Małgorzata was kneeling on the studio floor, a paint-flecked scarf around her head. I pushed down my unease and gave her a quick smile.
‘We’re ready for the grand unveiling,’ Dominik said, leaning against the table.
She rearranged some hair that had escaped from her scarf. ‘The poster’s in the bathroom. Wait here.’
‘You think she’s captured the tranquillity of a tropical island?’ Dominik asked, an eyebrow raised.
‘I’m not sure tranquillity is Małgorzata’s aim in art,’ I said. ‘Or life.’
As he was laughing, she called out to us. ‘Close your eyes until I say open.’ I did, listening to the shuffling of feet and the rustling of paper, and then Małgorzata said, ‘Now!’
Though I hadn’t been expecting tranquillity, I wasn’t prepared for this. A poster that seemed to have been painted not with a brush but a knife. Fierce blue in the background, cut with slashes of red and white, and in the centre, the distorted face of a young girl. Her eyes were distended with horror and her hands, hovering before her face, dripped with blood.
I struggled to find a link between this image and the film.
‘I was inspired by the menstruation scene,’ Małgorzata said.
Dominik took a step closer. ‘It’s beautiful and utterly deranged.’
After looking at it longer, I decided that he was right. In fact, the poster was clever precisely because of the way it coupled beauty and terror. The question was, what would Janusz the Censor think?
‘Janusz wants me to come up with something creative so he gets to feel like an artist. He doesn’t give a damn whether people actually see the film,’ Małgorzata said. ‘In fact, his bosses prefer that people steer clear of anything from the West. So as long as my poster doesn’t step on politics – at least not directly – then it’s fine.’
Dominik said, ‘It may not say anything about politics, but it says a lot about life.’
‘I’m glad you think so.’ She spread the poster on the table and stood between Dominik and me. ‘That’s precisely what I was thinking when I made it. This is life: we bleed, we shit, we die. We’re slaves to our bodies, all of us. It’s just that women are more aware of it than men.’
15
As Małgorzata predicted, her poster got through the censorship office without difficulty. When she told me this, I thought back to the kiss at the screening. Was this the real reason why Janusz the Censor gave her so much leeway with her art? Along with so many well-paid commissions? Or was I simply being unkind? Without saying anything about the kiss, I jokingly asked Małgorzata what she’d done to convince Janusz to approve the poster. ‘Nothing,’ she said, narrowing her eyes. ‘He loved it. I told you he wanted me to produce something radical.’ I had left it at that.
Soon Małgorzata called on Dominik, Krzysio and me for our help with plastering copies of the poster around town. We had to work in the middle of the night, she said, so the posters had maximum impact. Apparently all the artists did it like this; they wanted people to wake up to a city that had been transformed into a gallery, bursts of colour amid the pigeon-coloured buildings. They wanted their posters to be the only thing people talked about that day.
The nights were getting warmer now. At midnight I left my coat behind in the dormitory and walked to the town centre to meet the others. Jazz music leaked from behind the closed doors of a nightclub. My footsteps fell into line with its beat. As I passed the market square, the music faded away. I met the others by the theatre, where Małgorzata allocated buckets of homemade glue to Dominik and Krzysio, and a trolley of posters to me. Her job was to be the curator, she said. Standing in front of a concrete wall, her thumbs looped in the straps of her overalls, she delivered instructions. ‘We’ve got a generous print run, so paste these things everywhere. I want them to outnumber all the other posters.’ As she said this, she gestured to the middle of the wall, which displayed a poster for Apocalypse Now. By the lamplight, I could make out the disembodied head of a man, lying on its side. One half of his face exploded into the top of the poster. Although the poster was unsettling, Małgorzata’s was more so.
‘Hey,’ said Dominik, swinging the handle of his glue bucket. ‘Do you want to cover these things up?’ He jerked his thumb towards a nearby pole which displayed a couple of posters for Apocalypse Now.
Małgorzata wagged a finger at him. ‘I don’t know how you writers do things but we artists have ethics. Sort of … Put my posters around the other ones, not over them.’
We quickly developed a routine. Being the smallest, it was my job to dip a broom into the bucket of glue and sweep the liquid onto the wall. Krzysio, with his long arms, spread the posters, while Dominik smoothed the air bubbles. Małgorzata darted about, making sure that the layout of the posters was to her liking. The street lights had been switched off and we worked in the dark, using torches to guide us. As the sun rose we rested by the plinth of Alexsander Fredro. The playwright twisted his trunk in his chair, straining to get a better look at our handiwork.
The rising light illuminated the posters, with their mad slashes of red and blue. They were incredible. I changed my mind about Małgorzata. Her success was surely her own doing. She had earned it.
I dozed for a while, my head against Dominik’s shoulder, listening to the clunk and screech of the trams. When I woke up it was to the voices of a young couple who were standing in front of Małgorzata’s poster. ‘The Blue Lagoon,’ the girl read. ‘It gives me nightmares just looking at it.’
The boy grinned and put his arm around her. ‘A horror film! I might have to see this one without you.’
Małgorzata got up, her camera in hand. ‘That’s the reaction I wanted.’ She put her eye to the viewfinder and took a shot of the wall. In the middle of all those screaming girls was a single, timid poster for Apocalypse Now.
A fish transformed into a bear by the shadow of a black sun. Nearby, a goblin wrenched weeds from the earth and a hunter watched from behind an oak, his arrow pulled back on his bow. Around them I painted flowers, their petals and stamens more ostentatious than any I’d seen in real life.
I stood up to examine the mural, grateful for this holiday from sculpture. The professor’s praise of my last work, the Mother-sculpture, should have given me the drive to create another piece. But the initial euphoria had worn off and I was left with a sense of dread. The higher the professor’s expectations, the more severe his reprisal if – when – I produced something mediocre. Though in reality, he wasn’t the only thing holding me back. The one thing I dreaded more than disappointing the professor was disappointing myself.
Crouching down, I began to add another layer of paint to the sun. Silver would have been a nice touch if I could get hold of such a luxurious colour. I continued painting and when footsteps rapped across the studio floor, I looked up.
‘You’re here.’ Dominik appeared before me, a canvas bag slung over his shoulder. ‘I wanted to see you before I left for Gdańsk.’
‘Gdańsk?’ My brush was dripping paint. I dropped it into a jar of water. ‘What’s going on?’
‘More strikes at the shipyards. The paper’s asked me to cover them. I was sure they’d pick one of the older men – they always get the best jobs.’ He shifted his bag to his other shoulder and paced around my mural.
‘When are you leaving?’
‘Now.’
‘Oh.’ I grabbed my satchel and checked to make sure I had everything.
Dominik eyed my movements. ‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘I need to run if I’m going to make it.’ He cracked his knuckles and then glanced at my mural. ‘Looks good.’ Taking a step closer, he said, ‘It’s like something out of a picture book, but for adults. No, actually, you know what it’s like? It’s like stumbling into a strange and wonderful dream.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. But the praise felt shallow. What good was a picture when people were suffering?
Dominik wrapped his arms around me, his feverish energy rubbing off on my skin. He kiss
ed my forehead and told me he loved me. Then he rushed out.
I selected a tube of blue paint, rolled it in my palms and then put it back down. The mural looked wrong. Silly and self-conscious and over the top. Perhaps the best thing to do was to start again.
16
I arrived in the village with a wreath of toilet paper hanging around my neck. The rolls wouldn’t fit in my bag so I strung them together and wore them. They bounced awkwardly against my chest as I got off the train and then hurried towards Father’s house. It was a relief not only to be seeing him again but to be getting away from the city. Without sculpture – without Dominik – Wrocław didn’t feel like home.
The gate dragged against the concrete path as I pushed it open, the noise setting off the chickens. Father appeared from the work shed and kissed me on both cheeks. ‘My słoneczko’s back at last.’
It took me a moment to reconcile my image of Father as someone who was strong and capable, with the thin, slightly stooped, man before me. ‘Have you eaten?’ I asked. ‘I’ll make us obiad.’
He lifted the toilet rolls from my head and slung them on his arm. ‘How soft these are. They’ll make a change from Trybuna Ludu.’
The Party newspaper was only good for one thing, Father maintained: wiping your backside. We must have thrown hundreds, perhaps thousands, of them down the long-drop toilet, down where the rats scurried with the composting waste.
The Mother-sculpture was too heavy to transport to the village by train so I’d brought photos to show Father instead. I spread them on the work shed table, my heart quickening as I waited for his reaction. Perhaps he would think it wrong to use Mother in this way.
He directed the beam of the lamp towards the table and stroked his moustache as he examined the photos. Finally, he said, ‘Can you bring her home? I’d like to have her here.’
‘So you like it?’
He lifted a photo closer to the lamplight. ‘It’s funny, you’ve reminded me of that expression she used to get when she was reading a book or peeling potatoes at the sink. I thought I’d forgotten.’ He cleared his throat. Wait till you see some of the rubbish I’ve been putting together.’ He turned to me dramatically, shining the lamp on his face. ‘Prepare yourself …’
‘Surely it can’t be that bad,’ I laughed, wrenching the lamp back down.
‘It’s a commission for Pani Wedel,’ he said, giving me a meaningful look. ‘Her father died and she wants me to put together something befitting of his station. Or rather, her station.’ He handed me a design with an elaborately fussy text surrounded by curlicues.
‘I think you’ve gone a bit overboard.’ I selected another design, simple with elegant lettering. ‘This one’s nice.’
‘It’s the best,’ Father said. ‘Also the cheapest. So if she decides to throw her złoty at bad taste, who am I to object?’ He slipped the designs in a folder.
Father and I walked arm in arm along the curved path by Kolejowa. Smoke unfurled from the brewery, infusing the air with hops and mashed barley. The abattoir was close by and its odour of death collided with the hops. Perhaps this was why, whenever I drank the beer from my village, I could detect an aftertaste of blood.
Even in reception the abattoir reeked. I inhaled, testing the smell in my nostrils.
‘Is the boss around?’ Father asked a woman who was wandering past. Her hair, pale and curly, was trapped in a clear plastic cap.
‘What’s Pan’s business with Pani Wedel?’ she asked.
‘Excuse me, I’m Pan Skowroński.’ Father took off his hat ‘I’m the –’
‘The gravedigger,’ she said. ‘Yes, I’ve heard of you. Wait here.’
As she disappeared behind a set of swinging doors, Father and I exchanged amused glances.
Pani Wedel appeared, her cheeks slashed with pink makeup. ‘Come into my office.’ She led us to a small, wood panelled room, which was adorned with health inspection certificates and a picture of three kittens sitting in a basket. We offered her condolences for the loss of her father and she offered us tea.
‘Sugar?’ she asked, holding up a crystal bowl. Pani Wedel clearly had good connections. Though we had ration cards for sugar, there was none in the shops.
‘No, not me,’ Father said. He had a sweet tooth and I could see him trying to disguise his eagerness.
‘A man like you needs his energy, surely.’ Pani Wedel pointed a teaspoon his way.
‘Well …’
With a gratified smile, she plunged the teaspoon into the sugar bowl and then Father’s cup. She stirred quickly, without clinking the sides.
‘I’ve got the designs,’ Father said. ‘For a man of your father’s standing in the community I would suggest a headstone that’s imposing, yet dignified.’
‘Dignity is key.’ Pani Wedel wiped a biscuit crumb from her lips.
‘You might like this.’ He passed her the design that was simple and elegant.
She examined it, her face as expressionless as the cow that was painted on the front of the abattoir. ‘I see, yes.’ She set it on the table. ‘What else have you got to show me?’
Father handed over the rest. She flicked through them and when she came to the one that was ornate to the point of tackiness, she stopped. ‘He would have liked this one.’
‘Of course.’ Father said. ‘A fine choice.’
Quickly, I took a gulp of my sugary tea.
Pani Wedel nodded as she continued to examine the design. ‘I’ll consult my son. He works for me as a floor manager, you know. I’ll find him now.’
‘We could come with you.’ I ignored Father’s expression of disbelief. I’d never been all the way inside the abattoir and I was curious to see it for myself. ‘You could give us a tour.’
‘So you’re interested in working here after all?’ she said. ‘Your father would like that, I’m sure.’
From a steel cupboard, she retrieved protective caps and gowns. We put them on and she led us into the body of the abattoir.
The workers, all women, glanced at us as we entered. They stopped talking and concentrated on hacking slabs of meat. Their white coats were streaked with blood around their waists from where they’d leant against the benches. They looked as though a magician had tried to saw them in half.
At the back of the room, cow carcasses hung from ceiling hooks. The smell, which had been intriguing in the reception area, was now revolting. A churning sensation passed through my stomach and I prayed I wouldn’t gag. Yet, despite the stench, I was struck by the vivid colours of the bodies. Rose hues, mottled with streaks of white. They reminded me of Małgorzata’s poster for The Blue Lagoon, in which beauty coalesced with horror.
‘This is where we cut the product,’ Pani Wedel said. The workers cleaved the meat while she spoke about what she called ‘the mechanics of the operations’. Then she took us to a smaller room out the back. Here, lined on a silver bench, was a row of plastic buckets filled with dark liquid. ‘This is where we drain the by-product,’ she said, pointing to the sink.
‘Can I?’ I hovered a gloved finger over a bucket.
‘It’s not used for anything,’ she said. ‘So yes, go ahead.’
‘Seems an awful waste,’ Father said, returning to that bugbear of his. ‘Especially when we could turn it into sausage.’
Pani Wedel sighed. ‘We can’t waste staff time when we’ve got quotas to fill. All we can do is dispose of the byproduct quickly and efficiently.’
I peered into the bucket and then lowered my gloved finger inside. When I took it out, it was crimson.
A small woman approached, limping under the weight of a full bucket. She cast a dubious glance in our direction and then, with a heaving motion, tipped the blood into the sink. She placed the empty bucket on the bench and then started on the others. Red whorls sucked down the mouth of the drain.
17
Inside the Sopota Club, jazz music played from overhead speakers. The flat, slow rhythms gathered intensity and then burst into the elevated solo of a
trumpet or perhaps a trombone. We spotted Krzysio at a table by the low, wood-panelled stage. He was toying with the white tablecloth, rolling the fabric around his hand like a bandage. When he saw us, he let go of the fabric and smiled. He enfolded me and then Dominik in a hug.
‘You look too good for a man who’s been working day and night,’ Krzysio said.
‘Who needs a health resort when you’ve got all these strikes to cover?’ I said. Dominik was tanned and energised by his assignment in Gdańsk. The Ship-Strike Holiday was how I referred to his time away.
Dominik pulled out a chair for me. ‘This is what I need for my health.’ Seated, he lifted his glass of vodka and took a gulp. Then he said, ‘Meanwhile, Ania here has returned to Wrocław with blood on her hands.’
I knocked my glass against his. ‘That’s terrible. You’re a writer, can’t you do better than that?’
‘Afraid not. I told you I was shoddy.’
‘Even so, I’m intrigued,’ Krzysio said.
There was a lamp on the cabinet beside us and its bulb sizzled, the light disappearing before coming back on. I glanced at it and then said, ‘I had the pleasure of touring the local abattoir.’
‘All in the name of art,’ Dominik said.
Krzysio gave a low laugh. ‘What have you got planned?’
‘I don’t know yet.’ I swirled the clear liquid in my glass. ‘Maybe nothing.’ The colours and smells of the abattoir had stayed with me and I knew I wanted to make something that recalled the experience, but I didn’t know what. ‘Anyway,’ I patted Dominik’s arm. ‘Krzysio will want to hear your stories about the strikes.’
Dominik traced the circumference of his glass with his forefinger. ‘You know how Trybuna Ludu is saying that one hundred workers are on strike? Well, they underestimated the numbers by a few thousand. I’ve never seen anything like it. I got the feeling, out there, that we’re on the brink of something. Something big.’
‘See what happens when you mess with a man’s meat?’ Krzysio stretched out his arms and then, as though embarrassed by their length, folded them over his chest.
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