Found in Translation

by Frank Wynne

  That day for the first time in ages he had taken his temperature. It was 37.9, not so very high yet. His morning weakness passed off towards evening, when a desire for life uplifted him. He asked Bolesław for horses, as he fancied going for a drive. He fetched Ola, and off they went, with Janek driving. As before, sand came pouring from the wheel spokes, but this time the melody didn’t sound so sad. Towards evening the sky showed its face for a while, pale and wan, high above their heads and above the tops of the pine trees. The drive was great fun, and stayed in Ola’s mind for a long while after, in memory7 of a particular era in her life. It was the first of the outings which Uncle Staś arranged, and this first had been without Malina. They went to the lake; flat and black, with low shores all round, it was more like a great big puddle, but they liked it very much. Near the shore there was a battered canoe, but in spite of Janek’s encouragement, Staś wasn’t eager to risk a ride in it. On the way home the sky clouded over again and it began to spit with rain, nothing torrential, just a few warm drops, heralding a long stretch of bad weather. Staś wrapped his little niece in his cloak and gazed at the murky backdrop of trees, warm and green behind a blue veil of rain. The horses were shining wet, and the evening was turning blue and hazy as they drove into the lodge. There was a fragrance of pine needles, and raindrops falling from the leaves and branches onto the decaying veranda roof kept up a gentle tapping, as if holding a conversation. The tapping grew denser and denser, now and then changing into a solid hum, which broke off and then came back again, like a refrain in a soulless piece of music.

  Staś sat alone in his room, thinking that he wouldn’t see Malina again today. The samovar standing by his window steamed gently in the rain. Michał must be playing his accordion inside the little room, for as soon as the raindrop conversation fell silent, his ear caught faint noises coming from the courtyard.

  He was reminded again of all his lost opportunities for love, in Warsaw before his illness, and then in Davos, and it made him feel so sorry that he had never been able to fall in love with anyone.

  By the time Miss Simons left, the snow had all gone. On the afternoon of her departure she had worn a black satin dress with sleeves embroidered in silver stars. Leaning over the railing of the wooden staircase she had cast her amorous blue gaze on him, but he was unable to respond. He could feel so much sadness and disappointment in her look that pity welled up inside him. He was so very sorry. He had wanted to tell her something of the kind but he didn’t know how to put it. Outside, splendid violet clouds were gathering below the Schiahorn and the Seehorn, and the sky was cold and lilac; Miss Simons’s eyes were sad. He really didn’t know, nor could he have known, why the feelings that had made her heart sigh had no equivalent in his, neither before nor after. He thought he was a sort of sexless, stupid creature, incapable of summoning up the nerve for even the feeblest of emotions. He may not even have rationalised it like that at the time, but he ascribed these thoughts to himself after the event, sitting here in the dark, listening to the murmur of the rain. He was still forcing them on himself now, when he thought he should do some summing up, to refine and extract the meaning from those days, which had absolutely no meaning at all. Of course, the result of this exercise was futile; he couldn’t put it right or interpret it any other way. In the final reckoning, he ascribed this void purely to the fact that he had never been in love.

  But not even this idea could keep his attention for long; in mental images his thoughts went racing across the forest and the birch grove to the spot beyond the lodge, behind the blackthorn bushes, where there was a sort of rubbish heap, from where you could see the yellow doors of a brick building and the gateway into the stables, where a short while ago he had seen a young girl washing her brother’s and her lover’s clothes. Her lover’s? He spent a while trying to explain to himself the colloquial expression that Michał was ‘courting’ Malwina, but he was quite unable to define the range of this word. It could have so many meanings, but it certainly didn’t have to mean that Michał was her lover. Perhaps, in passing, he could …

  The rain kept resuming its roof-top scale-playing more and more often. Finally it began to fall in earnest; fully clothed, Staś lay down on his bed and stared out of the window at the motionless shadows of the trees. After a while it seemed as if the shadows had broadened, and as if someone were shaking the leaves and slender branches of the lime tree that grew under the window.

  But no, it was just that the leaves had bowed beneath the weight of accumulated water, then sprung up abruptly as they shook it off. From Bolesław’s room light fell on the rain-drenched forest – in its beam the fine threads of raindrops flashed by, but the world beyond remained deep, dark and impenetrable, murmuring mysteriously.

  To Staś, life amid this murmur of rain and rustle of wet leaves was pure bliss. Just as outside, there was a gentle pulse in his temples, and his heart was beating stronger. Isolating himself at the forestry lodge, closing the doors to the rest of the world behind him was a unique experience, and he reckoned he had composed an unusual finale for himself. But then it wasn’t a finale at all – it was an overture. His life was only just beginning, and it was beautiful, full of harmony.

  VI

  The next three days, as it poured with rain without the slightest let-up, were the happiest days of Staś’s life. The harmony of the world which had revealed itself to him that evening brought him a rare sense of repletion, above which rose the whisper of warm, incessant rain. Everything was beautiful, as if composed like a piece of music or a painting. Leaning its soaking leaves against the roof and almost against the window of his room, the lime tree was as well-constructed as the perfect novel, artfully dividing into branches and topped with a crown of greenery.

  As he began to wake up in the morning, the sound of raindrops dripping rhythmically from the roof and the rumbling of water trickling down the gutter into a barrel set below permeated his still sleeping consciousness. Blending with his dreams, this music was like the sounds of an orchestra, the sort that plays at night. He imagined he was in a vast hall, with a great crowd of people, all listening to the murmuring of instruments. Then gradually, without opening his eyes, he became aware of a greenish glow coming from the windows, and then a shudder of deep delight ran through him at the thought of existence. And so the day began, to be completely uneventful throughout, but filled with an inner light. In the radiance of this light even the gloomy Bolesław seemed a being full of joy. Towards evening was best; Staś could feel the heat of his fever, then the weakness would pass and the pulse would start to beat more keenly in his temples. He would wrap a rug around his legs and stretch out on the veranda, where moisture was hanging in the air, and where he only had to reach out an arm to grasp a handful of wet lime leaves, broad and very pleasant to the touch. All the ‘European’ images, as Staś called them, would recede; it was as if he had never left Poland, as if he had been here since childhood, gazing at the pine trees, the limes and the birches.

  Evening would come over the cloudy sky abruptly. The night would deepen along with the rain. No longer able to see, he could hear the rustling sounds even better, which went on vibrating in a range of tones all around him, moving ever closer, until they had taken him entirely into their possession, and he would fall asleep. He would come in to supper frozen through and drink a glass of vodka.

  Bolesław would be sitting by the oil lamp, stiff, sad, silent and unapproachable. Taking no notice, after not speaking all day Staś would start talking about everything under the sun; about Davos, the cafés, the sanatoria, the ladies, of whom there had been so many there, about the music, and the strummings of the symphony orchestras which were like the whisper of the rain here at the lodge. Over these three days he only saw Malina twice, when she came to see Katarzyna on some errand or other and ran past the veranda, pulling her skirt up high, showing her very white bare calves. In a shrill voice she greeted Staś and vanished around the corner of the house without looking up. These moments sent a th
rill through his emaciated body like an electric charge. He didn’t look round at her either, or stare after her, but he could feel her temporary presence with every nerve in his body. He was shivering more, yet above all, over and above the shivers of cold and the humming of raindrops, one feeling predominated – the feeling of discovery. All his travels and all his acquaintances seemed merely a preparation for these three drizzly nights, when he slept with the feeling in his heart that the greatest possible secret lay hidden there. It all combined into a joy so great as to be too heavy to carry, so it was hard for him to raise himself, to stand up and walk with such a feeling in his heart.

  He stood at his bedroom window and gazed at the cloak of grey threads behind which the world lay hidden; he gazed at the uniform ranks of pine trees, as if seeing them for the first time, and suddenly he thought of that girl. ‘So this is life,’ he kept repeating under his breath, and this phrase, which didn’t really mean anything, but was simply a way of offloading all the feelings that had welled up in his heart, became the leitmotif of those memorable days. ‘So this is life,’ he kept saying at every opportunity.

  He felt that at the moment when he had said goodbye to a part of his life, when he had walked away from everything that he imagined to be ‘real life’, as soon as he had slammed the door shut on it, to die here in peace, only then had life shown him its true face. He didn’t stop to wonder why he thought of this life as having been captured or revealed at that particular moment, he was just glad that before leaving this world he had managed to experience all these feelings in one, all-absorbing sensation.

  At midday the rain became denser, heavier and more penetrating; one would never have suspected that behind the clouds, sunk so low onto the pine trees, there was a summer sun and a blue sky. But Staś wasn’t looking for a blue sky. It might never appear again as far as he was concerned; the rain gladdened him and the cold delighted him, pervading him as he stood gazing out at the grey veils of mist draped over the black branches of the pine trees, washed clean of dust. So I have found it, he kept repeating to himself; he didn’t need to ask what exactly he had found. It was a sort of hidden, inexpressible inner meaning, a sort of flip side, the inside lining of everything he could see – trees, houses, buildings and people – it was the background and at the same time the essence of everything, and it filled him with a steady, constant joy. He was afraid it would all change at the first ray of sunlight, and he nervously kept watch in case the sky was clearing over. But the rain kept beating steadily on the roof shingles, simply changing its rhythm from time to time, while the stream flowing down from the gutter into the barrel kept up its hum, loud and strong as ever. So he went about amid this humming sound, as if in a cloud of bliss.

  He listened to his own breathing and kept watch on his body, the throbbing in his temples and the pulse in his wrists. Now and then he combed his hair, which fell over his eyes; he looked at himself in the mirror, as if seeking confirmation of his own existence. Then he went into the kitchen and stood by the fire, watching as the water boiled. The blisters forcing their way to the surface, and the steam pushing up the lid gave him a childlike pleasure. He watched the flames leaping from the short dry sticks that Katarzyna had laid beneath the hot plate. The smell of potatoes steamed for the pork tickled his nostrils. After all this warmth and crackling his own room, damp, quiet, grey and murmuring, was an even nicer refuge for his unadulterated bliss.

  On the third day, just before evening, blue and green patches of sky appeared in the west and it stopped raining. Staś turned his attention to little Ola, who for all this time had not changed her routine and came in from the rain each day with a dripping wet head and plastered-down hair. Yet the little girl had lost her trust in her uncle and reacted very coldly to his interest in her rag doll, and in the general state of affairs in the nook behind the bed, where she spent all her time when not out walking. For some reason she had developed an aversion towards Staś; it was impossible to tell why. But this aversion soon passed before the patches of sky had changed from green and blue to deep azure, before that azure had coated the entire ceiling of the sky, before a fine, cold evening had set in. Coughing, Staś took Ola by the hand and they went out onto the wet leaves and grass. At first they were in total darkness; only once their eyes had grown fully accustomed to the closing-in of night above the trees did the washed-out expanse of the sky become apparent. All Staś knew was that above the stable there was a little window that should be lit up by now, a very small window, almost square, with four large panes of glass. Through the bushes and leaves, which shook raindrops onto their hair, that was where they went; the window was lit by a small lamp and they could see faint shadows flickering on the walls. There was no one in sight, but from inside the little room came the sounds of an accordion. Ola squeezed Staś’s hand more tightly.

  ‘Uncle,’ she said, ‘can you hear? They’re playing music in there.’

  Staś had caught the nasal sounds long ago, the chords constantly striking against the seconds, all stamping their mark on his dead heart like a seal on wax. He could clearly hear the tune of a popular song he used to sing in Switzerland, which only now, rearranged in Polish style, had finally got through to this obscure forestry lodge. It sounded completely different now, just as different as his life had become among the birches and pines, his rediscovered life, rediscovered at a moment of utter ruin. So he and little Ola stopped and looked up at the four little squares shining out of the pitch-black wall. He listened keenly to the nasal sevenths and seconds called out of the damp, black nothingness by Michał.

  From now on to the very end, he thought, that tune will accompany me, in that same arrangement, transformed from a slow foxtrot into a sort of Cracovienne or fast march, more suited to the performer’s Polish temperament. It was quite another tune from the one crooned a couple of years ago by all the street urchins in Zurich, where he had had his first operation. As much as there are any street urchins in Zurich, he thought, and started in a rather rambling way to tell Ola all about the regattas on the beautiful, colonised lake. But his mind wasn’t on what he was saying, nor was Ola listening. She tugged at her uncle’s hand again. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s go in and listen to Michał.’

  For a moment Staś hesitated; Ola’s suggestion was the exact expression of his own desires but he was afraid it would be too awkward for the company gathered above the stables. Finally, however, he made up his mind to go in; but no sooner had he entered the cottage than he regretted his step. They were all very embarrassed – the old mother, Janek and Michał. There was a bottle of vodka on the table. Malina alone was not at all confused. She dusted off a little stool with her apron and drew it up for Staś; without so much as looking at her he took Ola on his knee and started up a polite conversation with Michał about the difficulties of playing the accordion. Janek was sitting in the chimney corner before the semi-circular maw of a Russian stove, where wood chips were burning. On the floorboards stood kneaded loaves of bread covered in sackcloth; the fire crackled.

  Without looking at the girl Staś could see her every movement, her every glance; she alone existed for him in this company. She poured him a glass of vodka and carried the lamp away to the back of the room, as she had to check that the dough had risen enough. For a while they were left in silence and in shadow; flashes of fire flickered red and gold across the walls. Suddenly Michał leaned back against the wall, stared into the fire and began to play, so languorously and so mournfully that Ola hugged Staś tighter, without taking her eyes from the coarse but expressive face of the performer. They listened to the music in silence.

  Stanisław could feel the vodka radiating warmth along his veins, as he ceased to feel the dampness of their walk on his hair, shoes and clothing. He bowed his head and listened to the awful wheezing music, a truly unpleasant sound, stirring up his raw feelings, which until now he had so hastily rushed through the dimly lit recesses of his consciousness. His entire experience seemed a downward slide, and he had s
o little time left now before the ascent. He had noticed that he was measuring out this time calmly, not thinking about himself or his own death – it was just the world that was going to die.

  He noticed that Ola’s eyes were wide open, staring at Michał in speechless wonder. He could feel the little girl’s heart beating beneath his fingers, and he was afraid his own was beating just as fast. He turned his head and saw Malina standing at the back of the room, in a corner behind the shadow of the stove, leaning against the wall, listening to Michał’s music with her head thrown back. Her exquisite, flawless eyelids hooded her eyes; a faint glimmer of light fell on them, on her plaits, and on the wisps of hair protruding from under her headscarf.

  Michał played on for some time, until at last he stopped. Staś thanked him, gave him his hand and left, without looking at anyone. Ola wanted to stay longer, so she dragged along after him reluctantly. He scolded her sharply, then at once regretted it.

  Out in the night, amid the damp smell of the forest, he picked her up in his arms; light as a bird, he hugged her to him and rained kisses on her brow and hair. She wound her skinny little arms around his neck and pressed her cheek to his, hugging him tightly. He sensed that she was crying, the tears dropping silently from her eyes.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

  Choked with sobs, her voice was like the breath of the night in his ear. ‘I love Michał so much … And Mummy … And Mummy …’

  Staś felt these words send a cold shiver through him. He pressed the fragile figure even tighter to him and covered her mouth with his hand. He was afraid he would start crying too, that beneath the burden of unknown and unadmitted things he would die before his time. He cradled Ola in his arms and walking at a gentle pace towards the house he rocked her to and fro. Now her feet, now her head kept nudging the leaves and bushes and a murmur of raindrops fell on the brushwood. After a while he started talking in a happy, steady voice.