‘Take off the jumper,’ Dariusz said. He held Krzysio’s t-shirt down to help him. Krzysio tugged the jumper over his head, leaving his hair static. Dariusz leaned in to smooth it. ‘That’s better,’ Dariusz said.
‘Ania,’ Krzysio said, ‘come join us.’
‘Later,’ I said, moving on. It was too crowded in the apartment and the lack of oxygen was making me feel faint.
In the living room, people shed their overclothes, leaving scarves and coats and shirts piled on the floor. Their skin released an earthy, pungent smell that reminded me of being on a farm. Most of them didn’t pay attention to the photographs. Instead they drank and laughed and shouted to each other, the conversations reaching fever pitch until a young man with white-bleached hair and dark eyebrows stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled. ‘Keep it down! Unless you want the neighbours to report us for holding a public gathering.’
‘This isn’t a public gathering,’ someone called back. ‘It’s a private get-together between friends. Nothing illegal about that.’
The man with bleached hair raised his hands in defeat. ‘Even so, people have been arrested for less.’
This quietened everyone. Until a girl said, ‘This could be my last party. I’m going to enjoy it.’ The noise started again.
People said that a lot these days. This could be my last drink. My last cigarette. My last screw. No one believed in the future anymore.
I felt a sharp need to be close to someone. Dominik was at the paper again and we still hadn’t made up. I squeezed into the hallway, where Małgorzata was clinging onto an older man. She grabbed my arm.
‘This is Ryszard.’ Her face flushed with pride.
Though Ryszard was at least twice our age, he was attractive. His short sleeves revealed strong arms flecked with dark hair. He had an intense demeanour. When he looked my way, I felt as though his whole body was focused on me, not just his eyes. He said, ‘I heard all about Burning.’ He stepped closer as someone else pushed past. ‘I wish I could have been there but these photos are the next best thing.’
Ryszard’s attentions caused me to blush. To avoid his gaze, I looked around the apartment and was surprised to catch sight of Jakub, Małgorzata’s lover. Despite the chaos of bodies around him, he looked as clean-cut as he had that night at the Sopota Club. Jakup waved and made a beeline for us. He quickly greeted Małgorzata and then thrust his hand at Ryszard. ‘Pan Wiater, it’s an honour to meet you,’ he said, shaking Ryszard’s hand. ‘I’m a huge admirer of your work.’
Małgorzata rolled her eyes. I laughed and made my exit, going further down the hall where the photographs from Burning were displayed. Małgorzata usually printed her photos in black and white, but these were in colour. Near the umbrella stand was a picture of Father and Krzysio pulling trolleys towards the abattoir. Above, was a photo of carcasses hanging from steel hooks, their bodies glistening red and white. Next to this was a photo of Dominik and me in the forest. We were peeling back the plaster mould from a sculpture, our heads bent together. I traced his profile, his decisive nose and the mound of his chin. Then there was a photo of the performance, in which the sculptures flared crimson by the light of the fires. A closeup of Dariusz, his black hair glistening, a blindfold over his eyes. In the din of the crowded apartment, I heard the song of the violin, the way it had moved us to silence.
Looking at the photographs gave me a strange sensation, as though I were inside and outside the exhibition at the same time. I began to see the sculptures as others might. A shiver coursed up my spine as I realised that Professor Jankowski wasn’t lying: they were good.
‘Ania.’ A hand brushed my back and I turned around to Dominik. There was no space in the hallway and we were pushed together, his chest close to mine.
‘I thought you were working tonight.’
He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. I hate fighting with you.’
‘My professor thinks I can be a real artist,’ I said. ‘Some one who shows their work abroad.’
Dominik craned to see the photographs on the wall behind me. Then he said, ‘I don’t think this is the best way of bringing your work to the world. But let’s face it, nothing is ideal at the moment. You should go to Paris.’
My arms were folded in front of me and Dominik gently pulled them aside. ‘Kocham cię, Aniusieńka.’
He was so familiar to me, so contrite. After a moment I pulled his coat, bringing him closer. ‘I love you too.’
He rested an arm against the wall as he leaned towards me. Vodka lingered on his tongue and his lips were full and warm. We pressed together as we kissed, and behind me a photograph frame scraped against my neck.
7
The sky was a sealskin, sleek and wet. As I hurried down the street towards Dominik’s, I tucked my chin into my chest. Pellets of sleet flicked against my face. Across from the library, a soldier was standing in the manhole of a tank. ‘Come warm yourself on this,’ he called to me, gyrating his hips. The gesture should have been obscene but the confines of the manhole made it awkward, ridiculous. I turned up the collar of my coat and walked faster.
The high-rise apartments looked particularly shabby today. Their ashen faces were lined with dirty snow. The only eruption of colour was the new graffiti on a brick wall in the centre of town. In red paint someone had scrawled, Time to throw over Stalin’s saddle. And in yellow, Winter is theirs, Spring will be ours.
Every time the militiamen painted over the graffiti, it appeared again the next day. With new slogans, bigger writing. It was an ongoing battle between us and them: slogan, silence, slogan.
When I reached Dominik’s apartment he hurried me in. He said, ‘My love, you’re freezing.’
I sat on his bedroom floor and he wrapped me in a blanket before giving me a steaming glass of cherry compote. My hands were so cold that when I pressed them to the glass I couldn’t feel its heat. In the next room, the television was playing and his cousin Danuta was arguing with her husband about the baby. If I went to Paris I would have my own hotel room, a double bed and maybe even a balcony with a view of the city.
I put the compote down. ‘Next week I’m seeing Professor Jankowski. I think I’m going to tell him, yes. I’m going.’
‘That’s good. I’m happy for you, really I am. ’ Dominik lifted the blanket on my lap and shifted next to me, his leg pressed against mine. He brought his fingers to my cheek. ‘You’re still cold.’
When he rearranged the blanket around me, I noticed there was a copy of Czerwony i Biały on the floor. ‘Does this have your new article?’ I asked.
‘Look where it is.’ He flicked through the paper. ‘Page ten. Next to the comics!’
“Political Crisis Worsens”, announced the headline. And underneath, his by-line: “Written by Dominik Duwak”.
‘You’re still using your real name?’ I said. ‘You know how many people have been interned.’
‘If you’re going to bother writing something, you should put your name to it. Only cowards use pseudonyms. Cowards and shoddy writers.’
I fished out a piece of cherry from the compote. Its boiled flesh had turned slippery and limp. ‘You can be brave without being stupid.’
He flicked back to the second page of the paper. ‘You see this guy.’
‘“A political dissident’s view on the state of war”,’ I read.
‘He’s younger than me. Got himself arrested at a protest and now he’s in Białystok, publishing more than ever.’ He tossed the paper to the floor. ‘All the good writers are in prison.’
‘You’re not.’
Dominik gave me a dark look. ‘Precisely.’ He knocked the back of his hand against the floor. ‘Writers need to engage with their times. These are our times.’ He picked up the paper and shook it. ‘And what am I doing? Sitting in my bedroom drinking compote.’
‘If you’ve got better things to do …’ I tugged the blanket off, ready to leave.
‘Ania, I’m sorry.’ He rubbed his brow. ‘I’ve been at the pa
per all night. I’m tired.’ He leaned in to kiss me but then drew away. ‘What’s this?’ He stroked the edge of my mouth. To his touch, it felt tender and raw.
I went over to the small mirror he kept on his desk. The sleet had cracked open my lips.
The next day we went to Krzysio’s place. His parents were out and we had the apartment to ourselves. The television was on with the sound turned low, playing a cartoon of Maya the Bee. Krzysio lay on the sofa, his head on Dariusz’s lap, while Dominik and I sat on the floor. Dominik lit a cigarette as Krzysio told us about an American student he’d met who’d recently arrived in Poland. Officially she was here to learn the language. In fact she was going to study us.
‘Her thesis is called A Country Under Siege,’ Krzysio said. ‘She’s looking for people to tell her how terrible our lives are. Well, when Małgorzata heard about that, she immediately had an idea for an art project. She wants to turn things around and study the American right back –’
‘Hey!’ Dominik interrupted. ‘I know that man.’ He gestured to the television. The cartoon had finished and a blonde man in civilian dress, a brown suit with flared trousers, was sitting in a studio. Dominik turned up the volume. ‘That’s Aleksander Kapowski,’ he said.
The name was familiar but I didn’t know why.
‘He’s a writer,’ said Dominik. ‘You must have read him?’
‘No,’ I admitted.
‘Me neither.’ Dariusz took the cigarette from Krzysio.
‘Oh you must,’ Krzysio said. He shifted to seating position. ‘A City of Winter is so dark and intense. You’d love it.’
‘Okay.’ Dariusz lowered his chin to Krzysio’s shoulder. The gesture, full of tenderness and respect, recalled the way he rested his chin to his violin the moment before he began to play.
‘What the hell is he doing on television?’ Dominik crawled closer to the set.
Onscreen, Aleksander Kapowski uncrossed his legs and rested his hands in his lap. The camera zoomed in on his face and, ever so slightly, he flinched. There were streaks of beige makeup under his eyes. He cleared his throat and said, ‘The temporary restrictions on our rights are a minor inconvenience when we look at the bigger picture. What’s at stake here is the good of the People’s Republic. We can’t be selfish at a time like this. Poland must come first. We must observe the new rules to ensure the continued safety and security of our country. That is, quite simply, our duty as citizens.’ At the end of this speech, he straightened and glanced to his right, as though conferring with someone off-screen.
Dominik gave a snort. ‘What a prick.’
‘How much did they pay him to say that?’ Krzysio asked.
‘The man’s finished,’ Dominik said. ‘Everything he’s done is tainted.’
Dominik used Krzysio’s phone to call his editor. They had a veiled conversation about Aleksander Kapow-ski, referring to him as ‘the man in the brown suit.’ At the end of the conversation, Dominik said, ‘So it’s settled.’ He marched to Krzysio’s bookshelf, searched it and pulled down a thin paperback. ‘A City of Winter,’ he said to Krzysio. ‘I knew your mother would have a copy.’
‘I doubt she’ll want it now,’ Krzysio said.
‘Of course not.’ Dominik told us about the conversation with his editor, who had said that everyone was outraged and a plan was being put in place.
By the next morning, hundreds of copies of A City of Winter had been dumped outside the bookstores of Wrocław. The booksellers wouldn’t take them back – in fact, they tossed their own copies to the street. The books stayed there, littering the city, until the militiamen turned up in their blue vans and hauled them away.
The image of the books stayed with me. Useless stacks of paper that people kicked aside as they hurried through the town square.
It wasn’t just the books I couldn’t stop thinking about. It was Aleksander Kapowski. The way his face had become drawn when he launched into his speech. The way he was wearing too much makeup under his eyes and the way that, as soon as he stopped talking, he checked his performance with someone off-screen. The expression on his face, asking, Did I say the right things?
Damn him.
This man whom I’d never met, whose book I’d never even read, had ruined things for me. I couldn’t go to Paris. Not because of the likelihood of public shaming, galling as it was. Not even, strictly speaking, because of the politics. The problem, I saw now, was that this type of compromise – this collaboration – diminished a person. It diminished their courage. And without courage it was impossible to make art.
8
Not long after I made my decision about Paris, someone spray-painted the word ‘Traitor’ on Professor Jankowski’s office door. It was quickly covered up with a black and white chessboard pattern to discourage further graffiti. The job was sloppy and the squares bled into each other. I could still smell the paint as I waited for the professor. When he appeared, he said, ‘Isn’t it ridiculous. The cleaners did it one night after I left. I’m half tempted to graffiti over it myself.’
He sat me down at his desk and talked about how cold it was but I wasn’t listening properly. As I rehearsed what I was going to say, my gaze rested on a bowl of oranges on his desk. I hadn’t had an orange since the last Christmas I had spent with Father. He’d given me one as a gift. It was wrapped in wax paper with palm trees printed on it.
Professor Jankowski followed my line of vision. ‘A gift from a rich student who wanted to take my course. The truth is, I don’t even like oranges.’ He tossed one my way. I cupped it in my hands and breathed in the tang of its skin.
‘Take more if you like,’ he said. ‘They’re useless sitting there as decorations.’ He pushed the bowl towards me. ‘How’s your sculpture coming along? A lot of artists get very anxious before their first big show. But let me tell you this: the art in Paris isn’t as cutting edge as they’d like you to believe. It used to be good but then the whole scene became self-satisfied. An injection of new blood is precisely what they need.’
‘I can’t go. Not with the way things are in Poland. I’m sorry.’
He sighed and rested his hands on the back of his head. The bulge of the orange sat awkwardly on my lap and I cupped my palm over it. At last the professor said, ‘Okay, Pani Skowrońska.’ His tone as casual as if we were still discussing the weather. ‘You want to take the moral high-ground – take it. The only thing you’ll achieve is damage to your career.’
‘Well I hope that –’
He raised a hand to silence me. ‘The truth is I’ve been around for a long time and I’ve learned that you have to find a way to work the system. That’s what we did when all this socialist realism nonsense was the order of the day. Sure, we made the art that the Party commissioned, but we found ways to inject life into it. The challenge was good for us. It pushed us to be more creative.’ He picked up a book from his desk and flicked through it before glancing at me and saying, ‘The worst thing an artist can have is too much freedom.’
A week later, Małgorzata called upon Dominik, Krzysio and me to attend her apartment. She wouldn’t tell us why. ‘Maybe she’s doing a companion piece to the May Day performance,’ Dominik teased as we walked through the park. ‘As it turns out, you’re pretty good at taking erotic photos.’
‘I’m not planning on making a career out of it.’ The mention of my career left an acidic taste in my mouth. Professor Jankowski had been cool towards me ever since my visit to his office.
We passed a small pond. Ducks glided through the water, clearing trails in the algae. Winter had at last given way to przedwiośnie. Pre-spring was an erratic season, but at least the snow had melted and the first shoots of plants had started to emerge. In the village we marked the beginning of the season by setting fire to a Marzanna doll and drowning her in the lake. I hadn’t seen it done here.
I said to Dominik, ‘I told my professor I couldn’t go to Paris. I told him it wouldn’t feel right.’
‘Oh, Ania.’ He stopped walking and fa
ced me square on, clutching me around the waist. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Me too.’ Even though it was right thing to do, I felt deflated.
In the pond, one of the ducks raised itself and flapped its wings. Drops of water landed on the emerald plumes of its head.
There was a feast waiting for us at Małgorzata’s apartment. The table was laid with plates of salted herring and boiled eggs. Sausages that strained in their casings. It was like Christmas except that Ryszard was here too. He carved a loaf of rye bread and set it down next to the herring. ‘Eat, eat.’ He wiped his hands on a floral tea-towel and then flung it over his shoulder.
The sight of all this food set my stomach rumbling and I placed a hand over it, trying to quell the sound. Ryszard must have heard because he gave me a kindly look and scraped an extra sausage onto my plate. ‘I’m not very hungry,’ he said.
I pierced the sausage with my fork and brought it to my nose, inhaling its delicate spice scent. Before I’d taken a bite, Małgorzata took Ryszard’s hand and without preamble said, ‘We’re having a baby.’
‘A baby!’ Krzysio kissed her, and then Ryszard, on the cheeks. ‘Does that make me an uncle?’
‘How about godfather?’ Ryszard said.
‘Godfather …’ Krzysio raised his glass to them both.
When I hugged Małgorzata, she laughed and said, ‘Ania, those smelly fish scales of yours actually worked.’
‘We’re so happy for you.’ Dominik reached over to shake Ryszard’s hand and then hugged Małgorzata. ‘It’s wonderful news – just wonderful.’ Dominik sat back down and said, ‘I have to admit, part of me thinks you’re brave, bringing a child into this.’
At first I thought he was referring to Małgorzata’s and Ryszard’s marriage, but then I realised that he was talking about what was going on in Poland.
‘Might as well do it now,’ Ryszard said. ‘When I’ve got too much time on my hands.’
‘Are you between projects?’ Krzysio asked.
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