Home Is Nearby

by Magdalena McGuire

  ‘That’s only part of the story,’ Dominik said. ‘These workers, they want more than pork chops. Dignity. That’s what they kept saying, “We want our dignity.” Women brought flowers and sweets to the shipyard gates, like they were visiting the Pope. It was almost enough to move an old cynic like me.’

  Dominik’s sleeves were rolled up. I traced the line of muscle along his arm and said, ‘Tell Krzysio about the poet.’

  ‘Oh yeah.’ Dominik took another swig from his glass. ‘Day and night, the voice of the strike poet boomed across the shipyard, reciting Mickiewicz, or saying things like, “Let all Polish drunkards start decent work.”’ He grimaced. ‘God, I hope he didn’t mean me.’

  ‘What about Wałęsa?’ Krzysio asked. ‘Was he there?’

  At university there was a lot of talk about this Lech Wałęsa, an electrician who’d become leader of the Solidarność union. My roommate Basia thought him handsome and lamented the fact he was married.

  ‘Wałęsa.’ Dominik shook his head. ‘He was there alright. Centre-stage, every day. I’ll tell you this, the man loves the sound of his own voice.’

  Krzysio rested his hands, palms up, on the table. ‘He’s charismatic. That’s what the movement needs.’

  Dominik inspected his empty glass as though he wasn’t sure where the vodka went. I tipped some of my drink into it and he leaned over to kiss me, his lips soft against my cheek. ‘The people love Wałęsa,’ he said. ‘He’s a working man so he knows how to speak on their level. But half of what he says doesn’t make sense. How am I supposed to quote a load of gibberish?’

  ‘So you’ve started the article?’ I asked. Since Dominik had returned from Gdańsk he’d done a lot of talking about the strikes but, from what I could see, not much writing.

  ‘Not yet.’

  Leaning in, I said, ‘Am I going to have to tie you up again?’

  His fingers stroked my wrist. ‘In that case, I’m definitely not going to start it.’

  ‘Enough of that,’ Krzysio said with a grimace. ‘I want to hear about Wałęsa.’

  ‘The thing about Wałęsa,’ Dominik said, ‘is that he knows how to inspire people. But there’s not much going on up here.’ He tapped his head.

  ‘That’s not quite true,’ said Krzysio. ‘What he’s good at is –’ He stopped talking and a grin spread on his face. ‘Where does she find them?’

  I turned to see Małgorzata coming our way, her arm linked with a blonde boy who had the clean good looks of the people in the Soviet posters that were pinned to our walls at school. Małgorzata kissed us and introduced her companion as Jakub. She sent him off to fetch extra chairs.

  ‘Very nice.’ Krzysio nodded in Jakub’s direction.

  ‘I thought you’d approve,’ she said.

  Jakub returned, dragging two chairs behind him. He took a place at the table and then made a show of looking around. ‘I heard this place was pretty crazy …’

  ‘Just wait,’ Małgorzata said.

  ‘I was telling everyone about Gdańsk,’ Dominik said.

  ‘Ooh.’ Małgorzata leaned towards him. ‘Did you see Wałęsa? He’s gorgeous.’

  Dominik shook his head with a laugh. ‘Not you too.’

  A spotlight shone on the stage and the jazz music stopped playing. We rearranged our chairs. Dominik put his arm around me. Next to us, Małgorzata sat close to Jakub, stroking his leg.

  A woman strode onstage in a white lab coat. She regarded us silently.

  ‘Put the music back on!’ Someone yelled.

  Ignoring them, the woman stood at the centre of the stage, completely still, before slipping off her coat. Underneath she was naked. She looked towards the ceiling and stretched up her arms, lifting her small breasts. Her ribs protruded as she reached for a rope that was being lowered towards her by way of a pulley system. When it dangled in front of her chest, she tied the end into a loop and slipped her head through. The rope dangled slack from the ceiling, but then got tauter, pulling her up as she grasped the noose around her neck. Soon she was on tiptoes, swinging. I reached a hand to my own throat. The performance, so strange and macabre, brought to mind images of carcasses hanging from steel hooks.

  It dawned on me that this was what I wanted to capture in my next piece; the idea of mortality, of bodies altering from one state to another. To do this, I needed to move away from the solidity of clay and try a material that was less permanent. It was an outlandish concept for a sculpture but perhaps Father could use his charm on Pani Wedel and arrange it.

  Onstage, the noose got tighter. It was excruciating but I couldn’t look away. When I felt the squeeze of rope around my own neck, the woman made a strangled sound. The noose slackened. She fell to her hands and knees, panting.

  ‘She’s a friend of mine,’ Małgorzata announced in a loud whisper.

  People in the audience began to clap, slowly at first, and then faster. Everyone except a girl who was sitting at a table next to us. She rested her chin on one fist and stretched her mouth into a yawn.

  18

  White hollow bodies, each the size of a child, lay on the work shed floor or stood erect next to the headstones. There were five moulds in total; abstract human forms that I’d fashioned from plaster and bandages, and braced with thin lengths of wood. Each mould had been cut in half and was ready to paint with pig fat, which, according to Professor Jankowski, was an excellent release agent. I stirred the lumpy yellow liquid, mixing it with kerosene to soften it.

  The release agent smelt like pork gone bad. Despite this, Father grinned when he bent over to sniff it, ‘See, what did I tell you?’

  I lowered my voice to imitate his, ‘Around here we waste nothing.’

  When Father laughed, his whole body shuddered. He held onto the table to steady himself.

  Stroking his back, I said, ‘You’ve got to take a break from those cigarettes.’

  ‘Too late.’ He thumped his chest. ‘I’ve been smoking since I was twelve.’ Retrieving a cigarette from the table, he lit it, the match releasing the smell of sulphur in the room.

  ‘You’re as bad as Dominik.’ I waved the fumes away from my face. ‘How did you convince Pani Wedel to let us do this, anyway? I was sure she’d say no.’

  He shook his head and chuckled a gust of smoke. ‘She was so pleased with that eyesore I created for her father that it didn’t take much to sweet-talk her into your scheme. As I said, she’ll let us use the abattoir so long as it’s after hours and we wear protective gear at all times.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘As far as you’re concerned, yes. For my part I’m giving her eggs and honey, and,’ he raised his eyebrows, ‘going to her house for dinner.’

  The image of Father suffering through an intimate dinner with Pani Wedel made me laugh. I picked up a plaster mould, positioning one hand on its shoulder and the other on its back, twirling it around in a mock romantic dance. ‘Before you know it, she’ll be calling herself Pani Skowrońska,’ I called in a sing-song voice.

  As I whirled past, Father raised his hand as though to cuff me around the head. ‘What nonsense.’

  Pani Wedel was waiting in front of the abattoir. As she hurried us through, she said, ‘I don’t pretend to understand art, but it’s good that you’re home, Ania. For your father’s sake.’

  I cast a questioning look at him but he kept his gaze fixed on Pani Wedel. ‘How’s business?’ he asked.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘our quotas are up ten per cent, which means that …’ I blocked out her chatter as Father and I pulled the trolleys loaded with moulds into reception. There, we dressed in bloodied coats, plastic caps and surgical masks, and then followed Pani Wedel.

  The smell of the abattoir was much worse this time. It made me gag, bringing up bile in my throat. Father was unperturbed. He lifted his mask to ask Pani Wedel about her sons.

  In the meat cutting area, I gazed at the dismembered bodies of cows hanging from the ceiling. A white ribcage spread like wings, strips of red flesh betwe
en the bones. A stump of a leg pointed towards the tiled floor in a plaintive, elegant gesture. Another carcass opened like a bat ready to take flight. They were all sculptures in their own way: strange and beautiful and terrifying. Most artists could only dream of coming up with such powerful works. This gave me the notion for a back-up plan. If my own sculptures failed (there was so much that could go wrong with this piece), I would bring the professor and the others to the abattoir and present it as my art project. The concept was so bold that it was bound to do spectacularly well. Either that or earn me a fail.

  Ahead of me, Father talked to Pani Wedel as he wheeled the trolley of moulds into the steel and tiled room.

  ‘The by-product is over there.’ She pointed to the buckets that gleamed with dark liquid. ‘And the freezers are next door. It’s not very convenient for us to store your things. We don’t have much space, you know.’

  I pulled down my mask and said, ‘They won’t be here long.’

  ‘No.’ She clasped her hands in front. ‘Well, as I said, I don’t pretend to understand art …’

  On a whim, I asked her if she’d like to come to the exhibition. ‘Of course, it might be a bit strange.’

  ‘I would be happy to attend,’ she said. ‘When you’re done in here, come to my office so I can lock up.’ Her heels clicked on the floor as she departed.

  I took a shallow breath, wishing I could rid my nostrils of the stink. Father must have noticed I was feeling unwell as he gave me an encouraging nod and then set about unpacking the moulds.

  ‘We’ll fill them in the freezer,’ he said. ‘Otherwise they’ll be too heavy to move.’

  I followed him, carting a bucket of blood, the metal handle digging into my palms. Father pulled back the freezer door and we stepped inside. He instructed me to turn a mould upside-down and lean it at an angle against the wall. After I did so, he placed a funnel in its open feet and poured the blood inside. Some of it seeped over the edges, staining the white plaster. He held the mould in place while I fetched more blood, and when the mould was full, we wedged it in a corner of the freezer, reinforcing it with piles of frozen meat. It was good to be working with Father again – this time on one of my projects. He had an aptitude for the logistics of the task, for calculating volume, freeze-time and weight. I wondered how his life might have turned out if he’d had the chance to go to university like me.

  When we finished I closed the freezer door and fled through the abattoir, holding my nose. Behind me, Father laughed. He took a deep breath and gave an exaggeratedly happy sigh. ‘I think it smells delicious,’ he said, enjoying my disgust.

  19

  At the end of the week, my friends tore into the village in Małgorzata’s green Trabant, the car pulling up on the kerb near Father’s house before shuddering to a stop. Małgorzata emerged from the driver’s seat, letting Dominik and Krzysio out after her. All of them had dressed in black the way I’d asked.

  Małgorzata leaned against the car in a floor-length dress. It had long sleeves, like wings. She whirled the car keys around her finger and said, ‘So this where you come from.’

  ‘This is it.’ I looked at the tiny house I grew up in, at the holes in the roof patched with offcuts of wood. The late autumn garden looked bereft. Across from our place was the orphanage, a green slab of a building with a lone swing out the front. I had never seen anyone play on it.

  ‘This is perfect for the exhibition,’ Małgorzata said. ‘I’m envious.’

  Krzysio circled his arms, stretching them after the drive. He said, ‘I feel like I’m in one of my mother’s poems. She grew up somewhere like this, in a small village where they believe in witchcraft and God.’

  ‘No wonder you’re an artist,’ Dominik said. His dark trousers and jacket lent him a handsome formality, as though he were going to the opera, not the abattoir. He enfolded me in a hug and kissed me deeply. I pulled away when I heard Father coming, his cough announcing his arrival.

  We walked along the stretch of road by the forest. Father, Dominik and Krzysio took turns dragging the steel trolleys behind them. Father was slower than they were, but still insisted on pulling a trolley. When I offered to help he wouldn’t let me. I didn’t like seeing him in this light and I was relieved when we reached the abattoir.

  We sheathed ourselves in protective clothing. Of all my friends, Krzysio seemed the least perturbed by the blood-flecked coats and greasy plastic caps, pulling them on without complaint. Dominik acted the joker, the way he did when he first met Father. Małgorzata shuddered as she inched her way into her coat, the stained garment contrasting with her glamorous attire. I handed her a cap which she refused. As we walked through the abattoir, she lifted the hem of her dress so it wouldn’t drag on the floor. When we came to the women cutting meat at steel benches, she let go of her dress and fiddled with the camera around her neck. The women ignored her while she took photos.

  ‘Come on,’ I hissed, mindful of what Pani Wedel would say.

  ‘Oh my God, this place is disgusting.’ Małgorzata made a gagging sound. ‘Worth it though, I think I got some great shots.’

  Father and I wrenched open the freezer door. The moulds were still in place, leaning against the walls. Małgorzata peered through the eye of the camera and snapped. I inspected a mould, my knuckles thumping its white body.

  ‘What do you think?’ I asked Father.

  He knocked on it and said, ‘Should be frozen.’

  Filled with ice, the moulds were heavier than a samesized person would be. The men and I handled the moulds, stacking them on the trolleys and securing them with rope while Małgorzata documented the process. When all five were secured, we dragged the trolleys back through the meat packing area and, after removing our coats and masks, went outside.

  Małgorzata took a photo of me wheeling a trolley past the roadside Madonna. The ice sculptures bumped against each other with a heavy thud. ‘So tell me,’ she said, ‘when you came up with this project were you inspired by my poster for The Blue Lagoon?’

  ‘Oh …’ I thought of the girl with menstrual blood dripping from her hands. Małgorzata was right: she was my influence for this piece. I certainly would never have been bold enough to execute it if I hadn’t seen the lengths she went to for her own art. ‘Yes,’ I admitted. ‘This wouldn’t have happened without you.’

  With a sudden movement, she lurched over and gave me an awkward kiss, her lips grazing the space between my cheek and my ear. Still dragging the trolley behind me, I gave her a grateful smile. Whatever had taken place between her and Dominik was in the past. I liked Małgorzata. She was, I realised, my first female friend.

  In the forest, we unloaded the moulds onto the moss-covered ground. Timing was critical with this piece. ‘What if the others get here too early, while we’re still setting up?’ I asked. ‘Or if they’re too late and the sculptures melt?’ Although it was a cold afternoon I wasn’t sure how long the blood would stay frozen.

  Father exhaled cigarette smoke into the canopy of pines. ‘Don’t worry, słoneczko. All of us are here to help.’

  ‘Tell us what to do,’ Dominik said. A pair of pliers dangled in his hand.

  I took the pliers. ‘First we’ll break them open.’

  After I removed the wooden bracing from a mould, Father helped me peel back the plaster. To my relief, the pig fat worked well as a release agent and the mould came away easily. Dominika and Krzysio stepped in to help, cutting off the plaster to free the body inside. With a staggering motion, they pushed the sculpture upright, holding it in place while I contemplated it.

  The shape of the figure was, disappointingly, not quite what I’d imagined. The intricacies of the mould – the ears, nose and eyes – were blunted when cast in ice. I removed my glove and placed my hand against the cheek of the sculpture, stinging my palm. The lack of distinct facial features gave the sculpture a certain anonymity which, upon reflection, I didn’t mind. Neither man nor woman, it was a squat figure with a shrunken head, arms that pressed cl
ose to its sides and a ridge down the lower half of its body to signify two legs. It was wider at the bottom to allow it to stand. When putting it together, I’d spent most of my time thinking about logistics such as volume and weight. However, now that it was finished (or halfway finished, rather, for there was more to come), it turned out that my favourite thing about it was the colour. The blood, which had been so dark when it was liquid, had turned a luminous shade of raspberry. Some of it had clotted, leaving streaks of black.

  Dominik came and put his arm around me. ‘I love it. It’s powerful. Eerie. You’ve managed to evoke what it is to be human, the frailness of us all. Everything comes to an end so enjoy it while it lasts, right?’

  I was gratified that he understood my work so well. He wiped a trace of blood from his hands and then stroked my hair.

  ‘I have to get back to the house,’ Father said. Professor Jankowski and the others were meeting him there. He kissed my cheek, his moustache scratching my skin. ‘It was the right thing for you, going to Wrocław.’ As he walked away, the autumn leaves made a swishing sound beneath his gumboots.

  Małgorzata stopped taking photos and lowered her camera. ‘Didn’t I tell you that you could make something different to anything I’d seen before?’ She checked her watch. ‘Now hurry up with the rest.’

  Though the sculptures were made to stand on their own, I wanted them to have additional support. Dominik and Krzysio and I dug shallow holes for the sculptures to stand in. We arranged them in two rows of two, and then placed the short sculpture, made from the leftover blood, at the front. We drove bundles of twigs into the earth, their tips soaked in kerosene.

  As we finished, there was a shout behind us. A couple of young men in black turtlenecks arrived, violin cases in tow. These were the musicians that Krzysio had arranged. Dominik spoke to one of them while the other one approached Krzysio and me. His black hair glistened with brilliantine. There was a hint of moustache on his upper lip and he had shadows under his eyes. His face erupted into a smile when he neared Krzysio. The two of them kissed full on the lips, the boy’s violin pressed between them.