House of Day, House of Night

by Olga Tokarczuk

  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

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  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