I checked my reflection in her pocket mirror, studying the shine of my disembodied lips. I decided that the lipstick looked good. Perhaps with a bit of saving my next scholarship payment would extend to a tube of Red Heaven.
When we entered reception my roommates fixed their sights on a couple of men in suits. ‘There are two of them and three of us,’ I said. ‘You go on.’ Their objections faded as one of the men invited them over with his smile. I watched the four of them standing together, laughing. Part of me hoped that Dominik wouldn’t turn up. It would make things simpler; I could absorb the art by myself.
I went upstairs, to a large white room that was lit with fluorescent bulbs. I spun around, taking in the bare walls. As far as I could see there was no art.
There were about twenty people in the room and, to my relief, they looked equally bemused. Heads turned from side to side. A man in a bowler hat snickered. ‘Things are tough for artists these days, hey? Maybe we should start a collection.’ He tipped off his hat and held it in his outstretched hand. ‘Anyone feeling generous?’
The woman beside him joined in. ‘Clearly it’s a comment on Gierek’s so-called prosperity measures.’ More laughter. A flask got passed around. When it reached a girl in bellbottoms, she took a swig and then met my eye, gesturing for me to come closer. She passed me the flask and I took a sip. A homemade concoction, it left my tongue slick with the flavour of turpentine. I coughed, alcohol dribbling down my mouth. When I wiped it my hand came away smeared red. I’d forgotten I was wearing lipstick. I edged away from the group and dug in my bag for a tissue. All I came up with was a scrap of newspaper.
As I was trying to clean my smudged lips, Krzysio ambled towards me. Alone. Smiling through my disappointment, I dropped the soiled paper in my bag.
Krzysio’s jumper slipped from his waist and he stopped to retie it. Then he kissed me on both cheeks. ‘Ania. You made it.’ His voice had the soothing quality of a bedtime story and I had to strain to hear him over other people.
I said, ‘It’s my first exhibition in Wrocław.’
‘What do you think?’
‘Not what I was expecting …’ I motioned to the empty walls.
‘There’s more,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘That way.’ He pointed me down a corridor.
When I reached the end, I pushed my way through a set of heavy curtains. Blackness dropped over me, as swift as an execution hood. I took a sharp intake of breath, struck by how rare it was to be plunged into darkness. Without the stars or the moon or the glow from apartments and flashing neon signs.
Someone prodded me as though I were furniture. There was a giggle. ‘I touched a person,’ said a woman’s voice. Her shape moved away.
Fumbling in the dark, I located a space where I could press my back against a wall. There was a murmur in the room. The sound of communal discomfort, perhaps? It got louder, rolling into a boom. Repeated greetings from fallen snowmen, came the announcement over a loudspeaker. A flash of light, then a projection of a face on the wall, its mouth stretched into the shape of a laugh or maybe a scream. Everything went black again. Then a female newsreaders’ voice penetrated the room: People of Wrocław are cautioned to avoid going to the old town square today, where there is a disturbance. Another illumination, this time of dwarves in red caps marching in the square. Behind them loomed a fat man dressed as Snow White. I laughed.
‘You’re enjoying this?’ said someone close to me. I breathed in the smell of newspapers and cigarettes.
My voice opened up in the dark. ‘Yes.’
A high-pitched whine came over the loudspeakers: I am the King of England.
It was Dominik’s turn to laugh, the sound deep in my ear. The smell of him closer now. His shirt brushed against my hand, the fabric so thin I could feel the heat of him. Without thinking, I reached my mouth to his. His lips met mine. He held my face in his hands before resting the tips of his fingers at the base of my throat.
6
Some of Poland’s best artists had studied at the Academy and I could feel their presence in the studio. I could hear them in the creak of the floorboards, and smell them in the remnants of acrylic, turpentine and glue. I could see them in the dribbles of paint on the floor, and in the traces of clay on the handle of the door. They were all here.
Perhaps this was why I found it impossible to work. The studio was a place for artists and I didn’t know how to make art. I wasn’t even sure I knew what art was.
By way of procrastination, I volunteered to make drinks. When the electric kettle screeched from its place on the floor, I ripped the cord from the socket. Beside me, the stiff bodies of tea bags lay on the gas heater. At the Academy we tried to get two or three glasses from each one. By the end of their lifespan all they offered was the memory of tea.
Glasses in hand, I edged my way to a girl who was sketching an urban landscape. ‘That’s really coming along,’ I said.
She blew on her tea, steaming her spectacles. Then she turned, foggy eyed, to her picture. ‘This. This is what I want my piece to look like. As though I’m staring at the city through a haze. Half asleep, half awake.’
The bottom third of her picture depicted a strip of land in charcoal with yellow highlights. Above this, factories exhaled black breath into a pink sky. The overall effect was sombre, but lovely. ‘You’ve done it,’ I told her. ‘That’s what you’ve captured.’
‘You think so?’ She removed her spectacles and polished them on her shirt. ‘What about you?’ Craning her neck to my corner of the room.
‘Oh, you know …’ With my glass in hand, I retreated.
As I worked on my sculpture, a current of awareness sparked through the studio. People readjusted their canvases. We gave each other nervous glances as Professor Jankowski sauntered in, a corduroy jacket slung over one shoulder. ‘How’s everyone today, good? What have you got to show me?’ He surveyed the room, his gaze amplified by his enormous black-framed glasses. He wandered over to the picture of the factories. As he examined it he traced the perimeter of his receding hairline with his finger. The artist stood behind him, her hands buried in the front pocket of her smock. The other students put down their pencils and brushes, their scissors and knives.
Professor Jankowski tossed his jacket on the table. He lifted the picture and held it at arm’s length. ‘It’s pretty.’ He said the word pretty as though referring to a small girl in her Easter dress. With one hand, he returned the picture to the easel.
‘So you want it to be ugly?’ the artist said.
‘I want it to be true.’ The professor turned to address the room at large. ‘Beauty without truth is empty. Remember that, everyone.’
He moved on to an abstract painting in black and red, which a student from Warsaw was working on. ‘Better. Just watch this corner of the canvas, right here.’ His hand hovered at the bottom of the painting. ‘What you’re aiming for is a type of complicated simplicity, you understand?’ The student nodded slowly, his frown betraying his confusion. ‘I’m talking about compression,’ the professor continued. ‘The viewer has to see the whole world in your painting without realising at first glance that it’s there.’
I returned to my sculpture. The clay was cool beneath my hands. I was attempting to make the sort of thing that would be displayed in a museum: a naked person with their arms and legs hacked off. But I wasn’t sure if it was working. I had no idea what they expected from us at the Academy.
To my relief the professor strode past me. Then, as if he’d planned it all along, he turned around. ‘What’s going on here?’
I wiped my muddied hands on my overalls and stood before him. ‘Well. I’m working – that is I’m trying to work on – a realistic study of the human form.’
The professor’s lips pinched together.
‘It’s classically inspired,’ I said, echoing a phrase I’d learned in art history.
He circled my piece, examining its unfortunate shape from all angles. ‘You’re taking the middle of
the road, are you? Many students do. Just remember that the purpose of making art – indeed the only true obligation of the artist – is to have a vision, to follow this vision through and present things as you really see them. If you can do that, you’re onto something. Of course, not many people can manage that.’ He gave my sculpture a pat. ‘Still, it’s a perfectly adequate piece of work. The sort of thing a rich lady with artistic pretensions might put in her boudoir because it matches the décor.’
My neck flushed with heat at the laughter in the room. The girl who had drawn the urban landscape made her way towards me. ‘Would you like another tea?’ There was too much kindness in her voice. Her eyes avoided mine as she reached for my glass.
‘No,’ I said, and moved the glass away.
Outside the studio I waited for Dominik, my portfolio tucked under one arm. Wind lashed against my face, making my eyes water. I wished I could go back to the dormitory. The professor’s ridicule of my work had left me drained. Besides, I looked a mess. My skin was stained with clay and my stockings had twisted around my thighs. I reached a hand under my skirt to rearrange them, composing myself as Dominik appeared from behind an apartment block. His upper body leaned forward as he walked and the sheepskin collar of his jacket was raised high against the wind. When he saw me he hurried his step.
Ever since we kissed at the exhibition a few weeks ago, we’d become something of an item. In spite of this, each time I saw him afresh I had to get to know him all over again. It was as though I had to reconcile two Dominiks. There was the one in my mind, whose face I could never quite picture. (What colour were his eyes, were they brown or grey? Was he really so tall as I imagined?) Then there was the other Dominik, the one who was approaching now. I stood rigid as he neared. But when he pulled me close and I inhaled his tobacco-ink skin, I remembered how things were between us. The soft intensity of his kiss made me forget we were standing on the icy street.
Dominik ran his lips over my knuckles and I took a moment to study him. Yes, that’s right. His eyes were the colour of a pre-winter lake and when he wanted to kiss me he had to stoop to bring his lips to my own.
‘Aniusieńka.’ His breath was white-cold. ‘Come to the country with me.’
‘What, and stay in your villa?’ I stamped my boots on the concrete, trying to keep my sarcasm at bay.
‘I don’t care – let’s pitch a tent in the snow. Anything to get you to myself.’
We’d only been alone a handful of times and never a whole night. There was nowhere for us to go. Boys were banned from my university dorm, and Dominik lived in a tiny apartment with his cousin and her husband and child. He assured me it was fine for me to spend the night but I was too embarrassed to do so. Who knew how long I could hold out. Dominik was tired of waiting and so was I. Every time we kissed, or even held hands, desire surged through my stomach and chest and left me unsteady on my feet.
This was all new to me. I’d only been with one boy before; he was from my village and didn’t get the grades to go to university so was conscripted to the army instead. Perhaps this was why I chose him for my first time: there was no risk of falling in love. Afterwards he said, ‘You used to look like a boy, with your strange clothes and short hair. But you’re pretty now.’ As I retrieved my things, he told me he was taking me to the end-of-year dance. ‘We don’t need to dance,’ I said. To myself, I added, We’ve already done what all the boys are trying to get the girls to do. Afterwards I congratulated myself on the way I’d handled the affair, telling myself that I’d been mature. In fact, I’d simply been cruel, striking him with a blow in a bid to protect myself.
Now, with Dominik, I could feel myself opening up.
He looped my scarf around my neck. ‘I’m dying to be alone with you.’
‘It will be easier in spring,’ I told him. ‘There’ll be more places for us to go.’
‘Until then we suffer.’
We walked to Krzysio’s place, Dominik carrying my portfolio. It was late afternoon and the ash-coloured sky echoed the dirty concrete of the apartment blocks. In a small courtyard, a girl in a red jumper stood on a metal swing. It creaked as she swung back and forth. Dominik squeezed my palm. ‘When do I get to see this sculpture of yours, the one that’s stealing you away from me?’
I let go of his hand. ‘The teacher hated it.’
‘What an idiot. I’m sure it’s brilliant.’
‘It’s not.’ There was a whine in my voice and I took a breath to steady it. ‘Professor Jankowski knows what he’s talking about.’
‘Maybe, maybe not. You need to trust your own instincts when it comes to your work – you know it better than anyone else.’
A car slowed down to let us cross the road. ‘What about your writing. How’s that coming along?’ I asked.
He gave a shrug. ‘I’m supposed to be working on a paper about Hemingway’s influence on Hłasko, but that’ll sort itself out in time.’ Krzysio lived with his parents in an apartment on Stanislawa Worcella, a wide road that turned off Kazimierza Pulaskiego. Dominik and I let ourselves into the dark foyer. ‘Just wait,’ Dominik said. He fumbled in his jacket and pulled out a lighter. A couple of flicks released the flame. He lifted it to reveal a bare cord dangling from the ceiling. ‘Bulb’s gone,’ he said. ‘Stolen, probably.’ They were impossible to find in the shops these days. Holding out his lighter, he led the way to the lift. The metal gate clanged shut. The lift thunked and creaked to the third floor. Krzysio’s mother was waiting for us, her back pressed against the open door. Her apron was printed with purple and orange psychedelic swirls.
‘Pani Burak.’ Dominik reached for her hand and kissed it. On the way over, Dominik had told me that Krzysio’s mother was a poet and she could be almost as good as Miłosz if she put her mind to it.
‘Dominik, you have the good manners of my grandfather,’ she said, sounding amused.
We removed our shoes and followed the laughter and punk music to Krzysio’s room. He sat cross-legged on a woven mat, shuffling a pack of cards. When he saw us he gave us a wholehearted smile that rippled down to the line of muscle in his neck. He reached over to the cassette player and turned it down. ‘Ania, we’ve missed you.’
‘It’s only been a few days,’ I said. But I was pleased that one of Dominik’s friends had noticed my absence.
Next to Krzysio was a girl with dark wavy hair. Unlike my roommates, who didn’t leave the dorm without colouring their lips and eyes and cheeks, her face was bare of makeup. She leaned against the bed, her arms stretched on the mattress, her legs extended on the floor. The girl said hello, but didn’t make space for us in the small room. I folded myself down and rested my hands in my lap. Dominik positioned himself between me and the girl, whom he introduced as Małgorzata. I remembered Dominik telling me about her, she was a photographer who’d had her work exhibited abroad.
‘So you made it back from Łódź,’ Dominik said to her. Turning to me, he said, ‘Her husband’s making a movie about – what is it, again? A female alien who has sex with men and then kills and eats them?’
‘That’s right.’ At last she pulled her legs in, freeing some space. ‘The film ridicules old-fashioned ideas about female passivity.’
‘Female passivity,’ Dominik said with a laugh. ‘That’s not something Małgorzata here has a problem with.’
‘No.’ She cocked her head to the side. ‘Thank goodness for that.’ One of the straps of her overalls slid down her shoulder, giving her a casually sexy air. I glanced at Dominik, wondering how well he knew her.
Krzysio dealt the cards for a round of ogórek – a game I sometimes played with Father at home. Part of me was satisfied when Małgorzata lost the first hand. She should have got rid of her ace during the first five tricks when it was the highest scoring card. Instead she held onto it until the end, when it was worthless.
‘This game is stupid.’ Małgorzata tossed her cards to the floor. ‘What’s that?’ She reached a long arm towards the bed, where I’d placed my portf
olio.
‘Nothing.’ I put down a Queen of Diamonds. ‘You don’t want to see that rubbish.’ But the portfolio was already in her hand.
She untied the string that bound the cardboard folder and opened it. I threw down a card, barely looking at what it was. The idea of someone – a stranger – poring over my sketches was excruciating.
Krzysio scooped up the cards. ‘Ania, are you trying to lose? We should’ve been playing for money.’
‘Or vodka at the very least,’ Dominik said.
‘Best out of three.’ I pushed the deck towards Krzysio.
Małgorzata examined a design for the sculpture that had been giving me grief, the so-called classically inspired human form. She sighed and then selected a drawing of an abstract rectangular face with long eyes, nose and mouth. She turned the picture this way and that, her frown lines getting deeper and then said, ‘Yes.’ She shook the page. ‘This one I’m interested in. I haven’t seen anything like it before.’
‘That’s nothing,’ I said, fanning my cards.
Dominik flicked an ace to the floor. ‘I told you she was good.’
‘Fine taste as always, Dominik,’ Małgorzata said. Her voice was honey and ice. She and Dominik held each other’s gaze as they smiled and discomfort slivered through my skin.
Krzysio glanced at me. He threw a card in Dominik’s lap. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Get on with the game.’
7
White cubes, each the size of a television, were stacked in piles on the floor. Each cube was printed with images of body parts. A section of an eye, a foot, a … what was that? I leaned in close. What had at first looked like a woman’s genitals turned out to be two hands pressed together. I smiled, appreciating the joke.
As I shifted away from the cubes, Dominik rushed towards me, his cheeks high with colour. ‘Małgorzata’s done it again.’ He grabbed my hand. ‘Come see. I’m going to have a ball with this one – she wants me to write about it for the next edition of Sztuka Dzisiaj.’
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