They’re all people with big names. Do young, less fashionable journalists ever get the chance to interview you?
It’s not about names. I’ve been burned by a few of them, too. One guy called me, asked me about the tour, the band, and the album, and then an article appeared about me showing off at parties. I am not going to make the same mistake again. As a rule, I avoid the glossy media. Their journalists like to camouflage themselves and pose as somebody else.
But they still call you?
Some time ago, a woman from one of the TV breakfast shows called me. I think that’s what they are called. These shows where they broadcast lifestyle bullshit and speculate on who sleeps with who.
Right …
Yeah, so she called me. It was spring, the end of March, and she wanted me to appear on the April Fools’ Day episode of the show. I was supposed to smile to the camera and make this bad joke that I’m actually done with metal and that I’m soon to record a new reggae record or some other bullshit.
Suffice to say, I kindly declined. But she wouldn’t let go. She kept calling me.
Eventually I told her that I would do it if they met my conditions. I came up with some stupid ideas on the spot: that I wanted to be naked on air, wearing only an American flag, and I wanted a bunch of altar boys dressed as SS soldiers singing the anthem of the Vatican.
Did she give up at that point?
Two hours later, she called me and said that the producer was delighted with my idea. I baled.
But you did appear on these shows a couple of times?
Twice, to be exact. The first time was right after I left hospital. I promoted bone-marrow donation for the German Bone Marrow Donation Centre (DKMS). And the other time, I had promised an appearance to the producers of The Voice Of Poland. It was a gentlemen’s agreement, and I always fulfil my duties.
Do you get any financial benefit from appearing in these programmes? And we don’t mean the one where you promoted leukaemia awareness.
No. At least I have never asked for any fees. I do my best to avoid such things, though. I don’t feel the need to publicly vivisect myself in front of two million viewers at seven in the morning.
Right. You appear on the air much later in the day, probably because you swear a lot.
Swear words are a part of our language. Everyone uses them. They’re like exorcisms; they let the bad energy out. Sometimes they stress an important message. But one has to know how to curse.
I’ve got this friend in Olsztyn; her name is Monika. She’s the world champion in cursing. All those bad words sound like a symphony in her mouth. They’re like chives in perfect scrambled eggs. They just have to be there.
It’s worse when someone does not know how to swear. You meet girls like that. Their volleys of abuse make your ears wither. They do it very mechanically, with absolutely no grace whatsoever. I look at them, hear what they say, and in my head there is only one thought: ‘For fuck’s sake …’
‘Nergal caused another scandal!’ ‘Nergal faked orgasms!’ Do you read articles like that?
One in twenty. For entertainment. I prefer serious media.
Entertainment is one thing, but articles like that constantly show up on the internet. Doesn’t that irritate you?
It rather tires me. I don’t get pissed easily.
And when the media says that you are in hospital again?
There was an article like that some time ago. That was too much. My phone kept ringing, and my friends and colleagues wanted to know if I was OK. I had to explain to everyone for two days that I was alive and well.
You also made a statement saying that the whole of Poland was dumb because they read this bullshit and believed what tabloids say.
The reaction was consistent with the information. In situations like that, there’s no point in playing the diplomat.
Some people were offended, though.
The ones who were are stupid.
Do you like to provoke people like that?
I like provoking strong emotions. It makes people think.
And do you read the comments made about you on the internet?
Never. Why would I need that? The internet gives you anonymity. I don’t know the authors of these opinions; I don’t know what they stand for, and I have no idea why they write it. I can take harsh criticism from a friend of mine. I don’t get offended. But from some strange guy who has never met me? What can he possibly know about my life?
We’ll cite a few for you. They’re from an article about your second hospital visit:
‘Thank you dear lord, I always believed in you and I always will, and thank you for listening to me’
‘You fucker Nergal asshole, die and rot in hell, prick’
‘Let this Lucifer die’
‘He had it coming, he should have a relapse, this would cure his brain’
‘Where is this fucker, I’ll visit him with Pavulon’ (one of the drugs used in lethal injection).
A beautiful example of Christ’s love in a nutshell. It’s like that every time. I don’t have to read these opinions to know what I can find in them. Half of these people would happily send me to the moon; the other half will send priests there. The internet is so very predictable.
‘This Nergal guy is cool, I like him, but why does he fight God?’ People express opinions like that, too.
And I hear them all the time. I don’t have to go online to do it. I just need to walk down the street.
Do people recognise you in the streets?
It happens. Usually they’re very nice, actually.
And what does Nergal tell them? Why does he fight God so much?
I don’t get into discussions. I keep calm. I always thank everyone for their good words and I shake their hands and keep walking. I know that people’s view of me is completely distorted. The computer or the TV screen—these are false mirrors. They lie. I’m not talking exclusively about my appearance in pictures or on the TV. I mean the full image of a human being. People have a problem because the media paint me as a ‘vulgar Satanist’ and make a monster out of me. Then, on the other hand, they present a nice guy who will tell a joke here, cite a philosopher there—a guy who smiles nicely and kisses ladies on their palms.
And what is he really like?
He likes to stir things up. So he also likes this media disharmony in his image. He doesn’t want to straighten it out.
Aren’t you afraid that, one day, people will want to lynch you for stirring things up?
I’m not made of glass. I’ve been punched in the face a few times. But I don’t think anybody would want to lynch me, at least not literally.
‘Hitler was nice to his close ones, too.’ That’s how Marcin Meller, former chief editor of the Polish Playboy, replied to Malgosia Domagalik and Zbyszek Holdys, who defended you from the attacks by the conservative media and claimed that you are a nice and kind guy. Did that hurt?
It made me laugh. A guy who publishes a magazine with naked chicks in it should have a more liberal attitude toward reality, shouldn’t he? I will not insult him in public; I will just say that he is not credible in my eyes anymore. Nevertheless, this whole situation turned out well for me. I ended up being in a movie because of it!
As Hitler?
Close. A few days after this wretched TV show, I accidentally met the film director Juliusz Machulski and his wife, Ewa, in Warsaw. They were walking out of their tenement, they recognised me, smiled at me, and we started talking. We went for lunch together and spent a few hours discussing life, the media, and our favourite TV shows. At one point—just when Machulski commented on the situation with Meller—Ewa asked me to turn my head to the right, and then she said, ‘Julek, look, he would make for a perfect Ribbentrop.’ And I was offered a role in a movie: a comedy about Nazis.
Did you know Machulski previously?
We had only exchanged a few texts. When my interview for Newsweek was published, I got a message: ‘Mr Darski, my heart grows when I see young Poles
thinking like Gombrowicz, not Sienkiewicz—Juliusz Machulski.’ I was speechless. I quickly replied to him and asked if it was the Juliusz Machulski. He assured me it was, and he invited me for a coffee.
You were serious about playing a part in a movie?
I’ve had offers like that before. But they were usually for bad-guy roles in horror movies. That would be just too predictable. It would be a much bigger challenge for me to play someone I don’t really relate to. To play a Nazi, a zealot, or a priest—now that would be something. My old friend Bartek Krysiuk, when he found out about the movie, told me I was headed straight to Cannes. I wrote back to say that a Golden Raspberry Award was much more likely.
Do you get offers for roles in commercials?
I do. I did a commercial for an energy drink once. But that was an exception, because a beautiful idea stood behind it: I could support the DKMS Foundation, which did a lot for me. This way, too, I’m repaying my debt to them. And I plan to do it until the end of my life, because it’s thanks to DKMS that I still have it.
Did you take any money for the commercial, or did you give everything to the foundation?
There are details of that contract that I can’t disclose, so I will hold my tongue on that subject. For me, something else is important: the fact that business can carry with it some altruistic values. I give my face to a company, and thanks to that, a percentage of every drink goes to people who really need it—not to bums who will just buy more booze but instead to the people who, if they live, may enrich the world. Besides, there is a message here: there are never too many donors. This kind of information goes out to my fans, and each of them is a potential donor.
CHAPTER XI
OUR EARTHLY EDEN
Are you a hedonist?
I’d like to think so.
But you don’t look like a glutton.
Are you suggesting I look malnourished? Unfortunately, I can’t cook. I can only make scrambled eggs. It’s a narrow specialisation, granted, but one that I’ve truly mastered.
Do you like to eat?
Definitely, yes. But I put quality ahead of quantity. That’s the philosophy I came up with. Or, rather, I borrowed it from a wise man who once said that we are what we eat. I have even expanded this motto to fit other aspects of life. We are what we watch, we are who we love, we are what we listen to; we become what we spend time with.
So you’re rather picky?
It comes with time. When we’re young, we absorb everything, and we eat whatever they give us. That’s normal. A young body needs fuel and doesn’t care what it puts in its mouth. Selectiveness comes with age.
When did yours come?
It’s still coming, gradually. I still discover and grow it. I think it’s the best thing that maturity brings to you. We’re talking about food, but it really applies to every aspect of life. Friendships, women, music, art …
I’ll give you an example—a very simple one. I’m a coffee lover. I absolutely love caffeine. The taste and aroma of this beverage is one of the most wonderful things in the world. For years, I had been a fan of large and sweet coffees: milk, sugar, caramel, and other flavours. I would pour these inside myself all the time. But eventually I had enough. Nowadays I will occasionally consume a calorie-bomb like that, but only very sporadically. I found the real taste of coffee behind all that sugar. I started experimenting. I tried out different types of coffee, and I tried different methods of making it. Sometimes I use an espresso machine, sometimes a French press; sometimes I mix different kinds of coffee, and you know what? I taste the difference every time. Coffee does not have to be large and sweet anymore, it can be stronger, and it can have just a little bit of milk.
A coffee purist would consider even a little bit of milk a sacrilege.
I don’t go to extremes; I’m not a purist. Besides, a bit of sacrilege is good for you. I know that from my own experience.
Are you addicted to coffee?
Before I went to hospital, I couldn’t imagine a single day without a large, sweet coffee. The milk-free diet was the worst for me.
No milk was the worst thing for you?
Leukaemia and culinary adventures do not go hand in hand. They told me that I couldn’t eat any fried food for the next few months. I thought, ‘OK, it’s not a tragedy, I don’t eat fried food that often anyway.’ But when they told me that I couldn’t enjoy my favourite daily caramel macchiato, I realised that I really had a problem.
The first days were hard. With time, my body withdrew from caffeine, and I got used to not having it. I missed coffee but I didn’t need it.
Didn’t you break at any point?
There were occasions when I could drink coffee, but only without milk. I would then ask my friend to bring me soymilk, and I added it to my caffeine beverages. It tasted awful, but I was content, anyway, because I knew that soon I wouldn’t even be able to drink even this kind of coffee. I was still on a milk-free diet: barren, boiled food with no spice. It was all about not overloading the liver, which was heavily bashed after each round of chemo. When I got chemo, my diet was even more restrictive.
When you recovered, did you go mad for milk again?
I reintroduced it gradually into my diet. A large, sweet coffee became part of life again. But I started re-evaluating some things. I felt that pouring half a litre of a sweet liquid into my body was pointless—particularly as I don’t really like other sweet drinks. I changed and I like that change.
So it’s not just about coffee?
No, it isn’t. I like making authoritarian judgments, and I like claiming that there are things in life I would never touch. But I do realise that these are only words. In a year or two or ten I will probably try this or that thing out. It’s almost certain that I will. Changes are inscribed in my life. Mystery is, too. I get a boost from what is just around the corner.
So the culinary gusto in Nergal does not exist?
It does, but only for the day. The acquisition of gusto—like everything in life—is a process. It’s evolving all the time. Some people don’t accept it and they draw a map for themselves. They put it in their reality and they’re surprised when, a few years later, something is not right. I do exactly the opposite—I enjoy the fact that everything flows. I compare it to the biblical apple …
You’re quite drawn to the Bible aren’t you?
But it’s really a good comparison. There’s the story about the apple of knowledge—of good and evil. I interpret this story in such a way that reaching for the apple means resignation from a regular and unchangeable system of meanings. In such a system, everything has its place and value. Nothing changes, not even by a millimetre. That kind of fun is not for me. I choose the change, the movement, and the riddle.
So you take the apple, and then what?
And then we have the smorgasbord. Imagine if you ate the same balanced dinner every day. It’s not as if it’s bad at all. It’s an old, traditional recipe, tried from generation to generation and deeply rooted in tradition. Meat, salads, and spices—everything your body needs is there. There are vitamins, carbohydrates, and proteins.
The first time you eat it, it’s delightful; the second time, it’s delicious; the third time, you revel in the harmony of taste. But what do you feel when you eat it for the ninety-third time? Now imagine that you are to eat the same dish until the day of your death. Each day it’s the same, made in the same pot. Do you like that vision? I don’t. I want to decide what to put on my plate.
And what if somebody chooses your favourite salad? Will you reach onto his plate and take it?
Why not? I often take delicious bites from other people’s plates.
And when somebody tries to take something from your plate? Do you growl at him?
I treat him to it. Of course I don’t run around restaurants stealing food from people, and I don’t just toss my food to everyone in the room, either. But when I’m with friends, it’s natural for each one of us to share our food both ways. It’s actually beautiful. Wh
en we’re on tour with the band, we always order so that everyone can taste everything. Instead of one pork chop, everyone has four smaller but different dishes.
Do you eat a lot?
I eat enough to live through the day and have enough strength to do all that I do. And I do a lot.
So you eat to live, not live to eat?
I eat to eat, but enough to live. People tend to go to extremes. Pleasure or energy? I choose both options in one package.
You never overeat?
Overeating is our national tradition. We tend to eat hearty lunches and square dinners. We don’t eat anything the whole day, and then we get an XXL-sized plate. It took me a while to abandon that kind of lifestyle, but I’ve been eating in a different way for years. I eat often, but not a lot. And I don’t believe in myths. It’s not a problem to eat after midnight as long as it’s not bread with sausage. In the evenings I will go for snacks like vegetables, fruit, and yoghurts. During the day, on the other hand, I try to eat foods that will give me energy, so dishes containing carbohydrates and proteins. I also eat a lot of fish.
What about red meat?
No more than two or three times a week. But it’s difficult to generalise. Sometimes I don’t eat meat for three weeks and sometimes I just feel I need it. Sometimes it’s an impulse. I walk by the butcher’s and suddenly I feel like eating a turkey. That’s the way it works.
You don’t have any ideological reasons, though?
I’m a predator. When someone tells me they don’t eat meat because it’s not right to hurt animals, I don’t understand it. But I wouldn’t eat a dog, or a horse, because a horse, to me, is like a dog.
And a pig isn’t?
Confessions Of A Heretic: The Sacred And The Profane: Behemoth And Beyond Page 21