I saw you and Hania slung together, dancing, oblivious to me on the other side of the window. My stomach began to burn, secreting pain like arrowheads, and then the two of you as a four-legged creature, struggling on the forest floor. Eating itself, aware only of itself. At the same time your pleas for trust rang in my ears, your pleas for my patience. The fire in my belly spread. My back reached for soreness, my eyes stirred and dampened. The man was still there, staring at me. And so was the piece of paper.
I felt the pause of time. A moment pulled into its smallest parts, spread so thin it threatened to break. When I imagined taking that piece of paper and reaching for the pen, pictured the possibility of it, of writing your name, my arm refused to move. I couldn’t feel it. I couldn’t feel the fire in my gut; I couldn’t feel any pain. I’d gone numb.
I don’t know what took over then, in the void of the next moment. I guess it wasn’t anything distinct, more a hazy murmur, an animal voice, instinct. I followed what it said—what I could make out, anyway. I knew it spoke the truth. I opened my mouth. My body felt heavy, absurd, like two fur coats worn at once.
“No,” I said to the man’s stony face. “I don’t have any names.”
It wasn’t easy—he was determined to get what was his. But I knew to persist, knew to take his mounting threats as a sign of progress. I ignored him when he said I would never leave the country in my life and never find a job if I didn’t comply. I ignored him when he turned aggressive and called me a pervert and a sick fuck. To my own surprise, I was unable to accept the shame he wanted me to feel. It was too familiar to be imposed: I had produced it myself for such a long time that, right then, I found I had no space left for it anymore. Instead, I used the truth. I said that I’d been drugged the week before and that my mind was addled, the past like a blur. I don’t know whether he believed me. But finally, I can’t be sure why, he told me I had two days. Two days to come up with names. Before he released me, he put his hands on his desk and said, with a voice measured and sharp like a scalpel, that I would regret it for the rest of my life if I didn’t turn up. I nodded and walked out, feeling nothing. Outside, night had fallen. I breathed in the winter air. I knew where I had to go.
The tram rumbled across the bridge. The trees lining the banks of the river were naked, their leaves having fallen into the water, swept away by the current. The Madonna in the courtyard was covered with a layer of frost, the yellow gladiolas gone. Every step on the staircase was an effort. Every creaking one, I thought, would alert you to my presence. There were no children playing, no people outside—just me and the dark old wood of the house. I knocked on your door, my body a mere shell. My heart beating as if I’d climbed the Tatra range. I wasn’t even sure why I’d come.
You opened the door, and a ripple passed over your face. As if it didn’t know what to express. Right then it showed nothing but determined strength. You looked at me. I looked back, trying to gauge the moment, feeling out of control. You seemed so much taller then, standing above me, looking down.
I thought we would stand like this forever. I thought I was too proud to even begin to speak, that I would not beg for anything, that I had no reason to feel sorry. But looking at you softened me—despite your new hardness, or because of it. It hurt to see you like that, to have nothing pass between us. Then I saw something in your eyes, an opening.
“Aren’t you going to let me in?” I said.
You stepped away from the door, opening the way for me.
It had never been so cold in your room. The heater—a contraption of conjoined white pipes, right by the door—was banging and clanging, as if there were a dwarf trapped inside, whacking around with a stick. I was glad I had my coat. I noticed then that you were wearing a thick sweater and a scarf. You closed the door behind me.
“So you came.” It sounded as if you were saying it more to yourself than to me. You stood by the door, looked at me, somewhat helpless in the middle of the room. “Sit.”
There was nowhere to sit but on the bed. It was neatly made and covered with several blankets. On the desk, by the window, lay open books and a writing pad. I sat on the very edge of the bed, feeling the blankets underneath me, feeling a void where certainty had once been. You stood by the door, your arms crossed over your chest, looking at me.
“Why did you run away?” There was reproach and a hint of pain in your voice.
The question took me by surprise. I thought there’d be small talk; I thought we would dance around what we really felt. I swallowed, searched for something true and worth putting into words.
“It was too much,” I said, unable to look at you. “And—” It seemed unsayable to me; continuing was like jumping through fire.
You looked straight at me. “What?”
I hesitated. And in that hesitation, resentment came through.
“That night. When Maksio saw us. What you said to him. And later, I saw you. In the forest. With Hania.”
I closed my eyes, exhausted. I didn’t want to see your reaction. But I looked up anyway. Your face was hard again, in a different way. Your jaw stiff, your eyes staring at the floor, hooded from me. Suddenly I felt trapped, seized by a desire to run away. You looked up toward me, your eyes rueful, shimmering.
“We were all on drugs, Ludzio. You never should have seen us. It didn’t mean anything. It was a game. It was innocent.”
You looked at me for a reaction. This has never been a game, I thought, and never innocent either. But I couldn’t bring myself to say it. It seemed as if we’d entered a realm where words had lost their meaning. I just looked at you, saw you struggle, harden again at my silence.
“You could have said something before leaving,” you said, reproachful now. “We could have talked about it. You didn’t even give me a chance to explain. And now you’ve ruined it for yourself. With her. Can you imagine that we were worried about you? That we thought you might have run into the forest and be in need of help?” You looked genuinely pained, and for a moment I felt guilty. “Luckily her parents told us that they’d seen you. They obviously think you’re crazy. What are you going to do now? Huh?”
I looked at you, for the first time, I think, with pity. “We’re beyond that now,” I said softly. “I’m leaving.”
The words were like a spell, suspending whatever we’d said before. Fear grazed your face, made your eyes search mine for signs.
“Where to?” you asked, almost in disbelief.
“The States.”
Realization spread like water on paper. Your mouth defeated, your eyes averted. I hated to see you like this.
“Did they give you a passport?” you asked quietly, without any intonation at all. I remained still.
“Not yet.”
You nodded, looking at the floor, then toward the window. I wanted you to say more. I felt as if I had no more weapons left. You walked to the window, didn’t look at me. Breathed heavily.
“Won’t you come?” I asked, feeling foolish as soon as I’d said it.
You laughed: a quick, short exhalation of a laugh, one that didn’t go with your eyes. They were bitter.
“Why do you need to leave?” you said, turning to me. “We were so close to getting what we wanted.”
I considered you, breathed in deeply, closed my eyes for a moment, opened them again.
“We weren’t, Janusz. You just thought we were. Don’t you see what this is doing to us? It’s humiliating.”
You looked straight back at me. “More humiliating than living in a freezing attic, like a rat? Or than working hard your whole life and getting nothing for it? I thought you wanted a better life than that.”
“I do,” I said, feeling cold. “I do.”
You sat on your desk, back turned to the window, your face collapsing into your hands. And I felt tenderness, a possibility. I stood, walked over to you, put my hand on your shoulder. I could feel the tension of your muscles through the wool.
“Come with me,” I whispered. “It’s not too late.
We could go without anyone knowing, across the mountains to Czechoslovakia, then on to Austria. No one will know us there.”
“We’d have nothing,” you insisted from beneath your hands. “We don’t speak the language. We’d be lost.”
“We’d be free.”
The room was so filled with us, with the gathering clouds of our words, the fog of our thoughts. I lifted my hand off you.
“Think of Giovanni’s Room,” I said, the story returning to me through the fog. “Think of how David leaves Giovanni out of fear. We mustn’t act out of fear.”
You withdrew your hands from your flushed face, staring not at me but through me. “It’s too much.” Your voice was tired. “I can’t do it, Ludzio. I can’t. You’re asking for too much.”
“Is it because of Hania?” I felt my head spin with fear.
You didn’t say anything, looked down, your face still flushed, not moving. “It’s not that easy,” you finally said. Somehow, I believed you.
“Remember how David feels after his decision,” I said, feeling my throat tighten. “He regrets it.”
“Stop comparing us to that book!” Your voice shattered against the walls. Your face was distorted, scrunched up beyond recognition. “You’re the one who wants to run off. You’re the one trying to force me into this. You can’t make people love you the way you want them to.”
I felt life drain out of me, as if a plug had been pulled. I sat down on the bed.
“I’m not cut out for it, Ludwik,” you said, like an apology. “I belong here. And I will make it, one way or another.” You got up from the desk, stepping toward me with new confidence. “I met Hania’s parents. I got on with her dad. He will help me move up. I’m sure of it.” There was hope in your voice. You almost sounded as if you wanted me to be proud of you. I said nothing. You were only a meter away; I could have touched you if I’d reached out. “And maybe it’s not too late for you either,” you went on. “Maybe we can speak to Hania, maybe Maksio will never mention what he saw, and—”
I stood.
“I need to go,” I said, knowing it was true. Your face, your limbs—it was as if your entire being was trying to hold itself together, almost shaking from the effort of it. I couldn’t bear to see it. I averted my eyes and slid to the door like some retreating thief, stopping in my tracks when you called my name.
It sounded like an appeal, a right violated and invoked. My hand on the door handle, my back to you, my heart pulsing in my temples. I could sense the word throbbing in the air. My name, claiming me. It wrapped its fingers around my shoulders and tried to hold me back. With a terrible jolt I thrust open the door and hurried down the dark of the stairs.
The night had grown colder. The street was empty. The light of the streetlamps was dim, and the cursing of invisible drunk men and women pierced the air. I knew you wouldn’t come after me, and most of me didn’t want you to. But without knowing why, I began to run, fueled by some kind of elated panic. I ran as fast as I could on the frosted pavements, alongside the battered buildings, across a naked square. I ran without stopping, feeling the cold sting my lungs, feeling it rush through my head and out. Through the warren of the cobbled streets, past the golden dome of the Orthodox church, straight on toward the bridge. I ran until feeling returned to my body, until my legs became heavy, until the pain began to prickle and I was out of options, out of breath. When I stopped, I was standing on the bridge, clutching a rail, bent over like an upturned L. I drew in deep, hot, thorny breaths. My head was spinning. I closed my eyes. I held on tighter to the rail, much tighter. Until I sank to my knees and cried out in pain and felt the cold, hard concrete push against me.
Later, when the spinning had stopped, the tremor had receded, and the cold of the ground had seeped into my bones and I knew it wouldn’t save me, that maybe nothing could, I opened my eyes and heaved myself up. The city lay before me oddly turned away from the river, oddly calm. The houses of the Old Town perched on the hill, the sharp spire of the palace to the left, the blokowiskos discernible behind. In the dark of that night it all seemed barely real.
Looking back, I’m surprised I didn’t hurl myself off the bridge. I was terrified, saw no way out. But I suppose that right then, in the midst of despair, I felt the stirring of instinct again, the murmur of that voice. I brushed the dirt off my clothes and walked home with a rising fever. Somehow I knew that something would occur to me, a pact I could try to live with.
That night, plagued by hot flashes and frenetic dreams, I got out of bed and stood by the window of my little room. Outside, the city was a ghost filled with comatose trees. For a moment I thought of you in your room, calling my name as I left. I thought of all the times you had lied, trying to straddle her and me. It was then that the idea occurred to me. I knew, without having to think twice, that there was no other way.
The next morning I left early. I walked from the same spot where we’d met that night, along the avenue by the Łazienki Gardens, its trees and bushes leafless and naked now. How did my deer cope? I found the side street with the large kamienica. I pressed the button on the intercom.
“Hello?” Her voice clear and untainted.
“It’s Ludwik,” I said.
“Oh.” Surprise in her voice, a little pause. “Come on up.”
I took the lift, observed my burdened face in the mirror. The last time I’d been there with you felt like a lifetime ago.
The door to the flat was open as I came out of the lift. Hania stood beside it, with a conciliatory smile that pained me. She was wearing a sweater, a long red skirt, and thick socks. We kissed on the cheek.
“It’s good to see you,” she said softly, and again I believed her, as I had every time she’d said it. I could hardly muster the strength to go in. The flat looked lighter and bigger than I remembered. We walked through to the splendid living room where the party had been, now flooded by winter light. She made me sit on the white couch.
“Would you like something to drink? Grapefruit juice?” She frowned, sensing my nervousness, maybe. “Some brandy?”
I shook my head.
She sat down, her long skirt falling from couch to carpet.
“I need to apologize to you,” she said, looking at me ruefully. “About the night in the country. I’m sorry the zupa was so strong. I feel terrible about the whole thing. It all went too far, and it was my fault.” She looked embarrassed.
“It’s OK,” I said, feeling relieved. “You didn’t know. I’m sorry for taking off without a word.”
I tried to smile. She nodded, as if she’d understood.
There was silence for a moment, in which I felt my pulse quicken.
“I came to ask you a favor,” I heard myself say. I couldn’t look at her, so I looked at my interlaced fingers, which I’d been pressing so hard they’d turned red and white. “I’m in trouble. I need your help.”
Her eyes widened, and she gave me a nod, as if to say, “Go on.”
I told her about the man in the office. The words came out more easily than before. I chose them carefully. I told her I wanted to leave to see my uncle. That they were holding on to my passport, blackmailing me—though I didn’t go into detail. I avoided the question for as long as I could, absurdly, and she let me go on. Light shone onto the parquet, making it look smooth and perfect, like the surface of an ice rink. Hania looked at me with concern and sympathy all the way through, and strangely, despite myself, despite all my instincts of pain and revenge and humiliation for having to ask her, of all people, I felt a surge of love for her gentleness, her kindness in listening to me. For her ignorance of all that had happened between you and me. And for my innocence as seen through her eyes. When I finished talking, she put her hand on my shoulder, a hand that weighed almost nothing, and said:
“I will talk to my father.”
I thanked her but saw that there was something unresolved in her face. She turned toward the large windows, toward the white winter sun. Then she pulled her legs up off the floor
and folded them against herself, embracing them and her skirt.
“There’s just one thing I need to know,” she said slowly, looking uncomfortable. “What they are blackmailing you with. It will help. To know how to best approach the situation.”
I tried to concentrate on breathing. It felt like I was falling. I couldn’t possibly.
“Ludwik?”
“They know that I’m . . .” I couldn’t face her eyes, couldn’t say it. Had never said it to anyone. Not even to myself. It felt like jumping over a five-meter wall.
“Tell me,” she said gently, her weightless hand on my shoulder again. “Go on. Don’t be scared.”
I almost crumbled. I took on the words again, as if they had fallen to the floor. I picked them up, lifted them, tried to push them over the threshold, like something immensely heavy that could crush me.
“I’m a . . .” I tried and failed under her gaze.
It was the same feeling, the same pulling to and fro, one feels when standing on the edge of a diving board.
“I’m a—” My voice almost steady. “I’m a homosexual.”
The world did not tumble. Her face remained calm. The white winter light still streamed into the room as if into a church, illuminating the floor and us, my heart pumped blood around my body—accelerated but still—and a shiver ran through me, through my entire being, and I felt as if something dead and heavy inside had been expelled, as if I’d been carrying a leaden ghost within me all that time. I felt dizzy. I tried to say something else, but there was nothing to say. She took me into her arms, and I allowed her to—into her soft arms, against her pullover, cushioned by the soft breasts beneath it.
“It’s OK,” she whispered. “I understand.” She stroked my hair. “You’re good. Don’t you worry. You’ll be fine. You’re good.”
Even if I had wanted to, I wouldn’t have been able to stop the tears. They poured out all by themselves, a force of their own, agents of relief and consolation, flooding my face, emptying my mind. And we sat like this, enveloped in each other, in the bright light, for an immeasurable amount of time. When I straightened myself, she left, returning moments later with a tissue.
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