Krakow Melt

by Daniel Allen Cox

  My last experience in that apartment—and in sweet, miserable Nowa Huta—was tousling his black locks of hair. I noticed streaks of grey for the first time, and how his hair smelled of vanilla and nutmeg. I vowed never to forget the soft side of this man, or of any enemy, for that matter.

  Then I grabbed a few empty laundry bags and packed what I thought was important from the apartment and from the heap near the street. It was surprisingly easy to figure out; books were the only things I wanted, and I packed more than I could comfortably carry.

  I left my records behind because I was done with music for awhile. I know—it’s hard to believe. But something had changed in me, I could tell, the instant I broke Pan Laskiewicz’s nose. Something let go. My choice in psychedelic rock bands simply didn’t articulate my rage anymore, and they became quite useless to me.

  Sheer fucking heresy. That’s what this country will do to you.

  I headed down Solidarnoci Boulevard hunting for a cab to Dorota’s house but couldn’t find one, so I walked the few kilometres there. The city was still under a funereal lock-down. Candles in colourful plastic shells lit my way. Shades were drawn in nearly every window, children cycled by me wearing commemorative black armbands, and stop signs were plastered with photos of the pontiff. Trams weren’t running. The billboard at the Rondo Mogilskie, the one that had been advertising tampons for months, had been scraped clean. I guess feminine hygiene was deemed too vile a subject to acknowledge at such a “holy” time.

  Maybe the eviction notice wasn’t a forgery. Maybe the Pope’s death, only a few days prior, had sped up the eviction process, especially where a fag like me was concerned.

  SAN FRANCISCO

  Dorota has generously given me the living room in her apartment. There’s more floor space than furniture, so I can build San Francisco without having to stand in Buena Vista Park. The wall-to-wall books are inspiring. She has such fine taste.

  Focussing on a disaster like San Francisco helps me forget my own piles of rubble.

  Fresh koperek. Dill, to you. Dorota has been cooking all day, filling the house with the fragrance of one comforting hint after another. She bangs her wooden spoon hard on the side of a pot. We’ve developed many wordless forms of communication like this, because Kraków has become too drowned in words, endless spoken noise about the Pope’s funeral, the pilgrimages to St Peter’s Basilica to see his remains lying in state, who will replace him, the white smoke, the black smoke, the cardinals are in disarray, his life was a model for all, Santo Subito, there’s another memorial at the Franciscan Church, Santo Subito, the children loved him, Santo Subito, he cannot be replaced, Santo Subito, make him a saint right now.

  We couldn’t hear each other.

  The clang from the kitchen means the z´urek is simmering according to plan. She’s rolling cabbage heads across the counter and causing a ruckus: bigos is definitely on the way. I can’t wait. I might have to remove my facial bandage to get my chops wet.

  The San Francisco “Fire” of 1906 wasn’t a fire, according to the history books, it was an earthquake. The San Andreas Fault maintains a cultural dictatorship over all kinds of writing, I’m told.

  I’m using styrofoam to get the hills just right. I can see how buildings had a hard time standing on this roller-coaster terrain, and probably still do.

  San Francisco will be destroyed so thoroughly that it doesn’t matter what I build. The quake will level most of the city, then thirty natural gas fires will start and eventually merge into one. Firefighters will dynamite untouched buildings to create a firebreak, causing fifty percent more damage than the fire alone would have caused.

  Still haven’t found a popsicle-brick façade suited to this cautionary note:

  DON’T FALL IN LOVE WITH BUILDINGS. THEY’LL

  ONLY BREAK YOUR HEART

  I’m hungry and having difficulty concentrating. Food has always relaxed me. Dorota senses my condition and brings me a snack of open-faced, cheese-spread sandwiches sprinkled with green onion and a side of cubed rzodkiewki. I mean radishes. I’m sick of translating for you, so I probably won’t do it anymore. Anyway, if you can’t handle Polish food in its native tongue, then you’re certainly not ready to try naleniki jagodowe, mielony ziemniakami, pierogi z kapusta i grzybami, barszcz czerwony, pstrąg, galaretka owocowa, or zupa rybna. You might never be ready for a hunk of golonka, or to adopt the habit of having dessert before dinner.

  My heart isn’t in this project, because it’s such a fake. Most San Francisco insurance companies refused to cover earthquake damage, so people torched their houses on purpose to get the money. The army had orders to shoot looters, and soldiers gunned down 500 people. The thing is, most of them were try to salvage stuff from their own homes. This “Great Fire,” unlike all others, pisses me off.

  Will gallery attendees notice if I leave Buena Vista Park flat, without a hill?

  Barely audible, but she was grinding pepper.

  It gets worse. Days after the fire was out, idiots across the city opened their combination safes—still warm to the touch—to see if their valuables were intact. The fire tetrahedron got its oxygen fix when air rushed into the fireproof chambers and incinerated their documents. A phenomenon known as backdraft.

  Good for them.

  I need to take a chill tablet.

  I’ve assembled a row of Pacific Heights brownstones but plopped them down in the wrong end of town, in a puddle of glue I don’t see the point in displacing. Wonderful. I have no idea what I’m doing. What was I hoping to accomplish with these maquettes, these juvenile pieces of junk? They don’t cause enough trouble to be meaningful. Either I upgrade to real arson or quit fire altogether, because I haven’t done a single thing to change life for queers in Poland.

  Remember what I said about Christo and Jeanne-Claude? Maybe I’m looking for change in the wrong places. Maybe I’m thinking too small.

  Dorota sets the table, arranging plates of chleb, masło, and porzeczki jam just so. But I’m losing my appetite.

  You have to know about the vile mythology coming out of San Francisco. There’s a fire hydrant on the corner of 20th and Church Streets that was allegedly the only one still functioning after the water mains had broken. It saved half the city, and now residents gather every year to paint it gold.

  Spare us the story, please. That hydrant, if it isn’t a fraud installed after the fact, saved the Mission Dolores—a church. That’s all. Fire creates too many legends we can’t back up, and then the legends breed in church basements where we can’t stamp them out.

  For spite, I’ve left the Golden Hydrant off the grid. I’m acting unprofessional, and I don’t give a shit.

  Armed with a can of Krylon gold, I spray a warning across the entire city, like poison gas:

  DON’T FALL IN LOVE WITH FIRES, START THEM

  The warning is for me.

  “It’s ready,” Dorota says. She has spoken too much. I’m still angry.

  We eat in silence.

  DEAR BOYFRIEND

  Lovely Radeki,

  It is so special to have you in my house, though I regret not being able to give you better accommodations. Anyhow, I hope you are comfortable. There are clean towels in the linen closet.

  Do you know how much my life has changed since you came into it? Of course you don’t, because I have never told you. Radek: you have unravelled me. Sometimes I just sit here and cry, thinking about the Poland you envision. Will we ever get it? It doesn’t show (because I don’t let it), but I have a mini-breakdown on every one of our adventures. For an instant, I fall into a gloom that makes me cold all over. Then something you say revives me, and I want to cry with happiness. You bring my emotions full circle.

  I try not to expose you to this because I don’t want to distract you from your work. But now you know.

  Thank you for your letters.

  They released a lot of blocked tears and have given me insight into the man you are today: kind, gentle, searching. It’s so tempting for a g
irl like me who grew up in the university (my parents are both professors) to assume I know what you need. To slot you into an archetype and say, “This will be your downfall.” But if I believe all that schooling, dear boyfriend, I will lose hope, and I can’t do that. Please understand that I have never played anthropologist with you. You have made me queer by teaching me that there are alternative options—for straight girls, too. Jagielloski will never give me that. (Don’t worry— if I drop out, I’ll make sure not to lose any credits.)

  I keep thinking about the flashlight and the book. Your fire. I wish I had been there to hold your hand in the street. I cannot imagine the pain you have been holding inside all these years. Some days, I can almost see the hole in your chest, but I blind myself to it. I refuse to see you as a broken person.

  Your last letter really shocked me, because it doesn’t sound like you. I must say that I find your idea of striking St Mary’s Basilica incredibly foolish.

  Yes, a fire there would “carve the liver right out of the country,” as you wrote in the letter. My mind wanders to what you see: flames lighting up the blue panes of stained glass and the giant gold altarpiece. “A Gothic treat in a single swallow.” What you meant is an instant equalizer. You’re such an artist, I swear, and that’s why you never say what you mean.

  In theory, I understand why this target makes sense to you. The church fought viciously for freedom from the Communists, but now refuses to grant gays and queers the simplest of freedoms. I hate the church as much as you do, but that’s the problem I see with this plan.

  (I’m sorry I over-salted your kotlet mielony yesterday. It won’t happen again.)

  An act of hatred, Radeki, will only draw more hatred toward us. Also, isn’t it pointless to burn down symbols so tied to the country’s history of rebellion—as an act of rebellion? Solidarity was born in the shipyards but grew up in the pews. A church fire would send such a mixed message. And please think of the physical danger: would you be able to escape in time? In the Middle Ages, a bugler would stand on the roof of St Mary’s and blow his horn to warn of fire and attacks. Would he have thought about looking for smoke below him? Would any of us?

  Besides, it’s such a beautiful building. There are uglier churches in the city, you know. And I’m starting to wonder if fire is only regenerative and useful when it happens spontaneously.

  My sweet one, I understand your need to gain closure regarding your mother, but I suspect you’re hoping to actually see her in the flames. Is that true? Radeki, people spend decades saying their Hail Marys, and they still never see the Virgin Mother. What makes you think you’ll see yours? I’m not trying to be mean. We can talk more about this in person.

  Surprise time: I have purchased a copy of The Legend of the Smok Wawelski. Yes, the rare, Russian-issue first edition! It’s not easy to find Soviet memorabilia on eBay, but I managed. The spelling mistakes have made this book quite expensive, but it’s so worth it. I have placed it under the pillow in your sleeping bag because the book is rich in dreams, and you need to stay close to your subconscious these days. It might help you.

  I would love to heal you with my own poetry one day, but I truly wonder if I’ll ever write anything worthwhile. I appear to be made of school, not neologisms.

  Here’s a clipping you might like:

  “Speaking with European Union officials in Brussels, Jarosław Kaczyski said: ‘I ask you not to believe in the myth of Poland as a homophobic and xenophobic country ... People with such [homosexual] preferences have full rights in Poland; there is no tradition of persecuting such people.’”

  Well. Jarek had better hope that gays have full rights in Poland, especially now that he’s been outed on the radio :)

  What’s with those Kaczyski brothers?

  Dear boyfriend, we may not have much time before the government, with the help of the church, crushes us completely. But we will have to use something stronger than fire. We will use the Internet.

  I’ll tell you more about it on the train tomorrow.

  Now, let me ask you a few questions about the Smok Wawelski: why would the dragon prefer virgins? It baffles me. Wouldn’t a girl be more succulent with the additional vaginal mucus that comes with sex? And where would a ten-year-old boy get a calling card before the printing press was invented? Very funny. I’ve read the original version of The Legend, and I can see that you’ve re-imagined it much differently. Your version is ekstra.

  I’ve taken the liberty of rewriting the ending. No offence. And I added a bit more dialogue because I was struck by inspiracja. (I agree that some things sound stupid in English.)

  Chapter 3

  The King realized that knights, princes, and other wastrels were impotent against the dragon. He was on the verge of giving up when a most powerful weapon skipped into his quarters: fifteen-year-old Stefcia, a nymphet in full bloom. She promised the King that she would be able to kill the dragon, “no problemo.”

  “I don’t believe you,” the King said.

  “Piece of ciastko. I’ll need thirty days alone with him, and someone to bring me books and meals and fresh clothes.”

  “Foolish chickadee. He’ll munch you in a second!”

  “Not with this,” Stefcia said, pulling a square of fibrous, handmade paper out of her dress, flicking nipples already swollen with excitement. Dragon-hunting, it would appear, was her thing.

  “Paper,” his Majesty croaked. “You’re an idiot.”

  “Are you really a king?” Stefcia asked, narrowing her eyes. “Where’s your crown?”

  “Never mind that. How will paper save my kingdom?”

  “First of all,” Stefcia said, “I’m foremost saving my ass, and then your stupid kingdom. Secondly, written on this paper is a secret that will change the way business is done, not only in caves but in castles as well.”

  “What’s the secret?”

  “It’s for dragons only.”

  “Okay. Go ahead and try, but mark my words: there shall be no funeral for you.”

  So brave Stefcia marched straight to the Smocza Jama and knocked on the cave wall with a discarded femur. “Hello?” The startled dragon ran to the mouth of the cave and opened his cage-like jaw over her head. “Uh, you don’t want to do that,” she said, and waved her piece of paper. The dragon ignored her and wrapped his pulpy lips around her ears.

  “LISTEN!” she screamed.

  The dragon stepped back and obeyed.

  “On this paper I have the secret to how dragons can live forever. But you cannot kill me until I read it to you, and you cannot leave the cave to eat or drink, in case I read it while you’re gone.” Stefcia fixed his gaze with her own. “I will read the secret only once.”

  So, the dragon camped in front of Stefcia while she read her books. He waited patiently, scrutinizing every movement of her delicious mouth for the moment when she would reveal the key to his immortality. Days passed, and she remained silent, taking her meals, bathing in the Wisła River, weaving daisy chains, and finger-painting on her naked body with pollen. The dragon studied her curves and clefts, salivating, imagining the hiding places where she kept the paper tucked away. But he kept his hunger in check, determined to hear the secret.

  Ten days passed.

  Twenty days passed.

  Between chapters, Stefcia brewed tea with fresh chrysanthemums, dipped her toes in the river, and looked for words spelled out in the nighttime stars.

  Thirty days passed. Still no secret.

  [Watercolour illustration of the Smok Wawelski, dead at Stefcia’s feet. The corpse is shaded impeccably: scales pulled taut over his hollowed-out face, his parched, leathery tongue spread across her toes like a piece of roadkill. Green evaporated into halos of carbonic black. Stefcia, it appears, is still reading.]

  CONCH

  I just figured out how Radek rides PKP express trains for half-price: He buys a local fare (for much cheaper) and when he hands his ticket to the ticket-taker, he presses a nail-polished thumb over the incriminating sect
ion. Of course, they never ask him to move it.

  No other thumb would work, not even mine. It’s homosexual genius at its best.

  Radek is so handsome. I’m not sure you care, but he has puppy-dog eyes like Elvis, and shaves twice a day to keep his face smooth. He has one dimple, a swirl of koperek I’ve wanted to lick for some time, and a permanent case of bed-head that makes me think about ... his bed.

  We were headed to the Baltic Sea again, passing one dreary town after another, and antique tractors and homemade pigeon coops and seas of radishes and potatoes. Radek was fascinated and stared out the window, his chin lit by sunlight. We passed all his favourite animals: pigs were snuffling truffles out of the muddy soil, dogs were chasing foxes, and the sheep were doing nothing.

  I unwrapped our lunch of hard-boiled eggs and a salad of peas and carrots, and I salted everything appropriately.

  “Tell me about the Internet,” Radek said.

  “It’s mostly online and written in code,” I answered.

  “I mean your plan, silly ... what’s all this about?”

  “This?”

  “We’re not going on an adventure, because we’ve been to Gdask before. Withholding information is a very Communist thing to do, you know.”