamental works of enormous size frightened me as always with the enormity of naked bodies. I was wondering if - and surely I was not alone in my wondering - I'd like to find myself in the bed of one of those beauties and decided in the end that probably not. Still, my life is precious for me. I prefer ordinary girls, graceful and slender like...Where was she? Somewhere, I seemed to have lost her. Looking into the unearthly beauties, I had let her out of my sight. I ran now from one hall to the other in search of my treasure. I found it at last.

She stood in the middle of one hall without moving, staring at the large painting hanging on the wall. When I got closer, I noticed that she was really scared, the features of her face were stiff and I saw the tears on her cheeks. It frightened me also. What had happened to her?

I knew the painting well. I had stood in front of it more than once and each time, it aroused in me mixed feelings of fear and pity. This was, of course, Theodore Gericault's painting entitled "The Raft of the Medusa". The painting depicted the true story from the Napoleonic era wherein the Captain of the vessel named "Medusa" left the sinking ship with the officers, leaving its passengers to certain death. Those managed to rig up a wooden raft and an army frigate that happened to be miraculously passing by rescued a small handful of them. The artist in his canvas presented that exact moment. The despair depicted on the faces of the survivors mingled with fear and hope was so aptly expressed that very few people passed by indifferently.

As the legend went, Gericault sketched the faces for this work in an asylum where he could find the most interesting characters.

Lena grabbed my arm tightly. Her hand was cold, so cold. She began to back away, all the while staring at the horrific painting hanging on the wall. I drew back step by step behind her without understanding.

Finally, she started to say something while still staring at the canvas. I leaned closer to her to understand what she was saying: "I don't want to go there. I do not like the water. Take me from there, please. Take me..." I took her in my arms, pressing her firmly to me. Her whole body was trembling and for a moment, I felt myself trembling as well. After a while, she calmed down and pushed me off a little bit.

"I'm sorry," she said at last. "I broke down. It will pass. Anyway, I always react like that at the sight of that image."

We stood now on the opposite side of the room, but her eyes were still fixed on the floating raft being tossed by the waves. Even from afar, the image breathed terror and tragedy, the sky over the heads of the survivors' ominous and angry billows of wind threatening to destroy the handful of frightened people at any moment. The only tiny sign of hope was the small point on the horizon, the upcoming war frigate. It was a godsend, the only chance of survival, but would it notice the raft? Would they be able to rescue them in time? On this particular point was also clearly fixed the eyes of Lena.

"Take me away from here. He is tying me up. He wants me go back to the sea," she continued more quietly, still looking at the picture.

"Who is holding you bound?" I asked.

"Who? The captain of Medusa, of course. There is only one vacancy in the launch. He wants it for himself."

"The captain of Medusa is dead. It has been for a long time," I protested. "Lena, it is an old story. Stop thinking about it."

I began to regret that we had come here. The sensitive nature of Lena did not support this kind of experiences well.

"Will you take me away from him or not? If you don't answer me immediately, you will never see me again!" Now she looked straight into my eyes, her own grave and determined. I knew she was serious.

"Of course, I will take you with me" I blurted out with conviction. "Whenever you want and wherever you want me to take you. But you have to tell me more. Why are you afraid? Who is causing you all this trouble?"

Lena looked at the picture again.

"Do you see that man sitting on the raft in front of us?"

"Yes. A good friend of Gericault, Eugene Delacroix, himself a very well known artist, posed in order for this character to be painted. You cannot not know him. He was the one who painted the most famous portrait of Frederic Chopin.

"Of course I know him," she said impatiently. "It is not about him I am talking, but about the man whom he presents on the canvas. Do you know why he does not look towards salvation and why he has such a grim face?"

"No. I do not know that."

"Because he knows what I know. There is a widespread belief that the survivors were rescued. This is a lie. They all died, every one of them. The rescuers didn't want to save them. They thought that the case would not come out."

"But they were rescued. The captain of the Medusa was tried. It was a big case..."

"Do you believe the newspapers? They lied then like they are lying now. If you believe them, maybe you are one of them yourself."

"I only believe you," I said, seriously putting my hand over my heart. "What can I do to help you?"

Lena pulled from her purse a little notebook, wrote something on a clean page, then tore it from the notebook. She folded it in half and gave it to me.

"This is my address. Come there next Sunday evening, preferably at eight. I'll be alone. The Captain of the Medusa will not be home. You can help me get some of my things so I can run away somewhere far from there, somewhere where he'll never find me. I am unable to do it alone. I have repeatedly tried, but I could not. With you I'll be stronger. I'm sure I can do it. You'll be on time?"

"Of course, I'll be" I assured enthusiastically. "You may count on me."

She threw her arms around my neck and kissed me hard and long on my mouth. I suddenly felt her on me entirely and I thought that only a fool would not go after such a reward. Another week and I would have her all for myself. I felt already happy beyond description.

The kiss ended as suddenly as it had begun. Lena pulled away from me. She looked again into my eyes, then turned around and disappeared into the crowd of visitors. I didn't run after her. I stood rooted for a good few moments trying to understand if what was happening to me was not a figment of my sick imagination. But no, the page from Lena's notebook with her address written on it was still in my hand. It read: Boulevard Raspail, second floor and the house number. It was actually somewhere near the Cafe La Rotonde, as she mentioned during our first meeting. It would be easy to find it. The only problem was that next Sunday was, so far, so damn far away...

***

I did not stay long at the Louvre. I went to the Seine, crossing the Pont IX, then going to the shore and wandering along the water, eyeing the tourist boats floating down the river. I passed just near the corner of a high, vertical stonewall, thinking that I was alone here when suddenly, I felt fingers of steel tightening around my neck.

A kind of invisible, inhuman force pushed me against the stonewall and a hard object was shoved against my ribs, hurting me badly. When I looked up, before my face appeared like a ghost the thin face of Sicilian. He looked at me straight in the eyes with the piercing glance of his black pupils, assessing the effect of his action.

I stood stiff, pressed against the wall so petrified with fear and the attacker hissed menacingly, his eyes still piercing mine.

"Less la tranquille, capish? Less la tranquille!!! Si non..." Here, he eloquently pointed with his chin the dark masses of water rolling at our feet.

I closed my eyes in horror. I did not want to imagine my poor, dismembered body immersed in the waters of the Seine. Then the grip on my neck stopped and when I opened my eyes again, I was alone on the stone coast. I unglued myself from the wall and walked a few steps on stiff legs. Somehow, my knees did not want to bend for several seconds. Then they both abruptly bent at the same time. I had to lean back against the wall to keep from falling.

"What the hell?"

Finally, I started to think. "What did he say? That I had to leave her alone because if not, then..."

I looked again into the dark water. No, I definitely did not want to be thrown there. I scrambled up the next stone stairs to the street and sat down on the bench next to the booth of a second-hand bookseller. I needed some time to bring my nerves to working condition.

***

Right the next day, in the evening, I went for some reconnaissance. Indeed, the house at the address written by Lena was quite close. I made an effort to be very careful. Going slowly, I watched for the slim reflection of the Sicilian in the shop windows. I already knew that he could jump out of a mouse hole and grab a man 's throat at the same time. I did not see him, though.

The house where Lena lived was big and old, similar to the other buildings on the Boulevard Raspail. I threw the usual, professional look up to see if the seventh floor had already been built. Unfortunately, it was already there so there was nothing for a roofer's helper to do at this address.

At the entrance gate, I didn't notice the intercom. Probably they closed the gate every evening with a key, but certainly not before ten o'clock. I walked down the Boulevard Raspail thinking a lot.

Maybe I should be armed? But, how? At the Rue de Rennes, I saw one shop window lined with spring knives, the whole choice of them, from very tiny to large ones. But if the police, by any chance, stopped me and found me with a knife, they would certainly not like it at all. At the very least, they could deport me to Poland with no right of return. Besides, the "Wet Job" was not for me, even in self-defense.

I suddenly remembered that I had in my hotel room an old wrench left on the site by a plumber. Yes, that would do. After all, it was the proverbial Polish thug weapon, almost like a steel tube wrapped in newspaper.

I felt briskly better at the thought that I would not be defenseless. Still, I had to be careful. Yesterday, I let myself down, acting like a loser. I wondered if the Sicilian was going to watch over her. Maybe he thought that he had succeeded in scaring me off, but he was deathly wrong. No way would a thin spaghetti eater scare off the Warsaw dodger. But then, what would I do with her once we found ourselves on the street? Should I take her back to my hotel? Sicilian might already know where I lived. Or should I ask my friends to hide her at least for some time? But then what if she learned how to smoke that shitty stuff? Absolutely not. I needed to think about it some more, later perhaps. Maybe Lena had a plan. We would see on Sunday.

That in mind, I walked each evening to Lena's area, devising variants of the forthcoming action. Ultimately the anxiously awaited Sunday came.

***

When I went out into the street, my legs automatically began to drive me in the direction of the Louvre. I let them go. Indeed, Lena and I had our rendezvous slated in the evening, but who knew? She might come anyway. For a long time, I wandered among the international crowd in the halls of the museum, but I did not meet her. Nor did I notice the long face of the Sicilian anywhere. I was suddenly reminded of my wrench. I had to remember to take it with me in the evening. I walked a bit aimlessly through the vast halls, but my thoughts strayed constantly around the evening meeting. What were we going to do next? Let us assume that she would be home alone, that we can quietly slip out into the street. And then what? Maybe catch a taxi? Or better yet, run straight to the subway. That was the easiest way to get lost. It depended on how much luggage she would have.

Or maybe go to the airport and return immediately to Warsaw? If the Sicilian followed us there, I could send him two or three thugs from Czerniakow and he would flutter back on foot to Paris, never again daring to show his face on Polish soil.

How many francs could a ticket to Poland cost? Maybe the train would be cheaper? And what? Leave Paris so suddenly? I hadn't made yet enough money to go back. So my doubts doubled and I still didn't know what to do. It was probably better to wait patiently for my meeting with Lena. I didn't know enough to decide something now.

I looked at the wall of the museum in front of me, at the painting where my legs had led me. The Raft of Medusa drifted among dangerous waves, the only glimmer of hope for the handful of terrified survivors in the vastness of the sea being that one tiny speck on the horizon - a sign that maybe not all is lost yet, that there was still a chance of survival. And yet one character turned his back to the possibility of salvation. What did he know? And why was he the only one who knew something the others didn't? Well, maybe he was not alone. Lena also seemed to know it. But, how?

I was sure that I remembered this story correctly. Several castaways survived, miraculously rescued by the encountered warship. And the Captain of the Medusa was put on trial for his heinous act of leaving his passengers behind at such a tragic moment. Did Lena invent her version of events? But why would she do such a thing? One must have a really sick imagination to distort history in such a way. It couldn't be, and yet that face on the canvas, sombre, with a grim expression that Delacroix wore posing for his friend seemed to confirm the version of Lena. When someone sees approaching salvation, even just the possibility of it, it is natural to react just like the rest of the passengers on the raft, going out to meet it with all his heart, staring at it as if willing it to move closer, not turn his back on it. Something was definitely wrong with this painting. Many times I stood previously before the canvas, but my attention was never drawn so much to its symbolism.

The picture was for me a typical academic painting that used models. It was made for the audience, for the stimulation of the viewers' emotions. Today, this kind of theatrical poses would arouse only an indulgent smile, even compassion for the author, but then, it was different. I was always fascinated by this painting, but not by the raft, nor the people with their tragic circumstances, but something else. The most important for me was the second plane - the sea and the sky. These two elements were painted with such passion, one unknown to a mere "Sunday painter", like myself. I knew that even if I ate five pounds of paint, I would never be able to depict such a sea, and such a sky also. It must have been the gift of God. Even years of training and studying were not enough.

With an effort, I tore my eyes away from the masterpiece. I absolutely needed to talk once again with Lena about it. Maybe I could find out something more. But not today. Today, I had more important things on my mind.

I went outside and looked around. Lena was still nowhere to be seen, which meant I had to wait until the evening. Sicilian also didn't show up.

***

I left the hotel at half past seven. I left the wrench in my room, deciding the tool should be used only for the purpose for which it was designed. It was still light outside. Mme. Lou-Lou was walking with her Chihuahua along the sidewalk; and so I greeted her. "Bonsoir Madame Lou-Lou." (Still, I got nothing for free.) Reaching the already familiar building on the Boulevard Raspail took me only twelve minutes. At first, I roamed around a little on the opposite side of the street, watching the house intently, particularly its front door. I did not notice anything suspect.

Three minutes to eight, I pushed the heavy door and froze suddenly. But I didn't even know her name! What would I say if the concierge asked whom I was looking for? Here, the apartments didn't have numbers. I just know that I had to go to the second floor, but which door? I had no idea! The concierge window was open. I heard the bell ringing in while I was opening the gate, but no one showed up. I was lucky, from the depths of the yard, I heard a sound of rubbish bins sliding on the pavement of the court. I quickly ran to the staircase, pausing on the second floor. There were two doors to the apartments. Which one to choose? I knocked on the door on the left side. After a short while, I heard a rustling behind the door. My heart was jumping like crazy.

The door opened wide.

"Oh shit. Wrong door" I thought. In front of me, a man of about forty sat in a wheelchair, handsome with graying temples. He stared at me without saying a word.

"Excusez Monsieur..." I started to retreat, already so nervous I forgot how to say the word 'mistake' in French.

"Come in," he replied in Polish. "I was just wondering if you were coming."

"But I came to..."

"I know, I know. Come in and close the door. Come with me."

I made no further protest, doing as he instructed and we found ourselves in a nicely furnished living room with windows facing the street. We could hear the sound of cars passing below.

"Where was Lena and what had he done to her? Was this the Captain of the Medusa?" One hundred questions swirled in my poor head. I could not understand what was going on.

"Would you like to have a drink?" The man turned his wheelchair toward the wall on which was located a small bar laden with the bottles. I refused, of course, even though I felt the need to fortify my nerves. Something hung in the air, something strange, indefinable. I decided to wait.

"I was hoping you would not come" continued the Captain of the Medusa, pouring in two large cognac glasses some kind of slightly brown liquid. He offered me one of them. When I refused again, he set it on the table next to the elegant leather chair.

He invited me to sit with a polite movement of his hand. Again, I refused, shaking my head impatiently.

"Where is Lena?" I burst finally. "I must see her immediately! Why are you hiding her?"

The man took a sip from his glass, looking at me over the thin rim.

"Luigi told me that he properly scared you off," said he, not answering my question directly.

"You unleashed on me this mafioso? You thought that such a gigolo could scare any old Warsaw dodger?"

"I had hoped so. He was not supposed to hurt you, only slightly scare you so you would lose interest in your romance with my wife."

"Your wife?" I was completely dumbfounded at this point.

My host sighed.

"Please sit down," he said. "I do not like to look up while talking to someone."

This time, I sat down. My hand found by itself the glass of cognac set on the table. I eagerly had a long sip. It must have been expensive shit because it tasted awful. The Captain of the Medusa nodded in satisfaction.

"Now it will be easier for us to talk. Where do I start? Her real name is Magdalene. Here at home, she is Magda, but when she comes out of the apartment, she says her name is Lena. You see..." he paused and I suddenly felt that the words were coming out of him with difficulty. "She is sick. Seriously sick. The accident, which happened a year ago..." He thoughtfully tapped the railing of his wheelchair with his finger "very much aggravated her condition. She had it already in Poland, before our wedding. Such minor split of personality. The doctors claimed that it would pass with age. I was not bothered by it. Too much I was in love. Now, I care a lot because the situation has changed."

Again, he paused before continuing.

"Of course, I still love her and she loves me, but when she comes out of our apartment, she becomes a different person. Especially here, in Paris. I do not know why. Maybe the atmosphere of the city influences her so. That's why I hired a private investigator to watch her, so that no harm would come to her. Once, she tried to leave me. Luigi found her at the Gare du Nord, crying. Back home, she does not remember anything. At home, she becomes again my Magda. I really have no idea what's going on in her subconsciousness. I just know what she says while sleeping. That's how I knew that you were coming. I had planned to go out this evening. Just in case you showed up, however, I remained home.

"I... I'd like to see her."

"Of course you do and you will. I do not think you have bad intentions. I, on my part, have nothing to hide. But do promise that once you see her, you will never try to see her again. It's really very bad for her."

"May I know what kind of accident it was?"

"We had a small boat in Marseille, called Medusa. Once, we sailed with our friends to sea, far away to the northern coast of Africa. A storm broke up like we had never seen before. Medusa was smashed against the rocks. Both Magda and I were saved, but we were never the same. I had the spine injury. I do not know if I will ever walk again. Somehow, I managed to climb the rocks. And Magda? Already, you know. She is under the care of doctors.

"And the others?"

The Captain of the Medusa took the bottle of cognac by the neck and refilled our glasses.

"There were two of them, Sophie and Pierre. Their bodies have never been found. The sea did not give them a chance. We obviously felt guilty, but then we did not even know what was happening to us. The sea during a storm is a scary beast. The waves never ask a man, which way he wants to be thrown. It was just a coincidence that the two of us lived. It could have been the opposite as well."

Somewhere in the depths of the apartment, I heard the sound of a closing door and then, at the mouth of the corridor Lena showed up. She had just come out of the bath, her body wrapped in a bath towel and her shortly cropped hair wet. She looked at me blankly and nodded her head as if she had never met me before. Then she approached her husband, kissed him on the top of his head and said:

"We're going out in an hour, remember?"

Slowly, I started to get up from the chair where I was sitting, now completely thrown back, my mind completely numb.

"Sorry for my appearance" she smiled at me apologetically "I did not know that my husband had a visitor."

She turned and ran out of the living room holding the bottom end of the bath towel with her hand.

"We have an appointment" said the Captain of the Medusa. "Sorry, but we have little time." He pointed to the dresser against the wall on which sat a gilded frame with an old photograph and said "This is my Magda, or how she used to be in Warsaw."

From the photo, a girl with red, wavy hair looked at me, smiling to me with a friendly smile. The smile was oddly familiar and after a few seconds, I froze as the realization hit me. I had seen that smile before.

I put the half empty glass on the table and unable to say anything got out of the apartment.

***

After leaving the building, I headed toward the Boulevard St. Germain. I was going to wander a little around the Latin Quarter. The carefree atmosphere prevailing there in the evenings always worked well on my nerves.

I had so much to gain, all of which I lost during that one visit. C'est la vie!

You have to move on. I felt in my pocket my thin, leather wallet made from an emaciated, Polish pig and went to the nearest cafe. A glass of ordinary, red wine would certainly do me some good. It always worked.

***

I never met Lena again. I continued building Parisian rooftops throughout the year, but walking the streets I always took care to steer clear of the house where she lived. It was better for her and for me as well.

After a year, I returned to Warsaw. How modest the Polish capital seemed compared to Paris. The low, gray buildings were covered with cracked stucco. The sidewalks were covered in holes on which those eternally pissed off people walked without a shadow of a smile, cursing and often drunk. The food stores already had empty shelves and the saleswoman, inflated as turkeys and unkind, trying to put on a show that they were the only important persons there.

I walked the streets in the evenings thinking about the Grand Boulevards and their cheerful, carefree atmosphere. One evening, I came to a cafe at the Nowy Swiat street and asked for a glass of wine at the bar. Of course, it improved my mood. I decided to repeat the experiment in the next bar. Amazingly, I felt better again. After a few glasses of wine, I felt pretty good.

I got into a taxi and asked to be taken to Zoliborz on Sulkowski street. I found the house where I lived when I was a kid and trampled over the old, cracked sidewalk until I stood before the house where she once lived. That red-haired girl. I lifted my head. All the windows were dark. There was no sign of life. A terrible sorrow suddenly flooded my heart.

"Lena!" I yelled into the black night.

Silence.

"Lena!" I repeated even louder. "Lena! Lena!"

"Shut up, clown!" Someone shouted from the opposite side of the street. "No one lives there now. They have all gone!"

I fell silent, still staring at the window on the first floor. Suddenly, it seemed to me that I saw something moving. A curtain pulled back slowly and I saw the figure of a girl with red hair. She looked down at the street and waved her hand. Then she smiled and disappeared into the darkness of her apartment.

Back to ToC

Bartek

"I went in front of the hut and began to shoot indiscriminately. I played a long series towards those under my command, because I was in charge of the squad. It was me who brought my boys to the village and now, I tried to shoot them on the spot as I was overwhelmed with grief and rage. These two feelings flooded my heart at the same time. Fortunately, my fire was off target as I ran amok and no one was hurt..."

Sometimes, what we must do is too much. Our brain revolts, doesn't listen to us and nothing can be done, just our thinking runs out of control... This story is a continuation of "The raft of Medusa", also romantic, soft thriller.

***

After we had stretched the blue tarpaulin over the existing roof, we began the demolition job. It was a lot of work, but not very difficult. The stone slates in the color of graphite were nailed to old boards, maybe a hundred years old, in spite of that they were still in good condition. In fact, they would likely still be able to last twice as long if left alone. Old technologies are often irreplaceable - just go ahead and show me the contemporary roof that can endure as long. Sure, today you can also produce the same kind of roof like original, but it would cost far more than the roof made of galvanized steel sheets.

I asked Pasqual if he had installed a stone slate roof ever before. He answered yes and I believed him, especially after he showed me the tools for trimming slates in his old toolbox. Pasqual, other than being a professional bluster, was also a good roofer, and I learned a lot from him. We tore down the roof from the top, the slates peeling easily off the boards as our special tool undermined them. Then we transported them down in plastic buckets to the courtyard of the building. It was practically easy. You just had to be very careful not to stand on a loose plate. If so, it was possible to slide on it to the edge of the roof, and with a little ambition and good momentum, further on the street, six floors below the level of the gutter. We had no helmets, nor did we have ropes attached to our bodies, security measures considered standard today. We had to rely solely on our instinct of self-preservation, which was probably the best protection for working on such a height.

The roof was large and sloping. It took us two days to remove the tiles. I felt sorry for the old roof; I imagined craftsmen painstakingly putting it together so long ago just so that I, a tourist from the Eastern Block, would tear their work apart today. And all because the new owner of the building, that man with the sidelocks, wanted to earn extra income from a hastily added floor.

After peeling off the stone slabs, we had to exchange all the boards of attic floor. It also was not very difficult. We just had to be careful not to step on the ceiling of the apartment below. It could not withstand the weight of a man so if any of us fell, it was likely to be an unpleasant surprise for the one residing there.

Fortunately, the apartment below was empty at the moment. We took away the ceiling from the bottom with the aid of crowbars. This work I disliked the most since clouds of age-old dust billowed and then collapsed on our heads, filling our eyes and ears. The dust was black and cruel like the French Revolution, not sparing anything. It forced itself under our clothes and after a day of such work, we looked similar to black Africans.

I had, of course, no bathroom in my hotel room and washing up in the small sink was not enough, but I was lucky. Very close to where I lived, in the complex "La Tour Montparnasse" was a public pool where I could go from time to time to soak under the shower and get rid of the cursed black dust from every nook and cranny of my body.

After adding the external walls of the next floor, we had to lay down a new mansard floor. We installed a new set of thick, horizontal beams, each one spaced equally from the other. We fixed them solidly then we started to nail the new floorboards.

The spacing between the beams was equal with one exception.

In one and only place, the distance was 20 cm wider, because it resulted this way from idiotic Italian calculations of Pasqual. As for me, it became my bad luck. I walked along the upper edges of the beams like a mindless cow, holding in my hand an electric circular saw. I was staring stupidly at something and then suddenly my foot hit a vacuum. I fell into the gap between the beams and hit my side badly on the edge of one of them. I heard a sickly crunch and something hurt like hell, but luckily, I did not drop down to the floor below so I had no right to complain too much. To this day, I do not know how many ribs I cracked that day, probably at least two.

The next day, I stayed at the hotel. It was hard to breathe. Even inhaling the cigarette smoke caused pain, and in addition, I started to cough. Afterwards came a mild fever, which lasted several days.

My health problems aroused the interest of Mui Tang, a Chinese girl from Hong Kong who recently moved into the adjoining room. She came to Paris to work, employed by her aunt in a Chinese gift shop. She was the only person I knew then who spoke French even worse than I did, so I could talk to her without a shame, mainly in sign language.

She was young, pretty and very compassionate. She noticed how hard I had to scramble up to the top of the stairs with a baguette in my hand, so she brought me some hot rice with pieces of cooked chicken in a small pot. This remedy I received from time to time and it really helped me, but the real improvement began when I was able to explain to her (using our sign language) that it would help me better if she wrapped her young, Chinese body around mine. She wondered a little, but that same night, we started new treatments, which clearly helped me a lot. I was just in a period of despair after parting with Lena, so the treatment was also beneficial for my soul.

In the morning, Mui Tang set up the fragrant incense in my room before going to work and at night, her body wraps made my fever subside quickly so that the next Monday, I was already able to return to my work as a roofer. My ribs, admittedly, still ached, especially with sudden movements, but I gained much in exchange - the few Chinese tricks Mui Tang had taught me, and the resulting inner peace that filled my mind along with the fragrance of incense.

At work, a surprise waited for me. Pasqual had a new helper; his name was Bartek. The co-owner of the company where I worked was a Pole so he sometimes employed Poles since they have worked diligently and in addition, illegally, so he did not have to pay the taxes and insurance for those guys, such as in my case. With Bartek, it was a different story. He had a permanent residence in France and worked legally. Besides, he knew the French language very well. He talked back to Pasqual at every step, and it totally pissed off the Italian, leading him into a fury. My return to work probably occurred at the right time, at the last minute before a larger disturbance could happen. Bartek made at first glance an unfavorable impression - a big, strong chap with a gloomy look, smelling of sleepless nights and cheap, red wine. He worked well and conscientiously, but only on his own. He ignored the commands of Pasqual with shrugs of his shoulders, each shrug adding to the storm hovering in the air.

Upon seeing me, Pasqual yelled joyfully 'Kurwa Macio' which was his own interpretation of the popular Polish curse. Bartek was moved to another job and everything was back to the old order. From time to time, I exchanged a few words with Bartek during lunch, but he was not too talkative.

However, something happened between us unexpectedly. Once, when I was returning home from work, two Arabs crossed my way - one large, one small. They wanted something from me, probably money. They gave a shout and made scary faces, and since I was right next to the Arab neighborhood, I knew that it was better to be on my guard. Then Bartek showed up by some miracle. No questions asked, he punched the larger Arab in the stomach with his big fist and the poor devil bowed down like the poker. The small one bent himself obligingly and both retreated bent down equally. They ran down the side street without looking back. I wonder if they both ever straightened again.

"I don't know what they wanted from me, " I said.

"Why ask?" snapped Bartek "Chase them away and that's it."

In gratitude, I invited Bartek for a glass of red wine. After the first glass, he still remained silent, but after the second, he started talking, telling me roughly his story.

When I asked him about his name, he was silent for a moment, then finally uttered the name of one of the very famous Polish painters.

"Yes, he was my great-grandfather" he said, smiling sadly as he saw my surprise.

Bartek's great-grandfather gave him his family name and a bad fate. When Bartek was still a boy and a student of primary school, he won a drawing competition wherein the pupils were supposed to draw from memory the face of Comrade Lenin with his worker's cap on his bald skull. The portrait of leader of Great Revolution came out so successfully from the pencil of the little boy that Comrade Lenin himself was clearly pleased. He looked almost alive, mockingly smiling from under the lid of his cap and his half-closed eyes seemed to tell the audience: "Did you find my trick with communism funny? I never would have guessed what a bunch of suckers you are."

Little Bartek, as a reward, received from the school management a book entitled "Lenin in Poronin" and the family decided unanimously that the talent of his great-grandfather finally manifested in him. From then on, he was offered pencils and crayons at any occasion and everyday, was urged "Please, draw something". Unfortunately, it spoiled his mood so much that soon, he could no longer stand to look at a paper and pencil. His loving family, however, was not easily discouraged. As we know, the worst crap when repeated a thousand times, eventually becomes the truth and in the end, Bartek grew up believing that indeed, he carried some hidden genius inside him. He passed his exams at the Academy of Fine Arts in Warsaw because of the talent he had, however modest - after all, Lenin did not draw himself. He succeeds in graduating from the Academy because of the posters he created for the First of May at a time when the communist art of painting was budding. Then, as a grown-up artist, Bartek, already a qualified painter, decided to show the world and his family how much he was really worth.

He decided to go to Paris, where, his great-grandfather took his first steps in his artistic career. He managed to get a scholarship in France, owing it to the position of his father in the city administration and his famous name as well and so he set sail with a set of oil paints and a wooden palette in his valise. He had also a kilogram of smoked Polish sausages for himself and two bottles of Vodka Wyborowa as gifts for his future teachers. At that time, he himself was not yet in love with alcohol.

"Well, how did you do in Paris?" I asked as I poured the third glass of wine. Already, Bartek had captured my interest. "What happened next?"

"Shit" Bartek shortly replied. "I received some small orders from time to time and so I was able to survive to the end of my scholarship."

"And then? What happened then?" I inquired curiously.

"Shit too. Nobody was interested in either my paintings or me. I walked from gallery to gallery, showing my creations, but no one wanted my daubs. I realized that with the brush, I wouldn't be able to acquire much. I needed something else."

"What then? What did you do?"

"Even more shit than before. I started working painting apartments with one Pole. The job was of course in black, not very hard, and I was still using a brush." He smiled sarcastically. "I guess you could earn a living from it after all. But there was another problem - my residence visa in France was about to end. I had to decide on something, but what? Do I go back to Poland as a loser? Destroyed and defeated? Disillusioned and without any hope? How I could show myself to my family when I always wrote that everything was going great. No, I did not dare go back. I painted the walls during the day and in the evenings, I drank wine to kill the pain. I had no girlfriend, no friends except a few losers like myself. When my French visa expired, something inside me ended also \- my wish to return to the country. I was here illegally. I still had the right to breathe and drink wine and walk around the streets at will as you are doing now, but only until the French police for whatever reason checked me. What then? Deportation, the sad end for any illegal".

We drank the next glass of wine and went out into the street. We walked slowly toward the subway as the streets began to wake up to their evening life.

"How did you manage?" I asked.

Now, the subject was really beginning to fascinate me. I myself was in a similar situation. My visa was about "to finish", and I had not even made enough money for a used car. How was I going to show my face in Warsaw?

"How did I manage? The same way many idiots like me did. I joined the African Squadrons. Someone told me that they would provide me with the papers for a permanent residence in France."

"Have you been in the Foreign Legion?" I was seriously amazed.

"No, it was not the Legion. It was a mercenary army. There, they made a man of me. After a year of training - quarries are child's play compared with it - I became strong as a bull and was not afraid of anything. And they washed my brain of all the desires, illusions, ambitions and, in a way, conscience. I felt really great, a typical, mindless killing machine. I was one of them. I would give my life for them and I knew that each of them thought the same way. It was really a great feeling to be even just a wheel of this killing machine, to know that you are finally someone needed, truly needed for life and death."

When we came to the metro, we shook hands. Of course, my curiosity was burning. What happened to those African Squadrons? But I did not dare insist since Bartek was going in a different direction than me and it was getting late. Moreover, I already sorely missed my Chinese evening wraps. (My ribs were still hurting, although a little less after the wine I drank).

***

The next day I tried to get out of the construction site at the same time as Bartek so I could walk along with him.

"Where do you live?" I asked him.

"Why do you need to know?" He grunted disapprovingly.

Seeing that with him in a sober state I was going to achieve nothing, I invited him again for a glass of wine.

It was a worthy and necessary expense. Everyone knows that to learn something, you need to pay. Nothing is for free in this Rotten West.

"Well then, how was it in the military?" I asked after the second glass.

It was too early. Only after the third he began to unwind, to open up. At the beginning, he did so reluctantly, as if forced. While drinking more, his voice became as if it was liberated from some shackles. He was talking easily, freely, up to a certain point when he had had enough. Then he dropped his head and said nothing. After that, it was no longer possible to force him to speak. It was better to give him peace of mind.

"This was a job for a contract, " he began. "The organization works for anybody who has the means to pay. We worked mainly in Africa, where all these new countries still have rickety borders and governments. Once a country is called so, after the coup, its name changes. They paid, sometimes with gold, other times with diamonds or ivory, depending on what they had. Often, we worked for those who did not have anything to pay with. Someone else paid for them, then it was probably the issue of political influence. Besides, it was not our problem, we just had to do a good job, not think. We had to know only What, Where and How. We never asked why. In fact, the word never existed in our poor vocabulary. We had to get the job done efficiently, quickly and without loss of life. The last was very important. Each soldier was damn precious. The soldier carries not only the price of his training but also how much he can potentially earn for the organization. Sometimes, our customers were the dictators who were afraid to be overthrown, so they had to destroy their opponents. Other times, we worked for those who wanted to overthrow the existing government. Any customer was good as long as he had the money or something else to pay for our services."

I ordered the next two glasses of "vin Maison". It was not bad, likeable even with a sour-sweet taste and the smell of the vineyards of southern France. I'd never been to the south of France and I'd never seen a vineyard from up close, but it just had to smell this way. It could not be otherwise.

While passing next to the bar, the waitress smiled at us. She was a beauty to see. Nothing in her was straight. Her body was rounded all around, the curvature changing with each step she took. It was impossible not to look at her. In Poland, I had a set of drafting patterns, such templates for drawing curved lines on the plans. Each shape could be the drawn with it. I especially liked one of them - a long, slender tool, somewhat similar to the treble clef. She was exactly like this one. Those templates were called 'French curves' in English and only now did I understand why, the waitress duly enlightening me.

I looked at Bart. He also followed her with his gaze, like the other guys at the bar. But quite differently. In his eyes, there was no passion, no excitement. He did not undress her with his regard, did not analyze those excellent curves in awe. In his eyes, there was nothing. Complete emptiness, like the Sahara without water and without end, maybe even without the sand. He looked at her just because she was moving, a pure physical impulse. If she was a big, gray fly, I had no doubt he would look at her the same way.

"What did you do on your job?"

"Simple. Differently, each time, but always simple. We were not politicians. When we should only subdue those who rebelled against our client, we approached, for example, the indicated village or colony at night with four Jeeps from all sides. Each of the Jeeps had powerful headlights placed on the roof. We switched them on at the same time, so there was more than enough light to see every pebble on the dry surface of the earth. And then, we opened fire on the huts, slashed them thoroughly and evenly. After a moment, the village changed into an anthill. The people got out of each hole, black, sleepy, the whites of their eyes glowing in the spotlight. They immediately fell under our bullets. It was necessary to finish them all, every one of them, women and children also, so that no witness of the massacre would remain. In general, it was not as bad for them as it seemed. Other villages considered it as a punishment from some unknown dark forces and local cacique could again prevail quietly for some time, until the next rebellion. If not for our intervention, this could have escalated into a serious turmoil and much bigger loss of life. Many more would have died, maybe several thousand. Over there, they don't play democracy. When they butcher, they do it equally all around. That's how it goes."

He paused then and I knew that it was all for today. We went out into the street.

As we walked toward the subway, he asked me why I was staring at the sidewalk. I explained to him that I was planning to find an old, fat wallet with a hundred thousand new francs in it. He looked at me like I was an idiot on a day off from the hospital.

"Money is shit" he said. "It does not give happiness."

"I know. That is written in every book. But I still would like to have it. How about you? You would not like to have that kind of money?"

"I had that kind of money so I know what I'm saying."

"And what did you do with it?" I asked in astonishment.

"Maybe someday I'll tell you. For now, bye."

With that, he disappeared into the entrance to the subway.

Mui-Tang was already waiting me with her incenses. It was necessary to check whether the Chinese wraps were still needed. It turned out so, and absolutely. Therefore, we conducted a thorough treatment, which helped my still painful ribs recover perfectly. After the procedure, I fell asleep. When I woke up, I was alone in the room and beyond the windows ruled the black, Parisian night.

***

Saturday.

Tang Mui usually worked on Saturdays in the shop of her aunt. I chose the early afternoon to fulfill one of the responsibilities of each, self-respecting tourist in Paris - visit Pere Lachaise's cemetery. I reached the Philippe Auguste subway station and before the entrance to the cemetery, I went to the café for a cup of coffee. I decided to go crazy. Instead of a small espresso, I asked for a cafe-noisette, which was a little more expensive but more aromatic. I sat at a table outside the cafe enjoying its smell and I was extremely pleased with myself.

A bunch of Parisian sparrows arguing about something on a nearby tree watched me with appreciation and chirped one after another, as if saying: "Look at that. Look. He is sitting in the garden of a true Parisian cafe and sipping a café noisette, as if he was in his own country. Yeah, well, he has a good life. After all, over there, in Poland he was recently doing the auto stop with his colleagues to get to Sopot because he had no money for the train. Well, well, what's the next step?"

***

What should I do now? The expiry date of my French visa was drawing closer and I still had no idea what to do next. Maybe join the Foreign Legion, or such a Squadron as Bartek? I did not think so. My experience with the Military Studies for students at the Warsaw Polytechnic School had convinced me once and for all that the military was not for me. Such a student's army was indeed child's play compared to the real one, but for me, it was enough. I liked the military since my childhood. It was one of my passions, but only watching war movies. The everyday life of a soldier was not the same as the patriotic uprising and romantic adventures where they get the ideas for these movies. I rose, left the money on the table and walked out of the cafe patio onto the street. The sparrows continued twittering in the tree, but no longer about me.

I entered the cemetery. It was huge. The streets traversed it with moving cars, quite unlike the cemeteries in Warsaw. I did not know that I had to bring a map. Without one, it was hard to find the tombs of the Great Dead that interested me.

Without a plan, I walked down the alleys, stopping by the most impressive tombs to read the inscriptions on the stone slabs. However, they said very little to me. Then I came up with a brilliant idea: I would simply go where there were other people gathered, these living ones. It worked. I came to a tomb where I saw a whole bunch of people standing around, still, motionless, immersed in their marvelous thoughts. I read the inscription: Allan Kardec. I grinned. I knew who he was. He probably wrote the Book of Spirits as one of the forerunners of the French spiritualists. I read something about him while I was still in Poland. Allegedly, he had promised his disciples before his death that when he found himself on the other side, he would come back to tell them what he saw over there. And so they stood and waited, but until today, they had not seen this revelation. Nothing has happened. The Grand Master had not returned. Could they have been tricked? I stood there also for a moment. Like the others, I closed my eyes and tried even to meditate, but I had never been good at that. My mundane thoughts always took precedence over the spiritual, as the spiritualist considerations invariably conducted me to the door of the spirits store. I gave up with the meditation and went back on the road between the tombs.

Each tomb was different, as usual in old cemeteries. There were large tombs, small tombs, modest ones, rich ones, but one grave seemed to be very special. It was surrounded by a group of adults who looked like hippies, singing to the sound of the guitar "Come on baby, light my fire..."

Who rested here? Of course, Jim Morrison, one of my early idols. I knew he had died, but I did not know that he was buried in Paris. I never thought I would meet him once, even after death. From the stone pedestal, a head carved by some unknown artist and installed here by someone (I only found out about it later) stared with its unseeing eyes at the crowd. Now, devotees sang his hits, from time to time sipping from the whiskey bottle standing on the edge of the grave. Could he hear them? Who knew? Maybe he alone knew. The head seemed to hear everything. When I visited this place seventeen years later, a bottle of whiskey still stood at the edge of the grave (I doubt it was the same), while the head was gone. Apparently, it disappeared as mysteriously as it had appeared.

I stood with them for a long time. Jim Morrison was only 27 years when he died. Oh boy, we'll never know how much good music he could have still performed.

I moved on. As I did, Morrison's music gradually faded. The birds twittered something between the trees, but they did not understand his music.

I saw someone from afar, a lonely figure standing motionless in front of one of the tombs. I walked closer and stopped. He looked at me without too much surprise.

"You can often meet a Pole here," he said.

"Hi!"

"Hi," he said.

I noticed that at first, he was not satisfied with this meeting, as I surprised him in the middle of some intimate activity. I understood it. There are times when a person wants to be alone, shut himself up in a sanctuary where no one else has access to, and think about his life. Maybe I also wanted it. Maybe it was the reason I was here.

The monument was made of light-coloured stone. It presented a tearful Muse, sitting on a high pedestal, below the portrait, there was a bas-relief carved in marble and a short inscription above it: FRED CHOPIN. Interesting. I had just found the grave I wanted to see the most and here was Bartek, the gloomy guy, introverted, seemingly lacking that little bit of romanticism which almost each of us had. Maybe, despite all those years spent in the African wars, the trace of an artist remained in him?

"He was a romantic, " he said, as if reading my thoughts. "And also am I, although this is hard to see. I come here from time to time to have a talk with him. Sometimes, it helps me. Sometimes not."

"I did not know that you were interested in music."

"Not interested. And for sure not like before. But him, he is the only reason that I still listen to the music. It is the complete opposite of what I experienced there, on the Black Continent."

"Do you want to talk about that a little bit?"

"Good, but not here. Let's go somewhere else. Anyway, I'd like to show you one special bridge."

We went to the nearest metro station, then he took me to a place where I had not been before. I saw there a few barges moored to the stone quay.

"Wait a minute here." He pointed to the few benches standing against the stonewall facing the shore. Since my last confrontation with the Sicilian, I no longer had confidence in this kind of stonewalls. However, I sat down and waited. The gray waters of the Seine moved up steadily before my eyes, from right to left. Still, quiet, again and again...

Bartek showed up a few moments later, carrying two bottles of cheap red wine and two paper cups. He put them on the bench and poured. I noticed that his hands were shaking slightly.

"Not good" I thought. "Something must be eating his nerves."

"I wonder if there are piranhas here," I said a little absurdly as I looked at the murky waters of the Seine. I just wanted to say something, and nothing wiser crossed my mind at the moment.

"Piranhas?" he asked, surprised. "They are the only things we are missing here."

"Those are the most bloodthirsty monsters on the planet" I continued. "Their mouths are about one-third the length of their entire body, or so, I read somewhere."

We drank the first cup of wine.

"You're wrong" Bartek said firmly. "The most bloodthirsty monsters have pretty small mouths."

"What kind of monsters do you mean?"

"You know them well. They have small mouths and large heads. And they walk holding their heads up."

"People?"

"Way to go. I'll give you a grade of five in zoology. Men, that is you and I; we are without a doubt the biggest monsters that our planet has ever given birth to. Sometimes I think, maybe we really come from another galaxy, and they keep us so far from it because we are so dangerous."

"You really think so?"

"More and more. Earth reminds me of an apple that fell down from a tree. Immediately the putrefactive bacteria find their way to it. The apple begins to change a color. It gets soft, yellow, brown, and lousy from the outside and from the inside. In the end, the bacteria eat it up to the last bit. There is nothing at all left. Yes, that is what we do with our land. We have polluted the air. We are destroying the forests. Drinking water is already running low, probably soon it will run out. Currently they are looking for places where the bedrock is thickest to drill deep holes in so they can deposit wasted radioactive materials there. If we go on like this, we will begin to destroy the Earth from the center. Obviously, this is the very initial stage of apple putrefaction, but we do it faster and faster. The earth will end up being the first rotten apple in the cosmos. Now, do you still wonder why they keep us far from them?"

"Who?"

"I do not know. Other civilizations. God, maybe."

"Do you believe in God?"

Bartek decided that this question we should drink to. He poured into our empty cups.

"Certainly not in this God, which the Church is trying to sell us. Man is the biggest monster on Earth. Man destroys, kills and eats animals, eats everything he could fit into his little mouth. And when he does not want the meat to look like delightful, innocent ducks or calves he chops it into small pieces and pounds it with a hammer or grounds it until it does not longer resembles anything cute. Then, he can devour it with a calmer conscience. And to think such a man is created as likeness to the divine image according to the Church. But of course the likeness is never perfect. So if a man looks like an imperfect copy of God, how cruel must be the original? I prefer not to imagine. No, I do not believe in such a God. But I believe in my kind of God. I do not know how He looks, but certainly nothing like a man."

I looked at him, puzzled. Bartek was quite different from usual. Torrents of words flowed from his mouth, and his eyes glittered feverishly.

"So what can we do?" I asked cautiously. "After all, we cannot suddenly cease to be human beings, even if we see our flaws."

"What can we do? Simple. We can destroy ourselves as soon as possible, until everyone, any traces of human life disappeared from this planet. In the end, this will be done anyway, but the sooner the better. Less destruction will be left behind."

"How long have you been thinking this way?"

"I started before I got fired from the army. It took just one day, just one to open my eyes. We were sent to one rebellious settlement in some African kingdom, whose name you don't need to know. There was already before us another platoon from our division. The roofs of the clay huts burned. Between them lay plenty of bodies, still warm. We walked between them indifferently to see if there was someone left to kill, even though we knew this other platoon, as good as we were, probably finished the job properly. I stopped before the largest hut in the middle of the village. Next to the entrance lay the remains of a white man, probably a priest or a missionary. He was unlucky because we were under strict orders not to leave witnesses so he had to die as well. Maybe the poor shepherd was trying to defend the lives of his sheep to the end? I went inside the hut. The roof of palm leaves was obviously burnt. Opposite the entrance, over the remains of the altar, a crucifix hung on a blackened wall. I looked to the left... And froze...

On the clay wall, a picture hung behind broken glass, in a blackened frame. With a dark face, her cheek cut twice by the Tatar sabre, She looked at me, with a look that seemed to bore straight and deep into my soul. I could not look away from this portrait. It was coded so deep in my childhood memories, the defense of Czestochowa. All of our national uprisings were attached so tightly to it that even the years of Soviet "occupation" failed to weaken the force of our love to the Black Madonna. And now, the picture of Her hung on the wall of this miserable African church, sooty and battered, and not by the Turks and Tatars, but by my fraternal branch of white mercenaries, mostly Christians. A knight who once more defended Her like Kordecki priest did once, lay now on the sun-cracked earth at the entrance to the temple in rusty stains of his own blood, which merged forever with the land and with the faith for which he gave his life. And then, I felt something inside me snap. Something broke with a sharp crack.

I went in front of the hut and began to shoot indiscriminately. I played a long series towards those under my command, because I was in charge of the squad. It was me who brought my boys to the village and now, I tried to shoot them on the spot as I was overwhelmed with grief and rage. These two feelings flooded my heart at the same time. Fortunately, my fire was off target as I ran amok and no one was hurt. I received (also happily) a powerful blow in the back of my head with the butt of a gun and I fell on the hard, loamy soil next to the Kordecki priest. If I were not squad leader, I would have been shot immediately. The cases where soldiers went amok were not rare, but usually, this happened to less experienced NCOs whereas I had already been in the service for three years.

After returning to the base, I was sent for a medical examination. I had experienced a serious nervous breakdown and was considered ineligible for further service. Demobilized, I found myself back here where it all began. I had in my pocket a hundred thousand francs and complete emptiness in my soul."

We were already well into the second half of the bottle, as time passed gently forward with the dark waters of the Seine. This state of intoxication I liked the most - not sober, and yet not drunk. It was extremely difficult to maintain such a mood for a long time. Your brain demands more wine, to not be sober, but it is easy to go too far and get completely drunk or just fall asleep after consuming more than a certain amount of this shit.

"Well, where have you invested all this money?" I asked curiously.

"Where? Well, I promised you I would tell you. I invested them in the most appropriate place that came to mind. Very close to here."

I simply blinked without understanding.

"It burned me as if it was the hell fire, this paper, burning holes in my pockets and in my conscience. By chance, I found myself on that bridge you see there. To this day, I do not know its name. I stood on it and through half of the night I threw my fortune into the water slowly, systematically, one piece of paper after the other. They flowed down the river like night moths, at first drifting in the air, then calmly settling on the water's surface. It took a long time. I stretched the pleasure as long as I could. Until today, I still think it was the most enjoyable night of my life. And you know what I did with the last hundred?"

I shook my head.

"I lit a cigarette with it and it was the only useful thing I spent that money on. Do you understand?"

I understood. But would I have acted similarly in his place? I highly doubted it. You had to be really desperate to throw that amount of money into a river, even in such as the Seine. We drank the rest of the wine. Bartek slowly began to make himself unavailable, his mind drifting off into space. In the end, he stood. I also got up. We shook hands and left, each of us in his own direction into the growing darkness.

***

Sunday. I noticed a change with Mui Tang.

The incense sticks showed up in my room earlier, before the noon. (Usually, she lit them in the evening.) And with them came the Chinese wraps. It turned out that under their soothing action, my ribs cured extraordinarily quickly, and the pain in my side was felt only at very violent movements. I was extremely grateful to her for this treatment and I was wondering what caused the change in the day's proceedings. Our French was still extremely poor, but we had learned to communicate quite well with Chinese and Polish interjections. To complete the gaps in understanding, we used the signs and in desperate situations, we drew pictures on paper, if otherwise, something could not be described. It was in such a complicated way that I learned the following: It was Mui Tang's last Sunday at the hotel. And the last day she was going to spend with me.

Tomorrow, her fiancé was arriving from Hong Kong and they both would live with her aunt until the formal wedding.

I felt terrible. How many girls could one man lose in such a short time? I reproached Mui Tang. Why didn't she say anything about a fiancé?

She said that the patient should not be worried. I was angry at her a little, of course, but when she cried, I forgave her everything. I owed her so much.

We spent the whole day together. We walked around Paris as a tourist couple in love, holding hands. We watched the city skyline from the hill of Montmartre, roamed the Grand Boulevards, and when night fell, we went (everywhere on foot) to the Latin Quarter, where we had dinner in a small Chinese restaurant.

Mui Tang was talking - I did not even try to understand what she was saying \- and crying alternately. I felt strongly mournful, but knew too well that the guys did not cry. After leaving the restaurant, we walked by a small jewelry store. I saw there on the display window thin chain necklaces with golden Chinese symbols for pendants. Despite her resistance, I forced her to choose a character that would remind her of me. Finally, she pointed to one of them. I never found out what it meant. Mui Tang wore it around her neck as soon as I had bought it and after, she would stop to look at its reflection in the other shop windows as we passed by. I did not even wonder how much it had cost, this little thing. For me, it was worth much more than money.

After returning to our (still) small hotel, I also received a gift: When I opened a small box covered with Chinese ornaments, I saw two shiny metal balls lying next to each other. She showed me how to rotate them both together in one hand. While turning, they produced an extremely pleasant sound that introduced the person in a good mood even in difficult times. After a long and hot farewell, Mui Tang left in her Chinese night, leaving in my room unforgettable memories and the smell of fragrant incense. I was once again alone in this big and divine city of Paris.

***

Next day was an ordinary day. At work, it was the usual routine - we stripped off the old roof completely and without difficulty. Time passed quickly. The smell of incense was gone from my room and Mui Tang disappeared forever from my life.

Only Bartek was left to me. Despite the fact that he did not speak readily, I slowly began to consider him as a friend. One day, on a Thursday, he invited me for a glass of wine at the same coffee bar where the waitress with the French Curves, as I called her in my mind, worked. We stood at the counter as usual. Bartek paid for the wine - unlike usually while Ms. French Curves drove me crazy with her movements even more than usual.

Damn. I had to do something about her or I would really go mad.

We spoke sparingly over our second glass. Actually, Bartek had already told me everything about himself. I had no more questions to ask. The lessons came to an end. But my concern about staying in Paris was still unresolved. It still hung in the air. I had no idea what to do next.

"So, what did you do when you remained here without money and work?" I asked finally.

"I knew well what I was going to do. The plan I had devised was simple and reliable. I was going to go on the same bridge in the evening, fold up the bottoms of my trousers, then put inside as many stones as I could. And then, of course, I would jump and disappear."

"What? You wanted to end your life?"

"Exactly. I had a plan like this. Sooner or later, we have to leave anyway. Maybe sooner is better? Who knows?"

"And what? You changed your mind?"

"No, not like that. I went before dusk to this coast. I started to look for stones. On the same bench where we sat on Saturday, some boatmen drank wine. One of them called out to me. Jacques was his name. He told me later that my strange face puzzled him. I came closer. He handed me a paper cup filled with red wine. I drank. I had no reason to refuse. I felt better after it so I drank some more. Jacques offered me a job at the port, something to do with unloading the barges. I agreed without thinking and I remained there for some time, for two years, in fact."

"So you can say that he saved your life?"

"Saved? There was not much to save. He just delayed the inevitable. Little I gained from this."

Bartek ordered another drink. After we finished it, our conversation suddenly stopped. Not much more could be said this evening.

"You'll be at work tomorrow?" he asked at parting.

"Tomorrow is Friday?" I paused to think. "Maybe not. I'll be going to the police prefecture. Maybe they will be kind enough to extend my visa for another three months."

***

They agreed to extend but also promised that it would be the last time. Waiting in queue in a gloomy corridor of the Prefecture of Police at Quai des Orfevres, I looked carefully around. Who knew? Maybe I would get to see the somewhat famous Commissar Maigret with his inseparable pipe, or at least, Inspector Lucas. I did not, but the extension of my visa introduced me to an unearthly mood. Again, I had the right to legally stay in this beautiful city while earning French money painted in colors with the faces of France's famous children and the elements of its architecture.

I liked the French bills. They were larger than our own banknotes, decorated in pastel colors. The paper was stiff though thin. Holding them in my hand, I felt their value and my brain immediately began to convert them to Polish Zloty, the real magic of money.

On Saturday, I visited my friends. It was Sophie's birthday. I brought some flowers and as a gift, the last survivor of Polish vodka, Zytnia, which I had brought with me from Poland. It turned out that it was unnecessary as at the party, they served only champagne and oysters on a wide platter covered with crushed ice. It was commonly known as French elegance, which was practiced even in a tiny "chambre de bone" directly under the roof. (Who knew? Maybe it would be my next job.)

High life boiled in my head along with the bubbles of champagne. The "poisoned cigarettes" stopped the time and transported us somewhere above, above the clouds from where we watched our little life indulgently, marvelling at the problems that seemed so important yesterday.

***

On Sunday I went to Versailles. Visiting the palace, I wondered why everything was so overloaded with golden ornaments. Personally, I thought they were really in bad taste. The golden ornaments and knick-knacks literally dripping from the walls and furniture created an impression opposite to what was intended, changing the refined splendor into the new richness of the bourgeoisie. The palace itself, however, made a huge impression on me. Oh, to have a hut like this. How many crazy parties could be held here at the same time? The garden I did not like especially, for the hedges were trimmed to the line. Luckily, at least the hedges were green. Maybe the last king ran out of gold paint since all had been used inside his palace?

I went back to Paris in the evening. I tried to find in the air just a tiny trace of Chinese incense, but could not. Somehow, it had vanished, disappearing along with all else. To console myself, I drank a whole bottle of red wine, ate half a baguette with sardines in oil and threw myself on my wide, creaky bed where I was doomed to sleep alone.

I did not know how much time had passed, but it was still dark, probably the middle of the night, when I was awakened by a knock on the door.

I opened my eyes. The tapping repeated. I got out of bed and put on pants.

"Mui-Tang" I thought at first, hope swelling in my chest. "Could there be something wrong?" I frowned. "Or maybe it is her fiancé with a long Chinese sword?"

It was neither. On my doorstep, I saw Bartek.

"How the hell did he get my address?" I thought. "Well, probably, I told him the name of my hotel and he found it. But how did he get here on the top floor? Aren't the front doors usually closed for the night?"

"It's you?" I asked, amazed.

"I came just for a moment, I have a request."

I was silent, still pretty sleepy. What kind of request could it be that it could not wait until the morning?

Bartek put on my table something wrapped in newspaper. As the wrapping came undone, I saw a coiled rope that we used generally for binding together the parts of scaffolds at a construction site. Those were the typical links, finger thick, with which we secured any kind of connections. Links were in several lengths and had at one end a small loop. That was a very old yet effective way to strengthen connections, for example, the connections of the brackets in wooden platforms. The repeatedly looped rope tied at the end held firmly even if the nails gave away.

"I borrowed it from Pasqual on Friday after work. I promised that tomorrow, I would return it. Could you do it for me, please?"

Bartek did not look very good.

"Hangover" I thought.

"Of course I will give it to him," I said. "But why won't you do it yourself? Are you not coming to work?"

"I don't work there anymore," he said quietly.

"Something happened?" I asked. "Did you get fired?"

"You will know tomorrow. Now, I have to go. Thank you for the favour and..." Here, he turned his face towards me. "And thanks for listening to my stories. I think I needed to tell someone those."

He opened the door and without further explanation, left. Immediately, I went to bed and slept a hard, stony sleep.

***

When in the morning I was awakened by the cheerful rattle of my Soviet alarm clock, the skies were clear behind the window. I washed up and got dressed quickly. Coming out of the room, I remembered the cord to the scaffold and came back for it. Strangely, though, it was not where I put it yesterday. There was also no wrapping paper. "What the hell! Was I dreaming?" I thought frantically.

I had no time to search further. On my way to work, I thought about this mystery.

Maybe Bartek forgot to leave it? Or maybe he changed his mind and later returned to get it? Or maybe it was really just a dream? I was still pretty sleepy, after all.

At the site, there was already a great stir. Pasqual yelled 'Kurwa Macio' upon seeing me and began immediately to tell me something excitedly. I did not understand it at all. He called out something very quickly in French, nervously interjecting his usual Italian words. The patron of our company, a Pole, who had already been on the site since morning, explained to me just what happened. On Friday afternoon, before the end of the work, Bartek came to Pasqual and borrowed from him the rope used for scaffolding. He promised that he would give it back on Monday morning. On Saturday, the police arrived at our boss' home. Early morning, Bartek was found hanging under one of the bridges over the Seine. (There was no need to explain to me what bridge it was.) They easily found his place of work and because the act of suicide was obvious, the investigation consisted only of a few formal questions.

"But wait! He was with me that night! He brought me this rope!" I wanted to scream, barely holding it back.

"Where is the cord?" They would surely ask me immediately. "Can you show it to us?" I could not. I had neither this cord nor even the newspaper in which it was wrapped. I didn't say anything. If word got out that one Pole hanged himself, and the other immediately got nuts, they would cease to employ us in this country.

That day, the work was not good. Pasqual was silent, which was not his custom. It was the real Black Monday.

After returning to my hotel room, I searched again. The cord, of course, I did not find. I found instead a gray spider. It ran away, scared of me, but I caught it on a piece of paper and threw it from my seventh floor balcony, out on the street.

It was only when he started to fall, I did wonder if he could fly. Who knows? Maybe Bartek had a point.

The sheep we are not.

Back to ToC

Browarek

He earned some money in the United States, hoping that when he returned to his country, he would open a small bar in his hometown and be able to live peacefully and without any problems. It did not work that way. It was no longer the same city. Lawlessness, bandit gangs and corruption prevailed, the police helpless during the reorganization after collapsing of the communist regime. In such an occasion as in others, you have to take matters into your own hands...

Here is a romantic thriller for a good night.

***

Byniek rolled from the back a new keg of beer, plugged the pump in and pushed it under the counter. Once, the barrels were made of wood, probably oak and on each barrel was installed a hand pump with a handle to create the pressure. A beer then was just a beer, large or small, light or dark. Now, in each fucking bar there had to be at least a few variants so that the client could have a choice. The west European beer they wanted mostly, which was imported in smaller barrels made of aluminum, easier to roll and never leaking, new technology.

The bar was small, located in a suburb of Otwock city. Byniek affectionately called it "Browarek" which meant just a little beer factory in Polish slang. In Warsaw, there was a strange diminutive trend. You did not go for a beer, but for a little beer. You did not shop at the bazaar, but at the little bazaar and so on. Before it was not so, at least not so commonly.

The bullies waited quietly, without a word, looking at him cheekily. On their shaved heads they had black caps. They were dressed in jerseys, Nike sneakers on their feet. Typical fucking skins, many of which could be found now in Warsaw and the surrounding area.

"I'll get them one day," thought Byniek. "I'll smash their stupid faces." But he knew that it wouldn't happen now nor in the near future. He had to keep his cool, as they now said in Poland, he had to wait a little longer.

He had brought home a little dough from the USA. Not much. Just enough to redeem the apartment left by his mother and open this bar. For now, he only offered beer and sandwiches, but he was going to introduce something hot soon, like stew or grilled sausages. Alcohol, after all, was known to stimulate the appetite. After eating, the clients wanted to drink again and the reverse was also true, so hot food was necessary for the sake of keeping the chain going, for maintaining the client's interest. At least, that was his plan until the damn thugs started appearing.

They drank his beer quietly, graciously. When finished, the one sitting on the left side said: "Well, Grandpa, time to bring out the dibs."

"Gentlemen, this is the third time." Byniek groaned. "Where will I get the money from? I do not earn enough and..."

His words were interrupted by a sharp bang. The second of the skins rapidly produced from his short trousers a short baseball bat and with his full force, slammed it on the plastic surface of the bar. The roar was so loud that Byniek jumped up as if he was on a spring. Pieces of the plastic burst from the strike, and the wooden chump went back to the thug's trouser leg. "Now, now, Bula, don't get nervous. Mister was just kidding" the first bandit gently soothed his colleague. Byniek pressed the checkout. The metal drawer came out with a distinctive crack. "Take what you want" Byniek sighed in resignation. "Everything I earned today." They took nearly everything, leaving just some change. How generous.

"I'll close down this bar, " said Byniek. "At this rate, I will not even be able to pay the taxes."

"Your business, grandfather" growled the first thug. His colleagues called him Onuca. Each of them had a nickname. They did not use their real names, of course. "Arrange the weekly payment with the boss like any self-respecting restaurateur around here. In exchange, you will have care and protection. Don't be stubborn. It will cost you cheaper and no fly will touch this counter."

At that moment, there was another bang and the subsequent crack occurred on the counter next to the first one. This time, Byniek did not jump like before, only instinctively closed his eyes.

"Well, well, Bula, do not panic grandfather. He's our prospective customer" Onuca exhorted his fellow with a good-natured tone.

Bula looked like a nodule, short and broad-shouldered with no neck. From his round head, which looked like it did not harbor any thoughts, looked maliciously small eyes. Onuca looked wiser. At least he pretended he was. He looked at the two others with an indulgent gaze. It was clear that he was the boss of the group. The third, the youngest - Pacan they called him - did not speak almost, only listened respectfully to every word of his colleagues and tried to imitate their movements: slow, confident, brazen."

"Well, for now, grandpa, make more money because the boss will be unhappy. And do think about our proposal in your free time. We are in no hurry. We'll wait." Going out, Bula shut the door so 'gently' that one of the glasses fell and broke with a clatter on the floor of the bar.

"Time to close for the night anyway," thought Byniek involuntarily.

It was already the third time they were here. Every time, it was the same. They arrived just before closing time, turned the plaque on the door so that the side that said "Closed" faced the street, then emptied his money and disappeared into the night. The first time, they were even polite, "caring" even. During the second visit, their tone was more aggressive. Today, for the first time, they showed that the Boss was patient, but only to a certain limit.

Byniek knew that once he started to pay for "protection", he would fall into their hands forever.

No way.

He decided to buy time, a week or two, maybe a month. Maybe then, some trick, some brilliant idea would come to him.

He went, of course, to the police, but strangely, the police, which was not the militia anymore, but not the police yet, in the same militia uniforms like before, had no desire to interfere with such matters. Their attitude seemed to clearly say: "You guys didn't like our communist government? Well, then you're on your own".

Anyway, here, in Otwock, everybody knew what was going on, though of course, no one was stupid enough to say something, not even the so-called police. After all, maybe the next month they would be also sent back to civilian life and who was going to defend them then? It was better to wait quietly. The lieutenant who received the complaint came after Byniek in the corridor and said: "You know what? Let me give you a private word of advice: Pay them, just as others do. You'll have peace of mind and glasses in your windows. Did you know that they have burned down a couple of places? All because some didn't want to pay them? It is difficult to do something to them, even when we know who they are. Now, the law protects the criminals more than the innocents."

"Yes, but it is a true mafia growing here under your nose."

"This is a mafia?" The lieutenant laughed. "Band of rascals playing the mafia. There will come a time when we'll get them. For now, we have other things on our minds."

Byniek wondered what kind of other things the police had on their heads (even such in old uniforms) in addition to prosecuting offenders, but did not ask any longer. The lieutenant had clearly let him understand that he had said more than he should. He saluted, and returned to the office. Byniek realized then that he could not count on them now.

***

Byniek lived in the apartment of his late mother on one of the main streets of Otwock. (There were not many of those main streets.) It was a residential neighborhood, quiet and peaceful. He grew up here years ago, went to school here. Later on, he commuted to the technical college in Warsaw and then to his first job at the Kasprzak state factory. Long were those journeys. Boring. They gave him a hard time all those years. Now, after his return from Chicago, Otwock revealed itself to be a sleepy and quiet town indeed. Seemingly nothing was happening here, in this restful, suburban place, the climate dry and healthy, the water clean, the air fresh with the scent of evergreen pine forests. After all those years spent in the ever-crazy pursuit for money in Jackowo, Polish district of Chicago, Otwock was a real resort, a temple of peace and rest.

He had bought the state-owned apartment of his mother back from the city for a ridiculously small price. (He was still registered here after all these years.) Dwelling consisted of three small rooms and a kitchen. What did he need more when the time came for him to rest from the hustle and bustle of the great world?

But not so fast. He still had some things left to do. Byniek was exactly fifty years of age. He was not old yet. Right, he could pass off as a father of one of those fuckers in sweats, but certainly not a grandfather. No. The word "Grandpa" was something he would not forgive. He did not know how he was going to do it, but he was sure he would not let himself be intimidated by some thugs with a baseball bat. Browarek was his fortress, his refuge, and his castle. He smiled, thinking about how he got the place. There was previously a pastry shop here, a wooden shack, which accommodated only eight tables, built on a city lot. The pastry shop owners retired and Byniek rented the already closed local from the city for a very affordable price. The tables and chairs he purchased also inexpensively at auction, and then he set up the counter with a small cooler.

After receiving from the municipal government permission to sell beer, his business moved forward.

There was not enough room at the back, so there, Byniek created a cold cellar. Avoiding the official procedure associated with obtaining a permit for the expansion of a building belonging to the city, he dug the dirt during the evenings until he was finally able to create a small cellar, which he could go down through a set of wooden stairs from the back of the bar. The walls were lined with boards, the ceiling supported by wooden beams while the floor was of beaten earth. Here, it was cool and pleasant, perfect for storing kegs of beer.

The place was dry, without flowing water. No flies. No dust. Once he put up the walls and poured the concrete slab, the basement would be ready.

Yes, it would be the real Browarek. And he would make it so cute, simply a place not to bypass. He would organize a small garden for the summer months, put a few tables outside with some colorful umbrellas and put up speakers streaming with popular music. Yes, and he would hire two waitresses, preferably young and pretty. That always attracted customers.

And for the winter, he would start the hot menu. The winter would be less terrible then. Indeed, with a bowl of hot soup or stew, every winter could be good. Right, the beer also must be hot, preferably with some juice or spices, or better yet, juice and spices. Just the thought of it made his mouth water so much, that he suddenly wanted one hot beer right now, at the moment. He could not wait for this first winter.

***

After the thugs left, Byniek picked up the pieces of broken glass from the floor, covered the hole with a piece of plywood and went out to the street. His navy Fiat Cinquecento (not new anymore, but not yet old) stood quietly at the entrance next to Browarek, like a faithful horse waiting for his master.

What to do now? After midnight, it was already dark. Everything was closed. Normally, Byniek would just drive home, eat something and go sleep after. But the visit of those rascals caused unrest in his mind. He did not want to sleep right away. He needed to think about things thoroughly somewhere, among other peoples.

He knew a place that was still open at this hour, the disco club "Marycha". He had never been inside. It was located far out of town, among the spruces. He knew it was open now because he could hear from the road the sound of loud music every time he passed that way, even late at night. True, the thugs had scooped from him his takings from the day, but at least, he still had his wallet (so far). It was sufficient for a small nightlife. He drove ahead, watching the road through the headlights as he thought.

"They'll come again and again and rob me of everything. What to do? Pay them for protection? They won't let me free until the end of my life. Do not pay? They will ruin me, destroy my business and my life. I will have to close the restaurant. What to do? What to do next?"

Cinquecento got out of town, moving slowly in the direction of Warsaw, the road winding through the wooded, sparsely developed area. Suddenly, in the spotlight, Byniek noticed some commotion on the side of the road. He slowed suddenly, and then pressed hard on the brakes. Someone was lying on the right side of the road. Byniek jumped out of his car. It was a girl. He leaned over her so he could see her clearly in the darkness. The girl tried to get up, but she could not.

"Probably, she was hit by a car. Maybe she has broken something?" he thought frantically. "Lie still, " he told her. "As soon as I find a phone, I will call the ambulance and the police. They'll be here in no time."

"No, no." She grabbed his hand. "Take me away from here."

"You must not move. You may have broken bones," explained Byniek. "You need a doctor to examine you."

"Take me away from here, right now!" she cried in a stronger voice, not letting go of his hand.

Only now he realized she was speaking in Russian. He could understand Russian, as it was an obligatory language in all Polish schools not so long ago. Nobody liked it, but there was no choice.

Something in her voice moved him. Some desperate note. Fear? Even terror? He opened the rear door of the car and helped her to her feet. She groaned in pain with every movement, but finally, he managed to put her in the backseat of the car.

Cinquecento was not like the Buick Century Byniek owned in Chicago. You could put five such "chickens" on the backseat of the Buick. Well, it never happened to him, but it could surely have happened.

"Where should I drive you?" he asked, sitting behind the wheel. "There is some disco bar over there. Maybe we should go there. They will help you."

"No, anywhere but there!!!" she screamed so loud that he jumped. "Absolutely not there!!!"

"Well, so where?" He started the engine and began to move the Cinquecento.

"Far away! Far away from here!"

"What the hell I should do now?" thought Byniek. "Where should I take her?"

He saw the lights of another car approaching from the opposite direction. The car drove slowly, without a rush. "Faster!" cried the girl with a sudden panic in her voice. He noticed from the rear-view mirror that she had suddenly disappeared behind the front seats.

They were looking for her, he suddenly understood. He pressed the gas pedal harder. The cars passed each other without stopping. Byniek had the impression that the two figures he saw in the front seat of the other car had toque caps on their heads, but he was not sure. He saw them only for a split of second.

As they passed near Marycha Disco, the girl hid even deeper into the back seat. Byniek did not offer any more for her to stop here. The place was probably the source of her fear.

The parking in front of the disco was full. Loud music reached aggressively into his car. Above the entrance, next to the name of the establishment, he could see its logo - a distinctive plant branch with narrow, finger-like leaves, all in green.

They went further. "What should I do with her?" he thought desperately.

"I'll take you to the police. There, you'll be safe, " he said cautiously.

"No, not there!" Again, there was panic in her voice.

Byniek toured the back roads around the city. After a few minutes, they were on its opposite side. He sighed deeply and turned to the street where he lived, parked the car as close to the building as he could and got out.

"Can you walk now?" he asked.

"I'll try," she replied.

He helped her out of the car and led her to the stairwell. They met no one along the way. All the neighbors were sleeping now. They did not wander around at night like he did. Slowly, they climbed to the second floor, the girl whimpering softly at each step. They entered the apartment. Byniek carefully bolted the door behind him and closed the curtains on the windows. Only then did he turn the light on.

She was not more than twenty years old, maybe even less. Was she pretty? It was hard to say. Her matted hair half hid her face contorted in pain.

"Can you manage to take a bath?" he asked.

She nodded her head eagerly.

Byniek went to the bathroom and turned on both faucets. The tub began to fill. He went into the kitchen, pulled out of the refrigerator a bottle of mineral water and poured two glasses. He carried them into the room and handed her a glass. She drank greedily and thanked him with a forced smile.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Nadia. Nadejda. And you?"

"Byniek."

"Byniek? What kind of name is that?"

"It's a nickname. My name is Zbigniew. They call me Byniek. They have since my childhood."

He watched her curiously. She was wearing pretty, silk pajamas torn in several places and was barefoot. On her knees and hands were visible bruises and the scratches on her cheek were tainted with blood that had already hardened.

Byniek returned to the bathroom, turned the taps on the bath, then headed for the hallway dresser and pulled out a large bath towel. He handed it to the girl without a word and invited her to the bathroom with gallant gesture. She slowly got up from the chair where she sat and disappeared behind the white door.

In the meantime, Byniek went into the kitchen. He put the kettle on and started preparing the sandwiches, rye bread with ham and pickles. He had not even asked if she was hungry, but he certainly was. Smearing the bread with butter, he heard from time to time quiet moans reaching far from the bathroom.

"Oh Nadia, Nadia," he thought. "Why did I happen to meet you today?"

***

"It was better with fucking communists ruling this country," said Florczak, sipping his beer slowly from a large mug. He took his time tasting the slightly yellowish liquid slowly, with relish, as expected of someone who knew what was good and what was not. Beer was expensive now. Every sip must be respected. "The beer was cheaper and the bread costs less, " he went on. "And the work was easier to find. Everyone had the right to work. It was guaranteed by the constitution."

"Well, yes, but what jobs did they give? How much did they pay? How much money have you made all these years? Do you have a house? Do you have a car? Shit, no. An old bicycle, that's all you gained all this time. And how many shoes did you wear off walking from house to house? And what for? This small pension, which is barely enough for some beer at Mr. Byniek's place?" teased Malinowski, who was sitting beside him.

He kept in his hand a bottle of Zywiec, from which he poured the fine liquid into his thin, tall glass, slowly so as not to produce too much foam, just enough to not spill out of the glass, just create a white wreath inside the glass at about a height of one centimetre, so it tasted the best.

The two were Browarek's regulars, having showed up from the beginning.

Florczak was tall and thin, a retired postman. As for Malinowski, his real name was not Malinowski, but everyone called him so. Together, they reminded Byniek of an unforgettable pair of comic characters from popular Warsaw radio cabaret.

There was also a third regular, Zaba. This one came to the bar twice a day, morning and afternoon. Zaba was old, wiry, and had no money. For a pint of beer, he provided cleaning services. He swept the floor with the mop, arranged the chairs and tables. In this way, he earned his beer. When he was done, he would talk with Byniek a little, then disappear in the direction he only knew. Zaba knew everyone in Otwock and was familiar with everything. He was the best way to find out what was going on in town, such a walking newspaper.

"Ah, I can still remember those good old times - continued Florczak. - In all the groceries, you could get everything you needed and a loaf of bread cost three zloty fifty. And what a loaf it was. Full one kilo. And whoever had no job just went to the state agency and there gave him a job. Jobs were waiting for people. You didn't have to chase one around the world, as Mr. Byniek had. Whoever wanted to work could work without a problem."

It never happened that these two were of one mind on any subject, so this time Malinowski also protested strongly: "Mr. Byniek went to America not because he didn't have a job. He went because they paid him a pittance here. He was a technician with a diploma in his pocket and he earned no more than district postman, who could only read the address on the envelope, nothing more."

The last sip of beer gurgled furiously in the throat of Florczak.

"District postman?" screamed he so loudly that Byniek worried about the glass in his windows. "Do you know where I worked before I worked here? In the main office in Kielce! Does that tell you something, you bonehead?"

Malinowski shifted the beret on his head and fired back with great satisfaction:

"You may have worked, but briefly. You got fired for drunkenness, hehe!!!

"Not for drunkenness, just for the consumption of alcohol during the hours of service. And I did not get fired, but was officially transferred here. Does your little brain not understand this subtle difference under your stupid beret?"

Byniek smiled. He was already accustomed to these discussions that led to nowhere, but were so necessary for those two as the air they breathed. It was the only way they could be close to each other. Byniek, of course, had his own matters on his mind, even more than enough of it, especially recently.

He had left Nadia sleeping on the couch. Now he wondered, when he came home, would he find just the bare walls and empty floors? Everything was possible, after all. He knew nothing about her. After all, he did not ask her about anything. Yesterday, after leaving the bathroom, she lay down on the couch and immediately fell asleep. He had no conscience to wake her up, so he just covered her with a blanket and set aside the second plate of ready-to-eat sandwiches, wrapping them so as not to let them dry out.

Mariusz, an old friend from primary school, had to replace him at work at four o'clock until evening. Byniek had employed him since the beginning. After all, he could not handle all the work alone. It was difficult to cope with the growing number of customers without a help.

Now, for example, in addition to Florczak and Malinowski, there were two other guys in railwaymen uniforms. Sometimes, at this time, there was no one, but in the evening Browarek began to get crowded, so at 6 P.M. more or less, it was getting noisy. Sometimes, all the tables were occupied. Browarek was especially popular among the old guards, the dinosaurs the age of Byniek and above, some retirees, a few widowers shining here in the evening for a beer or two and spending some time with their peers talking, or sometimes, just sitting with them without saying a word. Well, it did good. The alcohol calmed the nerves, relaxed. Someone once said to Byniek that he had a sleeping problem. Now, he would simply drop by in the evening for one big mug, relax and sleep like a log until the morning.

Women came also, but generally with men, rarely alone. Byniek already knew most of his customers, at least by sight. The young came less frequently, preferring disco and other places with loud music, which began to show up in the area more and more. At Browarek, a family atmosphere prevailed. Old Polish classics flowed out of the speakers mounted on the wall, some of them dating back from even before the war. It deterred all those young half-brained pricks infected by American rap. They preferred it when the singer yelled in his hoarse voice something like "Kill the cop, kick the old man and fuck yourself..." It was strange what kind of society was growing up. Scary to think that they would soon rule the country.

"Well, I'm leaving. I cannot listen to this crap anymore" Florczak said. He walked over to the counter to pay for the beer he drank. Malinowski also stood up.

"Crap? I say crap? And who was telling me how he was removing the stamps from foreign letters? Now what? Pretending to be sanctimonious?"

"It happened only once" Florczak felt indignant. "The stamp was from Australia, with the crocodile, part of the series my granddaughter needed. In addition, it was inaccurately fixed, you retard. Do you understand the difference?"

"What? Retard? Who is more retarded? Mr. Byniek..." He turned to Byniek. "Don't sell this man any more beer. He must not drink. He might end up breaking a chair or something, or he will pee or puke all over the place..."

They argued even in the street, after leaving the bar. After a while, their voices went away, eventually dying far away. Byniek grinned. Yes, Browarek was definitely a place where people could feel good, especially him. It was his own place, worth defending it against enemies. But, how? How to get rid of those damn hooligans?

The two railway workers were later replaced by an official with a distressed expression - maybe he had some trouble at work or at home - and one tourist from France. At first, they couldn't get along, but finally they succeeded in understanding each other somehow. Exactly at three o'clock came Mariusz, replacing him behind the bar. Normally, Mariusz worked in the morning, but today, for some reason, it was the opposite. Maybe that would be better. After all, Byniek might need to call a doctor to his apartment. Who knew? Byniek said nothing to Mariusz about Nadia, said nothing to no one. It was better not to talk about it, at least for now, when he didn't know enough.

"How was today?" asked Mariusz.

He was one of the few reliable guys Byniek found in Otwock after returning from the United States. Mariusz was calm, conscientious. You could trust him. He fetched a disability pension (something that had to do with his heart) and he was allowed to earn some extra money for his personal expenses so long as the work was within a certain number of hours.

"A commando fighter would be more handy to me now than a pensioner" thought Byniek, looking at him. "It's been quiet, " he said out loud. "Florczak and Malinowski have been here, fighting of course, so now you don't have to deal with them."

"Remember, Byniek?" said Mariusz. "Starting tomorrow, I'm taking a vacation. We've talked about this."

"I recall, you wanted to go somewhere?"

"Agnieszka and I have decided to go to the Mazury lakes. She likes boats. We know someone there. We already booked accommodations. You'll manage alone here?"

"Do not worry. Zaba can help me if necessary," joked Byniek.

"I hope not behind the bar? He'll drink all your stuff. Was he here this morning?"

"Sure, he was. Swept the floor, cleaned up everything, drank a beer and disappeared as always."

"Is it not better to clean the restaurant in the evening? After the last customers have left?"

"What are you? Crazy? In the evenings, he is usually too drunk to get anything done and I... I am too tired to do it. In the morning, it is better since the chap has a useful motivation to start the day."

Byniek transferred the money in the cash register to Mariusz - not that there was much of it - as well as the key to the establishment and went outside. He got to his Cinquecento and rushed restless toward the house where he lived.

***

Nadia was sitting on the couch with her legs tucked under her. She was watching TV, both her hands wrapped around a cup of hot tea. She herself was wrapped in Byniek's brown bathrobe that usually hung on the bathroom door. As he entered, she looked at him with an expression of clear concern.

"You look nice in brown" said Byniek with a smile to reassure her. It seemed she understood a little Polish because her face lit up a bit. It worked. "Compliments always work well with the girls," thought Byniek. "Regardless of the situation."

"How are you?" he asked. "Do you need a doctor?"

"No. No doctor needed. Everything is good, " she assured hastily, frightened again.

"Well, you can rest here for a while" Byniek assured her. "Nobody knows you're here. Wait. I'll prepare something to eat."

He went into the kitchen and unwrapped the roast chicken he had bought along the way. It was still hot. He cut it into pieces, then cut a few slices of bread, then laid out some cold sauerkraut salad on two small plates. Next, he put two large, flat plates on the kitchen table, knives and forks laid next to them. Then, looking into the room, he said: "Dinner is ready on the table."

Nadia got up from the couch. She was no longer moaning like yesterday, but with some movements, she still winced in pain.

They ate in silence. It was clear she was hungry.

"It is a modest dinner, I know, but it is all I can prepare" he said humbly. "Rarely do I have guests and for myself, it is quite enough."

"It is fantastic, very tasty" she quickly assured, smiling. He felt the remark give him pleasure. Flattery, apparently, also worked well with the guys."

After finishing dinner, he brewed two cups of coffee and carried them into the room. Nadia was invited to the couch where she sat before. He sat down in the chair next to it and said: "Now, you tell me what happened. Nobody knows you're here and I won't tell anyone. If you like, you can get dressed and go home. But if you want me to help you, you must tell me everything."

She thought for a moment, then began to talk. Byniek regretted that his Russian was so weak - he had only learned the basics from school, and that meager knowledge was little enriched by his Russian neighbors from the building in the Polish district of Chicago named Jackowo, where he lived, but mostly, he could understand what she was saying.

Nadia was twenty-one. She came from a small town in Russia, whose name Byniek had never heard of, then studied biology in a larger city, whose name Byniek also did not know nor could not remember. All went well until the completion of the third year of her study. Then, her father lost his job and money from home ceased to come.

What was she to do? Stop her studies and return home? Just then, at the university showed up Misha. He was elegant and spoke nicely; he suggested a job opportunity for female students - one-year contract job in Poland. They were supposed to work as waitresses in a restaurant, and since in Poland, most people could understand Russian, language was not so much a barrier. Moreover, it was easy to remember the names of the dishes, and they could be paid in Russian money if they liked to, no problem with that. From their own pocket, they had to pay only for transport to Warsaw, and Misha would take care of the rest. A passport was also not required. They would cross the border in a sealed lorry and after a year of work, they would return by the same route with bags filled with earned money. The restaurant would provide room and board, and the promised salary was very encouraging. Nadia hesitated for some time, but when Misha showed them a brochure with beautiful, colorful photos of the restaurant from the outside and from the inside, she agreed, especially since the news from home was not encouraging. Her father still did not have a job. In addition, he started drinking and poverty at home was impending.

Nadia applied for one year's leave of absence from the university, and together with three other female students who successfully passed the selection, entrusted her fate into the hands of the elegant Misha. They paid their tolls in advance with the rest of a few saved rubles and in a few days, were waiting on the side of the road for the arrival of the truck. Misha kept his word. The truck came on time, with a huge trailer and the girls were nestled inside, between the cab and the cargo. The driver did not ask any questions. He said that in two days they would arrive at their destination and only recommended strongly that they not talk when they stopped for inspection at the border. While the truck was in motion, they could talk as much as they wished. They had with them water and sandwiches for the road, and plastic bags for their other needs. Everything was so carefully thought out to the last detail, and Misha was so sympathetic that it was really pleasant to listen to him. In general everything went great. Of course, it was a little cramped and dark inside the trailer, but they brought with them some candles and matches, and along the way, they kept talking and playing cards. All four of them were pretty and slim, and had the privilege of good luck. As for the ugly ones, let them eat the beets and that's it.

Indeed, after two days, they arrived. Misha did not throw his words to the wind. They got out of the truck on a forest road, very similar to the one where they started their journey.

Immediately, a big, shiny car appeared next to them. The driver who wore a leather jacket and a shaved, bald head politely invited them inside. One of the girls sat next to him, in the front seat, the other three at the back.

The bald guy was charming, telling them some probably funny jokes on the way. They laughed with him, even though they did not understand. After half an hour, the car stopped in front of a building set among the trees.

It was not exactly like the restaurant Misha told them about, but it was, without a doubt, the restaurant. The parking lot had a lot of beautiful cars parked there and over the entrance, they saw the illuminated name of the place: Marycha.

They entered a side door and inside, an elegant, gray-haired man in a light suit took care of them. He took them immediately to the rooms on the first floor. Each of them received a nice, clean room with a large bed. In each room was a bathroom with a shower, the conditions almost luxurious.

The refined gentleman told them that they had an hour to prepare themselves and then they had to come down to the restaurant for supper. They were delighted as they were very hungry. Later, refreshed and dressed in their best dresses, the girls were seated at a table for six, and Mr. Stanislaw, as the elegant mister asked to be called, sat between them in his shiny suit. The restaurant was almost full. The waitresses quickly ran between the tables. There were a few of them, but apparently still not enough. Supper appeared on their table immediately. It was a very palatable meal, some Italian style dishes. They wondered how much such a dinner must cost. Mr. Stanislaw did not eat, just drank a beer from his tall glass and watched them smugly. He spoke well Russian. He had lived in Moscow and Leningrad for a while. "Business affairs", he hinted with a smile. During the supper, he entertained them with his chic conversation and was very attentive.

In the next stall was a disco bar. The acute sounds reached the restaurant, but muffled, so that you could easily talk in spite of them. After the supper came the dessert - ice cream - and, finally, coffee. The girls felt great, a little self-conscious because of the environment and the way they were being spoiled, but extremely proud that they had been chosen to work in such an exquisite establishment. Passing by their table, gentlemen, both young and old, pelted them with curious glances, often smiling to them and to Mr. Stanisław with appreciation.

After dinner, they were invited back to the second floor. In the middle of the hall was located a sitting room furnished nicely with comfortable sofas covered in patterned cream-colored material. Mr. Stanislaw sat down among them and said that it was here where they would work, but only starting tomorrow. This first evening was only for their leisure. "What exactly will we do here?" - They all wondered. It had not yet dawned on them what all this was about. Mr. Stanislaw patiently explained that it was in this parlor, on the couches that they would wait tomorrow for customers to lead them to their rooms and they must be polite and nice to each one. The work would be light and pleasant and the salary they would receive each month would be paid in Polish zlotys.

After a moment of astonishment, they burst, all four of them, that they had not agreed to work in a brothel, but in the restaurant and that they wanted to go back home immediately. Mr. Stanislaw shook his head in disbelief, surprised that Misha had not accurately informed them about the nature of the work.

"Oh Misha, Misha, he always gets things mixed up."

But now, it was too late for any changes. A contract was a contract. They had to meet the conditions. It was the law. They protested that they did not sign any contract and that if he did not need any waitresses, to drive them to the place that needed some. Mr. Stanislaw again shook his refined head, as if marveling at their ingratitude, and finally said, using a tone often used in conversations with fractious children, that it was okay.

"Well, now, let's have a good sleep. Tomorrow, we'll talk about it."

All them went to their rooms to sleep off this sweet dream of the classy lives and the big money they had been promised they would earn.

Byniek had already heard similar stories in Chicago. From time to time, the scandal erupted in the newspaper, which labeled it as a "trade of human beings". It was common in Chinatown, though, where the Chinese gangs brought young girls from China to work in the silent brothels there. But this kind of institution here? In Poland? It was not only unthinkable. It was impossible.

Then again, forcing tribute for protection, which, after all, he experienced himself, was unthinkable until not so long ago. It was completely the style of the Italian Mafia. Political changes in a country went hand in hand with the social changes, though of course, they were not always for the best.

Well, maybe they just had to wait for the reforms in the police force to come to life. Everything would calm down for sure. All that was needed was more time.

Nadia paused to rest. One could see her story did not come easily. But it was also impossible for her to stop talking now. Presently, she no longer spoke to him, nor did she speak to herself. She spoke to space, as if throwing out the words. Her story was so terrible and unbelievable she wanted to get rid of it once and for all and try to forget about it, as if it was at all possible.

The next chapter was the most difficult for the girls - the training. Training began unexpectedly the same night. Two thugs in leather jackets invaded the room where she slept. Through the thin walls, she could hear that such training was taking place in all four rooms. The girls were alternately beaten and raped several times. They were beaten with open hands or twisted towels, which probably did not leave too much trace on the skin. Their lips were sealed with duct tape to stifle screams and their hands tied to the beds. The first training took two days. The girls could not leave their windowless rooms during this time; their doors were locked from the outside. They were also not given anything to eat and had only tap water to drink. Every few hours, the same skinheads in leather jackets, which they even never took off, repeated the lessons. Apparently, they did not mind them at all. Two of them stood out with a special zeal. One was called Onuca and the second, Bula. For these two, animal cruelty caused quite a pleasure. If only they could, they would beat the girls to death, raping them at the same time.

Seeing the terror in the eyes of Nadia as she was telling her story, Byniek proposed her to stop. There was no need to go on further. He already understood everything. But she did not hear him even. She talked continuously, with her monotonous voice and her pretty face looking as if it was carved in wood, motionless and dead. Only in her eyes could the helplessness, hatred and pain be seen all at once, and above all, the fear.

After two days of such training, two of them broke down and agreed to the terms and conditions of the work. Nadia and her friend Vera sturdily endured four more days. After those four days of torture, they broke also, simply ceasing to be themselves.

They become brainless puppets, objects in the hands of their masters executing every single request without objection. In return, they received good food. The elegant Mr. Stanislaw reappeared. (Throughout the whole training period, he had been absent.) The beating and raping ceased. They were simply happy that they were alive again.

After two days of rest, the "normal job" began. They sat together in the parlor room, where they waited for customers to come from the restaurant to choose the girls they wanted, then disappear with them behind the doors of their bedrooms.

Actually, after the training they had gone through, this treatment was not even so terrible. It could be said that they were getting used to it. Now, they were allowed to leave their rooms, but only to go to the parlor, where they ate their meals delivered them from the kitchen. The passage down to the ground floor was guarded day and night by one of the skinheads. Mr. Stanislaw explained to the girls that it was only for their own good, because since they crossed the border illegally, the authorities should not know about their presence in the country. If they were caught, they would immediately end up in jail.

They worked so from the beginning of the summer. Some evenings, it was a lot of work. Sometimes, especially at the beginning of the week, there were few customers only and they could relax. So far, they didn't receive any money; Mr. Stanislaw told them that their money would be safer with him, locked up in his safe. They didn't need it anyway. They received everything they needed, even nice clothes, and at the end of the contract, that is, a year from now, each of them would receive what she earned, right on her hand, so they could enjoy it to their heart's content because it was going to be a lot of money.

The girls tried to enjoy, but somehow, it did not really work this way. From time to time, when there was less work and more time to think, one of them revolted, tried to escape. But each time, it failed, and after such an attempt, the girl had to go through 'training' again. The others, locked up in their rooms, heard the impact of the rolled towel and the quiet whining of the one being punished, and each of them was grateful that it was not her turn.

Nadia rebelled more frequently than the others. Something was left at the bottom of her heart. Some sparkle was still burning in her. It didn't let her fall into complete enslavement, waking her up from time to time and urging her to try again and again, each time with new hope that this time she would succeed. After three 'training' sessions, she tried to run for the fourth time and she was told that it was enough. If she tried another time, they would take care of her for real.

None of the girls knew what that really meant. But she tried and failed yet again.

At night, the two worst skinheads, Onuca and Bula, woke her up, dragged her in her pajamas and took her down to the car. She sat in the backseat, Bula sitting next to her. The most terrible part was that he held a garden spade between his knees. She understood that this was the end of her. That's why they didn't beat her any more. They just lost their last hope that they could still make a good girl out of her. They stopped the car on a secluded road outside the city and entered the forest, probably looking for a place where they could get rid of her without a trace. Finally, the car stopped. Bula pulled her out and together with Onuca, led her into the trees. Then, they raped her one last time. She defended herself desperately, without success, of course. Then Onuca gave her a spade and told her to dig. She was not able to keep it in her hands. Bula grabbed a shovel and began to dig himself, throwing a sinister look at her from time to time. She fainted in fear. They woke her up with a few blows to her face. Bula continued digging, cursing the roots, he encountered in the ground. Then she started to beg for mercy, swearing that she would never again try to escape, saying that she wanted to live.

They looked at her from time to time, saying nothing. Finally, Onuca stubbed out his cigarette and nodded to Bula, who, with a sigh of relief, stopped digging the grave. "Well, well, " said Onuca. "We'll let you go again, this time, but remember, this is the last one. The very last time. If some foolishness will come to your head again, you'll find yourself here." He pointed at Bula's unfinished job. "This hole is waiting for you." She nodded, resigned, but so happy that she would still live. After all, it was the most important.

Because she had no strength to go, they grabbed her under her arms and dragged her to the car, then threw her into the back seat as if she was a piece of rag. She heard the spade land in the trunk. They both sat in the front and the car moved along a forest path, first slowly, then faster and faster. As it did, something dawned on her; something began to bother her, a subconscious thought. She realized suddenly that she had not heard the sound of the door locking. They had not taken the trouble. After all, she was already half-dead from exhaustion and fear. She tried to move her legs. They worked. Her hands also moved.

She realized that it was her last chance. She must try again. She pulled the door handle as hard as she could and pushed the door out. It opened. From that moment, everything started to happen in slow motion: She threw herself outside, head first, falling onto the road, where she rolled over several times, not feeling or seeing anything. Then, she ran somewhere in panic, stumbling over the stones and roots of the trees, tripped, and then ran again. Somewhere behind her, she heard the sharp squeal of tires on the asphalt, then some screams, curses, which gradually faded away, remaining in the rear. She dragged herself back to the road - she wasn't even sure if this was the same road - and collapsed, completely helpless. It was at that moment that Byniek came. As for what happened next, he already knew what it was.

Byniek listened to the story as if paralyzed. For some time, he ceased to speak, move. Even breathing had slipped his mind. He could not understand that something like this could happen in this country. Worse, it had happened here, just somewhere outside this city. Could people really forget that they were human beings? Or maybe they were not people, but some evil beasts clothed in human skins.

Nadia finished talking and for the first time since she started her story, looked him straight in the eyes, as if to confirm that it was all true, although it seemed impossible to believe. What could he say to her? That he believed her? That he understood? That he sympathized with her? All the words seemed inadequate, pointless, and unnecessary. It was better to remain silent.

Looking into each other's eyes, Byniek felt then that something was occurring between him and the girl, something elusive and delicate as a gossamer thread. He cleared his throat and swallowed with difficulty.

"Would you like some more coffee?" he asked, his voice sounding strange to his ears. He had no desire for coffee, but felt that he must say something.

Nadia silently nodded. Byniek went to the kitchen to prepare more coffee. Somewhere, his mother kept a cardboard box with the medicine. He found it in one of the kitchen cabinets. The scratches on Nadia's arms and legs had to be disinfected. He should have thought of that yesterday. One of the vials caught his attention. The name of the medication reminded him of something. Oh yes, he remembered. His mother said once that the doctor had prescribed her a very strong sedative. She was not allowed to take more than one pill at a time. Apparently, it acted quickly. Byniek, after a brief moment of thought, slipped it into his pants pocket. The girl was still in shock. One never knows what might come to her mind. He carried into the room, two cups with hot, steaming coffee and also, the box with medications.

After drinking the coffee, he took out of the box some cotton and the bottle of salicylic alcohol. Thankfully, the cuts on Nadia's turned out to be not very serious.

She jumped nervously at first when he touched her, but quickly calmed down, helping him to treat her wounds while watching him all the time. "Why is she looking at me this way?" Byniek asked himself. It made him a little bit confused, but noted soon that it made him also feel a certain pleasure, even more than pleasure. He began to like it a lot.

"You are safe here," he told her. "No one knows you're here and no one will ever know. You can stay here as long as you wish. Finally, they will stop looking for you. Then, we have to think of how to send you back home."

"I can't go back now, " she said quickly. "Not so soon, at least."

He looked at her, amazed. She had already run away. What more did she want?

She explained that she must free her friends first. Until it was done, she had no intention to leave. And those thugs must be punished. Otherwise, they would just find other girls to replace them. "Of course," thought Byniek. He would have done the same in such a situation. It would be cruel, unacceptable if she thought only of herself. "You're right," he said.

He had to do something, and fast. But what? Local authorities possibly know what's going on. They probably take the bribe for closing their eyes. There is plenty in the newspapers about corruption in the administration. What to do? Wait for police reform? It will take too long. If we leave the girls under the "care" of those bastards any longer, it would be cruel. Or maybe, we can talk to the young lieutenant. He seemed friendly. Maybe he is already "reformed"? Anyway, he must not act rashly. It could have dire consequences.

"We have to wait until tomorrow, " he said. "We need to think carefully about it all. We have to be very careful."

Nadia worried a lot, especially about her friend, Vera. She was very fragile now. If she found out Nadia did not return to the "resort", Vera could do something terrible in despair. Oh, she hoped Vera could stay strong a few days more. Maybe something could be done soon. Surely, something must be done.

***

In the morning, the first person that showed up in Browarek was Zaba as usual.

"Boss, you wouldn't like to have a little of... you know what I mean...?"

"What?" Byniek could not understand him.

"You know. This... " Zaba joined together his left thumb and forefinger and in the created circle, inserted his right forefinger. Then, he vigorously moved it back and forth, showing exactly what "this" meant.

"Sure" Byniek replied. "Everyone wants a little of that..."

"Well, I only said because you know, to Marycha, they recently brought some ladies. You can do them quite inexpensively. Well, I thought that maybe you do not know, but you have to hurry."

"And why is that?"

"Because they brought only four, and the clients are so many that probably they will not be around for long. They will get fucked to death soon. You know, it is the first brothel around and the only one. Last night, someone told me that one of the girls already had disappeared. And she was the prettiest one."

Byniek was tempted to carve out this stupid head of Zaba, but he stopped. This old donkey had not done anything wrong. He had nothing to do with it. He was only saying what he had heard.

The hours seemed longer today than usual, and as Browarek had a lot of customers, Byniek had no time to think about his strategy. He was, after all, alone. Mariusz was on vacation and he simply had so much to do. He could barely wait for the day to end. He got rid of the last guests almost by force and with relief, turned the cardboard plate on the door to "Closed".

After that, Byniek started to arrange the beer glasses on the shelves behind the counter in a hurry, but he had barely started when he heard the front door open and then shut with a loud bang.

"Closed for today, " he said angrily over his shoulder, then turned towards the door. Bula and Onuca were standing before him with mocking smiles on their nasty mouths.

"Maybe closed for customers, but surely not for old friends such as we are," chortled Onuca.

"What do you want?" snarled Byniek. "Recently, you took away everything from me."

"Easy, grandpa. Relax. Maybe you've managed to collect something since then. Surely by now, you've decided to agree to the proposal of our boss. Otherwise, you'll have to jump out of the box."

Byniek put his hands in his trouser pockets so as not to show them that they had clenched instinctively into fists. Then, he felt in one of them a small, plastic vial. Something dawned on him. "Well, well," he said amicably. "How much is this boss of yours asking again for protection?"

Now, both smiled kindly. Onuca sat down at the table, pushing a chair with his leg. Bula did exactly the same.

"Bring a large brew, grandfather and we'll talk" said Onuca. "I was sure you'd finally wise up.

Byniek went back behind the counter, while his right hand worked quickly in his pocket. He grabbed two large mugs from the shelf and standing with his back to the room, dropped in each two white pills. Then he turned around again, put the mugs under the taps and slowly, very slowly, began to pour into them the bright, foaming liquid.

"Will it dissolve those pills?" he thought frantically. They had to be dissolved. To his relief, the pellets dissolved quickly, each of them producing thin streams of bubbles traveling to the surface. Byniek raked the excess foam with a wooden spatula and completed each pint several times in order to gain as much time as possible. They both watched him with satisfaction. They seemed to like the amount of effort he put into the task. He brought the beer to the table and placed before each of them a full pint. With relief, he noted that the pellets had dissolved almost completely inside.

They drunk with confident faces, happy even, their ugly eyes watching him kindly. They even let him sit at their table for a business discussion, though they did not make the offer to have a drink with them. No. Kindness to them was a luxury. They did offer him, however, quite a decent monthly rate for protection.

"Oh, it's not as expensive as I thought" he showed polite wonderment.

"Of course. We are an honest company, after all, " explained Onuca. "We never steal from our clients. Privacy is guaranteed and no one around will touch you. If someone tried, we will have to deal with him personally." They had already drank half a pint and Byniek was beginning to doubt the effectiveness of the medication (maybe it was too old or maybe two pills was not enough) a when he finally noticed them begin to yawn.

"One more brew for you?" suggested he. "So on the other foot?"

"That's thoughtful of you," they graciously agreed.

Byniek went back to the bar.

"What do I do?" he thought frantically. "Yet another pellet for each of them? Or better, maybe two more each? And what if they die on the spot? What if their hearts will not take it?" Taking new mugs from the shelf, he glanced back at the table.

Both skinheads lay on the surface of the wooden table evenly, like two ostrich eggs in the desert.

Byniek returned to the table and tried to wake them up by shaking their shoulders. Unique mumbled something, two or three incomprehensible words, then drifted into a deep sleep. Bula did not even try to move.

Suddenly, Byniek fell into an indescribable panic.

"What am I going to do with them now?" thought he, terrified. "What have I done?"

His previous plans included performing on them the most brutal torture like burning their feet with a torch or cutting their fingers with a blunt saw, but those somehow faded away. Could he maybe drag them out and leave them in the bushes? But when they woke up and remembered what happened, their revenge would be terrible. This was sure. What to do then?

Finally, he decided to drag them one by one in the cellar. The task took him a lot of energy. He laid them down next to each other on the ground, and then he cut up a long electrical extension cord into four parts to tie their hands and feet carefully. That way, they would not have a chance to escape after waking up. He also tied their mouths with two pieces of towel, turned out the lights in the cellar and carefully closed the door. After returning to the ground floor, he thoroughly washed the two mugs that were on the table and took their car keys lying there. He was seized by a sudden anxiety. "What if there is a third one waiting in the car? What was that they called him again? Pacan or something like this?" He shook his head. "Impossible. If there was someone else, they would not have had those keys with them".

He stubbed out the light in the bar and went cautiously outside. The car of the hooligans was parked a bit further. Cautious guys. In this case, it acted in his favor. Byniek escorted the car to a safe distance from his bar and left it in a secluded street. It would take time before it caught someone's attention. Then he went back to his Cinquecento and avoiding lit places, returned home, trying on the way to calm down his rickety nerves. Luckily, Nadia was asleep. He carefully covered her with a blanket and for a long time, watched her delicate face. Hatred for those two returned rapidly to his heart. Suddenly, he wanted to return to the cellar and take good care of them. However, he went to sleep trying to control his furious feelings. He would see what would happen tomorrow. This evening, he was unable to make any decision.

***

The next day, Byniek opened the front door of Browarek, plagued by so much anxiety that for a long time, he had difficulty finding the keyhole in the door.

"Maybe it all's not true?" he thought hopefully. "Maybe it was just some damn stupid dream?" He went down to the cellar on legs made of wool. No, it was not a dream. The two men lay on the threshing floor, but in different positions than they were left in yesterday. It was obvious that they were trying to break free.

When they saw him, their eyes bulged with rage. He saw just hatred in them.

Byniek leaned against the wall and watched them for a moment, deep in thought.

"I would like to announce something to you," he said finally in a serious tone. "That I consider yesterday's agreement broken. You probably want to know why that is. I'll tell you. Because contracts with such dicks like you does not matter. Such slow worms do not deserve a contract. They do not even deserve to be negotiated with." He noticed at this moment that they had both gone still. In addition, they had wet trousers, and in the air hovered the stench of urine. "What, pissing from fear?" He could not deny his satisfaction. "Bullies such as you? Yet to assault the defenseless with a baseball bat, you are not afraid. And when you raped innocent girls, did you show fear? Well, piss as you wish. That's your business. This dirt here will absorb a lot.

Onuca tried to mumble something. Byniek loosened the rag tied around his mouth."

"Water" the prisoner wheezed with effort."

"And what would you wish to drink, if you please?" Byniek asked politely. "A large mug of clear beer as yesterday? Or maybe a pint of some amber?"

"Are you nuts, man? The boss will get you before the evening. Only a wet stain will remain of you. Of this you can be sure."

"Look at yourself, " said Byniek, unafraid, and he pointed at their pants. "You are both wet stains and you stink like hell. Just two filthy mucks pissed with fear you are. Only this and nothing more."

"What do you want us to do?" Onuca asked.

Byniek noted that in addition to hatred, in the eyes of Onuca appeared clear anxiety.

"What to do? Nothing. You'll die in a few days of hunger and thirst. Then I'll dig a hole in my cellar and throw you there so you can join your piss."

At those words, the anxiety in the eyes of Onuca turned to horror. The exact same emotion could be seen in the eyes of Bula.

To prove his threat, Byniek put the towel back on the mouth of Onuca despite his protests, checked the knots on their hands and feet - the electrical cables held fast - and left the cellar, closing the door firmly.

At the same time, Zaba just entered Browarek, thirsty as usual. Byniek poured him a pint of beer and said that today he did not have to clean up.

Zaba shrugged indifferently, drank beer and took off.

"Well," thought Byniek. "He could find out something, smart ass."

The day was a difficult one, the customers grumpy. Florczak and Malinowski quarreled over something as usual, without reason, and the time passed mercilessly slowly. Byniek, with the rest of his patience, survived to the end of the day. Then, he swept the floor quickly and was about to leave when the door burst open violently and on the threshold stood Pacan with a second scamp, even younger than himself.

"Hi Grandpa!" Pacan used the tone he had picked up earlier from his older colleagues. Byniek did not answer.

"You have not seen my pals, Bula and Onuca?" Pacan demanded to know. "They were supposed to be here yesterday."

"Yes, yesterday they were here, " replied Byniek calmly.

"And what?"

"What do you mean what? They picked up the money as usual and went away."

"They did not say where they were going?"

"You watch them yourself. What is this? Does your boss already pluck boys from kindergarten?" Byniek looked at the new candidate for a thug.

Pecan blushed, but kept his shoulders square. "You grandpa, better not mess with me because you're gonna get a lesson. Have you decided already whether or not you'll avail of the protection? The patience of our boss has its limits. In the meantime, two pints with low foam for us. Get it?"

Byniek put a mug under the faucet. The beer poured in a thin stream, creating a white, fluffy feather-blanket on top of the pint.

"You know what, Pacan?" he said. "You better go back to school before it is too late. And tell your boss that if he has business with me, he should come see me himself and not send children here. I run a bar, not an orphanage. And tell him yet I piss off at rugs like him. Let him fuck off me once and for all."

The eyes of Pacan nearly popped out of their sockets with astonishment.

"Grandpa, are you completely nuts?" exclaimed he, frightened. "He will destroy you, kill you. Only a wet stain on the floor will be left of you!"

"Already heard this today," thought Byniek. "Here's your beer, " he said, grabbing the mug by the ear and splashing the contents straight into the startled face of Pacan. Then he grabbed the broom and no longer being able to control himself, shouted: "Get the fuck out of here right now! If not, I'll break your bones into small pieces. And I don't want to see you here ever again!"

He waved his stick furiously, but the bristles encountered only pure air. The entrance door was ajar, moving with a light creak.

"I have to lubricate the hinges," he thought, walking to the back for a bucket and a rag to clean the floor.

Returning home, he wondered what to do next with Bula and Onuca. Maybe he would try to exchange them with their boss for the other three girls. Who knew? Maybe it would work, but then again, maybe not. The girls, after all, were for sure worth more than those two cheap thugs. Byniek gave them nothing to drink. Let them suffer a little more. Besides, in the end, he would be forced to send them to the police and he could only hope those guys will already have been reformed a little.

This time, Nadia was not asleep. She watched him closely during dinner. She probably guessed from the expression on his face that something had happened, but she did not dare ask what.

In the morning, Byniek was awakened by the doorbell. A friendly, young police lieutenant stood in the doorway and asked Byniek if he could go with him for a ride. It would take them one hour or so. Byniek got dressed and left without a word with the lieutenant. He was feeling rather less than comfortable. He didn't know what to say to Nadia as she followed him with restless eyes.

They rode the police patrol car without talking until they reached their destination. Of Browarek remained only a charred heap of rubbish and smoldering junk. Firefighters were topping the ashes with water from their hoses, and the white steam was floating up towards the sky, hissing menacingly. It was impossible to get close. The stinking heat of burnt embers shot up in the air with violent red sparks.

Byniek stood motionless as if paralyzed, staring numbly at the slowly expiring remains of what was left of his beloved Browarek, not daring to even think about what lay under the glowing pile of rubble.

"I understand your feelings" the police officer said gently. "Fortunately, the building belongs to the city so you did not lose very much."

"I've lost more than you think, " said Byniek. "Emotionally, I lost everything that was to me the most precious."

"Yes, I understand. You see, this was arson. Near the fire, we stopped two young men. In the trunk of their car, we found the empty plastic containers of gasoline. The police know one of them, despite his young age. He is called Pacan. The second we do not know about yet. This Pacan, was he one of the three who were trying to force money out of you for protection?"

"Yes, he was one of them."

"This night, without difficulty, we were able to officially confirm the name of the person for whom he works, so we could rapidly obtain a search warrant from the prosecutor for the disco Marycha."

"From what you said previously, I understood that this place is untouchable for you?"

"It's no more. You see, other winds blow now. Presently, I am the commander of this facility. I promised you once that we would deal with these thugs and we have reached just this point."

"And what did you find when searching this restaurant?"

"Actually, it is confidential for the sake of the investigation. But since you are involved, I can personally say a little bit. We found there three battered and frightened girls. Before, there were apparently four, but one disappeared, vanished into thin air. Presently, we are looking for her."

"Are they in danger?"

"The girls? Of course not, but we need them to testify before the court, then we'll send them back where they came from. Maybe the court will later give them some financial compensation from the owner of the disco where they were kept against their will."

"And how about this guy?"

"Of course he is under lock and key now. He has ceased to be untouchable. I told you - the new winds. He will be charged with enforcing protection, keeping an illegal brothel and perhaps even human trafficking. The list is long. I hope to bust him for many years. We are still looking for his two main thugs, Onuca and Bula. They are the ones who visited you the first time with the proposal of protection. We are looking for them everywhere, but so far without success. It is as if they sank into the ground. Maybe they left the country, who knows?"

Byniek involuntarily looked at the stream of steam soaring over the burning trash. "Maybe they are now floating somewhere in the air and watching us," he thought uneasily. "It would be better not to find them."

He returned home on foot, torn by strange feelings. He felt guilty, thinking he should have reported to the Lieutenant about Bula and Onuca. But somehow it could not escape from his throat. Moreover, what would it change? They would not stand before the court as they were already appearing before the court of divine justice. But he would probably be accused of involuntarily causing their deaths. The idea of being responsible for those two thugs did not seem to fancy him. No, he was going to wait for the development of events. Maybe nobody was going to find them and if they did, well, he would worry about it later on.

Nadia was waiting for him, already dressed, restless.

"It's over, " he told her. "You don't have to hide any longer."

He told her all he had heard from the lieutenant. She cried with happiness. He said that after breakfast, he would take her to the police station, but it made her less happy.

"I would like to stay here with you, " she said.

He looked into her eyes and he could see that she was serious. When he embraced her, she clung to him tightly and started to cry again.

"Maybe it does not matter that I'm older?" he thought. "Older Poles can also do."

***

The court case was going to last for many months. The girls were given temporary papers and tickets to return home with the obligation to appear at the appointed dates of the hearings. Byniek received a notice from the Town Hall that his license to operate the restaurant in the same location was not going to be renewed. The city was not, in fact, planning to put up a new building. In the place of the old one, a small square with benches and flowers would be created.

Indeed, when a few weeks later he passed near the place where Browarek was previously located, Byniek saw a large bulldozer leveling the square. Sometime later, he saw there a trolley, which brought huge amounts of black soil and autumn flowers.

The gardeners formed beautiful flowerbeds and set a few benches around.

Browarek passed into history and Byniek noted that since then, he had been sleeping much better.

One evening, while driving his car by the new square, Byniek decided to get off and sit on a bench for a moment to reminisce. He parked the car near a flowerbed and got out. After taking a few steps, he stopped short. Bula sat on one of the benches with Onuca, watching him. Bula held in his right hand, his baseball bat, with which he hit the open palm of his left hand steadily. Byniek walked toward them, unable to stop. He approached them as if hypnotized. His legs were completely stiff, and his head stopped working at all.

As he approached the sitting roughnecks, they gradually began to fade, until they completely melted into the darkness and he found himself in front of an empty bench. He did not sit on it. He immediately returned to the car, and after returning home, he made an irrevocable decision.

He was going to sell the apartment of his mother and as soon as possible, go back to Chicago.

And Nadia?

Of course, he would take her with him if only she wanted. After the trial, she would be free. She could continue her studies over there, no problem.

And he? What was he going to do there? He chuckled. What did he mean what? He would rent a small place in Jackowo and open a bar. What would he call it? Of course, Browarek!

Wait, how was it pronounced in English? Would anyone understand it? "What am I babbling about?" He laughed at himself in his thoughts. Of course, he would call it Browarek. After all, who spoke English in Jackowo, the biggest Polish place in USA? The name of the bar would be suspended above the entrance and on the windows, it would be written in Polish: Piwo, Bigos, Flaki, maybe also Kaszanka. Then he thought about Nadia and added:

Bliny.

Back to ToC

Beginning of the Book

When you feel lost, misunderstood by everyone around you, even by your own wife or husband, it seems that the only thing that could save you is an escape. Find a hole somewhere far away, where no one will find you or rent a room in an unknown house, the best belonging to an older, distinguished person, in order to have the greatest guarantee of peace.

But you have to be on your guard. Older persons sometimes like to arrange spiritual séances. Sometimes, instead of a peaceful dream, you may encounter quite a dreadful experience.

***

He put the suitcase on the stairs and took out his handkerchief to wipe his wet glasses. It was raining a little, just a drizzle, but enough to wet him as he got out of the taxi. He felt drops of water on his forehead and cheeks. Some trickled down to his collar and slipped into the back of his shirt. It was not pleasant.

He raised his hand to the doorbell and pressed the white button. Soon, Mrs. Stefania Zagorska stood in the doorway.

She was exactly as he had imagined her, a dignified old lady in a long, dark dress. She eyed him warily from behind her round glasses, which had a thin, wire frame.

"Mr. Henryk?" asked she. "Were you the one who called yesterday on the subject of the room?

"Yes," he answered. "Mrs. Stefania, right?"

She opened the door wider and let him inside. From a small hallway, they entered the vast hall, where several doors seemed to lead to individual rooms. Only one of these doors was actually open. Henry caught a glimpse of a table and chair. Probably a dining room or living room, he thought.

"Please come here." Mrs. Stefania stopped in front of one of the closed doors. "This will be your room."

She went inside first. He walked behind her, bumping his knees with his cumbersome suitcase.

The room turned out to be better than he expected, spacious enough with a small table covered with a nice tablecloth. Crochet work. (Could it be otherwise in the house of an old lady?) The window gave a view of the garden with some old trees. Even in this weather, it made a pleasant impression.

"I like it," he said with sincere satisfaction. "I am glad that the window overlooks the garden. I need a lot of peace."

"The street is also calm, but the view here is better. You seem to be a writer?"

"Actually, I've just retired. But I'm also working on a book. This will be my first novel and I have some difficulty concentrating, which is why I'm so keen on the place being quiet."

"It will certainly please you, Mr. Henryk." Mrs. Stefania looked proud. "I think I can call you this way, right?"

He nodded.

"It is a peaceful place," she went on. "In the room next to yours lives a young person, Miss Barbara, but she is a student and is often away from home. Morning lectures, afternoon classes, you know how students are. Or should I say how students were before the war, as I remember?"

"And this room?" Henryk pointed at the door on the opposite side of the hall.

"Ah, there lives Mrs. Lewandowska. She does a lot of traveling. She is a flight attendant, a very attractive woman."

Henryk noticed a slight wince from his hostess, showing that Mrs. Lewandowska did not enjoy her greatest sympathy.

"You see, since my husband's death, I was forced to rent out the rooms downstairs," Mrs. Stefania explained. "I would not be able to maintain such a large house with my pension. Everything gets more expensive as you look. It's scary that way." She turned to him. "You will be the only man among us. We will feel much safer thanks to you. Please let yourself feel at home. Here is the closet and the bathroom is just down the hall."

He looked in the direction she was pointing.

"When you're ready, I'll show you the kitchen. You can use it, of course. Just as we agreed on the phone, dinner is included in the rent for the room, breakfast and lunch is on you."

"Yes, of course. That's alright," confirmed Henryk as he began to take off his coat.

Before Mrs. Stefania went out of the room she added, "Dinner is at seven. I would appreciate some punctuality." And she left him alone, closing the door gently behind her.

Henryk walked over to the bed, threw himself on the patterned bedspread and stretched his arms and legs, not even bothering to take off his shoes. He had dreamed of such a moment for a long time, for the simple joy of being allowed to do what he really wanted at home. At home, Teresa never allowed him this kind of behavior. Generally, not too much was allowed him. And here? Here, he could lie down on the bed in his shoes and suit as he pleased. And what? Nothing happened. The world did not collapse.

Overcome with sudden joy, he stood on the bed and started jumping high up in the air. With each jump, he tried to go even higher and he began to laugh like a man possessed, the loud, free laughter of a human being who had been released into the wild after thirty years in captivity. At that moment, the door to the hallway opened with a vengeance and a young blonde ran into the room, heading straight to the window. She was dressed only in bra and panties, her feet bare.

One glance toward the bed and she turned to stone.

Henry, too, froze in the air, his joyful laughter, broken suddenly, his voice lost.

As the girl moved, Henry sat on the bed, slumping and laughing no more.

"What kind of freak are you?" she asked finally, not even trying to cover herself.

"Not a freak, just a new tenant. Henryk is my name," he creaked with effort. "And you, young lady, are probably Miss Barbara. I've heard about you."

"Baska" she corrected. "Anyway, you're freaky, whatever your name is. But it does not matter. It's somehow boring here without someone who's a little nuts." She glanced at him. "I hope that you do not bite?"

"I bite, but lightly and not everybody."

"Would you bite me?"

"If you were older, yes, or if I was younger. Do you always fly around the house half naked?"

"And why do you want to live here?"

"I asked my question first."

"Then answer mine first."

"Okay. I ran away from home."

"Don't be silly. You ran away? But you are... so old."

"Elders also need a bit of freedom. Now, it's your turn."

"No one used to live here," she told him. "This room was empty. I wanted to see if it had stopped raining. From this window, you can see the sky better. Well, I'm going to get dressed before I offend you completely." She turned and left, shaking her shapely bottom like a real woman.

Henry stepped down from the bed and began to unpack his suitcase.

Not that there was much to unpack. Just a bit of clothes, pyjamas, toiletries, linen, towel and... the most important thing: a thick, A4-size notebook with a hundred pages and a Waterman fountain pen.

This pen was the only item he had bought on his own as a gift to himself without consulting with Teresa. For a long time, he had seen the pen on display at the consignment store on Bracka street. He stopped by this window every time he returned home after work. It was one of the few stores in Warsaw that sold mostly articles of western origin, some second-hand and some new. The display window of the store was like a glimpse through the iron curtain, through which you could see not too much, but always a little. It was like a look at a piece of yard of the Rotten West. Most of the exhibited goods came here, of course, from parcels sent from Western Europe by people family members. Some were brought by those "privileged" few who managed to obtain a passport and see a piece of the free world.

There were all these goods exposed behind the thick glass, beautifully arranged, with price tags that made one's brain spin. And every object came from "over there", this vast land of fairy tales, which was beginning behind the Berlin wall, next door almost from here. But the gate through this wall was covered in barbed wire and guarded by armed men with German shepherd dogs. It was better not to approach. Moreover - what for? The goods on display at the consignment store were available to all and free of charge to look at. This was exactly what Henryk was doing one afternoon when he saw this pen. The black, shiny object lay in its elegant box and he thought: "Why not?" It was, after all, a wonderful gift that he could buy for himself on the occasion of his retirement. It would be nice to have something he could call entirely his own, even just once.

The pen cost dearly, more than six hundred zloty. It was a quarter of his monthly salary as an official, but he had collected some money furtively over the years. It was somehow enough. When, finally, the long-awaited day came, and Henry left work for the last time in his life, he made his way immediately to the consignment store. The pen was still lying on display, elegant and shiny black with its golden rings, inviting him inside the store. He went in with a wildly beating heart, and after a few minutes, he became the proud owner of a real Waterman fountain pen with a golden nib with an iridium ball at the end that never rubbed off. He looked at the pen again in the light of the street lamp, once again taking it out of its oblong box. Then again, he put it back. No other official in his department had such a pen. Not even the manager. Who had a pen like this? Maybe only the President of company himself, nobody else.

And on this day, Henryk at last had something for himself, something of which he was very proud. For the first time in his life, he felt important, appreciated by fate. He was really happy. Since the day of his wedding to Teresa, he had lived in the apartment, which belonged to her parents, sat at their table, farted on their padded chairs. Teresa, a renowned communist party member and a feisty woman, attained a major position in the Ministry of Interior Trade, while he was only able to reach the level of a senior clerk and his salary was only a small addition to their household budget. It did not even upset Teresa so much as she understood that not everyone was as intelligent from birth as she was, after all. What rather drove her mad was that he did not even try to go higher. He sat in the same office and at the same desk for thirty years and he was fine with it. That she had never been able to understand. And when the time finally came that he was offered the post of deputy head of the department, because no candidate with the right qualifications was at hand, and he simply refused, that was when Teresa truly lost her patience and they had a real brawl. But that was in the past now, almost completely forgotten.

What was the worst, the proverbial straw that broke the back of the overloaded donkey? It was this fountain pen.

On such a long-awaited day, on the last day of his work, Henryk and Teresa sat down together for dinner by candlelight and a bottle of red wine, Teresa with her usual solemn expression. She gave him a gift. Henryk unpacked the long box and found in it, of course, a Wolczanka made tie in dark blue color. Of course, the tie was the finest quality; made from rayon, and with his initials embroidered in front, two letters in a lighter shade of blue. Henry thanked her, although he had hated the color navy blue from his childhood since he was forced to wear a navy blue school apron with a white collar during his first years of primary school.

In vain, his mother tried to convince him that it was a beautiful color, because the sailors dressed in navy blue. It didn't help. He liked sailors and hated the school apron. His school belonged to the Society of Friends of Children in Zoliborz, located on the square of Lelewel, which required that all students wear navy blue aprons. Henryk thought the society was poorly named, as no kids liked those outfits. And the parents, despite everything, liked their children to be dressed in this idiotic way.

Although little Henryk passed through elementary school, his trauma of dark blue clothes remained. Teresa knew this, of course. All gifts from her, however, were navy blue because she, a person with such a high position in an esteemed political party, knew best, after all, in which color her husband looked good and this color matched his eyes better than all the other possible colors of the world.

He immediately tried the tie in front of the mirror, telling himself over and over that it was, after all, a beautiful color as it elegantly shimmered in the candlelight and was a perfect match for his blue shirt and his navy blue suit (also gifts from Theresa), not to mention his navy blue socks. He sat down at the table deeply touched by the solicitude of his wife, and when he drank half of the bottle of wine, his courage had reached such a level that he decided to confess to the sin he had committed, showing her the gift which he had bought for himself on this important occasion.

That was when disaster struck.

Teresa's face changed suddenly into an icy mask. She became pale, her eyes narrowed to the style of the women's eyes in Chinese ink paintings. It was enough to let him know that from that moment on, the best he could do is not to move, and God forbid, not to speak. The smallest gesture, the shortest word could immediately work to his disadvantage. He had been through several of such typhoons and he knew perfectly well that there was no refuge for him now at any port. The only thing he could do was collapse all the sails, lock himself up in the cabin and try to wait out, hoping that he would be able to survive the attack of the hurricane. This time, though, he did not feel so hopelessly helpless. He had in store something he never had before, a weapon of which Teresa had no idea. He had something absolutely new - a tiny spark of freedom.

How did he get such a spark? No, it was not because he bought himself a gift. It was not even that the gift was so monstrously expensive, more expensive than the most expensive tie you can buy in the Adam \- Polish Fashion Saloon for men. It was mainly about the fact that he himself made the decision to buy it. Alone, without consultation with her. It seemed a true sacrilege, sin unpardonable indeed. So far, alone, he could buy the newspaper, nay, and even some weekly magazine. It would be fine. But a fountain pen with a gold nib? And from a consignment store? Worse, with their common money, as he did not have any cash officially of his own, after all! No, this was too much.

The unfinished bottle of wine stood on the table amid the dying candles. Teresa, affected by a complete nervous breakdown, locked herself in their bedroom after throwing on the living room couch, his pillow, blanket and navy blue checkered pyjamas, again a gift from her. He knew that such a storm must take a few days to weather. There was nothing you could do to handle it.

On Saturday, he bought the Life of Warsaw newspaper (this he was allowed) and began to study classified ads. His new spark of freedom began to work. On Sunday, he slipped out of the house for a walk and made a few calls after finding a working phone booth, which was not an easy task. In this way, he got in touch with Mrs. Stefania Zagorska.

Monday was the monumental day in his life. The real Insurrection. Teresa went to work, of course, without a word. Henryk got up, ate breakfast and took out from the storage space his old, cardboard suitcase with which he moved into this apartment years ago. He threw into it everything he owned, and which was not dark blue (not much it was at all) and from his drawer, he pulled out a notebook with rigid covers that he had brought home once from his office. He snatched from it the last sheet and wrote on it only one word: "Goodbye", using his new fountain pen. "Ironically," he thought. "Everything started and ended with this pen."

He left the house keys on the table together with the note and thoroughly slammed the door. While going down to the street, he thought that when he came here for the first time, he carried with him all his possessions. What more did he have now? Just this outstanding pen and a notebook without the last page (exactly 99 of them). And what about all his achievements from years of work behind the desk of a senior clerk? What happened to them? Evaporated? Gone with the wind? Perhaps that was the price of freedom.

***

Henryk sat at the table. Before him lay his workbook and the unscrewed the cap of his Waterman pen, its gold nib glittering in the light of the lamp. Beyond the window, it was just early twilight. He looked closely at his gem. At the nib was written 'Iridium, and below 10k'. There was also some ornament on it. A beautiful job. You know, a pen costing thirty years of work had to be beautiful.

He smoothed the first page of the notebook with his hand, bit his lip slightly, and carefully wrote at the top of the sheet, atop all the pale blue lines: "Beginning of the book".

Then he put the cap back on his pen, placed it next to the open notebook and stared long at those few words that contained so much. Maybe they contained all of his new life?

***

Dinner was really great - pancakes with cottage cheese topped with strawberry juice. Teresa never did anything like that. Being what she was, she had no time for such fancy cooking. Mrs. Stefania took her time and a lot of effort to impress her new tenant with her talents. The three of them sat in the dining room and ate pancakes. They were only three, because Mrs. Lewandowska was right now on her way to Budapest and in general was not a regular guest at the table.

They talked about nothing important, just about the weather, about the beginning of Barbara's academic year and other insignificant current events. Henryk said little about his personal life so far, deciding to say more at the right time, and Mrs. Stefania did not question him about it. Once they had finished Mrs. Stefania, who was collecting empty dishes from the table, asked: "On Thursday evening, we have here a small, spiritualist gathering. Would you like to take part in it? I would appreciate it if you came. The presence of a man will give us more courage."

"Spiritualist gathering," Henryk mechanically repeated. "Is it the kind of fun gathering with a spinning saucer and so on?"

"Well, something like that," agreed Mrs. Stefania with a smile. "Just that we do not treat it as a fun, but as a paranormal phenomenon and we take this issue very seriously. Well, at least most of us do. Barbara sometimes doesn't, but well, every age has its rights. So what? Is that alright with you, sir?"

"I do not know. I'll think about it," Henryk began cautiously. At that moment, he felt Baska kick his leg under the table.

"Alright, I'll try," he agreed finally. "Maybe those ghosts won't eat me."

"I'm sure you will be fascinated," Mrs. Stefania said cheerfully. She took the tray with plates and disappeared behind the door to the kitchen.

"Why did you kick me?" he asked Baska in a low voice as soon as Mrs. Stefania had gone.

"Because I wanted you to agree," she said. "I love these meetings. You will see what a fun they are."

"There will be someone else besides us?"

"Of course. Belphegor will come and maybe Joanna."

"Belphegor?" asked Henryk.

"Mrs. Klara, a lady friend of Mrs. Stefania. Belphegor I call her because she looks like a ghost. Actually, as she comes here, no ghosts are longer needed. But she is necessary, as she has the ability of a medium. That means she can communicate with the afterworld."

"And the other person? Joanna?"

"Oh, of course Mrs. Lewandowska, our neighbor from the room across the hall. She flew to Budapest but will return in time. You have to be very careful with her."

"And why is that?"

"She'll try to screw you. She seems to screw every guy she meets on her way. You can see it in her eyes."

"I think at my age, I can feel safe."

"You are grossly mistaken. For her, age does not matter. The art of it does. That's all that counts. She is a collector, as they call it. I'm sure she once screwed a chimney sweeper."

"And how do you know that?"

"Because once she was holding a silver button like the chimney sweeps wear and she had a black spot on her cheek."

"Maybe it was a black man?"

"Do black men make spots?" She looked surprised. "Well, maybe he was black. What's the difference?"

"At any rate, do not worry. I will take care of myself," Henry promised. Somehow, he did not want to be screwed after a chimney sweeper, black or not.

After dinner, he returned to his room and looked out the window, but did not see much. Everything was drowning in darkness. He sat down on a chair, while his open notebook lying in front of him spoke loudly: "So write. Write! After all, it's easy, yes? You pick up your fountain pen with the gold nib, unscrew the cap and write. What to write about?" He chuckled. "What question is that? What an idiotic question. Write what you want to. This is freedom. You have the right to write whatever you want. It's what you always wanted, right? You wanted freedom. You got it now!"

The problem was that Henryk still did not know what to write about. He knew only that it would be a book. That was all. When after many years of silence, one is tempted to say something, he wants to say everything at once, and what comes out? Nothing! All he gets is emptiness, nothingness, a white, unlimited space looking him straight in the eye through the window of the empty page stretched out before him.

"Come here," the white space invited eagerly. "Come to me. You know how. Squeeze through this window and you're on the other side. You will also become nothing. Do not be afraid. It's very nice to be like me, to be a big, white unlimited Nothing. It's the highest degree of existence. Why the highest? Because nothing more than nothing exists, and that is just beautiful. Come on. Don't be afraid. Not everyone has this chance like you. Don't miss it..."

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Before he could say 'please', the door opened and into the room jumped Baska. Again, she was in her underwear paired with an oversized shirt, probably belonging to a male. Instead of bare feet, she had on flip-flops.

"This is my pajamas. I stole it from my brother," she explained, seeing the questioning look of Henryk. "I just came to see if you are okay."

"Going somewhere in this outfit?"

"Going to sleep. I came to say good night. Are you writing something? Mrs. Stefania told me that you are working on a book and that you need time alone."

"Exactly, this is what I need..."

She came closer and looked over his shoulder at his open book, then as if in disbelief, picked it up and read it aloud: "Beginning of the book."

Suddenly, she burst into wild laughter. Dropping the book on the table and not being able to stand in place, she threw herself on Henryk's bed, kicking her legs and wrapping her arms around her shaking chest that seemed like it was going to explode. "Beginning of the book!" she repeated through her bout of laughter as she tried to control herself.

Henryk wanted then to strangle her, but only for a moment. The more he thought about it, the more the idea seemed to be ridiculous to him, as well.

"Well, so what? What if it is the beginning of the book?"

"So what?" She gave him a look as if to tell him he was crazy. "Anyone who begins to read a book knows that it is the beginning of the book. What do you write in the middle? The middle of the book?" And again, she burst out laughing.

"Well, what should I write? Somehow, I have to start it."

"And what is this book supposed to be about?"

"Well, I do not know yet exactly..."

"And why do you want to write a book if you do not even know what it is going to be about?"

"Because I got a gift - this fountain pen with a golden nib."

"From whom?"

"From myself."

She blinked. "You know what, freaky? You shouldn't get too ahead of yourself. Find out first what you want to write, and then start. Not vice versa."

"Well, I've started and I was doing pretty well until you mixed me up and everything."

"I was doing pretty well until you mixed me up," she began to tease him. "So you think since you've written 'Beginning of the book', that means you were doing pretty well?"

"Then how do I start?"

She thought for a moment, closing her eyes. It was clear that she was trying to focus.

"I got it," she called suddenly. "Start like this: Along a bumpy road through the dark forest dashed a black carriage drawn by two black horses. The sky was littered with low-hanging clouds and drops of rain splattered sideways on the curtained window of the carriage. Suddenly, the curtain of the window rose and in the flashes of lighting, amid intersecting clouds appeared a pale face..."

Baska suddenly paused, as if she had run out of words.

"What face?" asked Henry, strongly affected by her narration.

"I do not know. Invent the rest yourself. After all, you're the writer. Well, I'm going to bed. Can I sleep with you?"

"Look for somebody younger as a companion."

"Why? When I was little, I often slept with my daddy."

Henryk tried to throw a pillow at her, but she was too fast, she disappeared into the hallway in no time.

***

The phone conversation did not last long. Teresa was furious, of course, but not because of the pen. It seemed she had completely forgotten about it. Now, it was about something else, something even more important. Her current frustration stemmed from the fact that Henry had taken all of his belongings (except the navy stuff) and walked out of the house. If she had sent him away, everything, of course, would be fine, but he? Her own husband? Without her permission and without even consulting her? He had desecrated her personal and professional pride. It was a grave insult. A profanity.

Henryk understood it, alright. He did not even try to explain anything. After so many years of marriage, he knew everything by heart. "Take care of yourself," she said at the end, which meant that she was giving him a slim chance to reconsider, telling him that if he worked things out by himself, and above all, come to realize his unimaginable confusion, perhaps it wouldn't be impossible to fix it somehow. She ended the call, still having two conferences to attend. He was lucky because she was extremely busy this day.

Henryk hung up, relieved. Somehow, he could not find in himself the sense of guilt, which was required.

***

Generally, the first days of his pensioner's life went by perfectly well. He would take morning walks along the Pulawska street to the nearest dairy bar, where he would enjoy the breakfast milk soup with noodles and sugar - delicious. Then, also on foot, he would head to the MPiK club located on the square of the Union of Lublin, taking time for coffee and reading the newspaper. (Finally, he had the time for it.) He did not have to hurry anywhere and it was divine. He could do everything slowly, deliberately, savoring each movement. The slightest gesture was, after all, important. Every transient moment was a moment of his life, unique and unrepeatable. Just now, when he found himself alone and in retirement, he realized how little he knew himself, how little time he had devoted so far to his own needs. Was it possible to make it up now? Probably not, but certainly, he would not squander what still remained of the most precious gift he had received - his own life.

From MPiK club, he walked usually to Ujazdowskie Avenue until the entrance to the big Warsaw park, Lazienki. There, he sat on one of the benches, staring at the romantic figure of Frederick Chopin with his symbolic windswept willow. It was here he began to work on his book.

So far, his work consisted mostly of thinking. Henryk knew that it was not easy to write a book, but he had no idea that it was so difficult to decide what to write about. Repeatedly, he changed the subject. At first, it was to be a war novel, later a historical one, another day a romance. Somehow, he could not decide. But he did not care. He had the time, he was in no hurry.

Sitting on a bench and just thinking about another topic, he remembered that today was Thursday, and so it was that evening that the spiritualist event was to be held. He wondered how it would be like. There would be five of them, all beside him ladies. Yesterday, he had the opportunity to meet Joanna, who just came back from Budapest. She was an extremely sexy blonde, with a Barbie silhouette that probably aroused lust in each of the male passengers of Polish Airlines LOT. Henryk looked at her cheeks, but noticed no black spots. Maybe she covered them with makeup. Joanna, for her part, also carefully examined him while sensually moving the tip of her tongue over her lips, as if checking if she was already hungry enough. Of course, she would take part in the evening's gathering, especially if he, Henryk would also be present. It's supposed to be actually a very interesting event.

Henry could not get rid of the anxiety he felt when he thought of her. What a woman. A turtle could be led to gallop after her on a deserted island. It was better for him not to be alone with her around, it could be too dangerous.

He noted that his thoughts had become derailed again. He looked at the monument of Frederick as if seeking inspiration, but the famous composer turned his head to the side, busy with his own thoughts. He seemed to know nothing about the creative problems of Henryk.

***

During dinner, Henryk sat on his seat. His place at the table had been established next to Mrs. Stefania and across the two beautiful female tenants, younger and older, both of them stunning in their own ways "A king's harem," he thought of himself, amused. He would like to see now the face of Teresa if she saw him at this table.

For the dinner were apples fried in batter - something wonderful - those sweet crumpets smeared with jam seemed to jump alone into his throat. The apple pancakes made Henryk remember his childhood, Teresa never done anything like this. He sighed. Maybe it was necessary to move away from one's own life in order to regain back one's memories.

"Why are you so wistful, Mr. Henryk? Could it be heart problems?" asked Joanna, the tip of her tongue touching her upper lip. "Maybe we can offer some advice for it. There are pieces of advice for everything."

"Yes, you can bring him the heart droplets, I saw it in the medicine cabinet of Mrs. Stefania," Baska kindly suggested.

"You little twit, mind your own business," fired Joanna. "Mr. Henryk needs more than droplets, something about which you haven't got a clue."

"I seem to have found myself in a funny situation," thought Henry, feasting on pancakes. He listened to the banter and could not remember when he felt so good.

When they finished dinner, the doorbell rang in the hall. Mrs. Klara, just as Baska had said, actually had an unearthly appearance. She was thin and pale, with blank eyes that seemed to pop out of their sockets and hovered somewhere between earthy and extraterrestrial realms. She seemed to be a little bit here and a little bit elsewhere.

After the introduction of Henryk, she looked around the room as if checking if everything was okay, then she set on the table the candlestick with two tall, yellow candles.

"Candles must be real, made of wax" she explained for Henryk's sake, as it was his first time experiencing this kind of experiment. "Everything has to be natural."

They sat at the table, each of them occupying the same places as at dinner, only Mrs. Klara sat at the head of the table, her back to the window. She lit the candles with a wooden match and on the top of the table, she set a white porcelain plate with the letters of the alphabet inscribed around the edge. The center of the plate bore an incomprehensible secret sign painted in black.

When everything was ready, Mrs. Stefania turned off the light overhead and the room became flooded with warm twilight, faces and the table with the white saucer in the middle emerging from the darkness, creating a remarkable atmosphere of mysterious excitement. Their hands were spread on the top of the table in a fan shape, creating a circle, with the ends of the thumbs and the small fingers touching around the plate. Mrs. Klara recommended for everyone to close their eyes and focus on the plate, and above all, to not utter a word.

She alone began to repeat over and over some incomprehensible words, her voice low and steady. After a few minutes, she said with a slightly higher tone:

"Someone's here. I feel the presence of someone. Someone's here with us." Then, she fell silent.

After a while, she spoke again:

"This person lets me understand that it doesn't know one of those present here. It wants to know more about this man, demands it."

Then Mrs. Klara asked Henryk directly: "Please put on the saucer an object that belongs only to you, and which never before belonged to anyone else."

"Strange request," thought Henry as he moved his hands over his jacket pockets. In the top pocket, his hand encountered the oblong shape - his fountain pen. He pulled it out of his pocket, not without hesitation and entrusted his treasure to the saucer. Again there was silence. The interrupted circle of participants merged back with touches of their fingertips, all with open eyes intently fixed on the porcelain plate.

Suddenly, the pen twitched once, twice, moved like a float in the rod of a fisherman, the fish nibbling the bait before swallowing it whole.

"It is taking a bite," thought Henry. "Really taking one."

Indeed, the pen moved jauntily, turned on the bottom of the plate and swirled wildly several times, then, as if worn out, slowed down and stopped, pointing at one of the letters with its cap. It was the letter 'W'. After a few seconds, the pen moved again, this time more slowly, deliberately, stopping on the letter 'E'. Next, 'L' showed up and so on, until the whole sentence was accomplished: "Welcome, Henryk".

Henryk was stunned completely. Baska stared at him with round eyes, and Joanna gazed at him in the candlelight, licking her lips greedily, as if she did not have any dinner. Mrs. Stefania showed no surprise and the face of Mrs. Klara's flushed red as a lot of physical effort was involved here from her part.

She started asking different questions to the immaterial being. The answers they received were, however incoherent, sometimes illogical. Finally, the pen froze and the contact was broken.

Mrs. Klara instructed Mrs. Stefania to turn the light on, and then she blew out the candles. She was very taken over indeed.

"It was an extremely strong presence," she said. "We should take advantage of it. We must perform a whole series of séances and do them every day. We must not let this opportunity go to waste. Such a strong signal does not happen often."

"The whole series? How many of them?" Henryk asked anxiously. He was not going to waste his time on old wives' evenings, but at the same time, he was very curious about how this thing from the other world knew his name. It must have been some trick of Mrs. Klara and if so, he was going to expose it. He wasn't going to let himself be led by the nose by this old crow.

"The whole series, that is seven sessions, including today," said Mrs. Klara. "And from now on, for every single evening."

After the gathering was over, Henryk returned to his room. He checked his Waterman pen in the lamplight, unscrewed the cap and even sniffed its gold nib. He smelled the characteristic smell of the foreign, Ultramar ink. He liked this smell, the smell of a good pen of a self-respecting writer, as he already considered himself. Then he placed the pen next to the notebook that was still open on the first page, sat in the seat next to it and began to read today's edition of the Life of Warsaw newspaper. Nothing special. At the Silesian Stadium in Chorzow, Poland defeated The Netherlands 4: 1 - what a surprise! - In the qualifying football match for the European Cup. This month, in Tychy, they would start the production of the second line of the Fiat 126p. He had always wondered why someone would invent such a small car. Was it to beat some kind of record or what? And so on, and so on.

Bored, he put the paper down. It was time to sleep. He had to leave something to do for tomorrow.

***

His dream was a heavy one, odd. He lay on a boat on his back, staring up at the sky. Between the branches of the trees bowing low over his head, he saw the glimmer of stars. Suddenly, the air grew thick, suffocating. Someone's hands moved over his skin, stroking and caressing him. An otherworldly thrill spilled all over his body. He felt as if he was not alone. Someone was lying over him, someone very light and very feminine. Through tendrils of her hair, he could still see the flashing sparks of stars. The feeling of her body against his naked skin caused a pleasure he had never experienced before. He felt suddenly that he was already inside her. It happened as if by miracle. Without being fully aware of it, he began to sway slowly forward and backwards, faster and faster until the crazy spasm shook his body like an electric shock and repeated a couple of times more until his strength had been completely exhausted, then he felt like a car with a discharged battery, unable to move its wipers or illuminate the way in the dark, not even able to honk for help. The sweet burden eased slowly until it completely disappeared from his chest. The stars also dissolved into the vastness of the dark blue sky. He fell asleep again, slept until the first rays of sunlight fell on his face through the gap between the lace curtains on the window.

After lifting his eyelids, Henry lay for some time without moving. He knew that he had dreamed of something unusual. At first, he could not remember what, but after a while, hazy memories of the night began to return to his consciousness - the tree branches, some impossible to recognize a face leaning over him, the translucent lights of the stars through her hair, and finally a conclusion, this extraordinary, indescribable orgasm that shook him so hard he had never felt anything like it before. What a remarkable dream. Could such intense feelings be at all possible?

He threw aside his blanket, sat down on the bed and froze.

He was completely naked.

His pajamas were lying on the floor next to the bed, thrown carelessly as if in a hurry. He glanced at himself, then at the pajamas on the floor, his eyes shifting over and over as he tried to put together the remnants of logic that possibly still existed inside his head. As far as he knew, he had never before thrown his pajamas on the floor. He also had no habit of sleeping naked. What was it then? Maybe it was not a dream? Maybe someone was really in his room? But \- who?

"Of course," he thought suddenly, discovering the blatant truth. Of course, she screwed him as Baska predicted. Just as she screwed the black guy or the chimney sweep before him, whoever he was. But how did she do it? Probably she gave him some narcotic drug, maybe in the form of a spray. She could bring it from her travels abroad. But why? Did she fear that he would defend himself? She used guile, that pesky nymphomaniac. Baska said that he should be careful. He should have barricaded the door with a table.

But wait a minute. What was going in with him? Why was he behaving like a raped virgin? So what if the dream had been real? Wasn't it pleasant after all? Surely it was. That he could not deny. And how would he have reacted if he had not slept? Would he have defended himself? Probably not too much. Maybe just a little bit, just to show some decency, like: "But, Mrs. Joanna, what are you doing? Does it not seem improper at my age?" That would be all. He would make a pathetic clown of himself and she would explode with laughter and it would all not work out. Well, maybe for this reason, she sedated him instead, so that she would not have to listen to this kind of nonsense.

And she had done a good job. The best a nymphomaniac could. The finesse of her skills, the true art of love, he had never imagined that such pleasures existed.

Henry put on his pajamas and went to the bathroom. After returning washed and shaved, he dressed up and was ready to leave the house and go to his dairy bar when his eyes fell on the book lying on the table. The entire first page was filled with neat handwriting, without strike-through and amendments, the next as well and the next one. About twenty pages of his notebook were full of writing. When did it happen? While he slept? It turned out that nymphomaniacs also tend to have literary talents. "Damn it. Why did she have to mess exactly with my novel?" he thought irritably.

Was that the price of a pleasure? If it was, he must buy her a separate notebook, if only she wanted one. She deserved it. Henryk closed the book, took it under his arm and with a decisive step, went out of the house.

***

Henryk sat on his favorite bench in Lazienki Park. While the golden Polish autumn warmed up his pensioner's bones with the rays of the golden Polish sun, he wondered if he was really feeling like a real pensioner should. Definitely not. He kept his body straight. He had no wrinkles on his face and though his gray-haired temples undoubtedly made him look more dignified, he did not feel old. And especially not today. Today, more than ever, he felt at least ten years younger. Yes, it was thanks to Joanna. Her tricks rejuvenated the blood in his veins. It was boiling in the autumn sun. He felt so young, he even called an ice-cream vendor who was passing by and decided to treat himself to a vanilla "Bambino" on a stick.

"Joanna," thought he dreamily as he licked the vanilla delicacy, the flavor of which reminded him yet again of his childhood. "What a class act, a true champion of the Kama Sutra. It's probably due to her travels abroad that she has become such an expert in the art of lovemaking. Surely, one needs to go through many hotel beds to reach such a level of expertise."

Henryk remembered now every touch of her hand, every stroke of the wet tip of the tongue, the velvety touch of her skin... He felt, in sudden amazement, a rapid stiffening in his pants and the stick with the unfinished ice cream slipped from between his fingers and fell under the bench.

"It will be a special treat for the pigeons," he thought with regret. "Damn, what's wrong with me? Acting like a snapper."

He shifted on the bench, sat down in the most dignified and comfortable way he could and straightened up his pants. Then he adjusted his glasses on his nose and placed on his lap the notebook had he brought with him. What had come into her head to get involved in his book? Did he even tell her that he was writing a book? He could not remember, but it did not matter. Mrs. Stefania could have told her. He opened the book on the first page.

The first line, "The beginning of the book", was written with his own hand, but from the second line everything was written in a different, nicer handwriting, though no doubt the same pen was used.

"Along a bumpy road through the dark forest dashed a black carriage drawn by two..."

Henry left the book on his knees and raised his astonished gaze on the statue on the other side of the already fading planter. The genius on the monument answered him with an equally puzzled look. Could it be possible? So it was not Joanna? So it was this snotty youngster girl who had visited him at night? But how did she know all those tricks? Then again, such things young people can learn quickly, especially nowadays. Magazines, television and especially American movies which can be seen in Warsaw cinemas more and more show the things that until recently were kept secret by censorship. Not to mention all the things she could learn from her colleagues. It would not fit in a normal brain.

Now that the mystery had been solved, all the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. That's why she came to his room in her panties only, to serve as bait, as if he was a fish. And when she decided to get caught, she warned him against Joanna. Maybe she feared that the other female would be faster? Who knew what ideas swarmed in such a young mind? Meanwhile, she was the nymphomaniac. Not Joanna. He had to watch her. Again, the indecision - just why watch? To avoid such a wonderful adventure? To prevent incredibly beautiful moments of pleasure? She was, after all, a legally adult person who knew what she was doing. Henry looked down at the notebook on his lap and delved into reading. What he read, absorbed him so much that he forgot where he was and after reading all the text, he read it again and again as if trying to learn it all by heart.

***

They sat around the table, feasting on dumplings with butter and sugar - another specialty of Mrs. Stefania - and looking at each other. Henryk, who in the meantime, already lost his certainty of who was his guest last night, moved his cunning look from one woman to the second. Several times, he choked on the overwhelming question threatening to escape his lips: "Well, admit it now. Which one of you ladies screwed me last night?" But he refrained for fear of ridicule; it could be fatal.

"How did you sleep last night, dear Mr. Henryk?" asked Joanna suddenly.

He looked at her, puzzled. Why such a question? And why this sudden 'dear' before his name? Such familiarity for no reason? Just yesterday, he was simply Mr. Henryk.

"I've got you," he thought with relief. It must be her. But - what about the text in the notebook? How could she know Baska invented this beginning? Maybe Baska herself repeated her conversation with Henryk? After all, it was not so hard to remember a few sentences, was it?

"The dumplings are great." Joanna turned to Mrs. Stefania. "Can you tell me the secret behind preparing such a delicacy?"

"I know," said Baska. "First, you have to sow the grain."

"What grain?" Joanna was surprised.

"What grain? Wheat, of course, to produce the flour. You should do it at night, somewhere in the woods, in a dark forest..."

Here, Henry had the impression that Baska was giving him such a perverse look that his hand, which held another dumpling, hung over the table. "Sure it was she, what a fool of me." The realization dawned on him in a heartbeat. "She betrayed herself. Now, I know everything. You do not fool me, you little dodger. I'm too old for you to make a sparrow of me."

After dinner, they met again at the table with lit candles. Mrs. Klara was very taken over. She made a lot of strange faces. In the yellow light of the candles, her face looked like a kind of demonic mask.

The gaze Baska sent him from behind her lashes said, "And what did I tell you? Doesn't she look like Belphegor?" Henryk had never seen Belphegor before, but he smiled to his secret lover.

"I wonder if she will come today?" he thought, and the more he thought about it, the more he got caught up on the fact that he would like her to come. Moreover, he started to imagine it even without admitting it to himself. Actually, since dinner, from the moment of her joke about the black forest, he had gained confidence that it was Baska who was his guest last night and now, he could not stop thinking about her. Out loud, when he was alone, he told himself that if she appeared again, he would give her a good spanking and chase her from his room. But silently, he thought:

"Oh, if she comes, I'll let her do everything. I'll pretend I'm sleeping deeply, that I know nothing, that I see nothing. Oh, what a beautiful moment it will be..."

Meanwhile, Belphegor mumbled a spell with a monotonous voice. Henry felt his left little finger touching the little finger of Mrs. Stefania while his right little finger was burning at the contact with Baska's finger as she sat next to him. (He wondered if she was feeling it, too.) Their eyes were all closed, although Henry was sure that Baska opened hers every now and then. Finally, after a long, long wait, Mrs. Klara said she felt the presence of the spirit in the room.

"Who are you?" she asked solemnly. She listened then to the silence piercing their ears, a long velvety smooth silence. Finally, she said: "This is the same creature as yesterday. She is demanding a pen."

Henry put his pen on the plate, trying to break the chain created by their hands as shortly as possible. The pen began to rotate slowly, but no answer came. Mrs. Klara asked further questions, but received answers that were incoherent, sometimes even pointless. Something happened, however, that sent a real thrill through those gathered in the room. At some point, they saw a hazy glow, an oblong-shaped silhouette in the corner of the room. It did not last long, just a moment, but was clearly seen. After a while, the specter dissolved itself, merging into the wall. The pen also sank on the plate. The contact was broken.

Mrs. Klara switched on the light and extinguished the candles. She was very tired, but very excited. "There was a vision!" she said excitedly. "A real vision, and it's only our second session. This happens very rarely."

"But why was it so stupidly answering your questions?" asked Baska.

"The whole spectral energy was concentrated on an attempt to show up" explained Mrs. Klara. "And besides, maybe our questions seemed silly to him. Over there, on the other side, they think differently than we do."

"And how do you know it?"

"I know because I have long been dealing with these issues, my child. Even if you're patient and willing to learn more, you have to go through many of these sessions in order to know more about these things. Science denies the existence of communication with the world of the dead. Then we have to open its eyes. This time, we have seen the proof. The signal was extremely strong."

No one denied it. They got up from the table, Joanna looking Henry in the eyes as she passed him at the exit into the hallway.

"What an exciting experience, is it not, Mr. Henryk?" she asked with her velvet voice. "Probably I will not be able to sleep tonight. I'm so afraid..." She licked her upper lip with the tip of her tongue and gave him such a look that he shuddered.

"Really?" thought he, suddenly suspiciously looking at her. Impossible. After all, he had already decided it was not her. He returned to his room weighing the pros and cons of being a pensioner and ended up counting more pluses.

The door opened, of course, without a knock and Baska ran in wearing her pajamas, which means only her panties and the shirt of her older brother.

"What a performance by Belphegor. Did you see, Freaky? He showed us the real ghost!"

"You call it real? Hardly something could be seen."

"Hardly something? And the glowing silhouette, what was it? Mickey Mouse? What did you think? That such a spirit stranger will pose for a picture with us on the second night? Or sing the opera arias? Did you hear what Belphegor said? That, for the second time, it was a lot. We have to wait patiently. I do not know if I can handle waiting. I want to see much more..." Baska stopped suddenly, fixing her eyes on the open notebook. She snatched it up.

"You started writing, " she exclaimed excitedly. Henryk rushed to her instinctively to get the book back, but she quickly ducked with it under the table. He came to his senses and decided that, after all, he would not wrestle with her. After a few minutes, she got out from under the table, threw her arms around his neck and tenderly kissed him on the cheek.

For a moment, he could feel her small, firm breasts against his chest, stunning him a little. "Dear Freaky." She sounded very pleased. "You started exactly as I wanted and what you invented is very interesting. Do tell me when you'll have more. I'll turn up out of curiosity. So, see you tomorrow." With that, he heard the door closing behind her. Resigned, he sat down on the bed.

"So it's not her," he thought. "How naïve am I?"

He remembered now this seductive parting look Joanna gave him just moments ago. And the wandering tip of her tongue reminded him of something. With a deep sigh, he went to bed. He knew that he had to give his head a rest. Otherwise, it would hurt him a lot.

***

This time, he was also in a boat. The boat was dragged through the desert sands by two bald camels, their dried up bones rattling loudly with every shaky step of their long legs. The black, merciless sun hanging over his head sucked the light out of the desert sand. The light wandered up in the form of rays and here on earth, remained of it almost nothing, so that although it was not completely dark, almost nothing was visible.

She appeared sitting on him like she was atop a horse in her black outfit of a Bedouin woman, her face and body covered with half transparent tulle. She began to sway back and forth, as in the previous night, falling into the rhythm of the camel's steps and the clattering of their dry bones, which resounded around and spread into the still warm sand far, far up to the horizon.

The form sitting on him was so light and airy as the muslin covering her. He could barely see her in this rapidly escaping light. He was afraid that the merciless sun would pull her into the night and take her up before he could reach this indescribable bliss, which was just beginning to embrace his whole body.

He tried to raise his hands to grasp her hips and press her closer to him. That way, if she had to ascend, he would also be with her, so that the present moment would never end. But he could not even move his hands.

It ended, however. In spasms and painful cries of happiness, with him feeling like the luckiest man on earth.

He closed his eyes and the rocking of the boat began to steadily fade, and the dry clatter of bones drifted off into the distance indefinitely.

Henryk knew he was now alone. He felt tired, damn tired. He slept until the morning on his back, without changing position, until the room was filled with a new, bright day.

This time, his pajamas lying on the floor was no surprise anymore. He got out of bed, put on his glasses in a hurry and grabbed his book with both hands. It was there. The next chapter of his book had been written in the same handwriting, without deletions, still using his own pen with a gold nib. He closed the book and put it on the table.

"Yes, I'll read it together with Frederic. That way, it will be easier to understand. As they say, two heads are better than one," he thought.

***

The fountain pen lying on the plate spun, then slowed down for a while, and again rotated faster as if it was undecided which of the letters should be considered appropriate for the answer.

The question was still the same: "Who are you?"

The question was simple, direct. Belphegor decided that the time had come to invite the evening guest to make a personal appearance to the audience. True, there was a danger that it may become frightened or upset and never return. There were allegedly such cases. But for the sake of science, a researcher must sometimes take risks.

Finally, the pen stopped on one of the letters. It was the letter 'I'. The following letters were found much faster and easier, until those gathered at the table read the whole neat sentence: "I am the Countess Z".

"Hard to believe," thought Henryk, staring at the apparition visible in the corner of the room. Maybe visible wasn't the right word. It was barely visible, after all, but unlike the previous day, when there was only a hazy glow resembling the shape of a human, there were tiny sparks of a bluish color, like microscopic electrical discharges.

Henryk tore his gaze from the specter and looked at the two young women sitting opposite him. So far, he had not solved the puzzle of which was his night lover, so he temporarily concluded that both of them were, and both he coveted earnestly, so much so that he got caught himself up in the fact that he thought about them even more often. They appeared in his head almost constantly and the circumstances in which they appeared generally resembled adult movies. He reprimanded himself at first for such phantoms, but soon realized that he could not resist it and resigned to surrounding himself with them. He did not call Teresa anymore. He was not even able to think about her or the navy blue clothes he had left at home.

The session came to an end. After one more inquisitive query of Belphegor, the spook flashed angrily and walked away, leaving on the table the motionless pen of Henry. The séance was over.

"Somehow dear Mr. Henryk is not in the mood today," said Joanna licking her upper lip. "Maybe something can be done about it?"

Henryk looked at her and smiled slyly, showing predatory teeth.

Indeed, he did not look the best. He had a flushed face. Maybe he even had a fever. He moved his inflamed look to Baska. What about her? Not concerned about the state of his health? Maybe she had become indifferent? Ha! He would see who was more needed by whom, during the night, of course. He would see who was unable to resist temptation - them or him.

To make things simple, his mind had started to combine both women into one person. Sometimes, he even got lost in conversations with them, not sure which one was which.

***

The next night was like the previous two.

He found himself once more in a boat, this time at the bottom of the dark blue sea, and his moments of pleasure were watched from between seaweed by the eyes of a big, hairy octopus. Disturbing were those looks, but he, united with the dissolute siren, whose face he could not identify, stopped paying attention to them until he forgot about them completely. There was only her, naked and wet and impossible to comprehend with his mind that was clouded by red-hot lust, sensual and shameless, and leaving him with fatigue that could be soothed only by a deep sleep.

In the morning, he found, of course, his pajamas on the floor, and a notebook with the next chapter written with his own pen.

***

Teresa had already signed all the documents that lay in a pile on her desk, dangerously expanding from day to day. She put aside her pen and looked thoughtfully at the window. Since Henryk had left her, her life had changed a lot. At work, of course, nothing had changed. No one even knew what happened. But her private life fell into ruin. Admittedly, she was still sure that any moment Henryk would return, any day at most. He wouldn't be able to handle himself in this ruthless world. For sure, he would come back like a lost puppy whining at the door, begging for forgiveness. And she, after a long reflection, would forgive him generously. After all, Teresa understood that to err was human. It could happen to anyone. A penalty would be imposed, of course. It could not be otherwise, but every shepherd forgives the lost lamb, and she felt more than anything that she was his rightful shepherd.

"My clumsy thingy," she called him in her thoughts fondly. And now, that he ran away, she realized even more how strongly she needed him, how much the mere knowledge that someone was waiting for her at home, someone who needed her, gave her confidence, especially when something did not go well at work, when she got a flick on the nose from someone above her (unfairly, of course). Back home, she could always "appreciate" herself by putting Henryk in a corner, regardless of whether he had committed some stupidity or not. Now, he was missing. He had left her, taking from her what turned out to be so important to her - her inner peace of mind. Why did she treat him too harshly? What did that stupid pen actually mean? Nothing. If she knew that he had cared so much for it, she would have bought it for him instead of this unfortunate tie and everything would have been the same like before.

There was a discreet knock on the door and the secretary poked her head inside.

"Mrs. Wisniewska," she announced.

Mrs. Wisniewska, head of the purchasing department and a disgusting, sassy hag, came into the office and closed the insulated door.

"These are the documents that you asked for, Mrs. Director," she said, putting on Teresa's desk one thick file. "Can I do anything else for you?"

"No, thank you. That's all for now."

"Somehow you look tired, Mrs. Director. I hope you are alright?"

"What does this bitch want?" though Teresa. "Maybe something could be seen on my face?"

"By the way, do you have a family in Mokotow?" Mrs. Wisniewska mentioned here the street name and house number.

"Why?"

"Just yesterday, my husband drove me to the clinic for examination in that neighborhood, and it seemed to me that I saw Mr. Henryk coming out of that house. It was quite early in the morning so the time was quite strange, but who knows? Maybe it just seemed like Mr. Henryk to me. Maybe it was not him at all."

"Yes, over there lives an old aunt of my husband. He visits her from time to time."

"Well," said Wisniewska. "Family is so important."

In her voice, Teresa sensed a thin thread of mockery.

She put on a furious expression after Mrs. Wisniewska had left. "Shit," she thought. "Tomorrow, the whole office will know that the husband of Mrs. Director has a mistress." In her imagination, she saw smiles all around and the eyes of her co-workers casting her ambiguous gazes with a mixture of ridicule and compassion. Anyone who had ever worked in a large office knew this well.

And what if it was true?. And this thingy, he was even not able to join the communist party, not to mention to find a lover. But of course, he could. He was tall and handsome, after all. Even now, with his slightly graying hair and his aristocratic features, he always caught the eye of women. But he never cheated on his wife. She was sure of it. He was just such a freak.

Teresa felt suddenly that she missed him. What would happen if he did not come back? If he seriously considered leaving her? No, it could not be. Then why didn't he call? Only one call she has received from Henryk since the separation.

She made up her mind. She was going to take care of the matter. She wrote on a piece of paper the address she had heard from Mrs. Wisniewska - her memory was of such quality that she remembered it clearly. Then, with a loud sigh, she opened the file brought her by this woman.

***

During the subsequent sessions, Countess Z. opened up a bit more before the audience. She said that she died a violent death exactly one hundred years ago. They failed to pull her full name out of her. She blurted out, however, that she liked horses and jewels.

Today was to be the last of the seven planned sessions. They sat as usual in their chairs, focused and attentive just as Mrs. Klara required, trying not to think about the issues not related to this meeting, since it could discourage the incorporeal guest, which would be an irreparable loss. Henry was satisfied that this séance was supposed to be the last one. All the time, he was dreaming about his nightly rendezvous. Those spiritual experiences had begun to get boring, childish games, resulting in nothing, but he had to wait patiently for his nocturnal adventure.

His lover always came before dawn, when it was still dark. She took different forms, but Henryk knew that it was still the same woman, or both, mixed together at night into one person that he could not separate even in his imagination. Henryk lost weight. His eyes took on an unhealthy glow, and Mrs. Stefania noticed it. Concerned, she advised him to visit the local health clinic. He assured her that he was fine, simply overworked. Maybe he was working too much recently on his book, but soon, after he finished writing it, he would take a rest and he was sure he would recover.

That was not entirely a lie. Every morning came a new chapter of the novel and Henry was burning with curiosity, waiting for the next chapter, and eventually, the end of the story. He was not alone. As usual, before going to sleep, Baska flowed into his room in her panties and shirt and opened his thick notebook without permission. She sat in her seat with her legs tucked under her, and she read avidly what was written the night before. "Maybe she is checking if she made a mistake the previous night?" thought Henry, looking at her lustfully. "And why does Joanna not check? Maybe she makes no mistakes at all."

"So it could be Joanna? No, it looks more like Baska. She seems the literary genius. Then again, who knows? Maybe one deals with the festivities in bed and the second refines this book?"

***

Today's question was: "What do you need?"

Questions asked to specters had to be brief, factual, should not be subject to interpretation, and should not require cumbersome explanations.

This time, the pen pointing particular letters worked out an answer easily: "Warn him. She will come here."

"Warn whom?" asked Mrs. Klara with emotion.

"Henryk..."

As soon as the name was said, everything grew still, and when they looked in the corner of the room, it was empty. The specter just melted away without a murmur, as it emerged a few moments before. One could see the energy resource intended for today's meeting had already been exhausted. Consternation prevailed at the table. They looked at each other's faces emerging from the darkness in the yellowish glow of candles. In the light of this, they all looked like ghosts, most obviously Belphegor. Finally, all turned their eyes to one face.

"Why are you looking at me?" asked Henryk defensively. "Do you really believe in ghosts? This is a collective hallucination, nothing more. And besides, was it really talking about me? After all, it did not even finish the sentence."

Henryk said it all without conviction. He had no idea what to think about all this, but what he wanted the most was for these looks to be turned away from him so that he could be left alone.

Mrs. Klara was inexorable.

"We believe only in what we see," said she in a serious tone "Countess Z apparently wanted to warn you. She knows you. Or have you forgotten the first meeting? Think about it yourself. Someone is looking for you. This type of warning is not to be underestimated."

The session completed, Mrs. Stefania turned on the light and the participants rose from their chairs. Joanna, while passing by Henryk, touched him with her arm and said quietly:

"I'll be watching you, dear Mr. Henryk. Tomorrow, I'll fly again to Budapest, but the whole night, I'll be still here. If you feel lonely..."

She did not finish. The nosy head of Baska appeared between them as out of the ground.

"What are you whispering about?" she asked mockingly. "What a story it is, eh? Maybe the Countess was warning you about her." Here, Baska pointed at Joanna. "See what sharp teeth she has," she added with a laugh.

"Mind your own business, little twit," Joanna fired back and walked away with dignity to her room, throwing a farewell glance to Henryk from behind her long, black lashes.

"You know what, Freaky? You're an even bigger curiosity than I thought." Baska sounded extremely excited. "How do you know these ghosts? You fly around the cemetery at night? Do you know, maybe some real witches, as well?"

Mrs. Klara and Mrs. Stefania whispered something to each other in the kitchen. Henryk, tired from the events of the evening, retired to his room.

Exactly at nine-thirty in the evening there was a doorbell. Mrs. Stefania, who was still in the kitchen, went to the door and opened it carefully. On the front porch stood an elegant woman with a confident expression on her face.

"Good evening," she said. "I'd like to ask you something. Does Mr. Henryk live here?"

Mrs. Stefania confronted her coldly.

"Nobody like this lives here, and I do not know this name," she said. "No man lives here, just us, ladies."

Stranger woman hesitated for a moment.

"Sorry. It has to be some mistake. Goodbye madam."

She turned around and went back to the cab waiting for her.

Mrs. Stefania, after returning to the hall, dialled Mrs. Klara.

"She was here," she whispered in conspiracy. "I did exactly as you said. He didn't even notice the visit."

"You see?" she heard Mrs. Klara's response. "Such warnings should not be taken lightly."

***

Henryk came up with a brilliant idea.

He moved the electric cable for the night light, which passed under the bed, under the pillow, and even further up along the bed, so that the switch was located now on the sheet, within the reach. Who knew? Maybe at night, he would be able to regain some consciousness, exert some of his strength and press the button. Then all would be revealed. He drank his herbal tea that Mrs. Stefania had recommended him and went to bed, clutching the switch of the bedside lamp in his hand.

***

For the first time, it was not a boat. He lay on the padded seat of some vehicle, a coach maybe. He heard horses' hooves striking dully on the hard ground of the road. The windows must be covered, or the night was deep, as the interior of the vehicle was very dark. There was little to be seen. He saw only her face above him - a pale stain in the dark, visible yet unrecognizable, and felt her cool, mellow touch on his skin. They sailed together as one, moving with the rhythm of the steps of the horses pulling their carriage. Henry recalled suddenly the switch he kept in his hand. He felt it clearly under his fingers, but would he be able to press the button?

But not now, for the world. Certainly not at the moment. Maybe a little later. As they approached the culminating moment of pleasure, he heard the words whispered in his ear: "Now, we are together forever, my Henryk..."

Along with the cry he issued, he suddenly realized something:

She did not call him Freaky or dear Mr. Henryk. It was my Henryk!!! Neither of those two called him this way, which meant it had to be someone else... "I know who you are!" he exclaimed triumphantly. And he pressed the button with all his strength...

Suddenly, he felt a pain in his neck. He was not sure where it came from. Moreover, it was no longer important. The pale face in front of him swirled together with the coach, and the tapping hooves suddenly started to recede into the impenetrable nothingness.

***

When Henry did not show up in the kitchen in the morning to drink his daily coffee with cream before walking to the milk bar, Mrs. Stefania thought, "He overslept. Poor fellow, he hasn't been feeling his best lately." But when he did not show up at ten o'clock, the worried landlady knocked on his door. No replies. She pressed the handle gently.

Henryk lay naked on the bed, his pajamas hurled carelessly on the floor. The paleness of his body almost matched the color of the sheet. He was not breathing. Terrified, Mrs. Stefania called an ambulance immediately. Minutes later, the doctor came and said, "He is gone."

Cause unknown. Special symptom - unusual paleness of the body of the deceased. Police officer, Lieutenant Balski, who had just been promoted and moved from Otwock to Warszawa, received this case to work on.

When an official record of the autopsy was delivered, it showed death from loss of blood. However, no trace of blood was found in spite of an accurate search in the room of the deceased, or the whole house. The two black marks on the neck of Henryk, similar to a snake bite, in the Middle Ages would have been regarded as the work of a vampire and the poor fellow if caught, after a brief court, would be sent to the stake. They didn't play with vampires these days. But as you know, in the People's Republic of Poland, officially, there are no vampires. The young corporal who was moved with Balski from Otwock, long looked at the form in his hand, not knowing where to put the X mark.

"No, there is no such box," he complained loudly. "There is 'ran over by a car'. There is even 'kicked by a horse', but no 'sucked off by a vampire'."

"And remember that man who disappeared in Otwock?" Balski prompted. "There also was not a box for him. Here in Warsaw, one does not disappear. The law does not allow this. It is not Otwock here. Write the cause of death - unknown."

***

When Baśka returned home after classes, the room of Henryk was free again. The body was taken to the morgue, and all his stuff (not much of it) went to the Department of Investigation for examination. They were still looking for the slightest trace of the blood of the deceased. "He was so pale when I found him," said Mrs. Stefania, telling Baska the whole story. "And how he was smiling. It was clear that he was really happy."

Baska ran to her room. She threw herself on the bed and burst into tears.

***

Teresa, notified of the death of her husband, appeared in the morgue in order to identify the corpse. For a long time, she stared at the face of Henryk, trying to understand what had actually happened.

From the Faculty of Investigation, she received later his suitcase. She put it on a chair and opened it. At the very top of it, on a set of pajamas, lay a thick notebook with a fountain pen hooked to the cover. She sat in the other chair near the window and opened it.

At the beginning, she saw the words written no doubt by her husband's hand:

"The beginning of the book."

Her mouth twisted. "Who at the beginning of the book writes 'Beginning of the book'? This complete lack of logic. This is surely my Henryk."

Further sentences were written in a different handwriting. Maybe he was dictating to someone? Teresa shifted in the chair so she sat more comfortably, raised the book closer to her face and plunged into reading.

Back to ToC

Vampire Lady from Warsaw

Sometimes, life may seem mysterious. For instance, there may be something in your past or maybe even in your previous life that you don't remember, something murky like the water in a country pond. Beware. Maybe, you are being watched by a person who knows about your past more than yourself and who watches your earthly life, not without a reason. Yes, it could be troublesome, especially if you don't know who this person is. Is he (she) your friend or an enemy? And what if, by chance, this being is a real vampire?

***

Along a bumpy road through the dark forest dashed a black carriage drawn by two black horses. The sky was littered with low-hanging clouds and drops of rain splattered sideways on the curtained window of the carriage. Suddenly, the curtain of the window rose and in the flashes of lighting, amid intersecting clouds appeared a pale face of Countess Z.

From under her furrowed eyebrows, she looked at the leaden clouds rubbing almost against the tops of the trees. The view lasted only a moment, though. As the flash gave way to the overwhelming roar of thunder, up above the clouds, the forest road was once again plunged into darkness. The lanterns hanging on both sides of the carriage could only bring the nearest trees out of the darkness.

The Countess pulled down the curtain and leaned back against the padded red velvet seat of her coach. The interior of the vehicle was dim, as well, brightened only by a small, oil lamp mounted next to the window.

In the faint light, her beautiful, aristocratic face shone, her lustrous, black hair flowing in graceful curves to her shoulders from beneath the trendy French hat she wore. In her eyes gleamed a flash of anxiety.

"What's with this weather?" she thought. "Only Hell could have conjured such a storm. Oh, but I have to reach the palace in time. I have to make it before the dawn."

Under normal circumstances, it would not be a problem. She would often leave her palace after sunset and arrive the same evening in Warsaw to take part in one of the meetings of the capital's aristocracy or simply to enjoy a romantic evening. Beautiful and still young, she was in demand, accompanied, admired and adored especially by well-born young men, while the ladies looked at her with poorly disguised envy and concern, worried of course about the young bachelors who so easily turned their heads in her direction. Then, late at night, she would sneak out in English style and return to her palace before the first rays of the sun appeared over the horizon.

Under normal circumstances, yes. But tonight was hardly normal.

"How is the coachman able to find his way in such darkness?" she wondered, upset. "I can only hope nothing goes wrong with the carriage. The road is so bumpy. In this weather, it would be difficult to count on a speedy help."

Suddenly, the carriage slowed to a stop. Annoyed, she opened the window and stuck her head out with no regard for the rain drenching her fashionable hat.

In the middle of the highway stood three men in capes with lanterns raised up high. One of them came to the door of the carriage, opened it, and pronounced in a serious voice.

"Please come outside. It's the end of the journey."

The Countess paled, fear grabbing her by the throat. In a choked voice, she called out:

"By what right? How dare you? Do you know to whom this carriage belongs?"

The man parted his cloak. Under it, the Countess saw the black Jesuit's habit.

She froze, icy chills sliding down her spine. Now, she recognized him. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she went out into the rain, knowing that any resistance here was useless. The horses were held by their bridles, by the beefy farmhand with a lantern while her terrified coachman sat trembling on his box. She knew she could not count on him. The third form stood waiting on the sidelines. From behind his raised collar and the hat pulled low on his forehead, she could not see his face.

"Let's go," the Jesuit commanded. She followed him as if hypnotized, walking several steps astray into the sparse shrubbery. Paralyzed with fear, she could not utter a single word.

"We are already here, we are on the spot. You kneel down and beg Him for mercy, which you will certainly not get from us, although I doubt He will help you."

The Countess saw a deep grave prepared beforehand in the soft ground. "This is for you," said the Jesuit. "You have caused too much evil on this earth that we cannot let you live any longer. On behalf of the Holy Inquisition, you are sentenced to death."

Now, she was sure that this was the end.

The third man approached. He reached into his cloak and pulled out his flintlock pistol, the handle of which gleamed with a mother-of-pearl inlay. Just then, the wind parted wider the collar of his cape and she saw his face.

"Henryk!" she exclaimed, amazed. "So you're in this collusion? Do you not love me anymore?"

"I love you, and it is the curse of my life," the man said through the tears. "But we discovered everything. We know the truth. You killed her. You killed my wife, Jadwiga, as you killed many other innocent people before her. That's why you must die."

"You know I did it out of love for you. I wanted us to stay together forever."

"Nothing can justify thy crimes," severely cut the Jesuit. "Henryk, shoot her now!"

For a moment, Henry was still, then suddenly he dropped his pistol.

"I cannot do it. I really can't!" he howled in pain.

The monk frowned at his distraught friend. Then he took the pistol from the ground and pulling his hood tighter over his head to shield himself against the rain, handed the weapon to the third man.

"You shoot her, Yuzva. I cannot do it," he said "I am a clergyman".

There was a shot and Countess Z fell on the wet ground while her trendy French hat rolled into the forest, driven by the wind of the night.

Henryk stood erect, motionless, his cheeks wet from salty tears mixed with drops of rain. He stared in pain at this beautiful face, which was not marred by the round black spot in the middle of the forehead. The Jesuit said a short prayer over the body, then gave the henchman a sharply pointed aspen he had prepared in advance, saying: "Remember, right in the heart. This is the most important."

Yuzva bent over the body and holding the stake with both hands, drove it deep with all his strength. There, where just a moment before a living heart shook in terror, it now lay still, frozen in death.

Then, he picked up a large piece of rock and ignoring the blood gushing into his wet cloak, he struck the wooden dowel firmly to be sure that the job for which he was to receive two gold ducats was done properly.

The only thing left was to push the body into the grave and bury it, which he did without the effort. In the end, he trampled the surface of the grave exactly, making it perfectly even so that not even a small hill indicated its position, and placed on the top of it the stone he previously used. The rain would do the rest. Tomorrow, there would be no sign at all that someone was buried here.

The Jesuit made a sign of the cross, then sent the bully on his way, throwing at him two gold coins.

"It's over, Henryk," he said when they were left alone, resting his hand on his friend's shoulder. "We were both lucky. I managed to get away from her, took refuge in the Order. You are lucky also, because you have me as a friend. You would not have been able to defend yourself against this suicidal love. She took poor Jadwiga first, because she stood in her way. She would have kept you alive for some time only, until the last drop of blood was still in your body. After your death, she would have moved on to the next victim. Who knows? Maybe she already had her eye on someone. They are like this. So is their nature."

" She won't wake up anymore?" Henryk asked, hope and dread mixed in his voice. "Is it really the end of her existence?"

"We have done everything that is known scientifically. She was shot with a silver bullet to the head, an aspen spike was driven into the middle of her heart and she was buried at a crossroad. As long as the wood is in its place, certainly, she will not wake up. And rest assured, nobody will find her here."

The monk made the sign of the cross again, then returned to the road lit by the silver moon that had just begun to show behind the clouds.

The carriage had been gone long since, the coachman having pulled the reins and driven off at the sight of the pistol, leaving his mistress at the mercy of kidnappers.

They both moved to the place where their mounts were waiting, their reins tied to a tree branch.

At a small clearing, by the fork of two roads lay the stone illuminated by moonlight. It still showed the traces of black blood. Soon, it would disappear completely.

***

The Wislostrada highway rose before the eyes of Warsaw at a stunning pace. This long thoroughfare was built to solve the traffic problems of the city along the Vistula River. The large number of people and equipment thrown on the priority construction site meant that the imposed progress of work was impressive. The individual sections became operational in accordance with the schedule (or at least, that's what was said in the Tribune of the People, the most important official newspaper in Warsaw) and the working people of the capital had already begun to believe that riding to the work on crowded trams steps was about to become the history. The only thing left was to bring to the streets of Warszawa more buses, as having one's own car still remained a dream for ordinary mortals.

The brigade of Jaskola worked on laying down the drains at the "Czerniakowska" section of this huge project. The major earthworks were made, of course, by heavy equipment, but the finishing works were still done by hand, using ordinary shovels. Maybe it was better. Physical work, apparently, was good for one's health.

In America, for instance, everything was done by the machines, and what? People get sick. Just look at how big they are. And despite the fact that over there, they have the best medicine. Isn't it simple? The Polish worker does not have time to get sick. He knows, moreover, that the best cure for all ailments is a good quarter of vodka with a piece of whole-meal bread in the storeroom. Only if this "natural treatment" doesn't help should one consult a doctor, certainly not before.

Just refreshed with a dose of such "medicine", the brigade worked with redoubled energy, which is to mean "half-heartedly". Still, due to the promised quarterly bonus, the boys gave of themselves as much as possible. They were placing heavy, concrete pipes along the road in the places designated by engineers, deepening the trenches made by excavator with shovels, where was needed.

"Have a look, guys!" One of them exclaimed suddenly, bending over something sticking out from the bottom of the trench. "Here are some bones. Maybe there was once a cemetery here?"

They came closer and stood around Rybarczyk, who carefully removed his findings from the earth with his spade.

Below the rusty blade slowly emerged some fragments of the human skeleton.

"Be careful, Rybarczyk. Be careful. Try not to damage it," the foreman admonished him. "It must be very old. It is easy to break."

"And what do you need it for, Jaskola? What do you want to do with this stiff?" asked one of the workers. "Do you want to put it in the glass cabinet in our cloakroom?"

"We have a duty to report any object found here, you jerk" blandly explained Jaskola to his younger colleague. "Management will know what to do with it".

"They'll grab it for themselves," said Marciniak. "They grab everything possible, so this one they'll take also."

"And what for? What will they do with it? Put it on display in the boardroom?" wondered the younger worker.

"Why not?" agreed Marciniak. "And next to it, they'll hang a plate: The Hero of the work from the Czerniakowska section".

"The dark mass you are, not the working class, you idiots," Jaskola patiently admonished his younger colleagues. "The Management will notify the authorities of the city, and they will send here a commission from the Department of Archaeology, or something like this.

"And what will those dudes do?" the young worker asked curiously.

"What do you mean what? They'll lock the section and begin archaeological excavations. That's what."

"Then our job will just get fucked up. What about our bonuses?" Marciniak suddenly worried.

Jaskola leaned heavily on the blade. The logic of this statement was not to be overthrown easily. The two deep wrinkles on the foreman's forehead deepened even further, indicating a process of serious thinking occurring inside his head.

Meanwhile, Rybarczyk's shovel uncovered the greater part of the skeleton.

"Look at this, fellas," called he digging more. "Something is sitting here."

He bent down and pulled out from between the ribs of the deceased an oblong piece of something that looked like it was made of old wood.

"Maybe he died because of this," said Marciniak. "Maybe it was the tip of the lance of a knight."

"Or the spear of a hussar," Jaskola gave his opinion.

"What kind of wood would stay so long in the dirt?" doubted the younger worker.

"It happens," Jaskola stated. Of course, he as the foreman, knew best. "It depends on the humidity of soil and acidification," he added scientifically with an air of authority.

"It crumbles at a touch," Rybarczyk threw away the dark object with disgust. "What do we do with it, Jaskola?"

"Cover it tightly with the soil and we proceed as if nothing happened," ordered the foreman. "And no word from your mouth, okay?"

The men nodded with relief and returned to their interrupted jobs, satisfied that the danger of losing their premiums was averted.

***

Danka came home late on the last daily bus. The Delicatessen Store where she worked was open late into the evening and today, in addition to all the hustle and bustle rained, an inventory was performed and Danka had to stay with the manager of the store as the controller that was sent from the Board to verify the books, filling out the boring forms until the end of the day.

Danka was necessary there, especially when checking the inventory. No one else knew as well as she did what and where the items were located on the shelves - where was the chocolate of Wedel, the cans of Russian caviar and all other products. After a few years of working in the same store, she knew everything by heart.

After she had completed her studies at a School of Commerce, she got this job and was proud of it. The Delicatessen Store, after all, was no ordinary grocery shop. Here, real coffee was available, foreign liquors, even the American cigarettes like Chesterfield, Pall-mall and several other brands. It was a shift job, true, but the inconvenience of that was rewarded out by the prestigious rank of the shop.

Other girls from the School of Commerce often changed their work. Sometimes, it happened that from a clothing store, they found themselves in a meat outlet. Generally, they went to the place where they could earn more. And they couldn't be blamed. The work of a salesperson in socialist Poland was not the best-paid job and changing one's workplace was the easiest way to get a raise. Danka did not even think about it. She loved this shop with its smell of ground coffee, and she was well liked by both the staff and customers. Even the store managers who changed from time to time appreciated her commitment and, above all, the fact that she was only one of a few not trying to grab the post from her superior. Because she was conscientious and hardworking, Danka recently received a promotion to the position of Senior Sale Assistant.

Danka lived in the neighborhood of Chelmska street. From the bus stop at Czerniakowska, it was a short walk to her home. The only problem was that she had to watch out for excavations. Since the start of the construction of Wisłostrada highway, there were plenty of them along Czerniakowska street, some of them quite deep and the street lighting, needless to say, was not perfect.

After getting off the bus, Danka headed briskly towards the block of apartments where she lived.

She opened the door and went inside. Someone just entered that way in front of her, because the lights on the platforms had not faded yet.

She liked this gamble - did she have time to reach the next floor before the machine switched the light off? Of course, she did not. In the middle of the first flight of stairs, she heard a faint click and the staircase were plunged into darkness. It did not matter. She knew by heart where the next switch was located. Holding the handrails, she climbed up, but she had just taken a few steps when suddenly she froze. The cold feeling on her nape told her she was not alone. Slowly, she looked back down and saw a lighter shape, like the silhouette of someone coming toward her. Letting out a strangled cry of terror, she fainted, collapsing on the concrete stairs.

***

"Mrs. Danka! Mrs. Danka! How do you feel?" She woke up to the voice of a concerned neighbor.

She opened her eyes and found herself still lying on the stairs in an uncomfortable position. She moved her arms and legs - nothing hurt. With the help of the neighbor, she stood on her feet with difficulty. She had to grip the railing to keep from falling again.

"Well, I just opened the door to put out a bottle for the milk," said Mrs. Bielinska. "And here I saw someone lying across the steps. What happened to you, Mrs. Danka? I will call your husband right away."

"No, it is not necessary," Danka said quickly. "No need to scare him without a reason. Nothing happened. I only passed out, probably from overwork. It's alright. Thank you so much Mrs. Bielinska and have a good night."

She reached the door of her apartment, pulled the key out of her purse and opened it. The neighbor did not take her eyes of Danka until she disappeared behind the door.

Danka felt strange, as after the big libation. Maybe she should go to the doctor tomorrow? Maybe something was wrong with her? Could it be pregnancy by any chance? No, impossible. What then? She shook her head. There was no use in panicking. She would wait till tomorrow. It was probably just the usual syncope. It could happen to anyone, probably from overwork. She could not remember anything from before the incident. She only knew that she still felt some residue of anxiety, but she did not quite know why.

She had no idea that from that moment, her body no longer belonged only to her. A stranger, an uninvited guest who she could not easily get rid of, had crept into it.

***

In a matter of a few weeks, apparently nothing happened. But soon after, colleagues at work started to notice some changes in Danka's behavior and appearance. Her professional duties, she still fulfilled fine, but slowly, she became a little different. She spoke to them with greater confidence, was more resolute and energetic, no longer allowing anyone to treat her from the top. What's more, she began to wear high-heeled shoes and dress herself in a more and more fashionable way. And when one day she came to work with make-up and straight from the hairdresser, they understood that something was going on.

"Surely, she has someone," they decoded accordingly. "It cannot be otherwise."

Only a secret lover could cause such a change in a married woman.

It turned out that she was really attractive. Kulczycki from the Directorate of the Management Board so stared at her that he ran into a bucket of dirty water (the cleaning lady had just washed the floor) and fell straight forward on the stone floor, painfully hitting his coccyx and splashing the contents of the bucket profusely on his new suit from the "Adam" fashion saloon for men, ruining his beautiful, wool pants in the color of coffee with milk.

Danka noticed, of course, the impression that her transformation produced in men, and she was amazed by it, but what amazed her more was that she really liked it. These changes incited the lustful gaze of men and the jealousy of women and she wondered immensely why she had paid so little attention to her own appearance so far. She decided to see how far she could go. She allowed Kulczycki to invite her for a cup of coffee, maybe partly as compensation for his drenched pants and his damaged honor. Nothing more. Two meetings with small cups of black coffee, without any commitment, and after two weeks, her manager, Mrs. Mirska, was directed to run the newly opened deli in another part of town. And here? Who was appointed as the store manager? She, Danka herself.

It turned out that she had a natural talent to manipulate men, as never before she could apply it at work.

The only person who did not notice the changes occurring in the Danka was Jakub, her husband. A passionate scientist, he taught math classes at the University. When he returned home every evening, he hurriedly ate the dinner prepared by Danka and after a brief exchange of views about the events of the day, during which his thoughts wandered somewhere in the clouds of mathematical formulas, he shut himself up in his little room he called the studio, lit by a lone desk lamp. In its light, he engrossed himself with his books and notebooks in the world entirely unknown to Danka, the world of numbers and mathematical equations.

So far, Danka was extremely proud of her husband, especially since she absolutely could not understand the topics on which he worked. Those aroused in her fear and respect, as alchemy in the Middle Ages or sorcery long before. Now, however, her relationship to Jakub had changed. His world of mathematical magic appeared to her as an absurd nonsense and a useless waste of time, which was so valuable, after all. It even crossed her mind for a moment that it would be better to replace him with some more entertaining model of a husband, but after some reflection, she decided to wait. Actually, a husband such as Jakub was a real treasure: he knew that his wife was there, but he almost never saw her as a woman. He was better left alone.

They had no children. Jakub did not mind, or maybe he didn't even know about it. Danka, to fulfill her maternal needs, bought herself a guinea pig, and she named her Mancia.

Danka fed her and cleaned her cage everyday, and in the evening, took Mancia out of her cage, petted her and spoke to her before the bedtime. That was their usual routine, but recently, something strange happened, something that shook Danka to her depths. As she was playing with Mancia one evening, she found herself hugging the warm fur of the guinea pig to her face and with her lips, she brushed the neck of her lovely animal, feeling with her fingertips the beating of its little heart pumping hot blood into its veins. And then, something inexplicable happened. Danka's teeth sank into the neck of her pet and she felt on her lips the hot taste of blood. The pig squeaked thinly with pain and froze, terrified. Danka felt suddenly a wild spasm, like an orgasm. The delight that ran down her body somewhere from inside her was impossible to describe and both of them, she and Mancia, froze like two lovers after just completing their act of love. Danka felt downright heavenly good. She smeared the wounds on the neck of Mancia with salicylic alcohol, kissed her tenderly and put her back into the cage. Then she washed herself and went to bed, trying in vain to understand what actually happened.

The next morning, when she remembered last night, she thought it was a cruel dream. She took Mancia out of the cage and looked carefully. Sure enough, the pet had two wounds on its neck, as if someone had cut its skin with a sharp knife. Besides that, it seemed to be fine.

"So it's true," thought Danka. "I really bit her."

She felt terrible remorse, as after committing some serious crime.

But the pet lived. It was just perhaps a little more sleepy than usual and that was it. The greater worry was where did such unusual pleasure, which she still remembered with shame, come from? She had never before noticed in her heart any signs of sadism or anything similar.

What made her act like a freak yesterday? Maybe she should go visit a psychiatrist? There must be some hidden explanation of such barbarism.

***

One day, Danka dropped by the commission store in the neighborhood of her work. She had dreamed recently of getting an overcoat, a French raglan-cut style. They had just one for sale, so she decided to try it on. The price was astronomical, of course. It was crazy for a store clerk, but for the new promoted manager of the deli? In the end, her promotion led to the increase of her salary. Who knew? She might be able to scrape enough dough somehow. She should celebrate in some way the change of her status, after all. As for persuading Jakub to go to the restaurant or the theatre, there was no chance.

Trying on this French marvel she saw behind her in the shop mirror, the interior of the shop. A few people stood before the counter checking out different items. Suddenly, Danka stiffened. She saw someone she completely did not know. She was sure that she was seeing him for the first time in her life, but he was in some strange way, familiar to her. The man watched the fountain pen slowly, carefully. You could see that it was an extremely important decision for him to buy or not to buy it.

Danka turned into a stone statue and watched not her reflection in the mirror, but this stranger whom she did not know yet. Yes, he was handsome, tall, slightly grizzled. He was no longer a young man, probably in his sixties. Such often caught the fancies of young women, especially if they had their own boat, or a Mercedes car, but this one did not look like a millionaire. It was clear that the purchase of the fountain pen in the commission store was for him his life's decision.

The saleswoman, seeing the effect the coat produced on Danka, asked: "Shall I pack it? It suits you, like a dream."

Danka came to her senses.

"No, thank you," - she said absently. "I have to think about it. I will come again."

The disappointed saleswoman hung the coat on a hanger and Danka left the store. She waited on the street so long until the man came out. Not having the slightest idea why she was acting this way, she followed him to the bus stop, got into the same bus and watched from afar as he sat next to the window, took out of his pocket the box double-wrapped in colorful paper, opened it and took out the pen, examining it with affection. Once, he even sniffed the nib. So obsessed with the details he was.

When the guy got up, Danka stepped off the bus with him and followed him from a safe distance until he came to the door of his home. Then she felt that the mission had been fulfilled.

She recorded in her memory the address before returning home. In the evening, she long wondered why she acted that way.

Had she fallen in love with him? Was this the so-called love at first sight? But no. It could not be as the guy was emotionally indifferent to her. So what? More and more strange things had been happening to her lately.

She thought that would be the end of it, but it happened again. The second meeting could not be a coincidence.

That day, Danka was in Lazienki Park before the noon. As they had a shift work system in the Delicatessen Store, she sometimes had free mornings. One day, before going to her work, she went for a walk to Lazienki Park. The weather was so great that she could not do otherwise. She sat down on one of the benches in front of the statue of Chopin and gazed at his face, which happily surrendered to the caresses of golden rays.

So wonderful. Why couldn't summer last throughout the year? Could man ever managed to tame nature so as to change the orbit of the earth in such a way that the winter would exist only where they wanted it, for example in Greenland, or at the poles? She closed her eyes. She could hear only the chirping of birds and the distant calls of playing children.

Then she heard steps. Someone walked in front of her on the gravel alley, the footsteps dying at the next bench. She opened her eyes and looked. At the same time, she almost screamed with shock.

It was him, the man from the commission store. And again, she felt an urgent need to get closer to him, talk to him. Who knew? Maybe she had met this man sometime before in her life? No, certainly not. Danka, having an exceptionally good memory of faces, would remember him for sure. She could even recognize some customers after many weeks of not seeing them and hundreds of people appeared at the store everyday. She wanted to approach the stranger in the park, but she hesitated. Besides, what would she say to him anyway? That she wanted to talk to him even as she has no idea why? For his part, he did not even look at her. He was clearly immersed in his thoughts, throwing from time to time a questioning glance towards his intent listener, the great composer with his willow. Finally, he got up and went toward the exit. Danka waited a moment, then she also stood up and walked like an automaton, mindlessly following him and trying not to lose her sight of him. They walked along the Pulawska street to Mokotow. Further, the guy turned into one of the smaller streets and stopped in front of an old villa, many of which were located in the area. He opened the door and went inside.

"Where the hell did he live?" Danka wondered. "Here, or over there? Maybe he just moved? And what the hell do I even care?"

To any of these questions, she had no answers.

***

The return from "nowhere" was for Countess Z a real shock. It was a little like the experience of passengers on a fast train, when, after a long ride through an underground tunnel, they suddenly found themselves under the sunlight on the other side of the mountain. Her soul, attached to the ground with the aspen anchor, could not break free from her decaying body and for 300 long years, she suffered indescribable loneliness and sadness underground. When finally the wooden pin was removed from between her ribs, no longer fulfilling the role of the chains of hell, the curse of the damned Jesuit ceased to operate and the intangible eyes of Countess Z once more saw the light of day.

She was almost unbelievably lucky. If the side drain along Wisłostrada highway had been designed in a different place, if Rybarczyk had not thrown aside the damn pin which for so many years did not want to decay, secured by some potions and magical spells of the monk, the material world could still remain unavailable for her and who knew for how long. She could have been buried forever.

Now that she was alive again, her first task was to find someone who she could use as her vessel, so she could once more dwell among the ordinary mortals and find back her Henryk. And she was sure that he still existed, that he lived somewhere here, among those funny beings that looked so similar to each other. Maybe he was unaware of his own origin, but still, he was himself and Countess Z knew that she must find him. Why? Revenge for having allowed those beasts to execute the order of the Inquisition? No. That was forgiven him long ago. She even understood him. After all, it was she who killed his wife, the young Jadwiga, who stood in the way to their love. Although Henry did not love his wife, it still must have been so cruel to him. He never could come to terms with what had happened. Yes, it was unnecessary, her own fault. She wanted him for herself only and immediately. Because Countess Z could love, love hungrily and possessively. She loved him because she loved also herself so it was necessary that he had to belong exclusively to her. But she played this game wrong. She was the only one to blame and finally, she had served her cruel punishment for her possessiveness. But now, the time came to find him and when that happened, he would forever remain hers to enjoy.

The Countess was lucky again. The person she had met had all that was needed. Young, pretty, healthy, and most of all, lacking a very strong personality. That made it easy to master her character and customize it to her own needs. She was at the time, smart, which was also important and as it turned out, her husband was a completely harmless man, a kind of maniac and she had no burden in the form of children or elderly parents. Those would have been big hurdles.

Countess Z quickly learned about the new world. She immediately noticed that from the streets of Warsaw, the carriages had disappeared. The city had grown to gigantic proportions, and the people walked, dressed in ridiculous clothes that all looked the same. It was impossible to distinguish aristocracy from the populace just by their outfit. Could it be that the social classes had vanished, too?

There was some conflict at this point. The Countess wanted to spruce herself up with Parisian dresses with flounces and Danka could not understand what was going on. Yet it was necessary to fight stormy, mental battles to force this simpleton to wear better dresses. The most difficult was to take her to the salon, then teach her how to move with grace and of course, the first, very basic lessons of seduction. Fortunately, Danka was docile woman and little by little, she made some progress.

And that was when, during a visit to one of the few stores where one could get some French clothes: She saw Henryk!!!

He stood leaning against the counter wearing such a bizarre jacket like all other men wore and watched intently an object under the glass top. She knew right away it was him. He was a little bit different of course, his face a little changed. He was somewhat older than he used to be, but it was her Henryk for sure.

Of course, he did not recognize her, not only because she appeared in such a completely amended form, but also because, like all mortals, he was endowed with the gift of forgetting. He had no idea whom he once was. He simply did not remember. Countess Z stood rooted to the spot, allowing Danka to answer some stupid questions of the saleswoman. She did not expect to meet him so fast. It was really shocking, even for her.

She immediately decided not to lose him so she accompanied him to the house where he lived and remembered the place well. It was necessary to develop a plan, this time slowly, carefully, not to expose herself to the risk of losing him again.

After two days, she decided to do something. At night, when Danka slept heavily with her mathematical husband, tenderly embracing this skinny intellectual, the Countess went in her incorporeal form to the building where Henryk lived. It turned out that he no longer lived there. Could her luck begin to leave? She was distraught. She even considered strangling his wife, but without a material body, it could not be done. Finally, she remembered that this kind of experience with Jadwiga did not turn out for good, so she changed her mind and went back to the apartment of Danka. However, she remained in the dining room until the end of the night. The thought of finding herself in the arms of a pale half-man filled her with disgust.

***

"What do I actually care?" Danka asked herself the same question again.

She did not understand why, but she felt a strange relief when she obtained this second address of the stranger. But what if he did not live here? What if he was just visiting someone?

She went to work by taxi to make up for lost time and the rest of her day she spent on business trips, phone calls to the management office, checking accounts, orders etc. As a store manager, she had less time to do what she liked most in this job - interacting with customers. Yes, it was the price she had to pay for the change in position.

She missed something strongly now, she lacked the human smile. Moving quickly through the shop, (now she was doing everything in a hurry) she aroused the attention of customers, especially men. She learned to recognize from their eyes who undressed her with their gazes, and who in his mind already saw her in his bed. She also noticed that she had started looking at them greedily, but not quite in the same way as a woman in need of sex. She was not interested in the appearance of men, or their faces, or clothing. With astonishment, she found that what most interested her were their necks.

When just recently, she invited one of the men to her office to hear his complaint on some goods, she could not look away from his young yet strong neck. It was a long, naked neck. Under the skin of the athlete, she could see two deep blue veins pulsating to the rhythm of his heart. These veins attracted her eyes like a magnet. She rose up from her seat and stood closer, right next to him. Listening to his complaint, he stared at the young and strong neck with such intensity that the lad, terrified by her gaze, stopped in mid-sentence, apologized and left quickly into the street, forgetting completely what he came for. Then Danka discovered her other new talent - she was able to interact with people not only using her appearance but also with her eyes.

That evening, something really bad happened.

After dinner, from which Danka was unable to swallow even a bite, and after Jakub had hidden in his room under the cloud of numbers constantly circling around his head, Danka released Mancia from her cage. Then, for the second time, she sank her sharp teeth into the neck of the poor animal. The blood was sweet, delicious. She recalled the moment when as a little girl, she tasted for the first time kogel-mogel - egg yolks beaten with sugar - a delicious dessert prepared by her mother. She had never forgotten the pleasure. Now, for the second time in her life, she experienced a similar ecstasy. It was impossible to describe this feeling and Danka this time no longer felt either shame or remorse. She just did what she wanted to do. She was hungry with a special kind of hunger, famine, which no human food was able to satisfy.

The next day, when Danka came back from work, Mancia lay on the bottom of the cage, stiff and dead. Danka brought her down the street to the town square, dug there a hole in the grass and buried her lovely pet in it. She did not cry after that. On the contrary, she went immediately to the Nowy Swiat street to one still open pet store and bought another Mancia, an almost identical pet. Jakub, of course, noticed nothing. It was even doubtful if he knew that they had such a creature at home. Only then Danka could breathe easily. She could not even imagine what would happen if the same feeling came back. It did not have a lot in common with normal hunger. It was something a hundred times stronger, unbridled lust for this divine taste of blood flowing down the throat as two streams of fluid pumped directly from the veins. Perhaps it was a similar delight to the taste of spring water after a few days of wandering under the scorching desert sun. After a while, she gave up wondering where such a bizarre craving came from. So it was and so apparently it had to be.

Therefore, this pet was necessary. Danka was frightened by the sudden thought that if it was not there... No, that would be too horrible to think about. Perplexed, she became aware of the fact that her eyes gazed with clear interest at the wiry, mathematical neck of Jakub. If the small pig was not at hand, and she would again be struck by a sudden attack of the rabid hunger, who could tell whether she could be in control of her crazy lust?

***

Countess Z came late in the evening to the new place of residence of Henryk. This time she had him and she wasn't going to lose him again.

A superlative opportunity to establish their first contact appeared to her. As it so happened, Mrs. Stefania, the owner of the house where Henryk lived, liked to engage in spiritualist meetings. It was hard to believe in such an auspicious coincidence. Looking at Henryk from up close, she felt the same craving as ever. She still loved him and needed him. He must eventually belong to her. Otherwise, her whole coming back here would not make any sense. She liked nothing in today's Warsaw, not those so-called amazing carriages without horses, large and small or those gray, uniformly dressed human figures. Just by their appearance, it was impossible to know what social class they belonged to (or maybe there really were no longer any social classes - unimaginable horror!).

And finally, the old palaces - some of them she was still able to recognize - had been converted to state offices or museums. Henryk himself also looked gray and sad. All the more reason for her to take him away. They would come back together to the world, which they belonged to, the world of wealth and exquisite dresses. This time, she wouldn't make the previous error and she would keep him with her forever.

For now, however, she could only see him, but not touch. She had not yet acquired the amount of force sufficient to materialize. The little guinea pig was too small to give her a boost of energy. Many of them would be needed for her to implement her plans. But she could come to him in a dream. Yes, it could be done. She could especially visit him when he was in the strange state between sleep and wakefulness, when he was not awake and his human mind did not know on which realm of consciousness he actually existed. That time was the best. Later, when her personality, which was irrational yet, acquired the necessary level of energy, she would be able to come in contact with him materially, then she would snatch him in her possession and take him to the world from which they both came and remain with him there forever.

***

They sat at a table in the Telimena cafe, near the Nowy Swiat street.

Danka noted with amusement that Kulczycki put his business workbook on the table, opened on the pages filled with his blue scribble.

"He is pretending this is a business meeting," she thought. "Such an old fox he is. I wonder if he is afraid of his wife, or of malicious gossip from the workplace."

On the open pages of the notebook lay the expensive pen "Mont Blanc", and Kulczycki himself was fitted in a modern light gray suit from the Polish Fashion Centre.

Kulczycki was not able to control his nervous excitement. Looking at Danka, he blinked and cleared his throat nervously. He suggested the second glass of brandy even before they finished with the first. It was an obvious sign that he needed the "courage". At the beginning, they discussed topics related to work, then of course, the weather and how this romantic gold, Polish autumn affected the emotional heart of Kulczycki and finally, after the second glass of cognac, how lonely he felt in his light gray suit, misunderstood by his wife and immediate surroundings and that only she, Danka, was able to understand his sorrows. If only Danka would go with him to Miedzylesie, where his friend had a dacha house on the banks of the stream, where, from the hill you can sink into the depths of the autumn landscape, then he, Kulczycki would make sure there was enough Russian champagne and crackers with the black and red caviar.

Mrs. Danka did not say yes, but she also didn't say no, which strongly encouraged Kulczycki. His eyes became somehow shiny and a fresh blush appeared on the cheeks. These blushes interested Danka disturbingly. She imagined the countless capillaries under the skin of his cheeks, filled with red, life-giving fluid, swollen and throbbing. She had to exert all her strength not to gaze into these delicious blushes as it could be misunderstood. Kulczycki, feeling as if the fish was almost taking the bait, mentioned by the way that it was likely that the next wage increases would be distributed, especially to those employees who were able to work as a team, and the ability to communicate well with superiors was a special advantage of course.

Danka nodded with understanding and without elaborating too much her point of view; she allowed her knees to brush casually with Kulczycki's under the table. A desperate spasm shook the body of poor Kulczycki then and he distressfully blurted out that in the Directorate, one post was going to be open in the very near future and probably he would be burdened with the mission to establish a list of candidates for the post. Of course, there were no guarantees. Nothing was known for sure, but his opinion would count in the Directorate, of course, so...

It was probably the heaviest bullet he had to launch today. Poor Kulczycki.

"Even the fiercest virgin would have agreed a long time ago," he thought and the more favorable look Danka sent him seemed to be, the more hope jostled his slightly tight suit, especially his pants, with desire.

"She is looking at me," he thought, seeing the piercing glance thrown him from time to time along with the smile of the Sphinx, the enigmatic \- maybe yes, maybe no. Hell, think of it whatever you want. Finally, after the third glass of brandy, it happened. She agreed that they both watch the sunset in Miedzylesie together, but not until next week, when she would be able to find a free evening. It filled him with all the happiness. At the same time, he begged for her far-reaching discretion. Nobody, and he meant nobody, was to learn about their meeting.

"You know how some people are. Their minds are filled with God knows what. Everywhere, they poke their noses and make sensations".

In this respect, they agreed with each other perfectly.

After returning home, Danka fed her husband. She did not eat at all. She was not hungry for this usual, silly food. Before going to sleep, she pulled Mancia out of the cage. Only then did she feel true hunger.

She wondered how many Guinea pigs they still had in the shop. Or, maybe, with luck, the next one would no longer be needed. Before her eyes appeared the ruddy, pulsating cheeks of Kulczycki. His neck was not visible, obscured by the high collar of his freshly pressed shirt held stiff by his rayon tie.

She recalled the perverse game she had played with this sucker. Oh, if he only knew how much she cared for this meeting. After all, he was for her more valuable than all the Mancias of the world.

She picked up the animal from her knees and looked fondly at its pink eyes, and then she slowly pressed it towards her dangerously beautiful face.

***

The Countess Z leaned over the open notebook.

"Beginning of the book," she read surprised. The brat girl was right. Who the hell would start a book this way? Poor Henryk probably did not really know what to write. He was probably tempted to write a book, but what could you write while living in this gray, classless city as today's Warsaw was? They even had no king here anymore. They did not have the royal court or the service maids. Even the horses they did not have, just like some prehistoric tribe. They multiplied the population without shame. You know, when there is little to do in the long winter evenings, only one form of entertainment was reliable for sure - here, she looked at the figure of Henryk sleeping soundly.

"I'll show you in a moment how we used to love," she thought tenderly.

"These days, the lovers cannot do it like before. But for now - I'll make you a present; I'll start for you this book. It will be our life story. Actually, we can use the beginning, which was invented by this stupid student-girl who dared to enter the room of Henryk in such an incomplete dress. It fits very well with the whole affair."

She picked up the only material object which she could touch in this crazy world - a fountain pen connected to her from the very first time with a magical thread - and started writing the first chapter. Love could wait, and every day it would be like this: one chapter at a time, then the love, when Henryk was unconscious with happiness, until the day came when she gained enough energy to return with him over there, where people still lived a normal life.

***

Kulczycki was not lying. The wooden house was situated very picturesquely, not exactly in Miedzylesie, but further than this friendly village, between the trees. From its porch, the view of forests with their golden leaves was really captivating. On the table in front of them stood a well cooled bottle of Russian champagne, and on the plate, as promised, were crackers with cheese and caviar, also from Russia. The second bottle of champagne waited, stored in the refrigerator. Those goods surely came from the deli storeroom.

"Interesting. Did he pay for them?" wondered Danka.

After drinking half of the bottle, Kulczycki began to present more and more apparent excitement, emphasized particularly in some parts of his wardrobe.

He himself, as a man, excited Danka no more than bald hare, but as a living man, he attracted her very much. She would not be able to resist him this evening.

In the light of the setting sun, the blush on his cheeks took on a red-orange color and without a rigid neck collar and tie; his neck was more seductive than the neck of a swan. For a long time, Danka had waited for this evening. She had especially delayed this meeting by a few days, so the cravings of Kulczycki had reached their zenith.

Now, she only had to drag the plot until nightfall. After that, she knew what to do.

***

The Countess Z was lucky again. When Danka returned late in the evening to Warsaw, alone, but filled with some new, magical power, which was unknown to her so far, Countess Z felt genuine gratitude to this woman. So much after all she owed her. Maybe she should take her to the other world? After a moment's hesitation, however, she rejected this idea. Danka had her world here, a world which she loved, with its ever dug up sidewalks, crowded trams and buses, and shops in which you could never find exactly what you needed. No, Danka belonged here, and since she had become the manager of the store, she should be allowed to enjoy her life with her mathematical husband and another guinea pig. About what had happened, as soon as tomorrow, she would not be able to remember.

When Danka went to sleep, Countess Z moved immediately to the house where Henryk lived. He was already asleep. She smiled happily. Now, when she finally had everything she needed to re-materialize, Henry would belong to her forever. But this could wait a moment. Now, it was time to write the last chapter of their earthly adventure. He could always read it from the other side of consciousness. Maybe that would be better?

She lifted the black fountain pen with the gold nib and began to fill with her even, neat handwriting the last page of the notebook.

***

Lieutenant Balski bent over the body lying on the bed.

"How long has he been here?" he asked the doctor.

"Probably been dead two days."

"Damn. It's more or less at the same time as the first one in Warsaw," he thought out loud.

The body was stiff and white as a chalk. It did not show any signs of violence with the exception of two black dots on the neck. Precisely because of the similarity between the two cases, Lieutenant Balski was directed also to Międzylesie.

"A specialist in matters undetectable," his colleagues joked behind his back.

"Just remember, Balski," his superior admonished. "In the People's Republic of Poland, vampires do not exist. You have to find some other intelligent explanation of the matter. You have to grab the perpetrator by the balls and jail him, understand? The People's Republic of Poland gave you the education. Now, use it to deal with this case."

"Well, what do I write, boss?" asked the young corporal sitting at the table over an unfinished police report. "Cause of death unknown, as in previous case?"

Lieutenant Balski nodded, but suddenly a smirk brightened his militia face.

"Do not. Write: Sucked off by a capitalist vampire."

The young corporal stared at him.

"And how do you know it is a capitalist? I mean this vampire?"

"Because in the People's Republic of Poland, there are no vampires. Remember it forever. Our major told me this personally."

"Damn, he'll be mad after he reads this report," Balski thought with amusement. "I'd like to see his face. Definitely, he will not assign me to a case like this anymore."

***

Danka got up in the morning with a slight headache. She swallowed the aspirin and sipped her glass of hot milk, and then she prepared the breakfast for herself and Jakub, and fed Mancia properly. She did not even have any idea that it was not her first guinea pig. While parting, Countess Z gave her the wonderful gift of forgetfulness. After arriving at work, she found stunning news about the death of Kulczycki.

"Ah, he was such a nice guy," she thought when she remembered how he fell on his back on the wet floor of the store. Too bad for a poor man. It was hard to believe it.

She performed very well the store manager's duties and within a year, she was transferred to the Directorate. She still aroused the interest of men. The education of Countess Z remained with her forever, but her interest in their naked necks no longer prevailed.

***

Teresa closed the notebook and looked thoughtfully out the window.

"So, it was so with him... Life, indeed, was more unlikely than the most fantastic fairy tale."

She picked up the fountain pen of Henryk to look at it. At the same time, she felt surprised as something like an electrical discharge went from the pen to her hand. She examined it carefully.

"So this was the pen Henryk used to write this strange book," she thought. And she had never suspected him of possessing literary talent.

"Poor thingy. I wonder where he might be now."

Suddenly, she felt she did not want to be alone today.

She grabbed her purse and went quickly into the street. There, she got on the bus and went to the city center. She entered the first coffee bar she passed by, where at the counter, she ordered a small cup of black coffee and a glass of cognac.

"Are you alone?" she heard the man sitting on the adjacent stool say. "On such a beautiful evening?"

She looked at him. He was tall, handsome, well built. He could be around the age of Henryk. But more than anything, his neck, strong, tanned, and well visible from the stretched collar of his polo shirt, intrigued her.

Under his light brown skin stood out distinctly darker streaks of veins.

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