Home Is Nearby

by Magdalena McGuire

  The exhibition catalogues were displayed on a nearby table. They were magazine-sized and printed on thick glossy paper. I hadn’t yet had a chance to look at them. Perhaps because my English wasn’t very good, John hadn’t asked for my help in producing them. I picked one up and opened it, marvelling at the incredible asking prices for the sculptures. For the cost of one artwork I could live for a year in Australia – two if I was frugal. I ran my finger down the names of the pieces and then came across one that was unfamiliar. Portrait of the Artist as a Carp.

  A sharp sensation gripped my stomach. I tucked the catalogue in my bag and hurried through the gallery, nudging my way between people until I found a small room at the back.

  When I saw it, there was a folding in of time.

  It was me. Or rather, it belonged to me.

  My mind scrambled, trying to figure out how this had happened, and I remembered the stories that I had told John when we first met. About the night my friends and I had gathered together after martial law was declared. He had been so interested, and it had felt so freeing to finally speak about these things, that I told him everything. About the tanks and the militiamen, the hashish in the kitchen and the carp swimming in the bathtub. I even told him about that little picture, Portrait of Dominik as a Carp.

  I stepped closer. Here in the gallery was a bathtub. It was chipped at the sides and a yellow carp swam in the shallow water. On the edge of the bath was a gun. I pushed aside the woman next to me and lowered myself onto the tub. I dangled my fingers in the water. The carp nibbled at my skin and in that moment, I was sitting on the other bathtub, the water turning black with ink. The smell of burning coal came to me and I could hear Jaruzelski on the television, feel the pulse of Dominik’s heart as he held me in his arms.

  A couple of people – gallery staff – rushed towards me, their faces contorted with alarm. ‘Don’t touch the art!’ A hand grabbed my shoulder, cold fingers slipping under the velvet. Digging in.

  Then there was another hand, gentler, on my back. ‘It’s okay, she’s with me.’ John helped me up. The gallery staff edged away.

  ‘What have you done?’ I shielded my face as John manoeuvred me through the crowd. Everything was swirling: faces, wine glasses, the ceiling and the floor. In reception, I clutched the desk, needing something tangible in my hands.

  ‘It’s an homage,’ he said.

  A strangled noise emerged from somewhere inside me. ‘I can see you’re upset.’ John spoke slowly, as though he’d been struck by a pain in his jaw. When I didn’t reply, he said, ‘I wanted to tell you.’ Then he stiffened and said, ‘The sculpture was my idea.’

  This wasn’t an idea – this was my life. I tried to tell John, but the words clogged in my throat. So I spoke the way I knew how.

  ‘Ty kłamco i oszuście. Wszystko mi ukradłeś! Ty durniu, ty nic nie rozumiesz, nic nie wiesz o życiu. Ani o sztuce, ani o życiu, o niczym co się liczy. Nic nie wiesz! Nawet swoich własnych rzeźb nie potrafisz zrobić!’

  The outpour left me shaking. I hadn’t known I was going to call John those things – a liar and a thief and a fake. A man who knew nothing. A man who couldn’t even make his own art.

  John was pale. He lifted his hand to the top of his shirt as though to straighten a tie. Finding none, it fell to his side. ‘We’ll talk about this later.’

  Gallery staff and other onlookers circled us. There was the flash of a camera our way. I rushed out the doors and into the night. Chased by the image of myself, yelling at John.

  In my hurry I had left my coat behind. My neck burned with shame and I welcomed the rain that dripped between awnings. I slowed down the pace of my walking, tugging at the hem of my dress. John had taken what was mine and used it in the most public way. The only time I’d been so humiliated was when Dominik wrote that article. A woman I once considered my wife …

  A car sped past and I leapt back from the road to avoid the avalanche of water. How much time had I spent measuring myself against Dominik, against the life we’d once had? Though I’d moved all the way to Australia, to a small town by the beach, I was still plagued by the past. The only way it was going to release its hold on me was if I confronted Dominik myself.

  13

  The next day I was supposed to meet John at the gallery for a meeting about the opening. There was no way I was going. I left the hotel early and sat in a cafeteria for workers, a little like our bar mleczny, and sipped weak tea. Soon enough it was time to leave. My hands shook as I packed my map and then made my way to the bus stop.

  The university was surprisingly easy to find. I got off the bus with the students, following them to a severe-looking building made of white bricks. I stood in the courtyard, wondering where to go next, when a girl in a beret took pity on me. ‘Are you lost?’ she asked. I told her the room I was looking for and she helped me find my way.

  Inside, I waited in a dank corridor, tossing up whether I should go back to the hotel. A dishevelled-looking guy strode towards the lecture theatre, an anarchist symbol drawn in black marker on the back of his vest. When he held the door open for me, I swallowed my anxiety and went in.

  I’d expected the lecture to be teeming, the way it would be in Poland. However, there were only half a dozen people scattered in the room. I positioned myself at the back, where I wouldn’t be noticed. My body was out of kilter: my palms were damp and my throat was dry. Images came to me of last night. The way I’d lost control and yelled at John. It had felt terrible and cathartic and I was ready to do it again.

  Taking a deep breath, I focused on the audience members. They appeared to have grouped themselves according to dress. Those with spiked hair and ripped jeans sat at the back, while those with spectacles and shirts in muted colours were at the front. As I looked at them I realised that, aside from a handful of men, they were all female.

  My resolve weakened. Maybe I shouldn’t have come. My being here would only tell Dominik how important he was in my life. He probably had a girlfriend. For all I knew, he had a wife. Despite my anger there was nothing I could say to him that wouldn’t sound desperate.

  I reached under my chair for my satchel. Then someone tapped a microphone and the room went quiet. Despite myself, my gaze was drawn to the stage.

  It wasn’t Dominik, but a man with neat hair and sunken cheeks. Although it was warm inside, he had a scarf draped around his turtleneck sweater. He tapped his microphone again and said, ‘Before we begin, ladies and gentlemen, I want you to come closer. Don’t be shy.’ The man, who was English, spoke beautifully, as though with each word he was giving us a gift. Around me, people began to gather their bags and notebooks and shift towards the front. If I left now, I would only draw attention to myself. I positioned myself in the middle row.

  When the man was satisfied that the audience was sitting close enough, he said, ‘We’re fortunate to have with us today a Polish writer who is well known for his pioneering journalism, for his willingness to speak truth to power if I can use that dreadful cliché.’ He paused for the chuckles and then continued. ‘Just as he is known for the incisive manner in which he shows us that there can be a thin line between democracy and totalitarianism. Exiled from his own country, he is now a resident in London, where his first book, Spring Will Be Ours: Polish Lessons in Resistance and Revolt, has been published to critical acclaim. Please put together your hands for Dominik Duwak.’ The man stumbled a little over Dominik’s last name but the girls were already clapping.

  And then there he was. Smiling and ducking his head as though embarrassed by this praise. His familiarity was overwhelming. I had expected him to look different, but though his hair was shorter and his clothes were nicer, he was undeniably Dominik. Tall and strong-necked and handsome. That same satiric twist of the mouth.

  Anger flooded through me and my vision blurred with tears. I wiped them away and, unbidden, the memories came back. Dominik and me taking long baths together while he read me Mickiewicz. The two of us assembling the blood sculptures in the
forest. And the first time we met, when he slipped me the forged number for my coat.

  Dominik settled down on a sofa next to the facilitator. He picked up a microphone from the nearby table and said, ‘My friend here is making a lot of hot air. How do you call it when someone says big things about you?’

  ‘Exaggerating,’ someone called.

  ‘Yes, thank you, exaggerating.’ He unleashed a smile on the audience.

  I slid further down my seat. Hoping that he wouldn’t see me, and hoping that he would.

  The facilitator asked Dominik questions about his book, and about his life in Poland and here in London. Dominik answered in a halting English that was so different to the ardent way he spoke in Polish.

  Then the facilitator said, ‘How do you feel knowing that this book of yours – this very important book – won’t reach the people who need it the most. It’s been censored in Poland hasn’t it?’

  Dominik scratched inside his shirt collar and said, ‘I am grateful to Polish government for banning my book. This means it will be bestseller on the black market.’

  There was a titter in the room. Then the interviewer said, ‘In all seriousness though, you of all people know that writing can be a dangerous thing. You were imprisoned in Poland for your journalism, isn’t that right?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Dominik switched the microphone from one hand to another and began to recount his time in Białystok. He talked about how he and the other prisoners were watched day and night, about the lack of food that left them near starvation point, and about the violence. On one occasion, he said, he’d been dragged from his cell to the toilets and beaten by three guards. They punched and kicked him in the stomach and face until his nose and cheeks were broken. All because he refused to sign a paper declaring his loyalty to the government.

  My heart skipped a beat and then started up again with a loud thumping noise I was sure everyone could hear. But the girls didn’t notice: their notebooks remained closed on their laps and their gazes were fixed on Dominik. I made myself listen to what he was saying.

  ‘Inside or outside prison, this is not so different. Poland is an occupied country and so everyone in Poland knows we are not free. But we too are lucky. There is nothing we take granted. For granted, yes? We are not lazy with our lives because we know that all this,’ he made a sweeping gesture with his hand, ‘can be taken away. And we have much to teach the rest of the world if they would like to listen.’

  At the end of the speech, the facilitator quietened the applause and announced that it was question time. There was a long silence before someone asked, ‘Will Poland ever be free?’

  ‘I am optimist.’ Dominik raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘This is my biggest problem.’

  This first question paved the way for others. ‘It must have been horrible being locked up in prison like that,’ a girl said.

  Dominik nodded and then shrugged. ‘I could put up with being in prison, but you know what I couldn’t put up with?’ A look of mischief came over his face. ‘Not enough vodka. This is bad for an aspiring alcoholic such as myself.’

  Afterwards there was a book signing. People lined up in order to have their time with Dominik. He was sitting at a small table, his head bent over as he scribbled. I hovered by the back of the theatre. Maybe just seeing him was enough. If I left now he didn’t ever have to know I was here.

  The small crowd dispersed and, with no idea of what I wanted to say to Dominik, I made up my mind to leave. A person in front of me opened the doors, releasing a gust of cold in the theatre and then someone called, ‘Ania?’

  I turned around. Confusion passed over Dominik’s face. He unrolled a sleeve of his shirt and then pushed it back up. The instant I decided it was a mistake, he traversed the space between us and wrapped me in his arms.

  14

  It was dark inside the pub and the counter was sticky against my arm. Dominik knew the proper words to order our drinks, asking the barman for pints, rather than glasses, of beer. Standing beside us, a couple of wide-bellied men laughed loudly. When a slim girl in a short yellow dress walked in, their laughter drained away, their eyes assessing her. I took a sip of the frothy beer, waiting for Dominik’s gaze to be pulled towards her. Instead he looked at me.

  We sat at a booth by a small window, its pane smudged with fingerprints. Dominik fidgeted with the plastic flowers on our table and when he saw me watching, he stopped. I had been so anxious about seeing him again that I hadn’t imagined he would be nervous too.

  When he spoke, he cast aside English. ‘I had this idea,’ Dominik said, ‘this adolescent fantasy, that one day I would go somewhere, an art exhibition or a bar or wherever, and you’d be there.’

  I took a sip of the creamy beer. The murky window made the outside world look shabby and indistinct. There were a couple of wasps on the windowsill. They lay on their backs with their legs in the air.

  ‘Father was sick.’ Now that I’d summoned the courage to bring it up, I kept going. ‘He was sick, that’s why I did it. When I read that article of yours, I … It’s like the world stopped. I couldn’t believe it.’

  Dominik steepled his hands and placed them next to his mouth, breathed through them. ‘I didn’t know about your father – not then. They didn’t tell me. They just showed me the papers you signed and said you’d confessed everything. They said you were working for them now. I told them they were lying but then … then I got word it was true.’

  That was probably Elżbieta, the dentist from my cell. After my interview with the Colonel, I had told her they said that Father was ill. That he was dying. Didn’t it occur to her, when I signed the papers, that this was the reason why?

  ‘Once they had those papers,’ Dominik said, ‘the guards harassed me non-stop. One night they pulled me out of my bunk while I was sleeping. They dragged me outside and put my feet in freezing water and said, “She’s told us everything. You’re done for.” After that, I couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. You know what they can do with that type of information.’

  ‘You were scared …’

  Stupidly, I hadn’t considered what impact those papers might have had on Dominik. I had only been thinking of myself. And Father, of course. But I had always regarded Dominik as being invincible, somehow. Not like the rest of us.

  ‘Scared, yeah,’ Dominik said. ‘I also had the guys in Białystok, the other prisoners, breathing down my neck. “He’s a traitor like his fiancée,” they said. They roughed me up in the courtyard while the guards turned a blind eye. Then I got word that the newspaper didn’t want me to work for them anymore. I was damaged goods. Unless I took a stand, they said. Made a public statement of some sort. They needed to know where my loyalties lay.’

  I pressed my thumb to a damp beer coaster. A tiredness seeped through my skin. ‘It was his lungs,’ I said. Then I said, ‘I miss him.’

  At that moment, Dominik seemed to get smaller. His shoulders hunched, he looked at me and said, ‘He was one of a kind. Who else has a father that would help them drag buckets of blood through an abattoir – all in the name of art?’ He tipped his head back. ‘I feel like such an arsehole.’

  A waitress came to our table asking if we wanted more beers. We shifted apart and Dominik thanked her. He said, ‘I only found out about your father when Małgorzata wrote to me. She gave me your address at a hostel in Australia. Yung … something? I can’t remember what it was called, now. You never replied to my letter and I can understand why. But I want to tell you in person that I’m sorry. For what I did. For ruining things.’

  ‘A letter … You must have sent it after I’d moved.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. You’re here now and I want to tell you I’ve never stopped thinking about you.’ He opened his mouth, hesitated, and then said, ‘Will you stay?’

  ‘In London?’

  ‘In London. With me.’ He inched his fingers towards mine and then stroked the ring. ‘You still have it.’

  In Queensland the heat had ca
used my hands to swell, so I didn’t wear the ring. Before I left for London I put it back on, thinking it would be safer to travel under the guise of a married woman. Now I wondered if that had been the real reason.

  The thought of Dominik’s article still stung me. But I understood, now, why he had done it. Perhaps it was like Father had said, the situation in our country was rotten and any one of us could be compelled to do things we weren’t proud of. I remembered how Elżbieta had given me a disgusted look when she saw the guard escort me out of prison. How I wanted to tell her that she would have done the same thing. Who was I to judge Dominik? Perhaps I would have written an article like that if I had been in his place. There was no way I could honestly say that I wouldn’t have done it.

  Dominik and I sat for a while, our arms resting on the table, almost touching. I gestured to his clean nails. ‘Your hands were always stained with ink. Remember?’

  ‘That’s right … Because of that old American typewriter. All I had to do was look at it and I’d be covered in the stuff. I’ve got an electric one now. It’s much better. It has Polish letters and everything.’

  Given Dominik’s success, I was surprised to see that he lived like this, in a small flat above a butcher’s shop which he shared with three other men. The only common space was the kitchen. The living room had been cordoned off with a sheet to make a bedroom. The attic, which Dominik lived in, had a ceiling that slashed diagonally across the space, cutting it in half. His bed was positioned at the side where the ceiling was highest and there was a desk at the other side. I stooped so as not to hit my head. What was I doing here?