For me, the Etruscan culture, whatever that was, could exist or not. I cared very little about it so far. But not this time. This day, it had become extremely important to me, to the point that I turned on my heel and headed to the room where objects from this ancient civilization were exhibited. In the section of Egypt, I had little to say, while Lena spouted out names and pulled facts out of her sleeve, which made me slightly uncomfortable, so I decided to make up for my deficiencies next week. Young, handsome, intelligent, with a basic knowledge of Etruscan culture - this was what I was supposed to be next Sunday. Before I moved from my place, it seemed to me that I saw a light-coloured suit bound in the direction in which Lena left, and for a moment, I thought it was the Sicilian, but the man's face was not visible so I could be could be wrong.
***
The next week seemed to me mercilessly long. We started just another roof at the Rue de la Roquette. Before dismantling the old roof, we had to set the wooden platform along the existing roof gutter based on the brackets protruding from the windows of the highest floor. I walked through the gutter with the boards on my shoulder six floors high without any protection. The cars driving on the street somewhere below my feet were the size of matchboxes. Not the first time my earlier experience of working at a steel construction site in Warsaw proved helpful to me. Back then, I had to go even higher to make the site inspection, however, without the boards on my back.
After building the platform, a wooden skeleton was added above the roof in order to support the water resistant canvas. The one on de la Roquette street was in the color of bright azure.
Under this guard, we started the demolition of the old roof. At first, we took off the original covering built with slate and with an electric davit, we transported demolition material in buckets directly to the street. There, we laid it in a pile by the entrance gate or in the courtyard. After completion of the demolition, it was supposed to be transported to a garbage dump outside the city.
The work was hard and dangerous, but the incredible panorama of the roofs of Paris compensated for the risk, at least until the azure canvas was installed. We had a lot of work. The hours rushed forward like crazy. To me, however, my longing extended the time mercilessly. I had no idea how I was going to last until Sunday. All the time, Pasquale was yelling something to me in French, Italian and Spanish (his wife was Spanish). Fortunately, he didn’t speak Polish, but “kurwa macio” was heard after every other sentence. I was quietly doing my work because I did do not understand what he was yelling. The job was not very complicated, so we stayed in this strange Italian - Polish symbiosis. He was glad that he finally had a helper who did not talk back. I was glad that I did not understand his chatter and everything would have been fine if only Sunday was a little closer, if a time took pity on the poor heart of a Polish worker in a foreign land and ran a little faster.
In the evening, I embarked again on my favorite route: Boulevard Montparnasse, Rue de Rennes to St. Germain, the fountain at St. Michel and beyond, to the Latin Quarter, where I got a glass of red wine from one of the cafes I passed by, then farther and farther along boulevards with a head full of dreams. At the same time, I watched my steps well because I came up with the idea that it would be good to find a fat wallet with curled corners and wads of money squeezed with a red rubber band, lying on the sidewalk and waiting for me. And inside a lot of cash, the banknotes, exactly one hundred thousand francs. I did not know why I thought of this sum exactly. Maybe it was the largest amount of money I could imagine. And then, what? I knew the answer to that. I would take her straight to the French Riviera. We’d be living in one of those expensive hotels on the seashore, which I had seen in brochures, and sunbathe naked on the beaches.
Wait a little. There was no way I was going to let her strip naked when there were other guys around. Me, I could look. Rather, I must look, but not the others. No way.
And in the evenings, we could go to a disco or have dinner at a restaurant where they served “les fruits de mer”. A lot of such restaurants were also here, in Paris. In front of their entrance, on a slightly sloping countertop, was spilled crushed ice and over the ice, you could see the different kinds of fish displayed, as well lobsters and clams, and other stuff that you don’t even know. Even the oysters come in several types. To places like this, I would take her in the evenings, and after returning to the hotel, of course, we would order champagne in an ice bucket from room service, as in the movies. During those intoxicating nights, we would make love up until morning and through the open door of the balcony, we could hear the sounds of the accordion of the street musician playing his nightly serenades. Not bad, huh? All I had to do was go right down the street and watch under my feet carefully. After two or three hours of strolling, it turned out, however, that there was no wallet today waiting for me to discover so I walked to the nearest metro line and I returned to the station Gare de Montparnasse, scrambled up to my seventh floor without a lift and jumped on my couch, whacked but happy.
***
Finally, the eagerly awaited Sunday came. At half past ten, I walked around the square in front of the museum. It was the real Tower of Babel, the air filled with such a mixture of languages from all over the world, some of them easy to recognize, others not. I could even hear our national "o, kurwa" from far away.
Exactly at eleven o'clock, I saw her.
She approached with her unusual walk, which immediately made my heart beat faster. On her shoulder hung a small, white bag suspended on a long belt. She was keeping it close to her body with her left elbow and her every move seemed to be so easy, unforced and natural, with a finesse that could only be seen in some young women and animals.
She took my hand and let me kiss her on the cheek.
"We're good," I thought. "We’re beginning to make a progress."
Just as we decided on the previous Sunday, we started to look at the collection of objects representing the Etruscan culture. I was soon so damn bored with all those vases, cracked shells and necklaces that I forgot all about my earlier reconnaissance, while Lena, for the second time, showed good knowledge of the subject and explored the exhibits with a real interest.
“How do you know all this?” I asked, surprised.
“How?” she gave me a puzzled look. “It's simple. I studied art history at the Sorbonne.”
Well, as always, she had a simple explanation alright. At least for now. We wandered quite a long time among the antiques. I watched her furtively, timidly, wondering if one day she would be mine, when suddenly, I noticed that her face froze, taking on a different expression, some determinate concentration. I looked in the direction in which she was looking and saw him again. The Sicilian was hidden behind one display case so that he could watch us through the double glass. I had not noticed him before because instead of a suit, he was wearing gray trousers and a brightly colored shirt. By doing that, the rascal changed almost completely, but I had got him now. When we got out of the museum, I was going to drag him into some dark alley and with the old Warsaw custom, break his neck. But then I remembered Lena’s warnings. What if he really had a gun? If so, maybe the Warsaw way was not the best. I needed to go with something more.
“Why he’s following you?” I asked in a low voice. “Do you want me to chase him away? Or maybe we should call the police?”
She squeezed my hand tightly.
“Can you help me get rid of them? They watch my every step. I'm completely trapped, please!”
My heart was beating fast. In this her "please" was a request and a desperate cry at the same time. A stone would have shrugged, so much more the helper of an Italian roofer in a foreign country.
“Of course,” I spoke solemnly. “I'll take care of him.”
“No, not now. Next Sunday, I'll tell you more. Enough sightseeing for today. Anyway, I can see that you're not a fan of Etruscan art.”
“Indeed, I would prefer to see some paintings for a change.”
“Of course. Next Sunday, we will
visit the halls lined with European paintings. Happy now?”
This time, she allowed me to give her a goodbye kiss on each cheek and disappeared into the crowd, leaving with me the subtle scent of Chanel No. 5 and a considerable load of excitement. What the hell was going on here? Who was haunting her and why? How could such a thing happen in a free country?
And why didn’t she want to go to the police? Was she entangled with some spies or involved in some scandal? Maybe it was one of the networks from behind the Iron Curtain? Absolutely not. They had their own agents. They didn’t need to use the Southerners.
As I looked, the guy in the colourful shirt was no longer visible on the horizon. I left the Louvre courtyard on a sunny Parisian day.
***
Jarek and Sophie lived not far from my hotel. Jarek, the artist from Krakow, painted small pictures of the Parisian streets in a naive style - the shop windows with pots full of blooming geraniums, the views of Montmartre, Champs- Elysees in the pouring rain and on a bright, sunny day, Place Pigalle, of course, with the visible red windmill on the roof of the Moulin Rouge cabaret. From them, he had made a modest living for many years, as an artist should. He never made enough, but he always had some money for red wine and marijuana, two elements that an artist should never lack in Paris. Sophie was his muse. She gave him love and inspiration. With her beautiful body, she also served as his model whenever he suddenly felt like painting something ambitious. The whole of their tiny apartment was decorated with her portraits in which Parisian galleries were not interested. The cheap, commemorative view of Paris streets was something else. A tourist, upon his return home, hangs it on the wall just to remind him of his stay in Paris. And the true art? It is only good for dreamers. Very few painters are able to make a living from it.
We sat together on the couch in their chambre de bonne on the Rue d'Odessa on the sixth floor and exchanged awkwardly looking twists of marijuana. Sometimes, one of their friends came in and each of them as a rule wanted to have a smoke.
Smoking that stuff together made it more fun, hence the English name "joint". Together, we could proceed to have very philosophical discussions about the sense of life and existence, about our planet and the whole cosmos. The problem was that the discussions were conducted in French, so few of this I could understand but little damage was done. But the next day they also remembered little of yesterday's talks and every evening, they had to reinvent the wisdom of their life.
For the production of ”joint de Paris”, we needed a used ticket from the metro. It was a small piece of thin carton, which we rolled up like a strudel to make a mouthpiece, on the narrow end of which we rolled cigarette paper in the shape of an elongated funnel. Through the wider end, we placed the crushed leaves of weeds while compressing them with a match, then we turned the end of tissue and the joint was ready. In a similar way, we would prepare the twists of hashish. Hashish was a bit stronger than marijuana, its appearance, color and texture resembling a dried cow shit. Crushed and mingled with tobacco cigarettes, it was used to produce the same kind of joints.
Yet another product used by "artists" in order to elevate their inner self to higher levels of understanding was hashish oil. The dark, thick liquid that was used simply to spread over the regular cigarette from the outside and the joint was ready. This way, the ordinary cigarettes immediately become extraordinary. I called it the "poisoned cigarette" and I never liked this stuff too much. For me, "one good shot of vodka" drank customarily on the banks of Vistula river was the best reinforcement of my mind, but here, in Paris to not pass for a freak, I used these dirty tricks from time to time in “high society” circumstances.
In contrast to an ordinary cigarette, the smoking of this stuff was quite different. You had to inhale the smoke deeply into your lungs and keep it there for some time. After several seconds, you exhale, and you would get what you paid for, that strange feeling of timelessness. Yes, the time had changed its dimension, so at least I felt. It was like stopping time in place. Time was so close that I could almost touch it. Once, I could remember it even moving backwards.
I just returned from my friends after the meeting ended and I stopped at the intersection of boulevards Raspail and Montparnasse, waiting for the green light. When it finally came, I went on the pedestrian lane with a group of passers-by, slowly, slowly. Every time I was "on a high", I did everything very slowly, so at least I thought. Now, before I came to the sidewalk on the opposite side, I suddenly noticed that I was staying again in the same spot and waiting for the green light to come. It scared me a little. After returning to the hotel, I locked myself in my room and for the rest of that evening, I did not leave. Since then, I decided to be more careful. Too many zombies could be seen around the streets with a "haunted" appearance, their hair flying and their eyes filled with noting but emptiness. I didn’t want to become one of them.
***
Meetings with my friends filled my afternoons on the days preceding the next Sunday Until finally, I lived long enough to see the highly anticipated Sunday morning.
I dressed up in my new stretch shirt, "Polo" made of 100% nylon, which I bought previously on the street stand. It was in a light blue color, same as the hue of the Parisian sky as seen from the repaired roof when the weather was nice and when the night wind just cleared the car exhaust smog in the air. Dressed up, I checked my appearance in my dark, spotty mirror hanging on the wall. It was not bad. From between the spots, a brave Parisian roofer (in the mirror you could not see that he was only a helper) looked at me, my blue "Polo" shirt looked as if it was bought yesterday from a Warsaw Pewex store.
I left my apartment confident and proud of my classy appearance. At the bottom floor, I said bonjour to the concierge, putting in my welcome greeting all of the Parisian accent I possessed. I walked on foot, not hurriedly. I had a lot of time. Along the way, I absorbed the smells of coffee and fresh croissants from the cafe doors left ajar.
"Why not enter one and join them for a cup of coffee?" The thought flashed through my mind.
"No," I answered myself immediately as usual in such cases. If I could smell it, that must suffice. Besides, it might yet happen that Lena and I would go somewhere together. Finally, after the visit in the Louvre, we could go somewhere. It will be our fourth meeting, after all, and in the end she will have to decide on something. The platonic love in our current relationship was probably not for me. I had no idea how to eat it.
Today, we arrived at exactly the same time, almost bumping into each other. She kissed me on the mouth and immediately pulled my hand toward the entrance, before I even had time to react.
“Today, we are seeing the European paintings, remember?” she exclaimed cheerfully.
I was pleased that she remembered. It was actually the only department of the museum that interested me. Really, I could spend hours there gazing at the hundreds of these extraordinary pieces of canvas, which until then, I had only known from reproductions in albums and photos in newspapers. Now, I could see them all with my own eyes, within reach. I experienced moments when I could not resist, so I waited a long time in front of the painting of one of my favorite masters until no one was looking and touched the canvas quickly, furtively. At the time, I felt a shiver of excitement as if I had touched the hand that painted the picture. If you were an artist, you would understand what I meant.
Touring one room than another, we got to the Hall of Rubens. His fundamental works of enormous size frightened me as always with the enormity of naked bodies. I was wondering if - and surely I was not alone in my wondering - I'd like to find myself in the bed of one of those beauties and decided in the end that probably not. Still, my life is precious for me. I prefer ordinary girls, graceful and slender like...Where was she? Somewhere, I seemed to have lost her. Looking into the unearthly beauties, I had let her out of my sight. I ran now from one hall to the other in search of my treasure. I found it at last.
She stood in the middle of one hall without moving, staring at the
large painting hanging on the wall. When I got closer, I noticed that she was really scared, the features of her face were stiff and I saw the tears on her cheeks. It frightened me also. What had happened to her?
I knew the painting well. I had stood in front of it more than once and each time, it aroused in me mixed feelings of fear and pity. This was, of course, Theodore Gericault’s painting entitled "The Raft of the Medusa". The painting depicted the true story from the Napoleonic era wherein the Captain of the vessel named "Medusa" left the sinking ship with the officers, leaving its passengers to certain death. Those managed to rig up a wooden raft and an army frigate that happened to be miraculously passing by rescued a small handful of them. The artist in his canvas presented that exact moment. The despair depicted on the faces of the survivors mingled with fear and hope was so aptly expressed that very few people passed by indifferently.
As the legend went, Gericault sketched the faces for this work in an asylum where he could find the most interesting characters.
Lena grabbed my arm tightly. Her hand was cold, so cold. She began to back away, all the while staring at the horrific painting hanging on the wall. I drew back step by step behind her without understanding.
Finally, she started to say something while still staring at the canvas. I leaned closer to her to understand what she was saying: “I don’t want to go there. I do not like the water. Take me from there, please. Take me...” I took her in my arms, pressing her firmly to me. Her whole body was trembling and for a moment, I felt myself trembling as well. After a while, she calmed down and pushed me off a little bit.
“I'm sorry,” she said at last. “I broke down. It will pass. Anyway, I always react like that at the sight of that image.”
Candlelight Stories Page 24