‘Come.’ I pulled Dominik towards the house as Father opened the front door. He was wearing a shirt I hadn’t seen before, red chequered, with no signs of granite dust. He’d lost weight since I saw him last and though it was spring, his complexion was pallid. Perhaps the business was too much for one person. I resolved to come home more often.
‘Tatuś.’ I dropped my satchel and rushed towards him. Breathed in his soap-clean skin.
He held me to his chest. ‘She’s back at last.’ When he let go, he wiped his eyes.
Then he cleared his throat and turned his attention to Dominik. ‘I hear you’re a writer.’
‘Not a very good one, I’m afraid.’ Dominik stretched out his hand, which Father gripped before pulling him into an embrace. When Father let go Dominik seemed uncertain of what to do with his hand, resting it on his hip before letting it dangle by his side.
‘Dominik writes a lot of important things,’ I said. ‘About politics and art.’ I wondered if Father had read the clippings of Dominik’s articles that I’d sent. Probably not. He always said that after carving all day, the letters of the alphabet were branded on his irises. He preferred to listen to the radio in the dark.
Father stooped to collect my bag.
‘I’ll get it,’ Dominik said, reaching it first.
Father continued to stretch his arm out for the bag and then, seeming to think better of it, turned away and led us inside. Dominik took his shoes off and asked to use the toilet.
I should have told him.
‘Out there,’ Father said, pointing to the back garden.
‘Oh.’ Dominik put his shoes back on.
My cheeks flushed at how paltry our living arrangements were. ‘I’ll take you.’ I lead Dominik outside. Chickens darted around our legs and pigeons cooed overhead.
‘I’d forgotten what the rural parts of Poland were like,’ Dominik said. ‘It’s like stepping back in time.’ The warm day heightened the stink of the toilet and he took a deep breath before going in.
I waited on the other side of the closed door. Perhaps it was a mistake to bring him here. ‘Why don’t you get an earlier train back to Wrocław,’ I said. ‘After we eat, I can walk you to the station.’
‘Are you crazy?’ There was the sound of liquid hitting dirt. ‘I’m not leaving early.’ Dominik kicked open the toilet door and went to hug me before stopping. ‘I need to wash my hands.’
The kitchen table was crammed with bread and butter and honey and, incredibly, a roast chicken. ‘It’s fresh,’ Father said. ‘I killed it today.’
‘Chicken! My prayers have been answered.’ Dominik clasped his hands in mock thanks. ‘Just try to keep me away.’
I cast a glance at Father, who had his gaze fixed on the meat as he carved it. We fell silent as we heaped food on our plates. Real food at last. With each bite I was fortified. Our university meals of cabbage and potatoes didn’t fill me up, even though I drank a glass of water first, lining my stomach the way they taught us at school.
Before I’d finished, Father sawed off more meat and gave it to me. He licked his fingers and then apportioned some chicken to Dominik. With his utensils, Father pushed around the food on his plate. Perhaps he was more apprehensive about this meeting than I had thought.
‘So tell me what’s been going on,’ I said to Father. ‘I’m sure you have lots of gossip – I mean news – for me.’
‘Ha!’ Father sucked the food off the prongs of his fork and then used it to whack me lightly on the back of my hand. ‘Things are the same. Business is slow and people keep trying to pay me in ration cards. I tell them, what good are ration cards when the shops are empty?’
Dominik put down his cutlery. ‘It’s not much better in Wrocław,’ he said. ‘Although everyone’s excited about this new union. Have many of the villagers joined?’
‘Solidarność?’ Father coughed and thumped his chest. ‘Some, yes. Who knows if it will come to anything.’
‘I wrote an article about it, actually. The movement’s gaining a lot of support.’ Dominik reached for the bread and grabbed a slice, then another. This talk of politics had a stabilising effect on him. ‘Other countries are looking to our example. We give them hope.’
‘That’s the problem,’ Father said. ‘Do you think the Russians will stand for it? I, for one, can remember what animals they can be.’ His breath made a cracking sound and he broke off before saying, ‘You don’t want to hear those old war stories.’
Dominik finished chewing and said, ‘Yes I do.’
Father gave a pleased grunt. He got up and fetched a bottle of the peach liqueur he’d made last summer. When he sat down, he began the story the same way he always did, by clenching one fist in his other hand. ‘What a sick joke, to be saved from the Germans by the Russians. They were still butchering people when so-called peace was declared. My mother and sister and I spent a month hiding in the forest. When the war ended we set ourselves up in an apartment block. There was no electricity or water, you understand, but it was a home of sorts. Another family moved in next door. They had a girl who was thirteen, a year older than me. One night she asked me to go hunting with her – that’s we called it, you know, when we searched dead bodies for treasures that the soldiers had missed. We left at midnight. She went to an old factory and left me scrounging in the alleyways. That night I found a watch in a dead man’s shoe. I hid it in a secret pocket in my pants and went to the factory for the girl. On the way I saw three Russians. They were drunk, singing one of their victory songs. As soon as I saw them I got a bad feeling. When they passed me, I started to run. I ran and when I got to the factory, the girl was on the floor. Her clothes were torn and her face was bloody. I rushed back out with my pocket knife but the soldiers were gone.’
Here, I had to look away from Father. I focused my attention on the last of the afternoon light. On the way it lit up the hairs on Dominik’s arms.
Father cleared his throat. ‘I went back to the girl and begged her forgiveness. “What can I do?” I said. The girl asked me if I’d found any treasures. When I showed her the watch she said, “Let me have it.” You know, that watch … It was a paltry thing, but it was all I had. She tucked it inside her skirt.’
Dominik spread his fingers on the table and I waited for him to speak. He opened his mouth. Shook his head. Then he leaned over to Father and embraced him.
13
The next day I woke with a battered skull, the result of too much peach liqueur. I tried to overcome the pain by occupying myself with housework; Father had let the place slip while I was away. Chicken stock bubbled on the stove as I stood on a chair, wiping dust from the kitchen shelves. The saucepan lid rattled and clanked and I hurried over to turn down the heat.
Father came inside with an empty scrap bucket in hand. ‘Ania! Are you pretending to be one of those rich ladies sitting in a sauna?’ He opened the window.
Despite my hangover I was buoyed by the success of yesterday’s meeting. After hearing Father’s war stories, Dominik had entertained us with anecdotes about the characters he met on jobs for the paper. He kept delaying his departure until twenty minutes to the last train. We rushed to the station, Father riding his bike, Dominik and I half-running, half-stumbling, behind him. We arrived just in time, panting and red. ‘Oh my lord, I need to clear my lungs,’ Father had said, reaching into his coat for his cigarettes. As Dominik was about to board, Father said, ‘I read some of those articles of yours. They made a lot of sense. You have a way of putting things that makes a person want to read on.’ Dominik’s face had coloured and he ducked his head in thanks.
A breeze drifted into the kitchen, easing my headache. ‘I’m so glad you like Dominik’s writing,’ I said to Father. ‘I told you he was clever.’
‘He’s certainly that.’ Father joined me by the stove, where bones and carrots bubbled in water. ‘That chicken’s gone a long way,’ he said. ‘You see, Aniusieńka, around here we don’t waste a thing.’
‘Who can afford to?�
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‘It’s that abattoir again.’ He sat down at the table with a groan. ‘You won’t believe what they’re doing.’ There was a bee clinging to his shoulder and he leaned towards the open window and set it outside. ‘Pani Wedel actually admitted that they’re pouring all these buckets of blood down the sink. Every day. I told her, “Surely you can put them to use?” She said I was welcome to take them off her hands. What do you think, Aniusieńka, fancy helping me make some blood sausages?’
I stirred the stock and then pointed the spoon his way. ‘The rest of the village would love that. The gravedigger and his daughter carting buckets of blood home from the abattoir. Can you imagine?’
Father laughed so hard that he had trouble breathing. He wiped his eyes. ‘We have to do it just to see their reaction.’
He started wheezing and I patted him on the back before getting him a glass of water. Sitting next to him at the table, I said, ‘I’m happy you and Dominik got along so well.’
He took a sip of water. The bee was clinging to the outside of the window pane. He tapped it through the glass and it flew away. ‘Like you say, he’s clever.’
‘But?’
‘He’s a bit … what’s the word? A bit sure of himself, isn’t he?’
I got up and went to the oven. ‘City people are like that. They’re confident. That’s good, isn’t it?’ I banged the spoon on the edge of the pot.
Behind me, Father sighed. ‘Aniusieńka, I want you to be with someone who’ll take care of you. Don’t listen to me, what do I know about these things? If your mother were here it would be different.’ He switched on the radio. It crackled before picking up the muffled voice of a newsreader:
… world is in shock as John Paul II lies in hospital in a critical condition.
I dropped the wooden spoon on the stovetop. ‘What?’
Father shushed me and turned the radio up.
Thousands of people are holding vigil at the Vatican, following the attempted assassination of the Pope. They have gathered to pray, bringing offerings of flowers, crucifixes and Polish flags. A Turkish terrorist has been apprehended for the crime. We now turn to our reporter at the Vatican for more details.
‘A Turkish terrorist?’ Father said. ‘Those Russians must think we’re fools. They’re warning us to stay in our place. They couldn’t stand it that a Pole has the top job. What did I tell you, Ania? Those bastards fear nothing, not even God.’
The crucifix on the wall behind him was drenched in condensation from the steam-filled room. Liquid slid down the thin face of Jesus, onto his torso and feet and dripped to the floor.
14
On the day I returned to the city, the Pope was released from hospital. I caught a train to Wrocław Główny and then went straight to Dominik’s, laden with eggs and honey from Father. Dominik wrapped me in his arms and lifted me onto his desk to kiss me. ‘I missed you, I missed you, I missed you,’ he said. I told him I missed him too.
We lay together on his foldout bed, the bone-weight of his head against my chest. We talked. While I was gone, Dominik went to Kraków to cover the march that had taken place for the Pope. Thousands of people, all wearing white, had carried crucifixes and banners that read, May our protest be peace and reflection. The Turkish man was arrested for the attack.
‘Father says the Russians put him up to it,’ I said, losing my fingers in the mess of Dominik’s hair.
‘Who knows. The fact that people believe they put him up to it is enough to piss them off. No meat, no money, no dignity. And now this.’
He was right. Those bullets had struck, not just flesh, but the very idea that things in our country could change.
‘What do you think will happen?’ I asked.
Dominik kissed me, his lips brushing my eyelids. ‘I think I’m going to spend the day in bed with my girlfriend, that’s what.’
I laughed and kissed him back. ‘Half the day. We’re seeing a movie with Małgorzata, remember.’
Małgorzata had been commissioned by the State to design a poster for an American film called Apocalypse Now. She’d invited us to attend a private screening with her and Janusz the Censor. It was the first time that Dominik and I were going to the cinema together.
He flopped his head back on the pillow. ‘I’d rather be here with you.’
Małgorzata was waiting for us by Saint Elizabeth’s Church. As we approached, she took another puff of her cigarette and stamped the butt underfoot. ‘There’s been a change of plan,’ she said.
‘No film?’ I regretted pulling Dominik out of bed.
‘Oh there’s a film,’ she said. ‘But not the right one.’ She marched ahead, her leather satchel swinging by her side. She spun around to face Dominik and me, walking backwards as she spoke. ‘Do you know how long I’ve been wanting to do Apocalypse Now? It finally gets released here and they give it to some other artist … Some man.’
She continued walking backwards, nearly pounding into an old woman who was lugging her groceries in string bags. The woman glared at me and I hurried towards Małgorzata and turned her the right way. We linked arms as we walked, Dominik a few steps behind us.
‘Who is he, this other artist?’ I asked.
‘That’s not important,’ she said. ‘What’s important is that he has a penis and I don’t. You know what they’re giving me instead? The Blue Lagoon.’
‘The Blue Lagoon …’ echoed Dominik.
‘Apparently it’s a romance.’ The wind picked up Małgorzata’s hair, flicking it in her face.
We made our way to the Ministry of Culture, a tall building with windows that glinted like silver eyes. Holding hands, Dominik and I followed Małgorzata to the screening room. It was decked out like a miniature cinema, with rows of plump maroon chairs, and free-standing ashtrays between the aisles.
‘Janusz.’ She threw her satchel to the floor.
I hadn’t seen him since the night of Małgorzata’s exhibition. Once again he looked stylish, wearing a suit of the palest blue. He greeted us and then said to Małgorzata, ‘You’re going to love this film.’
‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘I’m still angry with you.’
Janusz raised his hands in a gesture of powerlessness. ‘You know what, darling, anyone can do a poster for Apocalypse Now. This film needs a woman’s touch. It’s sexy, so I immediately thought of you.’ Cigarette in mouth, he sauntered to the back of the room and picked up a scroll of paper. Unrolled, it revealed the American poster for The Blue Lagoon; an image of a beautiful and startled-looking girl who was draped in scraps of brown fabric. The tagline, written in English, was A story of natural love.
‘Natural love?’ read Dominik. ‘Sounds like Adam and Eve.’
Dominik and I sat near the front of the cinema, our shoulders pressed together. Janusz passed us glasses of beer. Lights off, he positioned himself a couple of rows behind, next to Małgorzata, who was resting her feet on the opposite chair. The opening credits were rolling when I heard a low moan. I turned around as Małgorzata and Janusz pulled away from a kiss. But that couldn’t be right.
When the film started Dominik put his arm around me. ‘As soon as this is over, let’s go back home.’ His fingers traced the back of my neck, making me shiver with pleasure.
The film was about two young cousins who survived a shipwreck to be castaway on an island. In time, they fell in love. One day the girl waded into a lake, where she discovered something was wrong between her legs. The boy was watching from a cliff. ‘I’m bleeding,’ she said to the boy. Alarmed, he told her he would come down and help. A look of horror and then comprehension crossed the girl’s face. ‘No!’ she shouted. ‘Go away!’
Małgorzata gave a loud snort. ‘This isn’t art. It’s dishonest and manipulative. What do you want me to do with this junk?’
‘Use your imagination,’ Janusz said. ‘That’s why I hired you.’
A group of sparrows circled above our heads before settling on the tram wires in rows of two. Dominik and I walked underneath t
hem, his arm around my shoulders, my arm around his waist. When we reached the other side of the road, he drew me to him and we kissed. As we pulled apart a tram rumbled towards the sparrows and they scattered in the sky. Two of them landed on a white-domed building that housed a swimming pool. According to Krzysio, the building had been a synagogue until ten years ago, when the city was ‘cleaned up’. Krzysio had lots of stories like that. He said that, for hundreds of years, the city had been inventing and reinventing itself after wars and conquests and tragedies. For a while, Wrocław had become Breslau, before recovering its true name. The past lives of the city were all around us. Though if it wasn’t for Krzysio, I would never have known it.
Dominik held my hand as we walked through Plac Solny. We were on our way to Małgorzata’s studio, where she was going to reveal her poster design for The Blue Lagoon. Something had been bothering me since the day of the screening. ‘I’ve probably got this wrong,’ I said to Dominik. ‘But when we were at the cinema, I thought I saw them kiss. Małgorzata and Janusz. Properly kiss, I mean.’
‘Oh that,’ he said. ‘They’re lovers.’
His flippancy startled me. ‘Małgorzata’s having an affair?’
‘It’s not an affair. Małgorzata and her husband have what she calls a civilised marriage.’
I gave him a quizzical look.
‘Their partnership allows for a certain degree of free dom.’ He punctuated the word ‘freedom’ by wriggling his fingers in the air – a surprisingly effeminate gesture that made me feel tender towards him.
Yet this tenderness gave way to a nervous squeeze in my stomach as I recalled the meaningful looks that he and Małgorzata sometimes exchanged, the easy manner between them. Until now, I had thought: at least she’s married.
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