You looked at the cover. “Can I see?”
I handed it to you, regretting it immediately, as if I’d handed you something heavy and dangerous. “Why is it glued between other covers?” you asked, eyebrows furrowed.
I shrugged. “It’s sort of unauthorized, I guess.”
To my surprise, you laughed. “I didn’t suspect you of being such a rebel,” you said, handing the book back. “Can I read it when you’re done?”
My stomach dropped. “If you want to.”
“Yeah, I want to. I’ve never read an underground book.”
“Really?” I smiled, feeling pleasure, an ounce of power. “I would have suspected you of being more of a rebel.”
It surprises me that I shared the book’s existence with you so early. But I felt a strange trust there by the bank. There was something about the way you looked at me that made me feel as if you didn’t judge. There are only so many people we meet in life who give us that feeling. And yet that night, as I lay in bed reading after the others had gone to asleep, I was scared. Scared about the hole I had made by trusting you, scared by the vulnerability it had created. And the more I read, the more scared I became: the immensity of the truth and the lies I’d been telling myself all those years lay before me, mirrored in the narrator’s life, as if someone were pointing a finger at me, black on white, my shame illuminated by a cold, clear light. In the brightness I could examine it with almost scientific clarity, and suddenly the narrator’s pain didn’t soothe my pain anymore. His fear fed my fear. I was like him, David, neither here nor there, comfortable in no place, and with no way out.
When I went to dinner one night, the book left hidden under my pillow, the duplicity of my life—both who I was inside and who I was to others—struck me as surreal. The book and you had brought it hurling back, and I decided never to be that vulnerable again, never to feel that panic again, never to depend on anyone else. So I avoided your eyes when you walked past our table that night, fixed my eyes on the bloodred borscht instead. And I didn’t come to the river in the days that followed. The end of the camp was in sight. I stayed in the hut and read and avoided you, hoping the days would slip by unnoticed and I could just go home to my old life. During the breaks in the field, I’d sit in the shade, leaning against the boards of the wooden toolshed while you’d join some of the guys by the water pump, smoking, joking with them, trying to catch my eye. I pretended I didn’t see.
By then the uniform had adapted to my body, yielded to its shape, and my body had adapted to the land. We knew what we were doing now, and all one could hear for most of the day was the thud of the beets falling into baskets. The mountains of them grew more quickly, until there were almost no rows left. At one point, during the last week, I was working away, lost in the repetition of my movements, when I saw you standing above me. You looked like you’d been there for a while, watching me work.
“Did you finish reading the book?” Your question sounded like a challenge.
“Yes,” I said, into the earth, feeling my jaw clench, continuing to work.
“Do you still want to lend it to me?”
I stopped digging. My heart was galloping. I looked up at you, and I don’t know what made me do it—maybe it was the sincerity with which you asked, which was drawn on your face, or maybe it was a sense of resignation—but I nodded. I decided I had nothing to lose. Our paths would never cross again, and I didn’t want to be like David, afraid of himself and devoured by regrets.
“I’ll bring it round to you at dinner,” I heard myself say.
That night I waited for you by the canteen exit, in the half-dark where people smoked and gossiped before they went to bed. I waited for you until late, until the streams of people leaving had dried up and I thought I had missed you. I was thinking about returning to my hut when finally you came through the door. The girl was right behind you. She looked poised. Her eyes, like her hair, were dark and intense, but her skin was light, pale even, as if she hadn’t been in the sun at all for all these weeks. You exchanged a look with her that I couldn’t see, and then she glanced at me with a vague smile and walked off into the dark.
“I read quickly,” you said, slipping the book into the back pocket of your trousers.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, feeling sadness wash over me. “You can keep it.”
You looked at me like I’d said something absurd. “What are you talking about? Of course I’ll give it back.” Then you put your hand on my shoulder again, just like you had done the second time we’d talked. And just like then, the knot at the bottom of my belly—home to both fear and desire—stirred like an incoming tide.
That last week did not, as it usually does, pass more quickly than all those before it. It crept to an end on all fours. All throughout the week, I wanted it to be over, wanted to be liberated from being around you in that state of uncertainty. I still avoided you, still never came to the river, even though it was hot and I longed to dip my feet in the coolness of the water. And yet I kept looking at you when I was sure our eyes wouldn’t meet, to see signs of any change in you. But you seemed the same. In the canteen you sat with the same group, and in the field you worked incessantly.
On our last evening the comrade leader made a speech, thanking us for our hard work. Then he ordered us down to the river. We walked in little groups, unsure what would happen, filled with excitement tinged with dread. But what we came upon were dozens of little boats flopping in the water. We got in, six to a boat, me with Karolina and Beata and the boys from my hut, and we rowed down the river, not toward our spot but in the other direction, where the forests began. We formed a line of boats with Belka at the head. We saw the sun set far behind the fields we’d so carefully emptied that month, and along a narrow arm of the river that snaked its way into the forest. Tall pine trees began surrounding us, fragrant, solemn, and seemingly infinite. It was cooler there, and utterly dark, and soon the only light came from the faint moon above us, barely visible in between the canyon of the treetops and the distant light of Belka’s torch in front. We heard the sound of light paws on the forest floor and the cracking of branches. An owl hooted.
Then our convoy stopped, and we all got out. There was a clearing in the forest. A fire was made that threw light on the ground and warmed us in the cool of the night. Sausages were pierced on twigs. Someone took out a guitar and began to sing, and bit by bit that wild dark place turned intimate. The night was full of noise and crackling and talk. We stood by the fire and drank beer, and the boys talked about their trip to Romania. Farther off, in between some trees, I saw you standing with your group: the girl with the dark hair and Maksio Karowski. I observed you for a moment, your profile in the dark, the way you smoked your cigarette, holding it between thumb and index finger. Then I forced myself to look away.
Toward the end of the night I was sitting by the fire by myself, sipping a beer and staring into the flames. I was thinking about the rest of the summer, the rest of my life, and struggling to see anything. It seemed like the only thing that was certain was change itself, unstoppable and careless like fire eating wood. Then a shadow moved and you sat down on the log beside me. We didn’t say anything for a while. I felt weak. You looked exposed in the light of the flames, and even more handsome, with your red-and-black-checkered shirt, your eyes reflecting the fire. You looked around, as if to see whether anyone was listening. There were many conversations around us, couples dancing, others sitting on logs, singing along to the guitar.
“I’ve almost finished the book,” you finally said.
“And?” I tried to sound detached as my pulse began to quicken.
You looked into the fire. “I like it. I can see why it’s not officially published.”
Our eyes met for a moment, and you smiled.
“Why did you stop coming to the river?”
I turned my head away. No words came to me. Finally I looked up and saw you looking at me with tenderness.
“Don’t be scared.”
>
The way you said this—softly, perfectly calm—pierced right through me. The flames crackled. I nodded; that’s all I could do. You smiled, dissolving the tension, your teeth flashing in the light of the fire. We sat there for a while, in our private silence, worlds shifting in me.
“I’m going to the lake district tomorrow,” you said. “I’ve never been, and I always wanted to go. And I thought this was the moment, before returning to the city, before real work begins. There are some great places out there. Lakes, rivers. I have a tent and all.” You paused, and our eyes met again for a moment. “I’ve been meaning to ask you: Do you want to come with me?”
Chapter 3
I remember the bus leaving with the others, and you and I staying behind. It was an overcast day. Rucksacks on our backs, hands around the straps, we walked up the country road, hoping to hitch a ride. I was nervous and we talked little, but somehow the silence between us was a pact. I felt like a small bird set loose, scared and exhilarated by the void before me.
The first car that stopped took us east. The driver, a middle-aged man, eyed us from time to time but asked no questions. We drove silently along country avenues lined with tall chestnut trees, past fields bordered by poppies. I had no idea where we were. We had no map and there were few road signs, but even if there had been more, the names of the places would have meant nothing to me. While I took it in, this nameless expanse, you slept with your face against the window.
At some point in the afternoon the driver let us out at a country junction. You tore a coupon from your hitchhiker’s booklet and passed it to him.
“Hope you send it in and win a hair dryer or something!” you cried, and swung the doors shut. He nodded and sped off into the horizon.
A strong, humid wind blew into us. The sky was filled with black clouds, and the air felt electric. Then, as if someone had pushed a button, rain started to fall. There was no maybe, no in between. It poured without any inhibition, drops heavy like paint, a million of them, and us caught in the middle of the road with our bags and no umbrella.
“Quick!” you cried. “Over there by the tree!”
I followed you, sprinting across a field, our clothes already darkened from the rain. We reached an oak and sat down by its trunk, protected under its roof of leaves. The rain continued to hammer the land, and the world smelled of water and earth. Then lightning struck before our eyes—a devil-fork of neon-white on the dark horizon. Thunder followed. We watched the spectacle in silence and awe, pushing our wet hair out of our faces, arms clasped around our knees. For a long time we sat like that, staring into the sky, until the rain became softer.
“Don’t you wish sometimes you were somewhere else?” The question came to me out of nowhere.
You turned toward me. “You mean the West, don’t you?”
I nodded, surprised by my candor. I’d never talked to anyone other than Karolina about this.
“No,” you said flatly. “Why?”
“I don’t know. I’ve always been curious. It seems like everything is better there. More beautiful. More free. Don’t you think?” I looked at you hopefully.
You shook your head and stared at some distant point on the horizon. “I should have known you’re one of them.”
“Them what?” I said, nervous suddenly, wondering whether I had made a big mistake.
You turned to me briskly. “Dreamers,” you said, your mouth widening into a teasing smile.
I let the word ring out, relieved and warmed by your smile so close to my face. “What’s wrong with dreaming about freedom?” I said.
“Freedom?” you huffed, and smiled, as if you’d had the same conversation many times before. “Having oranges and bananas every month of the year—is that freedom to you?” Your smile was gone.
“There is freedom in having what you want,” I said carefully, “in choosing for yourself.”
Your eyes narrowed. “And do you think that doesn’t come with a price? You think these people in the West don’t spend their lives working like machines, earning just so they can spend?”
“I don’t mind hard work. As long as you get something for it.”
“It always seems better somewhere else,” you said, ignoring my comment. “There are so many chances here. Look at me”—you seemed to blush a bit here, lowered your eyes for a moment. “I come from a poor family. And I’m the first one to get a proper education. They even gave me extra points in my entrance exams because we’re working class. And now I’ll work for the government. This is freedom. I could have never had that under capitalism. The Party cares about us. When my mother got sick”—you swallowed, your voice becoming smaller—“they sent her to a sanatorium for three months. Three months. Do you think they give that to anyone in the West? For free?”
I shifted, adjusting myself over the thick roots of the tree. “But don’t you care that we are not really free? They tell us what they want us to know, and that’s all. We’re not even allowed to leave the country when we want to. We’re being kept.”
You were very calm, didn’t say anything for a while. “You’re making it sound worse than it is,” you finally said. “And how do you know it’s really better anywhere else? Ultimately, we’ve got to work with what we have. It’s as easy as that.” You smiled and looked at me. “See it as a game—everyone knows the rules. And if you can’t change them, there’s no point in worrying.”
A cool wind started to blow, and I felt a shiver, goose bumps on my arms.
“But maybe we can change them,” I said, feeling foolish suddenly, reaching for something that was no longer there.
You smiled lightly. Your complete lack of worry surprised and relieved me. “To answer your question . . . It would be nice to go and see it one day. The West. But not as an escape. I’m not like David in Giovanni’s Room.” You smiled again, and a rush went through me. “But I’d like to see something else. ’Cause you need to try things out and see them for yourself, right?” You slapped my knee and heaved yourself up. “C’mon, dreamer, we’ve got to get going now, unless you want to sleep out here on this field.”
The rain had stopped, and everything around us was quiet. The sun came out, faint and ready to disappear behind the horizon. We walked down the road with our thumbs stretched out, but no cars stopped for us. We walked and walked until the sun set, and we still hadn’t gotten anywhere. The fields around us were wet from the rain, not ideal for camping, and we didn’t know what to do. Finally we found a farm where a family agreed to put us up for the night. The farmer’s daughter showed us the barn, where they allowed us to sleep. She brought us bread and lard, which we devoured like wolves. Then we spread out our sleeping bags on the hay beside each other.
“Good night,” you said after you’d switched off your torch. You undressed without a trace of self-consciousness, your silhouette in the dark crawling into the sleeping bag next to mine. I could hear you breathe, like a gentle crashing of waves. And slowly, drop by drop, the rain started up again. It pattered on the roof like fingertips practicing piano chords. We lay on our backs and listened, not saying a word. I sensed you near me, your body somehow animated despite its stillness. My heart was beating faster than the rain. Suddenly I wanted to be close to you, desperately so. I could feel the pull of your body, little strings drawing me toward you. But I couldn’t move. Heartbeats passed, light years of back and forth in my mind, and just when I began to think I would never have the courage, you shifted toward me and placed your head on my shoulder. My heart stopped. I didn’t dare breathe. Your head was heavy, like warm marble, and your hair brushed my cheek. I was paralyzed by possibility, caught between the vertigo of fulfilment and the abyss of uncertainty. I thought of how rashly I’d acted with Beniek that night so many years earlier, at the dance, when the lights had gone out. How painful and unforeseeable the consequences had been. Despite that, I had just gathered the strength to think about what it would be like to touch my hand to your hair, that it was the only right thing to do, that now was
n’t then, when you whispered, “Good night, Ludzio,” and shifted away from me. It was the first time you had called me that; you’d changed my name affectionately. It made the void on my shoulder even more unbearable.
“Good night,” I replied weakly, turning around, regret washing over me. Your breathing became calm and steady. My mind raced like a crazed horse. The rain carried on through the night.
When I woke in the morning, I saw your body rising and falling peacefully with your breath. Through the cracks between the wooden boards, strips of light entered the barn, illuminating you. Your shoulder was covered in little freckles I had never noticed, random and beautiful, like a constellation of stars.
I climbed out of the sleeping bag as quietly as I could, pulled on my T-shirt and shorts, slipped on my sandals, and went out into the morning. It was a clear day, and the sun was already up, soft and new like a freshly peeled egg. The air smelled green and yellow and deep, fertile brown. In the daylight the farmhouse was smaller than I remembered, only one story high, made from dark wood with a steep roof of old brown tiles. It looked both ancient and fragile, as if it had stood in this place forever but might easily be crushed. Just outside it, the farmer’s daughter was feeding a group of chickens. She was about fifteen, with a bright, heart-shaped face and a timid, childlike smile, and she was wearing a headscarf. She greeted me and invited us to breakfast.
“We’re in the kitchen,” she said. “Come and bring your friend.”
I went back to the barn and found you up, pulling your trousers over your tight, white briefs.
“Hey,” I said, aware of my forced voice.
You zipped up and turned around. “Hey.” You looked almost shy, ran a hand through your hair.
“Hungry?” I asked.
“Starving.”
We walked out of the barn and into the house. There was a dark corridor that smelled of must and soot and earth. Nothing seemed to be moving. A few beams of light revealed a world of dust specks floating in the air, and on the wall Jesus hung on a cross, muscles and ribs defined, naked but for his loincloth. We looked at each other for a moment, quizzically, suddenly close again in the dark. Down the creaking corridor we found the kitchen on the right, where the young girl stood by the stove over a pot of steaming milk. She’d taken off her headscarf, and her long dark-blond hair fell all the way down her back.
Swimming in the Dark Page 5