“And why do you want to live here?”
“I asked my question first.”
“Then answer mine first.”
“Okay. I ran away from home.”
“Don’t be silly. You ran away? But you are… so old.”
“Elders also need a bit of freedom. Now, it's your turn.”
“No one used to live here,” she told him. “This room was empty. I wanted to see if it had stopped raining. From this window, you can see the sky better. Well, I'm going to get dressed before I offend you completely.” She turned and left, shaking her shapely bottom like a real woman.
Henry stepped down from the bed and began to unpack his suitcase.
Not that there was much to unpack. Just a bit of clothes, pyjamas, toiletries, linen, towel and... the most important thing: a thick, A4-size notebook with a hundred pages and a Waterman fountain pen.
This pen was the only item he had bought on his own as a gift to himself without consulting with Teresa. For a long time, he had seen the pen on display at the consignment store on Bracka street. He stopped by this window every time he returned home after work. It was one of the few stores in Warsaw that sold mostly articles of western origin, some second-hand and some new. The display window of the store was like a glimpse through the iron curtain, through which you could see not too much, but always a little. It was like a look at a piece of yard of the Rotten West. Most of the exhibited goods came here, of course, from parcels sent from Western Europe by people family members. Some were brought by those "privileged" few who managed to obtain a passport and see a piece of the free world.
There were all these goods exposed behind the thick glass, beautifully arranged, with price tags that made one’s brain spin. And every object came from "over there", this vast land of fairy tales, which was beginning behind the Berlin wall, next door almost from here. But the gate through this wall was covered in barbed wire and guarded by armed men with German shepherd dogs. It was better not to approach. Moreover - what for? The goods on display at the consignment store were available to all and free of charge to look at. This was exactly what Henryk was doing one afternoon when he saw this pen. The black, shiny object lay in its elegant box and he thought: “Why not?” It was, after all, a wonderful gift that he could buy for himself on the occasion of his retirement. It would be nice to have something he could call entirely his own, even just once.
The pen cost dearly, more than six hundred zloty. It was a quarter of his monthly salary as an official, but he had collected some money furtively over the years. It was somehow enough. When, finally, the long-awaited day came, and Henry left work for the last time in his life, he made his way immediately to the consignment store. The pen was still lying on display, elegant and shiny black with its golden rings, inviting him inside the store. He went in with a wildly beating heart, and after a few minutes, he became the proud owner of a real Waterman fountain pen with a golden nib with an iridium ball at the end that never rubbed off. He looked at the pen again in the light of the street lamp, once again taking it out of its oblong box. Then again, he put it back. No other official in his department had such a pen. Not even the manager. Who had a pen like this? Maybe only the President of company himself, nobody else.
And on this day, Henryk at last had something for himself, something of which he was very proud. For the first time in his life, he felt important, appreciated by fate. He was really happy. Since the day of his wedding to Teresa, he had lived in the apartment, which belonged to her parents, sat at their table, farted on their padded chairs. Teresa, a renowned communist party member and a feisty woman, attained a major position in the Ministry of Interior Trade, while he was only able to reach the level of a senior clerk and his salary was only a small addition to their household budget. It did not even upset Teresa so much as she understood that not everyone was as intelligent from birth as she was, after all. What rather drove her mad was that he did not even try to go higher. He sat in the same office and at the same desk for thirty years and he was fine with it. That she had never been able to understand. And when the time finally came that he was offered the post of deputy head of the department, because no candidate with the right qualifications was at hand, and he simply refused, that was when Teresa truly lost her patience and they had a real brawl. But that was in the past now, almost completely forgotten.
What was the worst, the proverbial straw that broke the back of the overloaded donkey? It was this fountain pen.
On such a long-awaited day, on the last day of his work, Henryk and Teresa sat down together for dinner by candlelight and a bottle of red wine, Teresa with her usual solemn expression. She gave him a gift. Henryk unpacked the long box and found in it, of course, a Wolczanka made tie in dark blue color. Of course, the tie was the finest quality; made from rayon, and with his initials embroidered in front, two letters in a lighter shade of blue. Henry thanked her, although he had hated the color navy blue from his childhood since he was forced to wear a navy blue school apron with a white collar during his first years of primary school.
In vain, his mother tried to convince him that it was a beautiful color, because the sailors dressed in navy blue. It didn’t help. He liked sailors and hated the school apron. His school belonged to the Society of Friends of Children in Zoliborz, located on the square of Lelewel, which required that all students wear navy blue aprons. Henryk thought the society was poorly named, as no kids liked those outfits. And the parents, despite everything, liked their children to be dressed in this idiotic way.
Although little Henryk passed through elementary school, his trauma of dark blue clothes remained. Teresa knew this, of course. All gifts from her, however, were navy blue because she, a person with such a high position in an esteemed political party, knew best, after all, in which color her husband looked good and this color matched his eyes better than all the other possible colors of the world.
He immediately tried the tie in front of the mirror, telling himself over and over that it was, after all, a beautiful color as it elegantly shimmered in the candlelight and was a perfect match for his blue shirt and his navy blue suit (also gifts from Theresa), not to mention his navy blue socks. He sat down at the table deeply touched by the solicitude of his wife, and when he drank half of the bottle of wine, his courage had reached such a level that he decided to confess to the sin he had committed, showing her the gift which he had bought for himself on this important occasion.
That was when disaster struck.
Teresa's face changed suddenly into an icy mask. She became pale, her eyes narrowed to the style of the women’s eyes in Chinese ink paintings. It was enough to let him know that from that moment on, the best he could do is not to move, and God forbid, not to speak. The smallest gesture, the shortest word could immediately work to his disadvantage. He had been through several of such typhoons and he knew perfectly well that there was no refuge for him now at any port. The only thing he could do was collapse all the sails, lock himself up in the cabin and try to wait out, hoping that he would be able to survive the attack of the hurricane. This time, though, he did not feel so hopelessly helpless. He had in store something he never had before, a weapon of which Teresa had no idea. He had something absolutely new - a tiny spark of freedom.
How did he get such a spark? No, it was not because he bought himself a gift. It was not even that the gift was so monstrously expensive, more expensive than the most expensive tie you can buy in the Adam - Polish Fashion Saloon for men. It was mainly about the fact that he himself made the decision to buy it. Alone, without consultation with her. It seemed a true sacrilege, sin unpardonable indeed. So far, alone, he could buy the newspaper, nay, and even some weekly magazine. It would be fine. But a fountain pen with a gold nib? And from a consignment store? Worse, with their common money, as he did not have any cash officially of his own, after all! No, this was too much.
The unfinished bottle of wine stood on the table amid the dying candles. Teresa, affec
ted by a complete nervous breakdown, locked herself in their bedroom after throwing on the living room couch, his pillow, blanket and navy blue checkered pyjamas, again a gift from her. He knew that such a storm must take a few days to weather. There was nothing you could do to handle it.
On Saturday, he bought the Life of Warsaw newspaper (this he was allowed) and began to study classified ads. His new spark of freedom began to work. On Sunday, he slipped out of the house for a walk and made a few calls after finding a working phone booth, which was not an easy task. In this way, he got in touch with Mrs. Stefania Zagorska.
Monday was the monumental day in his life. The real Insurrection. Teresa went to work, of course, without a word. Henryk got up, ate breakfast and took out from the storage space his old, cardboard suitcase with which he moved into this apartment years ago. He threw into it everything he owned, and which was not dark blue (not much it was at all) and from his drawer, he pulled out a notebook with rigid covers that he had brought home once from his office. He snatched from it the last sheet and wrote on it only one word: "Goodbye", using his new fountain pen. "Ironically," he thought. "Everything started and ended with this pen."
He left the house keys on the table together with the note and thoroughly slammed the door. While going down to the street, he thought that when he came here for the first time, he carried with him all his possessions. What more did he have now? Just this outstanding pen and a notebook without the last page (exactly 99 of them). And what about all his achievements from years of work behind the desk of a senior clerk? What happened to them? Evaporated? Gone with the wind? Perhaps that was the price of freedom.
***
Henryk sat at the table. Before him lay his workbook and the unscrewed the cap of his Waterman pen, its gold nib glittering in the light of the lamp. Beyond the window, it was just early twilight. He looked closely at his gem. At the nib was written ‘Iridium, and below 10k’. There was also some ornament on it. A beautiful job. You know, a pen costing thirty years of work had to be beautiful.
He smoothed the first page of the notebook with his hand, bit his lip slightly, and carefully wrote at the top of the sheet, atop all the pale blue lines: "Beginning of the book".
Then he put the cap back on his pen, placed it next to the open notebook and stared long at those few words that contained so much. Maybe they contained all of his new life?
***
Dinner was really great - pancakes with cottage cheese topped with strawberry juice. Teresa never did anything like that. Being what she was, she had no time for such fancy cooking. Mrs. Stefania took her time and a lot of effort to impress her new tenant with her talents. The three of them sat in the dining room and ate pancakes. They were only three, because Mrs. Lewandowska was right now on her way to Budapest and in general was not a regular guest at the table.
They talked about nothing important, just about the weather, about the beginning of Barbara's academic year and other insignificant current events. Henryk said little about his personal life so far, deciding to say more at the right time, and Mrs. Stefania did not question him about it. Once they had finished Mrs. Stefania, who was collecting empty dishes from the table, asked: “On Thursday evening, we have here a small, spiritualist gathering. Would you like to take part in it? I would appreciate it if you came. The presence of a man will give us more courage.”
“Spiritualist gathering,” Henryk mechanically repeated. “Is it the kind of fun gathering with a spinning saucer and so on?”
“Well, something like that,” agreed Mrs. Stefania with a smile. “Just that we do not treat it as a fun, but as a paranormal phenomenon and we take this issue very seriously. Well, at least most of us do. Barbara sometimes doesn’t, but well, every age has its rights. So what? Is that alright with you, sir?”
“I do not know. I’ll think about it,” Henryk began cautiously. At that moment, he felt Baska kick his leg under the table.
“Alright, I'll try,” he agreed finally. “Maybe those ghosts won’t eat me.”
“I'm sure you will be fascinated,” Mrs. Stefania said cheerfully. She took the tray with plates and disappeared behind the door to the kitchen.
“Why did you kick me?” he asked Baska in a low voice as soon as Mrs. Stefania had gone.
“Because I wanted you to agree,” she said. “I love these meetings. You will see what a fun they are.”
“There will be someone else besides us?”
“Of course. Belphegor will come and maybe Joanna.”
“Belphegor?” asked Henryk.
“Mrs. Klara, a lady friend of Mrs. Stefania. Belphegor I call her because she looks like a ghost. Actually, as she comes here, no ghosts are longer needed. But she is necessary, as she has the ability of a medium. That means she can communicate with the afterworld.”
“And the other person? Joanna?”
“Oh, of course Mrs. Lewandowska, our neighbor from the room across the hall. She flew to Budapest but will return in time. You have to be very careful with her.”
“And why is that?”
“She’ll try to screw you. She seems to screw every guy she meets on her way. You can see it in her eyes.”
“I think at my age, I can feel safe.”
“You are grossly mistaken. For her, age does not matter. The art of it does. That’s all that counts. She is a collector, as they call it. I'm sure she once screwed a chimney sweeper.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because once she was holding a silver button like the chimney sweeps wear and she had a black spot on her cheek.”
“Maybe it was a black man?”
“Do black men make spots?” She looked surprised. “Well, maybe he was black. What's the difference?”
“At any rate, do not worry. I will take care of myself,” Henry promised. Somehow, he did not want to be screwed after a chimney sweeper, black or not.
After dinner, he returned to his room and looked out the window, but did not see much. Everything was drowning in darkness. He sat down on a chair, while his open notebook lying in front of him spoke loudly: "So write. Write! After all, it's easy, yes? You pick up your fountain pen with the gold nib, unscrew the cap and write. What to write about?” He chuckled. “What question is that? What an idiotic question. Write what you want to. This is freedom. You have the right to write whatever you want. It's what you always wanted, right? You wanted freedom. You got it now!"
The problem was that Henryk still did not know what to write about. He knew only that it would be a book. That was all. When after many years of silence, one is tempted to say something, he wants to say everything at once, and what comes out? Nothing! All he gets is emptiness, nothingness, a white, unlimited space looking him straight in the eye through the window of the empty page stretched out before him.
"Come here,” the white space invited eagerly. “Come to me. You know how. Squeeze through this window and you're on the other side. You will also become nothing. Do not be afraid. It's very nice to be like me, to be a big, white unlimited Nothing. It's the highest degree of existence. Why the highest? Because nothing more than nothing exists, and that is just beautiful. Come on. Don’t be afraid. Not everyone has this chance like you. Don’t miss it..."
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Before he could say ‘please’, the door opened and into the room jumped Baska. Again, she was in her underwear paired with an oversized shirt, probably belonging to a male. Instead of bare feet, she had on flip-flops.
“This is my pajamas. I stole it from my brother,” she explained, seeing the questioning look of Henryk. “I just came to see if you are okay.”
“Going somewhere in this outfit?”
“Going to sleep. I came to say good night. Are you writing something? Mrs. Stefania told me that you are working on a book and that you need time alone.”
“Exactly, this is what I need...”
She came closer and looked over his shou
lder at his open book, then as if in disbelief, picked it up and read it aloud: “Beginning of the book.”
Suddenly, she burst into wild laughter. Dropping the book on the table and not being able to stand in place, she threw herself on Henryk’s bed, kicking her legs and wrapping her arms around her shaking chest that seemed like it was going to explode. “Beginning of the book!” she repeated through her bout of laughter as she tried to control herself.
Henryk wanted then to strangle her, but only for a moment. The more he thought about it, the more the idea seemed to be ridiculous to him, as well.
“Well, so what? What if it is the beginning of the book?”
“So what?” She gave him a look as if to tell him he was crazy. “Anyone who begins to read a book knows that it is the beginning of the book. What do you write in the middle? The middle of the book?” And again, she burst out laughing.
“Well, what should I write? Somehow, I have to start it.”
“And what is this book supposed to be about?”
“Well, I do not know yet exactly...”
“And why do you want to write a book if you do not even know what it is going to be about?”
“Because I got a gift - this fountain pen with a golden nib.”
“From whom?”
“From myself.”
She blinked. “You know what, freaky? You shouldn’t get too ahead of yourself. Find out first what you want to write, and then start. Not vice versa.”
“Well, I've started and I was doing pretty well until you mixed me up and everything.”
“I was doing pretty well until you mixed me up,” she began to tease him. “So you think since you’ve written ‘Beginning of the book’, that means you were doing pretty well?”
“Then how do I start?”
She thought for a moment, closing her eyes. It was clear that she was trying to focus.
“I got it,” she called suddenly. “Start like this: Along a bumpy road through the dark forest dashed a black carriage drawn by two black horses. The sky was littered with low-hanging clouds and drops of rain splattered sideways on the curtained window of the carriage. Suddenly, the curtain of the window rose and in the flashes of lighting, amid intersecting clouds appeared a pale face...”
Candlelight Stories Page 33