have a soul he would not suffer. He would live l ike a plant in the
sunlight, l ike an animal that grazes in sunny pastures, but
because he has a soul, which at the very start of its existence
once looked upon G od's inexpressible radiance , everything
seems dark lO him. To be a small piece c hipped off the whole,
but to remember that whole, to be made for death, but to have to
live, to have been killed but to remain alive - that's what i t
means t o have a soul.
Morning and evening they chanted their mournful psalms -
as they cut ash wood for handles, as they melted steel and
shaped the blades, as they shook wild apples from the trees in
autumn, and as they cared for their few children - those unfortunate creatures who had unwittingly come into the world.
They had eccentric customs, and their whole way of life was
eccentric. Whenever they had intercourse, they took care to prevent the semen from reaching the womb. They spilled it on the ground as an offering to their God, imagining that divine radiance lay h idden in human semen , and that by making an offering in this way, they were releasing it from matter and
returning it to God. This is why they rarely bore children.
H o u s e o f D a y, H o u s e o f N i g h t
209
Their only form of prayer was the lamentations they called
psalms, while their only ritual was this spilling of their semen as
an offering. Otherwise they did not pray; they thought of God as
a superhuman being who had nothing in common with man and
did not even understand human prayers.
T h e fo r e s t t h a t c o m e s c r a s h i n g
d o w n
Marta isn't one for confidences, but she did once tell me that she
could remember all sorts of different eras, even the ones shown
in the votive icons in Wambierzyce. She recognizes an era not by
the people who were alive then, because people are woefully
similar to one another, but by the colour of the air and the
leaves, the way the light fell on objects. She is absolutely certain
about this: she says a particular period in time can be ident ified
by shades of colour, and that is its only distinguishing feature.
Maybe it has something to do with the sun; perhaps it vibrates
and changes its wavelength , or the air filters the light some other
way, giving all sorts of things on earth a unique shade of colour
each year.
Marta learned ro associate a detail in her memory that suggested an actual time to her with the colour the world was then.
I imagine, for example, she might have associated the shape of a
wooden cartwheel with the strange, reddish colour of the sky in
the days when that sort of wheel went rolling along the stony
roads carting hay, sacks ol nour, clay for building houses or
hastily loaded household implements. Or perhaps she would
have linked a style of dress gathered high under the breasts with
translucent, willow-green air, and the sky blue colour of frosty
winters.
2 1 0 O l g a To k a r c z u k
That's how Marta's memory works - that's how she recognizes the past. But this way of trying to organize time can be misleading, and Marta has sometimes seen images she doesn't
understand, and that frighten her.
Once she saw a valley, over which hung a low, orange sky. All
the lines of this world were indistinct and the shadows were
blurred, cast by some alien light. In the valley there were no
houses, no traces of humanity, not a single clump of nettles or a
wild currant bush was growing. There was no stream, though
the place where one used to be was overgrown with thick, hard,
tawny grass, like a scar. In this world there was no day, and no
night either. The orange sky kept shining all the time - neither
warm nor cold, motionless and indifferent. The hill was still
covered in forest, but when she looked at i t closely she could see
that it was dead; at some point it had hardened and turned to
stone. Pine-cones hung on the spruce trees, and their branches
were still covered in ashen needles, because there was no wind
to scatter them. She had a terrible foreboding that if any sort of
movement were to occur i n this landscape the forest would
come crashing down and turn to dust.
T h e m a n w i t h t h e c h a i n s a w
Noise always heralded his approach - a grating, mechanical howl
that bounced like an invisible ball off the slopes of the valley and
always came to a halt near the terrace. We raised our heads anxiously, the dogs raised their hackles, and the goats started up a terrified gallop around the tree we had tied them to. Only later
did he appear in person - a tall, thin man who emerged from the
forest, brandishing a chainsaw as if it were a powerful rifie and as
if he had not come out of a hire� copse at all , but straight from a
H o u s e o f D a y, H o u s e o f � i gh t
2 1 1
battlefield, from among burning Lanks, or the rubble of blown-up
bridges. His gestures suggested triumph - the way he wielded
that huge piece of iron, giving a quick squeeze on the trigger
now and then to make a noise that split the entire valley in two.
'Hello there ,' he cried cheerily, Tm on my way ! ' And he came
down the slope, straight towards us, waving the saw and hacking
at birch seedlings, young maples and clumps of grass. There \·as
a son of over-the-top swagger to his movements, an exaggerated
vigour, causing him to get his feet tangled in the grass, and he fell
down. We closed our eyes to a·oid seeing him injure himself on
that long naked blade, but nothing happened to him. He got up,
surprised by his fall, but forgot it at once, because he could see us
on the terrace - all those curious eyes watching him, all those
hands ready to applaud him. As he crossed the road and stepped
on to our path we could see that he was drunk. The saw swung
around him in irregular, ominous circles as if wanting to escape
its frenzied owner. 'Anything you want sawn up?' he asked
cheerily, sweaty, red in the face and rather shaky.
One time R. made the mistake of asking him to chop up a
fallen cherry tree . Screaming and shuddering, the blade bit into
the dead wood and cut it into uneven pieces, and when it had
finished, not yet satisfied, it went on slicing up the air. The
man's eyes were roving about the trunks of our lime and apple
trees, until R. stood in front of him and shielded the defenceless
trees from view. 'Vhat about that ash tree,' asked the man, shaking his weapon, 'isn·t it blocking your light?' R. escorted him to the road up the hill, accompanying him until he had scented out
other opportunities.
The man with the chainsaw came back e-ery now and then,
and we would gather up the cups from the terrace in a panic and
shut the door. Ve'd watch his disappointment as he passed our
house, shouting out, 'Hello, anything you want sawing up?"
2 1 2 O l g a To k a r c z u k
E rg o S u m
He awoke in sunlight. He was lying in a drainage ditch among
tall plants. The road ran a couple of metres away; he could hear
the clip-clop of a horse and the creaking of a cart.
He was in
nothing but his trousers, which were torn to shreds. The skin on
his chest was smeared in what looked like mud and blood. He
inspected and felt himself all over to check he was in one piece.
He was, though he would have preferred to find the source of the
blood on his body - he would have welcomed a scratch or a cut,
but he wasn't injured.
He got up and his head began to spin. It hurt strangely, as if it
wasn't his, as if the blood in it wasn't flowing properly He was
seeing stars. His biggest worry was how to get home, to his street
in the centre of town, where at this time of day everyone would
be out buying bread and milk or standing at the window gauging
the weather, the men shaving on their balconies rather than miss
a single moment of this beautiful july day. They wouldn't let
him past in such a state, but would start asking questions about
what had happened to him. They would be horrified by his
apparent wounds and would call a doctor. Or maybe they already
knew? Maybe the police were already prowling round the neighbourhood because a body had been found . . . Ergo Sum sat on the ground and looked at his hands - they were completely
normal. Pulling himself together, he decided to go to the police
station there and then and make a full confession. So he set off,
comforted by the thought that he was finally going to confide in
someone, that he was going to give himself up into safe, caring
hands. 'I hope they sentence me quickly,' he thought, 'it's the
black cap for murder, so let them sentence me and hang me for
good and all, amen. But why did I have to go through so much,
only to die like a criminal?' But it wasn't his problem any more,
H o u s e o f D a y, H o u s e o f N i g h t
2 1 3
he didn't know, he couldn't even guess. Some God would take
responsibility for it, or some gods, endlessly enjoying themselves
at feasts with their olives and their grapes - good luck to them.
He realized he was on Mount Anna. He was quite far from
town, about six kilometres away. The old tourist trail ran not far
from this spot, and only last year he had been here with the students. A stream Oowed below him, crossed by an unusual arched stone bridge, which was marked on the map as the Book
Keeper's Bridge. Yes, he knew where he was. That hamlet
consisting of just a few houses was Pietno. From here the road
leads straight to the highway and on to town. He quickened his
pace and then began to run .
In Pietno, just past the bridge, a silent group of people was
standing on the small wet village green. When they saw Ergo Sum
they moved aside, and between their legs he saw the large body of
a dead cow. I t lay on its side with its belly ripped open, and its
intestines trailing over the blood-soaked grass. Ergo Sum instinctively clapped his hand to his mouth, but couldn't stop himself from taking a closer look. The people made some room for him.
They all had ugly grey faces, greying hair and chapped lips.
The dog's killed a cow,' said an old man with a lopsided face.
'Bobol's dog,' added a woman with a small child. 'Not my dog mine was tied up,' said a man who must have been I3obol, but at once a scrawny fellow with a cigarette turned on him, saying,
That's shit - you've only just tied him up.' '13obol doesn't keep an
eye on his dogs. He doesn't even know how many he's got .' confirmed the old man, glancing at Ergo Sum.
Ergo Sum felt weak, because now he knew what had happened .
He even thought he had some vague memories of the night, or
maybe he just imagined them. He would have shouted. screamed
and howled, but he seized himself by the throat to stop it from
happening. It was an unusual gesture, and the people gave him
2 1 4 O l g a To k a r c z u k
curious looks. Then Bobol, who looked like a gnome, tore himself
from the group - he was small, stocky and unshaven. With a
determined air, he went over to a large black dog on a short chain.
The dog started whining and fell to the ground, clearly sensing its
own death. Bobol raised a thick piece of wood, swung his ann and
whacked it on the head. The dog screamed so piercingly that
some of the women shuddered, then it gently rolled on its side
and lay still. Blood began to flow from under its head.
Then Ergo Sum kneeled down on the wet grass by the cow's
body and began to sob. The people stared at him i n amazement
and exchanged derisive looks. Their steely eyes were shining.
'Hey, mister, get a grip on yourself. Are you crying for the cow
or the dog? Don't you feel sorry for people?'
Ergo Sum looked up into the face of the old man, seeking
sympathy. Maybe he even thought the man would hug him to
his chest and wipe the tears from his face. But the peasant's eyes
were like knives.
Soon he was walking along the high street, but he was still in
the suburbs. As he passed the Lido pub, closed at this time of day,
his tattered thoughts hovered around Plato, who was wise and
calm as a Greek god; no, he decided that was a bad comparison,
because the Greek gods weren't wise or calm. But the world was
different then, though it wasn't clear at whose behest; the sun
shone golden and peach, the olive trees grew green on the hillsides, people had fair skin and white robes. This vision gradually appeared in his mind on top of the image of the dead cow, the
murdered dog and the faces of the people in Pietno, until one
scene merged with the other, goodness only knows how - the
mental picture of Plato raising an olive to his golden lips, and at
the same time of Pietno, became the preface for Ergo Sum's future.
People stared at him, but he didn't really notice - they did it
discreetly, out of the corner of their eye, as if not wanting to
H o u s e o f D a y, H o u s e o f N i g h t
2 1 5
embarrass him. But several times he heard: Tie's dnmk' M r Sum
the teacher's drunk!' He clenched his teeth and was already at the
crossroads by the statue of Saint john of Nepomuk when it
occurred to him that he should wash before going to the police. so
he automatically turned towards home. The stairwell door closed
benevolently behind him. He pressed his dirty fists to his eyes
because he felt unable to hold back the tears any longer. What
would Plato have done in this situation? 'He'd have committed suicide,' Ergo Sum answered himself. He'd ha·e cut his veins like Petronius, he'd have done it at a feast, among friends. in bright
open atria with golden air, wine, olives and so on. He'd have joked
as he died, like Socrates.
Oh, how Ergo Sum longed for death! He imagined himself
dangling from a rope on the veranda. But he didn't kill himself.
or go to the pol ice. The chair in the kitchen, the one that he had
tied himself to so carefully, mercifully received his exhausted
body. He sat without moving until morning.
In the morning he washed, packed a couple of pairs of
trousers, some underwear and a sweater into a small suitcase.
locked up his flat and went back to Pietno. There he managed to
convince the dwarf-like Bobol that every farmer needs a strong
farmhand,
if only to bury dead animals. Bobol eyed him with
suspicion, but when it became apparent that he didn't want any
money, just a corner to sleep in and something to cat. the fanner
agreed, his grey eyes glittering craftily like a wolf's.
H a l f of l if e t a I� e s p l a c c i n t h c d a rl�
It's true, whether we're aware of it or not, whether we l i ke it or not.
But most people's only memory of the night is the result of ino.,omnia - anyone who sleeps deeply doesn't real ly kno,. the mght.
2 1 6 O l g a To k a r c z u k
Ergo Sum became Bronislaw Sum, or Mister Bronek for short.
He welcomed this normal, new name with relief. The people in
Pietno added the word 'Mister' because he had fine hands and
his temples were going grey. Only Bobol called him plain
Bronek, as he ordered him to muck out the cowshed, fetch water
for the cows, and turn the hay, which never completely dried out
in Pietno because of the incredible dampness of the place.
Nowadays Mister Bronek had to get up at dawn to milk the
cows. He learned how to do it easily - he only had to see the
cows' udders as fleshy tanks full of liquid and gently squeeze
them until the thin white stream rang against the sides of the
bucket. Then for his breakfast he drank the milk, which was
warm and smelled of manure. N ext he drove the cows out to the
meadows, and the horse, who nodded his head up and down as
if bidding him good-day or saying thank you . Then he went
back to muck out the stable and cowshed. There was so much
manure in them that hadn't been cleared away for years that it
had gone hard and solid, so he cut it up with a spade like peat,
loaded it into a wheelbarrow and carried it in front of the house,
where he piled it up in a heap. Around noon he went home,
peeled and boiled some potatoes, poured dripping over them
and served them up with some buttermilk. He and Bobol ate in
silence, while Bobol's dogs watched them from the hallway,
small, big, young and old, eternally hungry. No one knew how
many there were. After dinner Bobol lay down for a short nap,
while Mister Bronek sat on the steps and gazed at the undulating
line of the horizon, the crumpled plains of grassland and mountain pasture. Then it was time for milking again, straining and boiling, filling the milkcans, turning the hay and removing barrowloads of manure. Supper was bread with brawn or sausage; then Bobol went to the neighbours' to drink, and the night
House of Day, House of Night Page 25