Finally, he glanced boldly in the direction from which he was bothered. Only now did he notice, at a table to his right, an old man in a yellow havelock, a scarf tight around his neck, who apparently had been looking at him for a long time with offensive interest. The stranger’s physiognomy was curiously unique. The wrinkled parchment-like face, with wide lips and no trace of beard growth, was frozen like an actor’s mask from antiquity: the skin at the temples seemed stuck to the bone and glimmered under the light with a dull, corpse-like sheen. He looked like a scientist studying an interesting event. From under bushy brows peered eyes of a peculiar golden-green hue; a thousand phosphorus needles flickered there in high-frequency movement, as in a battery’s spark gap, giving the pupils an expression of luminous penetration; these eyes literally cut into the body and examined its subject to the minutest fibre.
Wrzecki noticed that the stranger was not looking at his eyes, but instead was studying his forehead. He was about to get up and demand on explanation from the impertinent fellow, when that person rose first and advanced toward him step by step, not lowering his gaze from a precise point on his skull. Finally he stopped right before Wrzecki, and spoke:
‘Congratulations, sincere congratulations! It was right on the mark, absolutely so! Well, well, well. And look where it hit! Right between the eyes - after going through the pineal gland. Sir - this was masterpiece of its type! Well, admit it, you’re blind for good! Haw, haw, haw! What do I see? Krupp et Compagnie! 9 mm. Diameter, prima-sorta steel casing. Well, well, congratulations - right between the eyes, not a millimetre to the side Wrzecki didn’t understand. He was just very irritated by this strange adventure - the more so that it drew the attention of the people in the café, a group of whom now surrounded his table. Finally he stammered out in a voice choking with rage:
‘Garcon! Please free me of this madman!’
But the order was unnecessary. The stranger, his finger pointing to Wrzecki's forehead, retreated slowly to the door and disappeared into a neighbouring hall. The audience also dispersed; only a thin gentleman, attired in British fashion, remained where he stood, smiling under his moustache: he gave the impression of someone who was a frequent witness of similar scenes. He bowed slightly to Wrzecki and, without asking, occupied the seat next to him, and started talking:
‘I see Uncle Eddie’s performance did not please you?’
‘Are you referring to that... madman?’
‘Precisely. We call him Uncle Eddie: a familiar figure in our café. He comes here every Sunday and on holidays. A phenomenal merging of a sensitive and a madman.’
‘A sensitive?’
‘Why, yes. You must have heard of such exceptional abilities in certain rare individuals. They are able to view, like a railway map, a person’s network of nerves, muscles, the skeletal system - in a word, the entire human organism, inside and out. Uncle Eddie
was at one time a renowned doctor and made a colossal fortune thanks to his special ability. He was used during operations and was of immense service. Then one day he went mad. From then on, he sees in his patients the most unlikely things. For example, in my heart chamber he discovered nothing less than a micro-miniature frog. He’s good, no? And in the nucleus of your brain he saw - ’
‘What?’ asked Wrzecki, trembling with impatience.
‘How’s that? You really did not understand anything of his prattle? It is true that Uncle Eddie likes mystery and encases his diagnosis in Pythian forms - that is why it needs interpretation. In the centre of your brain he saw a masterfully shot bullet - ’
‘A bullet?’
‘Of course. Krupp et Comp. That’s a first-class ammunition firm. What’s wrong? You’ve turned white all of a sudden. Don’t be a child, sir! It is ridiculous worrying yourself over the nonsense of an old lunatic!’
‘You are right - I forgot myself. Thank you for the explanations. Garcon! Two bottles of champagne! Sir, allow me to pour.’
Wrzecki tossed down several glasses. He tried to get drunk, unsuccessfully. Finally he paid up, bid farewell to the affable Anglo maniac, and went out.
The day had become almost perfectly clear. Ribbons of mist unreeled along cornices, between treetops, next to domes, blowing away into a blue sky. Through the thinning fog, the setting sun permeated into the street with ever richer, warmer hues. Wrzecki physically felt its painful, blazing touch and slipped eagerly into the darkest side streets for their protective shade. A vague connection arose between the sun’s gradual gnawing of the fog’s cocoon and the increasingly sharper contours of the insane tangent line. The tempo in which this picture acquired clarity seemed absolutely too quick; if it were up to him, Wrzecki would have willingly slowed it down. How good it had been to wander between misty veils, how tempting to whisk along the edge of an abyss lurking at every step!... But the game was nearing its end: the enticed daimon began to peer out from behind the curtain to punish the daredevil who had disturbed him. One expression, one definition was pressing forward which would have explained the existing course of events. It was bursting to be released in Wrzecki’s consciousness - but he endeavoured to push it back from whence it originated. In vain! The sun chased him; it parched his eyes, face, head; it stifled his breath. He stood on the comer of some street, uncertain where to turn. From the depths of an archway a couple of excited faces flashed by him:
‘Crossroads number thirty.’
‘Very well, I’ll come. How good you are, how immensely good...’
Wrzecki dragged his feet mechanically toward the appointed address. For the last time he made a desperate attempt at self-preservation.
‘Why am I going there? Ha, ha! Die verhängnisvolle Gasse - no?’
Despite this, he was drawn in that direction. At a corner, he raised his head by chance; his eyes fell on a large blue poster. They ran across the first part of the
program: Signora Bellestrini, the prima donna of the Italian stage, will sing as a prelude: 'Pepito, oh, Pepito, he will show you what you have to do! Pepito, he will show you - ’
‘That’s enough. It will suffice. Let the rest be at the disposal of the public.’
Fifteen minutes later, he was walking up the staircase of the aforementioned building. The house had three stories: doubts arose as to which floor he should seek.
‘Nothing will come of this stupid farce if I do not have an exact indicator!’ he stated emphatically.
At that moment the stairs creaked down below; someone behind him was running up the steps, and passed him by.
‘Perhaps this is my guide?’
Meantime, the other person had already reached the second floor. He stopped on the landing.
Wrzecki followed him.
He sighted the stranger reading a name card on a door in the corridor. As Wrzecki mounted the last step, this individual turned and looked him straight in the eye for a second, after which he began to climb the third flight of stairs.
‘Thank you!’ Wrzecki nearly shouted. In the stranger’s glance he had detected a special, almost knowing, expression.
‘So, it is here. I have to admit that they are looking out for me until the end. What service!*
Without hesitation, he opened the door in front of which a few moments earlier he had found his ‘guide.’ At that second a dull crack resounded from within. He went inside: a young man was standing in the radiance of the sunset streaming into the room, the barrel of a revolver at his forehead; apparently, right at Wrzecki’s entrance, he had tried to shoot but the weapon failed to comply. The young man noticed the entrant; as if petrified, he stood frozen his position. Wrzecki, arms crossed, studied him:
‘A splendid picture! What exactness in the lines, what detail! And the clarity, yes, especially the clarity... My, you are an incomparable type - pardon! - a model of a suicide! What am I saying? You are the doppelgänger of a pre-suicide!’
He went over and angrily tore the revolver from the young man’s hand.
‘But enough of this! This is no toy for you! Yo
u are in error. No matter. Otherwise you would not have fulfilled your role. What? You’ll say something about unrequited love or a debt of honour? Youthful trifles, nothing more! You were to be just a picture, a symbol for someone else! Do you understand? That is why the gun missed its mark. ‘Pepito, oh, Pepito, he will show you what you have to do’... A humorous aria, don’t you think?’
He checked the magazine.
‘Aha! One bullet is left. Excellent! You know, this will he an amusing quid pro quo'
He frowned: ‘But wait? You can get into trouble; it is your home, after all... You know’ what? You will tell them that the cause was this: a stylization of chance, and that you were its last meridian point. Yes, yes, that is what you will say. And to think that if you would have decided a few minutes earlier - well, well!’ He glanced at his watch, at the same time cocking the gun. ‘Six o’clock. I would never have thought when I left my house at three, that in three hours - ’
‘What?’
‘This!’ With lightning speed, Wrzecki placed the barrel to his temple and squeezed the trigger.
This time the weapon did not fail: Wrzecki’s fell dead onto the sun-reflecting floor.
Strabismus
He had attached himself to me, I don’t know how, or when.
His name was Brzechwa, Jozef Brzechwa. What a name! Something about it fastens and hooks onto the nerves, irritating them with its grating resonance. He was cross-eyed. He especially saw poorly out of his right eye, which peered out in a stone gaze under ruddy lashes. His small, brick-coloured face grimaced perpetually in a malicious sneer of half-irony, as if in this sorry way it could avenge its own ugliness and squalor. A tiny, rusty moustache, twirled rakishly upward, moved constantly, like the pincers of a poisonous scarabaeus – sharp, stinging, evil.
A horrible man.
He was agile, elastic as a ball, slender-figured, of medium build; he walked with a light, elusive step and could slip into a room without being noticed.
I couldn’t stand him from the first time I saw him, and felt an indescribable disgust whenever I looked at him, particularly as his physical features suited his character.
This person was extremely different from me in his disposition, tastes and behaviour. That is why I felt such a strong antipathy towards him. He was my living antithesis, with whom there could be no reconciliation. Maybe precisely because of this he latched himself onto me with a rabid passion, as if sensing my natural aversion toward him.
He probably experienced particular delight in seeing how unsuccessfully I tried to extricate myself from the nets he was always ensnaring me with. He was my inseparable companion in cafés, on walks, at the club; he knew how to worm his way into the circles of my nearest acquaintances; what’s more, he could conquer the favour of women to whom I was closely connected. He knew of my smallest plans, my slightest movements.
More than once, so as to be free of looking at his loathsome physiognomy for even just a single day, I would escape unseen by carriage or automobile to the outskirts of town, or else, with no prior word betraying my intention, I would set out for another locality. How can I describe my amazement when, after a while, Brzechwa would suddenly spring up, as if from under the ground, saying with a sneering sweet smile how happy he was at our unexpected, pleasant meeting!
It finally reached the point where his presence inspired a superstitious fear in me and I considered him my evil spirit or demon. His annoying cat-like movements, the cunning narrowing of his eyes, and, most of all, his strabismus, with the cold glossiness of the scleras, curdled my blood with inconceivable dread, while simultaneously stirring up boundless rage.
And he knew perfectly well the easiest way to infuriate me. He was always able to agitate my most sensitive nerves. As soon as he had discovered my tastes and what I held important, he took every opportunity to deride them so savagely that it seemed he wanted to exclude any opposition.
One point of contention fundamentally separating us was the question of individualism, which I always defended with ardent passion. I have a feeling that around this very axis revolved our entire antagonism.
I was a staunch admirer of everything personal, original, unique, self-contained. Brzechwa, to the contrary, scoffed at every kind of individualism, considering it a chimera of presumptuous fools. Hence, he didn’t believe in any inventiveness or ingeniousness, reducing them to the influences of environment, race, the ‘spirit of the times,’ and so on.
‘I even believe,’ he would drawl more than once, criss-crossing his eyes in my direction, ‘that each one of us contain several individuals who fight for that worthless scrap, the so-called “soul.”’
This obvious banter was meant to elicit a passionate reaction on my part. Realizing this, I would pretend that I hadn’t heard anything and ignore him. Then he would be on the lookout for another opportunity to pronounce his ‘collective position,’ as he termed it.
Whenever I displayed admiration and rapture for some new work of art or scientific invention, Brzechwa, with cynical calm, would attempt to prove the groundlessness of my adoration, or else he would silently sit opposite me and transfix me with his frightful strabismus, a smile of malicious sarcasm never leaving his open lips.
He didn’t feel any aesthetic thrills at all: beauty didn’t act upon him in any sense of the word. Instead, he was a sports enthusiast. There wasn’t an automobile race, a cycling competition or soccer match in which he didn’t shine. He fenced like a master, was a great shot, and had the reputation of being a first-class swimmer. Education and scholars he ignored, holding to the maxim nihil novi sub sole. Despite this, one couldn’t deny his great intelligence, which showed itself in witty and vitriolic sayings. Of a hot-headed nature, he was unable to endure opposition, and had continual rows and countless affairs of honour, from which he always emerged successful.
A strange thing, however: he was never offended by anything I said, however uncivil or insulting my words. I alone had the privilege of insulting him. Apparently he saw this as my due for his never-ending sneering and pestering. Perhaps there was another reason – but what, I don’t know.
Sometimes I would intentionally exaggerate to goad him into a serious quarrel that would end our relationship. A fruitless activity. Sensing what was happening, he would dismiss my moral condemnation with his very sweet smile and turn everything into a joke...
Finally I got rid of him. An event occurred that seemed, once and for all, to liberate me from his clutches. He died a sudden, violent death, and I was the indirect cause.
One day, at the end of my tether, I struck him in the face. Brzechwa instantly bridled. He turned white as a sheet, and then I caught sight of a steely flash in his eyes that I had never seen before. He quickly hid his anger, however, and laid a shaking hand on my shoulder.
‘You got unnecessarily carried away,’ he said with a tremulous voice. ‘It’s to no avail. Neither you nor I are capable of offending the other. You see, my dear sir, it is exactly as if someone wanted to slap his own face. Both of us are really one.’
‘Bastard!’ I muttered through my teeth.
‘As you please. This will not change a thing.’
And his eyes began to criss-cross like crazy.
The row had, nevertheless, a serious, tragic consequence for him. Since everything had occurred in the presence of several witnesses, people found out about the incident and from then on no one granted him the freedom to do as he pleased. Brzechwa flew into rages, arranged scandalous ‘practical jokes,’ and eventually forced one of his greatest enemies to an encounter with revolvers. Even though my argument with him had set up the basis for such an event, Brzechwa asked me to be his second. I refused, and though I didn’t care for Brzechwa’s opponent, I offered my services to him. I did this intentionally, pleased that, at least obliquely, I could do away with my persecutor. My offer was accepted, and the duel, under very strict conditions, took place in a grove on the outskirts of the city. Brzechwa fell, shot in the forehead.
I remember his last glance: it was directed at me, a piercing look that paralysed the will. Immediately afterwards he ceased breathing. I left, not daring to look any longer at that demonic, twisted face. But that face will never disappear from my memory; it is deeply etched there in indelible lines, and that terrible strabismus will eternally gash my soul with its cross-eyed stare.
Brzechwa’s death, particularly the last painful moments of his life, upset me so strongly that shortly afterwards I came down with a severe brain fever. The illness dragged on for months, and when – thanks to the untiring help of doctors and amid constant anxiety about a relapse – I finally got well, I was unrecognisable. My character was completely altered; it seemed alien, and even antagonistic, to the person I had been before. My former tastes, my noble fervour for everything beautiful and profound, my refined faculty for perceiving a flicker of originality were now gone. There only remained – an enigmatic detail – the memory that I had once possessed these virtues.
I became a practical person, ‘healthy,’ normal to the point of nausea, an enemy of any type of eccentricity – and the most painful thing for me – I started to sneer at my former ideals. My every word and gesture was clothed in sarcasm or malicious laughter; everything I did seemed false.
Aware of these new changes within me, I attempted to somehow resist. So began a fierce struggle between two different selves, of whose coexistence I was deeply convinced. But the new self always prevailed, and despite my inner loathing I always listened to his promptings.
It was like the difference between theory and practice. In my principles I remained the same as always and with indignation watched the actions of the other me, who had like a thief slipped into my innermost core and was getting rid of what had been my essence, replacing it with his vileness.
On the Hill of Roses Page 4