Home Is Nearby

by Magdalena McGuire

  Małgorzata struck a match, lighting a candle in the centre of the table. The gamey smell of carp hung over our Christmas blessings. Dominik went first. He tore his opłatek into sections and offered me a piece that was embossed with the head of a wise man. Our fingers touched as we held the wafer and he said, ‘Aniusieńka, you have my heart already. My wish for you – for us – is that we live big lives. Together. That we have at least four children –’

  ‘Maybe three.’ My cheek grew red and I concentrated on Dominik’s eyes, trying to pretend the others weren’t there.

  ‘Okay, however many children,’ Dominik said. ‘And that we always, always remember how lucky we are to have found each other.’ He kissed me full on the lips and then we broke the wafer in two, each of us eating our half to seal the blessing.

  ‘Can you beat that?’ Małgorzata asked Krzysio.

  He offered her a piece of wafer. ‘Let me see … How about I wish you a string of pretty boys for the new year?’

  ‘That’ll do,’ Małgorzata said.

  Krzysio laughed and stuffed his half of the wafer in his mouth. His movements were more animated tonight. It was as though Dariusz’s presence drew Krzysio out of himself.

  Krzysio had told me that, as well as being a virtuoso violinist, Dariusz could play several other instruments. Across from me, Dariusz sat very straight, his fingers fluttering across the table as though seeking the keys of a piano.

  Krzysio tore his wafer and held out a piece to Dariusz, who accepted it. Dariusz said, ‘A string of pretty boys, hey? You’ll need to be a little more romantic with my wish.’

  ‘Well …’ Krzysio looked around at our expectant faces. Then, embarrassed, he leaned towards Dariusz and whispered something to him. Dariusz breathed in quickly, his nostrils flaring a little. He nodded.

  ‘Come on, there are no secrets around here,’ Małgorzata said.

  Dariusz and Krzysio exchanged glances, refusing to say anything further. I was happy for them – happy for me and Dominik. I wished Małgorzata could have Ryszard here too. As though sensing this, she gave me a tight smile. Amid the dying laughter she reached to the middle of the table for a knife. The blade gleamed silver in her hand. She dissected the carp, giving me the tail-end. I scraped off the scales and put them aside for good luck.

  As I prodded the fish, I tried not to think about the dreadful sound of life leaving its body. I took a bite. The tang of dill gave way to the richness of melted butter. Underneath that was the meatiness of the carp, with its aftertaste of stale water and dirt.

  4

  In the new year the university declared an end to the strikes, stating that now, more than ever, we needed education. My excitement about returning to the studio was soon tinged with dread: Professor Jankowski had summoned me to a meeting in his office. I had heard of other students being called there to be told they didn’t have what it took to be an artist. He wasn’t going to boot them out of his class, he said, but his gentle suggestion was that they should choose to leave. Even students with half-decent marks had suffered this fate. It was as though there were two examination systems running in tandem: the formal academic one, and the capricious one laid down by the professor, who could grade you an A one day and then drive you out of the Academy the next.

  As I waited outside his office, I fidgeted with the hem of my woollen skirt. The professor was late. I kept returning to the memory of the carp. To me, the image of the fish had become inseparable from everything that was happening in Poland. The snow-encrusted tanks on the streets. The thousands of people who’d been interned. The protests in which the Zomo riot police attacked people with truncheons or pummelled them with cannons of water, the liquid taking on the force of concrete.

  I smoothed my skirt and folded my hands in my lap.

  At last Professor Jankowski blustered down the hall-way, a folder in one hand and a set of keys in the other. ‘Pani Skowrońska!’ he said. ‘Did you enjoy your holiday?’ I detected no sarcasm in his question, no allusion to the university strike or to martial law.

  ‘My holiday?’ Standing up, I slid my bag on my shoulder. ‘It was okay.’

  ‘Good, good.’ He guided me inside his office, where we sat across from each other at a desk the size of a ship. He removed his glasses. They left ridges along his forehead and under his eyes, making him look like he had just woken up. ‘I enjoyed your exhibition,’ he said. ‘Remind me what it was called. Fire? No, Burning, that’s it. Thank God you didn’t drag us to the country for nothing. And your Father makes a decent batch of honey wine, which helps.’

  I released my fists from the arms of the plastic chair. He put his glasses on, and the sight of them back in place caused me to clench up once more.

  ‘I have an opportunity for you,’ he said. ‘There’s an exhibition taking place in Paris. The Ones to Watch. It’ll showcase upcoming young Polish artists. Mostly Warsaw kids, but I’ve been given a few spots for my students and I’ve picked you to go. The whole thing is State funded so your expenses are covered.’ He picked up a pen and then dropped it back on the desk. ‘This is it, Pani Skowrońska. You’re on your way.’

  ‘Paris?’

  I was an insignificant girl from the country. The idea that I could exhibit abroad was incredible. Paris. I let the name settle over me as I thought of the famous artists who’d lived there, Picasso and Matisse and our own Tamara de Lempicka. My nerves gave way to elation.

  But there were things about this offer I didn’t understand. How was it that the exhibition was happening now, when no one was allowed to leave the country?

  ‘What about visas?’ I asked. ‘I can’t even get clearance to go back to the village to see my father.’

  ‘There’s an exception to every rule, of course,’ the professor said. ‘In this case, the government wants to keep up the appearance of normality. At least as far as the international community is concerned.’

  ‘Normality … That doesn’t exist anymore.’

  Professor Jankowski seemed unperturbed by my directness. He flourished a handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers and blew his nose. ‘Listen, you’re an artist. Your work should rise above all that politics business. The important thing is that you’re getting funded to go to Paris. You’ll find that they’re very interested in what they call “art from behind the Iron Curtain”. My advice is to make that work to your advantage. An exhibition like this can establish your career.’ He retrieved his handkerchief and dabbed his nose again. ‘All you need to do now is think of an impressive sculpture to exhibit. Preferably one that doesn’t melt blood all over the gallery floor.’

  On that note I was dismissed.

  5

  With everything that was going on in Poland, Dominik was busier than ever. He had spent the last few weeks working on an article that revealed the names of famous activists and writers who’d been interned under martial law.

  Wałęsa, Michnik, Kuroń.

  Anderman, Nowak, Walentynowicz.

  Thousands of people, famous and unknown, had been rounded up in prisons without formal charges or trial. Apparently the government could now lock us up before we’d done anything wrong. This was for the greater good, they said. Trybuna Ludu, the Party newspaper, was full of success stories about martial law: how the economy was stronger than ever, how the country had been returned to law and order. In one article they claimed that rape had been eradicated and the streets were now safe for women at night. To this, Małgorzata had scoffed, ‘But we’re not allowed out at night!’

  I longed to go home to Father. My travel permit still hadn’t been approved and I wished I could afford to buy the clerk an expensive gift to move things along. At least the phone lines had been reinstated. Father and I arranged a time to speak, and I used the dormitory phone to call him at the post office.

  ‘Aniusieńka, my słoneczko –’ Father’s voice, clogged with tears, was cut off by a recorded message, This call is being monitored. This call is being monitored. ‘For God’s–’ Father stoppe
d himself from cursing and I could hear his raspy breath as he calmed himself.

  Aware of the censor listening to our call, I asked him if it was very cold in the village.

  ‘It’s colder than a nun’s backside,’ he said.

  In the dormitory hallway a girl coughed loudly, signalling she needed the phone. I pressed the receiver to my ear and turned away.

  ‘How are your studies?’ Father asked.

  ‘Good. Actually, I have some news. Professor Jankowski says he likes my work. He wants me to go to Paris. To exhibit.’

  Again, the recorded message punctured our conversation, This call is being monitored. Then Father said, ‘Paris! That sounds wonderful. How much will it cost? Can we afford it?’

  ‘Everything’s paid for,’ I said. ‘By the State. I don’t know …’

  There was a long exhale at Father’s end. In the background, a woman in the post office said to him, ‘Five more minutes, Pan Skowroński.’

  ‘Listen Ania, I haven’t done much with my life, but my feeling is that you have to take these chances when they come your way. I’ve seen what you’re capable of doing with your art. The rest of the world should see it too.’

  The woman at the post office interrupted him again. ‘Sorry Pan, other people need the phone.’ The call was ended and my goodbye died on my lips.

  That night, I waited for Dominik at the bar mleczny near the university. The diner was filled with steam from the bain-maries, thawing my frozen hands. The smell of warm food set off a loud grumble in my stomach. I sat by the window, pressing the prongs of my fork into the greasy plastic tablecloth. They left a trail of bitemarks behind.

  A metal bell tinkled as the door opened and Dominik rushed in, his shoulders dusted with snow. When he saw me his harried expression gave way to a broad smile. ‘Darling.’ His lips were cold against mine and his nose was damp. I clasped his cheeks to bring the life back to his skin. He shrugged off his coat, hanging it on the back of a chair. ‘It’s been torture being away from you,’ he said.

  ‘Make it up to me, then.’ I rearranged the collar of his shirt. ‘Tonight.’

  Dominik groaned. ‘Can’t. I have to go back to the newsroom after this.’ He reached over to his coat and pulled out a flask. ‘I’m helping one of the older journalists with a breaking piece about a student who got killed in the protests. It’s going to be on the front page.’ He took a swig.

  I sighed. ‘So how long have we got?’

  ‘Half an hour … They only let me out because I promised to bring back more cigarettes.’

  We served ourselves gołąbki and bowls of tomato soup and then sat back down. Dominik pierced one of the cabbage parcels, revealing the white filling inside. ‘Nothing but rice,’ he said. ‘Meat has been rationed to nonexistence.’

  ‘Not according to Trybuna Ludu,’ I reminded him.

  ‘Of course not.’

  As Dominik ate, I said, ‘I have some news, actually. My professor’s asked me to go to Paris to exhibit my work. All expenses paid.’

  Dominik picked something out of his teeth. ‘Paid by …’

  ‘The State.’ I reached for his flask and took a sip, the liquid heating my chest.

  ‘So you said no?’

  Dismay lodged in my stomach, gluggy as the overboiled rice I’d eaten. ‘I said I’d think about it.’

  ‘Ania, you really need to think about it? This is damage control. They want to convince the rest of the world that this military dictatorship of theirs is working just fine.’

  ‘It’s not just propaganda.’ My voice was getting louder. ‘It’s a real exhibition, in a real gallery. It has nothing to do with politics,’ I said, echoing Professor Jankowski.

  ‘Everything has something to do with politics.’ Dominik leaned back in his chair. He raised his hands and shrugged. ‘That’s just the way it is.’

  ‘You could at least be happy for me. The professor thinks I’m good at what I do.’

  ‘Of course you’re good. You’re amazing. That’s why you don’t need to make these sorts of compromises. You deserve better than this.’ Dominik shoved his flask in the pocket of his coat. ‘I’ve got to go.’ He leaned in to kiss me and I moved away. He looked as though he was going to say something else, but he just shook his head.

  He strode towards the door, pulling on his coat as he left. I watched him through the window. The lace curtains cast a net between us. He hurried along the cobblestones, his head bent low against the wind.

  6

  Małgorzata, undeterred by the fact that the galleries had been shut down under the new rules, was holding a photography exhibition in her apartment. It would be for one night only. Any longer would be too great a risk.

  After a morning spent hammering nails into the flimsy apartment walls, we sat at the kitchen table to examine the photographs of the May Day performance, which she’d called Molly’s Coda. To my surprise she had credited me as co-artist. ‘You did take them, after all,’ she said.

  She passed me a framed photo. In it, she was sitting on the balcony, pleasuring herself while she read a book. The photo was so provocative that I had to look away. I took a breath and then tried to examine it with a cool eye. The lines of Małgorzata’s body directed my gaze to the top right corner of the shot and then down to the bottom left. The black and white print emphasised the shadows cast by her limbs, the play of light on her face. I liked it. It was a well-composed photograph and, in some ways, more discreet than the paintings of naked women in my art history textbooks. I was pleased for people to know I had taken it.

  Małgorzata said, ‘Let’s hang it near the balcony.’

  This struck me as being too obvious. ‘It might be more interesting to have it in the bathroom,’ I suggested, ‘above the tub.’

  ‘I’ll check what it looks like.’ The photo in hand, Małgorzata went to the bathroom. She hung the photograph on the wall, standing in the tub to straighten it. Then she hopped out of the bath and slammed the door. I heard the toilet flush and Małgorzata re-emerged, carrying the photo. It clattered as she tossed it on the table. ‘Shit.’ She sat down and her whole frame collapsed. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’ She pressed her finger to her nose and then dragged her palm across each eye. ‘I really thought it would happen this time.’

  I knelt by her chair.

  She took a deep breath and said. ‘I’m trying to get pregnant.’

  ‘To Ryszard?’ I asked, thinking of her various lovers.

  ‘Of course to Ryszard.’ She shifted away from my embrace. ‘He’s my husband.’

  Embarrassed, I returned to my chair.

  Małgorzata wiped her nose again and then picked up the photo of herself. She said, ‘I was pregnant a little while ago. And then something happened. I had to sit on that toilet and wait for the baby to bleed out of me.’

  My stomach clenched. I thought back to Małgorzata’s poster of the screaming girl. We’re all slaves to our bodies, she’d said, it’s just that women are more aware of it than men. At the time I thought she was being provocative. I felt stupid for not understanding that she was going through all this.

  I had no words of advice. A miscarriage seemed like a very foreign, very adult problem to have. The girls in my dormitory sometimes talked about pregnancy scares, but never about this.

  Remembering something, I scooped up my satchel and dug around for my purse, extracting a piece of paper that was folded to the size of a postage stamp. I gave it to Małgorzata. ‘This might bring you luck.’

  She unfolded it and prodded the contents. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Fish scales. From the carp, remember?’

  Małgorzata hid her face with both hands and shuddered. When she released them I saw she was laughing. ‘God, that’s so weird,’ she said. ‘But I’ll try it.’ She pressed her finger to the fish scales and then scraped them off with her nail. ‘Sounds like a lot of people are coming to the exhibition. Most of them just want a party, but you never know, we might sell some photos too.’

  ‘
I didn’t tell you,’ I said, ‘but my professor wants me to take part in an exhibition. In Paris.’ A real exhibition, I wanted to say. I told her about Professor Jankowski’s offer and the fight I’d had with Dominik. ‘I haven’t spoken to him since that night at the bar mleczny,’ I said. ‘He’s so uncompromising.’

  ‘He can be …’ Małgorzata said. ‘But he’s also got a point. It’s a trade-off. They help you with your art and you help them look good to the rest of the world. You’ll have to toe the Party line. That might be okay now, but later on will you regret it?’

  I began to wonder why Professor Jankowski had picked me to go to Paris. Maybe it wasn’t because of my art. Maybe he was looking for someone who seemed pliable, someone who would go abroad and pretend that, back in Poland, we weren’t living under lock and key.

  ‘Would you go?’ I asked Małgorzata. ‘If you’d never exhibited abroad and this was your big chance.’

  ‘You’ll get other chances.’

  ‘Would you?’

  Małgorzata exhaled, blowing out her cheeks. ‘I’d like to say no, but …’ She shook her head. ‘Probably. I probably would.’ She nudged the fish scales with the tip of her finger. They had faded since Christmas and were now a dull shade of orange, streaked with lead.

  People arrived at the exhibition at the appointed time of six o’clock. Given the curfew, being fashionably late was a thing of the past. There were about fifty people crammed shoulder-to-shoulder in Małgorzata’s apartment. Some perched on the kitchen table and benches, holding onto each other so they wouldn’t topple off. Others crammed in the bathtub, their knees pressed to their chins as they shared a bottle of homemade liquor. The photo of Małgorzata hung on the wall behind them.

  I leaned against the bathroom doorframe, looking in at Krzysio and Dariusz, who were sitting cross-legged on the floor. ‘I can barely breathe in here,’ Krzysio said, fanning his face.