“Tatiana Zaharova
His daughter...”
Tatiana… It was a strange coincidence, but as it happens, hallucinations often mingle with reality. Much about it was written recently, especially in the U.S.A., where a lot of studies were done on the effects of substances such as LSD or marijuana on the human brain. The popular movement of "Flowers Children" had not yet ended in California, and from there it reached us here, but in a very miserable form, as the drugs were not available in communist Poland, even on the black market.
I moved on. This time, nothing jumped out from beyond the grave, the morning silence was disturbed only by the chirping of birds. I went to the chapel. My notebook was lying politely on the top step. I bent down to pick it up, and suddenly I noticed something in the tall grass, across the stone steps. I walked over and picked up a small, lady’s parasol with a long handle. The cat's head shaped into a knob at the end of it smiled at me cheerfully. So, it was not a hallucination? She really was here last night?
My head started to ache. And what to do with the umbrella? Leave it here? Someone might take it. I went back to the dorm carrying the umbrella under my arm. Luckily, my roommates had left for the university, so I avoided awkward questions. I put the umbrella, straight in my clothes locker and also left to my classes.
***
In the evening, after classes, I waited for my roommates to leave so that I could take out the umbrella from the closet. That opportunity never came, however. They sat at the table and played bridge with "grandfather" - an imaginary fourth player. I do not play bridge. Somehow, I was never interested in playing cards. I took out my notebook from the drawer of my bedside table and left the room. It was more or less the same time as yesterday when I left the building. If she didn’t show up, maybe I could manage to write something. I walked slowly, casually, kicking fallen leaves on the road, but it was just a show of indifference. My heart was pounding louder and louder with every step, and when I crossed the gate, I began to fear that the sound of it would wake-up those poor souls spending their last slumber here.
I sat down again, just like yesterday, on the third step from the bottom and opened the book. Igor showed up immediately. Again, it cost me a “cuckoo”. (Luckily, I had a couple more of them in store.) I looked at my first page and read aloud:
"In this quiet autumn evening"...
“In this quiet…” Someone repeated my words in a singsong voice.
She stood next to me, coming out of nowhere, without any sound or announcement.
I composed myself and quickly closed the book.
“You write poetry?” she asked with a hint of jealousy in her voice. “I also wrote once, but I lost it, as I have lost everything I had.”
“Is your name Tatiana Zaharowa?” I asked suddenly.
She sat next to me in the same place where she sat yesterday.
“Yes, it's my name. You've probably seen the tomb? Peter Ivanovich, he is my father. He was the commander of the garrison of the tsarist army here, in Plock. When he was promoted to Major-General, they gave him this position. It was a very important institution. The garrison had to defend Warsaw against the attack of the Prussian army. Mazowsze belonged to the Congress Kingdom. When we came here, my mother was already dead, I remember her a little. She is buried in one of the cemeteries near Moscow. My father and my governess, Mme. Rosalie, raised me. She taught me French and Russian. Polish unfortunately she didn’t know, so soon after our arrival here, she packed her belongings and returned to France. Then, Father hired a Polish governess, Cecilia. She taught me to speak Polish. I thought that we were still in Russia. I could not understand then why people here spoke a different language, and why we were not liked here, which I noticed quite quickly. It was Cecilia, who explained everything to me. I learned a lot from her, not only to speak Polish.”
I noticed that as she spoke, Tatiana tried slightly to touch my left elbow with her right. I felt nothing, although I wanted to so much.
“Too early, ” she said sadly. “You still don’t believe in my existence.”
Today, she was wearing a dark gown, which was as equally long as yesterday’s, reaching almost to the ground. Lace booties adorned her feet, all those garments that seemed taken from the theatre dressing room.
“Where do you get such beautiful clothes?” I asked. “I have not seen anything like this in any store.”
“I have a closet full of them. Did you bring my parasol with you?”
“No, I left it in the dorm. Why do you use a parasol in the evening?”
“For the sentiment. It is a gift from Julian. Please return it to me on Monday if you could. I need to get it back.”
We agreed that I would do so on the following Monday. She did not tell me why not before, as if she only had “days off” during the week. Perhaps these meetings drained her strength and she needed time to regenerate it. She tried to touch my hand in farewell, but again nothing came of it, so she sent me like yesterday a kiss through the air and walked away into the darkness with Igor following her every step.
I stayed still in place for a moment, pondering my strange situation. What was my reason for coming to meet with someone who was not really there? What the hell was it?
Ah, yes. It was because she attracted me with her unearthly beauty more than I could express in words. But could I lavish her with kisses made of air? She said that when I believe in her, I'd feel her. But how could one believe in something that does not exist? After all, I was studying to become an engineer, and for such people, only material things count. Everything else does not matter.
So, what was I writing my poems for? Because I am a romantic, incurable. Well, I had not exactly written anything at all except for this one, naive line. I lowered my eyes, opened the notebook and once again read yesterday's scribbling:
"In this quiet autumn evening
I would like to feel your warmth... "
I was dumbfounded. I did not recall writing anything like the second line. And anyway, it was written in clearly different handwriting; delicate equal letters. Could she have done it? Impossible. The whole time we were together, I didn’t detach my eyes from her. I was even devouring her with my gaze, which was all I could since I was not allowed to touch her. I was looking at her like crazy. I couldn’t help it. Now, I felt very uneasy. I really did not know what to do. Maybe I should extricate myself quickly from this mysterious story in which I had suddenly been immersed, but at the same time, I knew that I could not. I had already sunk into it all the way to the ears, and I did not have the slightest intention of retreating.
More than that, I knew that I would do anything she asked of me. I had fallen deeply into this sweet trap from which there was no simple way to run, a captive through and through.
***
Studying at the Plock Branch of the Polytechnic of Warsaw had at that time a huge advantage: Saturdays off. Professors and their assistants arrived from Warsaw on Sunday evening in a special coach and returned to the capital on Friday evening. That meant we had Saturdays and Sundays free. Sometimes, we managed to get to Warsaw with the professors if there were, of course, free seats. We just had to give the driver a tip and the matter was settled. But these two free days away from the rigors of every household had their own special charm. After we got to know the city, which as we learned had two movie theatres and several restaurants and cafes, we quickly worked out everything. One cafe we especially liked more than the others. It was called "Sunshine" and was located on the slope of the high, Vistula river escarpment, from where stretched a beautiful view of the queen of Polish rivers flowing below.
Once, I made friends with one of the students from my college. Her name was Barbara Wolska and she was a native from Plock. Here she was born, went to "Malachowianka" school and finally, began her studies at the same time as me and in the same department. She was a redhead and pretty, and she had freckles on her nose. Baska - as we called her - was not a girlfriend. Rather, she was a pal. She walked with us
for a beer, cursing like us and it was better not to mess with her. Nothing was personal between us (at least, not yet then). Yes, once she tried to rape me, this is truth, after drinking a bottle of cheap wine, but I tore away. I asked the other day what made her crazy. She answered that she got bored with being a virgin and found me just at hand.
So I told her to pick another guy in our group. We were about 25 people, mostly guys. She replied that it had to be me, because they all had dandruff and did not brush their teeth.
From that day on, I knew that I had to be careful. I still liked her (perhaps even more), but I had to be on guard. Such amours were not in my head then. My heart was occupied with other matters.
There we were, in the "Sunshine", Baska and I, drinking our fill of beer. It was nice talking to her, as if we had known each other forever, and not just for a few weeks.
“You know what?” she said. “I have at home some good mushrooms; we can fry them, as my folks are not there. They went to Warsaw and will come back only tomorrow.”
“And you will not be trying to fuck me?”
“Not yet. I’ll wait until you wise up.”
The proposal was not to be rejected. After two bottles of beer, I was a little hungry and the mushrooms smelled like crazy in my imagination.
Baska lived in a big old house on the street called Tumska. According to her, the house belonged to her family for generations, her father having described the history of his earlier ancestors.
When we walked in, she went immediately to the kitchen to cook the mushrooms and I looked around curiously as I stood in the large living room full of old furniture and family memorabilia.
After a while, the smell of fried mushrooms filled my hungry senses. Baska went into the room, with a hot frying pan and a roll of newspaper in her hands. She laid the newspaper on the carpet and placed the pan on top of it. Then she handed me a fork.
“Oh, my folks would give me a scolding if they saw how I treat my visitors” she said. “When they're not around I always do what is not allowed. That is my greatest pleasure in this damned house.”
We ate the hot mushrooms straight from the pan, squatting on both sides of it. The mushrooms were great. We flushed them down with water "straight from the tap" as Baska announced proudly - probably, that was also prohibited.
Suddenly, the fork fell out of my hand. I jumped up and quickly walked over to the wall opposite where I was sitting.
On the wall hung a few old photos in sepia tone. One of them caught my attention. In it, four people stood in the town park next to a large flowerbed - two young couples. The ladies wore bright clothes, so long they reached the ground, while the gentlemen - sporty, summer suits. From one of these figures I could not take off my eyes. It was, after all, Tatiana.
“I know her!” I cried involuntarily. “It is Tatiana!”
“You're the loco” laughed Baska. “They have all been dead for long, a hundred years, maybe more.”
But a mistake was out of the question. I'd have recognized this face anywhere, and moreover, Tatiana kept in her hand a parasol. The photo was not too clear, but I was sure that what I saw at the end of its handle was a cat head held upside down.
“Wait! I'll be back” I cried and rushed to the door.
“If you leave, I’ll devour all the mushrooms” threatened Baska.
I came back in half an hour with the Tatiana's umbrella under my arm.
“Look,” I cried, spreading it out. It was indeed identical to the one in the picture. I also noticed that in the photograph, Tatiana was wearing the same dress as the one she had when I first saw her, the one with a high bow pinned in. Baska looked at the parasol, then at me, then at the photograph, then looked at all three of us again over and over. For once, she was utterly speechless, not knowing what to say.
“No, it can’t be the same one. Perhaps there are more umbrellas like this - she said carefully when she finally found her voice. “But why did you say her name is Tatiana?”
“I told you that I know her.”
“And I told you that you are loco. All these people? They are ancient history.”
“I know, but I know her like I know you, maybe just a little less. Why would I make things up? Anyway, where could I have taken her umbrella from? Wait, who are the people in the photograph anyway?”
“The one on the right is the grandfather of my father, and his wife. The one on the left, his brother. I know that he was lost somewhere in Siberia, having allegedly conspired against the Tsar. As for the chick next to him, I have no idea. I never asked.”
Standing next to Tatiana, the young man had a handsome face, hair parted in the middle of his head. In one hand, he kept light leather gloves, in the other a black cane with a monogrammed silver handle. The letters were not readable.
“I think I saw that stick somewhere in the attic” said Baska “but that silver monogram, I cannot remember what the letters there are.”
“ I know. Those are the letters JW, Julian Wolski.”
“Come on,” she said. “There is an old suitcase over there. I remember that’s where I saw the stick. If it is indeed JW, I will take back what I said about you being nuts.”
Both of us moved to the attic. Fortunately, the electric bulb there was working.
In a heap of dusty junk, Baska found, in fact the suitcase that she was talking about. I felt my heart beat faster as she opened the lid. Among the old papers and junk we saw a cane with a silver handle lying inside. Attached to the timber were two silver letters - JW.
Baska looked at me with a strange expression.
“Fine. I will keep my word,” she said. “You're not nuts. You're a real, normal, ordinary madman. The biggest I've ever met in my life. You should give autographs around.”
I asked Baska if she could loan me Julian’s cane for a few days. Of course, she agreed, but under one condition - that I would explain everything to her.
She heated up the rest of the mushrooms (she didn’t eat them as warned) and we finished them together. I told her the whole story then, or almost all of it. I skipped my poetry and left out all that I felt for Tatiana. In the end, that was my private business. Baska listened without interrupting and I saw that she actually believed in what I was saying. Someone else probably would not have believed. I myself would not have believed it probably, but for her, it was all possible as she was herself a little crazy. And that was probably the biggest reason why I liked her.
“I'm a little jealous of this Tatiana woman, ” she said. “I do not know why, but somehow I feel crazy about you.”
“What are you? Jealous of Tatiana? But she does not exist anymore.”
“Maybe not, and maybe yes. That remains to be seen. But I will not let her steal you from me. With whom will I go for a beer to ‘Sunshine’ cafe? Anyway, it is the only advantage that I have with you, but better this than nothing. You know what? I'll try to learn something from my old man about Julian. Who knows? Maybe his grandfather told him something about it.”
We agreed to meet the next day in the amphitheater. Meanwhile, I looked again at the old photograph on the wall, took the umbrella of Tatiana, Julian’s cane and returned late in the evening to the dorm.
***
Amphitheater was the name for the slightly recessed area in the shape of a crescent on the banks of the Vistula river. In the middle of it was a small stage, a few rows of seats arranged along an arc facing the Vistula with its beautiful view, an ideal place for outdoor performances. We sat next to each other looking into the distance. On the other the side of the river we could see the buildings of Radziwie.
Baska was eating an apple, which she had lifted from a street stall we passed along the way. I waited until she was finished with the apple, I was sure that she had something interesting to say, and that she was playing a game with me, a cat and mouse game. She ate especially slowly, and from time to time, looked at me askance, as if something was wrong about me. Finally, she finished her apple, and tossed the apple cor
e away, into the bushes.
“My old man knows little, ” she said. “Only what you have said. It is the oldest photograph in our house, maybe one of the oldest in the city.”
“It's actually quite old” I agreed.
“But I discovered something more. In the same suitcase were several letters that Julian wrote from exile to his brother. He didn’t write why he was sent to Siberia. He probably could not, as the letters had so many stamps of censorship. Everything must have been checked thoroughly. I have learned from them, however, that he was engaged to Tatiana and it was just before the wedding that he was exiled to Siberia on charges of conspiracy. Some Black Vasyl, a tsarist captain, accused him. When they took him, Tatiana poisoned herself, and her father's orderly, Igor, killed Vasyl. So much resulted from these few letters, I tell you, the real drama in the old edition. When are you going to see her? I'm coming with you.”
“Next week” I lied smoothly. I knew that if I told tell her the truth, she would come regardless of my protests so it was easier this way. Baska looked at me and from her gaze, I was not sure if she believed me or not, but she said nothing. On our way, back from the amphitheater, she once again stole an apple from one of the booths. I wanted to pay for it, but she would not let me. She said that a paid apple tasted differently. We parted on Tumska street. After few meters I had turned, I asked:
“Will you ever be an adult?”
“Will you marry me then?”
“I’ll be married to the lady, not to a scamp who steals apples” I replied.
Immediately I got an apple core on my head. I tried to catch her to drub her skin, but in vain. She was too fast.
***
Monday, the Locksmiths went to the movies to "Spring" theatre on Tumska street. They were playing "The Great Escape" with Steve McQueen. Damn, I wanted to see that movie. But I had of course other attractions planned for the evening. I took Tatiana’s parasol, Julian’s cane and my notebook, and carrying all of them, I left the room. After a while, I went back and took from my drawer a few "cuckoo" candies. I need not say why. The evening was warm and friendly. I walked slowly and my excitement grew with each step. What would happen to me today? What could be waiting for me behind that gate? Everything has its purpose, after all. Nothing happens without a reason, so the world is constructed.
Candlelight Stories Page 2