“It’s all going to end soon, which is why we should enjoy it all the more.” I smiled.
“I don’t understand, Agnieszka,” he repeated. “Don’t talk in riddles.”
“What I’m trying to say,” I put my hand over his heart, “is that we’re having a great time.”
“Exactly,” he whispered, but his face tensed a fraction. “Exactly. We’re having a great time.”
“I’m only doing this so I don’t have to think about what I’ve really got to do,” I whispered clumsily, totally incoherently.
“Isn’t that why people have a good time?” he remarked lucidly.
I got up and went to the kitchen for a bottle of horribly over-sweet wine and poured us each a tumbler since all the wine glasses had been smashed by Black, who I’d adopted from a shelter two weeks earlier, and White, who Gypsy had given me as Black’s companion.
“You’re a distraction for me, Gypsy,” I said.
“I don’t mind you having a child,” he forced out. “I’d like it to be our… well, you know.”
“No chance.” I shook my head.
“What do you mean, no chance? There’s always a chance! What do you want me to do?” he stammered.
Our conversations about trifles were effortless. Long and continuous, like extended interviews. Conversations about important things, however, were a different story, as they are with most people.
“Move out,” I declared. “Best to do it now. I’m very sorry.” I was sorry. I pitied him. But mostly, I felt awkward.
He put on his shirt, took his wine and knocked it back in one go.
“I’m going to my room,” he said, trying not to look at me.
“I’m really sorry,” I whispered.
“No need.” He nodded. “I understand everything. But I don’t want to move out.”
“What?” I asked.
“It’s alright, I’ve got my own room. Really. I understand, but tenants get a month’s notice,” he explained.
I was transfixed, mouth agape.
“And don’t let’s talk about there being no agreement, or unlawful use or whatever. Let’s just not talk about it. These splits don’t have to be so ugly,” he said.
I quietly hissed a curse.
“Let’s just agree like civilised human beings. I’ve got to find something. Something suitable; I can’t just live anywhere,” he stated. He smiled as brazenly as he could and closed the door.
I sat on my bed, rested my head on my hand and picked up the phone. Four missed calls from my daughter.
* * *
I’m not scared. My insides have turned into asphalt. My heart is beating regularly, my breath is steady. I’m not scared. I’m going to get out of here soon. Maybe I’ll be scared when I’m out. But that doesn’t frighten me.
“Funny how you’ve dug it into me. Torn the artery but not fully,” Gypsy says calmly. “Gives me something like twenty minutes.”
“It’s you.” I point to him.
He shakes his head. “Whether it’s me or not,” he replies, “doesn’t matter.”
“You’re sick,” I whisper, because I’ve lost the ability to talk out loud. “You’re sick. You locked us in and you killed Robert and Anna. All because you wanted to get back at me for breaking up with you. You’re sick, Gypsy. Or Jacek. Or whatever your name is.”
Gypsy shakes his head. He pulls himself onto his elbows, trying to get up. Blood drains from his thigh; there’s already a large black stain on the floor. Yet none of us do anything. Nobody’s trying to stem the bleeding. We stand over him, calm, and let him die.
I’m trying not to think about how terrible this is.
After a while, he falls back on the floor. We stand over him in a circle. Stare down at him without a word.
His nose is shattered and turns his face into a brownish, bloated splodge on a white background, with stuck-on eyes and the black hole of a mouth, through which he breathes heavily, speaks slowly. I move closer to him.
“I don’t even know what your real name is,” I say. “I’ve never seen your ID.”
“And how many people’s ID have you seen?” he remarks, spitting phlegm out.
“What’s your name?” I demand.
“Jacek.”
“Where are you from?”
“The Institute,” he answers after a pause, first taking a deep breath.
Sebastian stands behind him, grabs him by the hair and yanks his head back. “Talk, or I’ll fucking kill you!” he yells.
“What do you want me to say?” asks Gypsy.
“Who’s helping you?”
“Do I look as if anybody’s helping me?”
Gypsy smiles. Gypsy making a joke as he lies dying on the floor makes me feel terribly cold for a moment. But I’m still calm, still not scared.
He’s the one who’s betrayed us. He’s the one who’s done all this to us.
“I’ll fucking kill you!” growls Sebastian.
“You’ve already killed me,” he says quietly, coldly. “Remember? The guy in Olsza, three years ago. No big deal, eh, Sebastian?”
Sebastian freezes. He drops the knife for a moment, then jumps at Gypsy and starts shaking him.
“I’ve never fucking killed anyone!” he yells. “Never fucking killed anyone!”
“November 2007.” Gypsy smiles. “You tried to enter a housing estate and beat up a couple of Wisła fans. You were attacked as soon as you got out of the car. Later, when you came round, there was this guy at the bus stop. A broken pane of glass next to him. You got all upset that he’d smashed the glass.”
“Shut up!” he screams. “Shut that fucking gob!”
“A quick knife in the lung. You didn’t even think. There were no witnesses. You ran a long way. Threw the knife into the Vistula.”
“Shut up!” roars Sebastian, like a savage beast. “Shut your fucking face!”
“He died pretty quickly, Sebastian.” Gypsy smiles again. “His name was David Malinowski. He was seventeen and studying to be a mechanic, liked to play Pro Evolution Soccer. He died twenty minutes later in the ambulance. You didn’t know.”
Silence. Sebastian stands over him, heaving.
“Who the hell are you?” he asks.
“My name’s Jacek, also known as Gypsy. I’m from the Institute,” he replies, drops his head limply for a moment, then raises it again.
Silence.
“What were you planning to do next? Kill us too? Like Anna and Robert? Maim us? What were you planning to do?” I ask, hearing my voice, aware that it’s muted, muffled, has a strange tone. It could easily belong to somebody else entirely. Even if I wanted to shout, I couldn’t. It was as if somebody had sealed my throat. As if something had dried up inside.
“You’ll see,” he replies.
“And all this because of us?” I ask, composed.
“You overrate yourself, Agnieszka.” He shakes his head. “But don’t worry. It’s natural to think yourself important, valued.”
“You insisted on being the one to go down the rope on purpose,” I say, struggling not to trample over him.
“Ten points for perceptiveness,” he retorts, clearly annoyed.
I’m waiting for him to say something else.
“You killed them,” I repeat. When I’d first said the word “killed”, I felt something, a cold shudder, like a brief epileptic fit. But now the word “killed” leaves my mouth like any other. It’s neutral. Doesn’t phase me at all.
“I know you feel hard done by, but everybody in the world is hard done by, people are conned every day, imprisoned every day, so I’ve no idea why you feel so special,” he says. He pauses, catches his breath to gather his strength. He’s very weak. He really might die at any moment.
It might seem terrible that we’re not trying to save him. That we have, in fact, killed him by not helping him. I think about this perfectly calmly – that it might seem terrible to somebody. Something’s switched off in my brain and it really doesn’t frighten me.
“Were those people important to you in any way?” he asks. “Would they have been important to anyone?”
“They were expecting a baby,” says Veronica.
“The kid would have been a cabbage for the rest of its life,” he replies slowly, coughing at the same time. “And the guy, Robert, would probably have ended up a total alkie. Started beating her. Would probably have worked as a bodyguard or on a checkout. She’d sit at home with a degree, no experience. Spanish. She only took the course because her rich friend did the same. She’d never even been to Spain. They’d never have gone. Wouldn’t even be able to get a mortgage. The child would have dribbled in its wheelchair while he threw bottles and beat her when the parents were out. Because they’d be living with his parents, or her parents, or in some sad bedsit rented for a thousand złotys. He already had the beginnings of neurosis. Had already been diagnosed with extreme aggression by a psychologist at junior school. Did you hear about how they met? She was drunk at a friend’s party. She’d only slept with one guy. He hadn’t had a girlfriend since secondary school. When they were alone, it was a disaster. He had to sit in the bathroom for fifteen minutes to stand his semi-fertile prick to attention with his hand. But in the morning, they both knew that if they didn’t have each other, then who would have them? Back to the point, do you think they were important to anyone?”
“Shut up! Don’t say another word! Go on and die! Just shut up!” shouts Veronica, every word clattering like an old bike on a cobbled street. Then suddenly she leans over him. I grab her arm.
“But you didn’t tell them anything. Why are you getting so worked up?” Gypsy turns towards her. “The doctor detected everything. Cerebral ischemia. They knew everything. They came to see you for comfort. And you lied to them, that second time. You didn’t know whether the kid was healthy or sick. You had no idea.”
“I’m not a liar,” replies Veronica. “I never deceived anyone.”
“You don’t have any special powers, you idiot,” he continues calmly. “You’re just trying to make yourself seem interesting, but you’re actually as interesting as a ream of paper.”
“You don’t know anything about me. You’ve no idea,” Veronica counterattacks. She’s become hysterical, quickly trying to catch her breath as she speaks. “You know fuck all.”
“There are people who tell everyone they’ve got cancer,” he replies slowly, trying again to raise himself into a half-sitting position, “to get attention. There are people who, I don’t know, people who say they speak to ghosts. It’s a bit sad being a cashier in a cinema, isn’t it? Having tried and failed four times to get into film school?”
Veronica retreats to the corner. She is crying soundlessly.
“But it’s even more sad knowing that you’re never going to be important to anyone.” Gypsy breathes out. “People try to deal with it at whatever cost. They simply used to start a family in the past. They simply used to set up a family in the past.”
I’ve had enough. I stand over him and take his face in my hand, squeeze it like a soft leather pouch. I lean over and stare into his eyes, which are slowly growing empty as sleep and death approach, dilute and condense his gaze. It’s as though the white hum of a television was reflecting in his eye sockets.
“You’re calm, Agnieszka.” He smiles. “You’ve just found two corpses, yet you’re so calm.”
“Fuck off,” I reply.
“There are going to be more,” he says.
“There are. Yours,” I retort.
“No.” He smiles. “Not only mine.”
“He really is going to die soon,” Iga throws in.
“Let him die,” I say, or maybe it’s the somebody else hidden in my stomach.
Iga walks up to him, puts her hand next to his wound, squeezes.
“We can’t, we can’t,” she repeats, then goes to the bathroom. She returns with a towel and tries to tie a tourniquet at his groin.
“Iga, they want to kill us all,” I say, but she, still repeating “we can’t, we can’t”, squeezes the towel even tighter around his leg. “We can, Iga,” I add, but I don’t hold her back. I let her do what she wants.
I know we can. I’ve realised that you can kill somebody, that sometimes you have to kill somebody before they kill you. I realised that earlier, when we’d found the secret door in the Finkiels’ apartment, the door concealed behind the wall unit.
“Agnieszka.” Gypsy’s speech is slower and slower, weaker and weaker. Despite Iga’s towel tourniquet, the puddle beneath him is growing larger and darker. “You know, it’s not about you at all, but – incidentally – I really did grow fond of you.” He has to concentrate hard to finish the sentence.
“What’s that supposed to mean, ‘incidentally’?” I ask. “Incidentally, man, what are you talking about?”
“Reach into my jacket, the left pocket.” He nods. “I’ve got some fags.”
I don’t react. I look at the others.
“Take one.” He smiles. “Take one, all of you.”
I move towards him, but Sebastian signals to me with his hand not to move. He squats at Gypsy’s side and carefully extracts the cigarettes from his pocket. The packet is wrapped in foil. He throws it to me, I catch and open it, pull one out and smoke my first cigarette in twenty-four hours, but it feels like the first in my life; the smoke is a soft, bitter eiderdown, soothing. It tastes so good.
I blow it in Gypsy’s face.
“What do you mean ‘incidentally’?” I repeat.
“Incidentally, when I met you, I grew fond of you,” he repeats.
“Incidentally?” I force myself to raise my voice. It takes a great effort, as much effort as if I suddenly had to lie down and do five push ups.
“Tell us who you are, you son of a bitch! Tell us who’s helping you, tell us what’s going on. Tell us, for fuck’s sake, tell us now!” Screaming, Iga leaps up suddenly. “Tell us or I’ll tear the tourniquet off!”
“It won’t make any difference,” replies Gypsy.
Sebastian is silent, rolling his eyes, now. He walks up to my door and punches the doorframe as hard as he can. I look deep into his eyes. I know Gypsy was right. Sebastian did kill that guy.
He punches the wall and stands up, panting. Control yourself a bit longer, Sebastian, I beg him in my head. I trust you. Just a bit longer.
“It won’t make any difference, I’m going to die in a minute anyway. Just go to your rooms and let me get on with it,” says Gypsy.
“First, you’re going to tell us everything,” I tell him.
“I’m not going to tell you anything,” answers Gypsy.
“Shit!” shouts Iga, grabbing for the blood-soaked towel tied around his leg. She grasps the scissors again.
“What a great friend,” says Gypsy.
“Leave it,” I say to her. “Take your hand away. Leave it.”
“Tell us or I’ll kill you; I’ll pull the scissors out and dig them into your heart,” drawls Iga.
“Leave it,” I repeat.
“Iga, the wonderful pal,” he continues sarcastically. “The best friend around. Great warrior for the rights of gays, blacks and animals. The revolutionary from the villa in Anin.”
“Go on, you bastard, go on.” Iga’s starting to shake. I go up to her, put my hand on her shoulder; her body’s flaring like an old motorbike firing up.
“How many friends have you got left? And how many have you turned your back on?” he asks, and his face turns into that of a crazy puppet. “You remember that demonstration, that trip to Prague, don’t you? When was it? Not that long ago. Five years? You remember throwing that Molotov cocktail at the police van? Remember? Then I’ll tell you.”
“Go on!” screams Iga. I’m holding on to her with all my strength. “Go on!”
“You remember giving everybody’s names? Straight away? Because they said they’d let your parents know? Remember?” he asked. “You recognised everyone in the photographs. Everyone.”
“Pull those fucking
scissors out,” says Sebastian, crouching behind Gypsy’s head.
“Iga, take your hand away,” I plead, but she’s gripping the scissors as hard as she can. I grab her wrist. For somebody who’s about to die, Gypsy’s having a whale of a time.
I went to bed with that man, I think, and just about hold down the contents of my stomach.
“You recognised everybody, including your boyfriend, Gucek.” I can see that he’s trying as hard as he can to hold his head straight. “He got thrown out of school. Got a sentence. And his parents threw him out. His father was the director of a state treasury partnership. A man of very high principles. Couldn’t accept that his son was an idiot who threw bottles of petrol at police cars.”
Iga is still clenching the scissors.
“Shut up, Gypsy,” I order. “I mean it, shut your face.”
“No, let him talk. I’m not scared.” Iga shouts again. “Go on!”
“It was fun playing together at fighting for a change, wasn’t it?” asks Gypsy. “So Gucek was a bit broken up, lived in a squat and tried some heroin, didn’t he? Somebody gave him a smoke and he liked it. And you were probably already screwing his friend, weren’t you? The one from Antifa, who did kickboxing?”
I stroke Iga on the head. “I’m with you, whatever he says,” I whisper.
“But maybe Gucek forgave you because he somehow understood that the Czech police had threatened to rape you. He forgave you, but he smoked heroin, and you couldn’t watch. You started looking at his friend. And the friend liked looking at you. And Gucek watched you looking at each other. And then he got real sad. And jumped out of the window.” Gypsy speaks calmly and quietly. “You didn’t even go to his funeral, so why are you fucking around telling everybody how awful it was?” Gypsy bares his teeth in a grin. With difficulty but with pleasure, too.
His face is different, I think. He looks like a caricature of himself.
Iga yanks the scissors from his leg. Blood splatters everywhere.
I scream, quietly, briefly. Iga, too, backs away. Gypsy doesn’t make a sound but presses his hands over the wound and starts to laugh.
From behind our backs comes a brief, rusty squeak. As though somebody was slowly, gently trying to open an old door.
The Institute Page 16