He’d also gone to Gawlicki’s funeral. Unlike Mikulski’s funeral, this occasion had gathered a crowd, but the effect was similar, meaning non-existent.
Neither Gawlicki’s sister nor his nephew had attended. Bartol had seen Pilski a couple of times since then and spoken to him, but he hadn’t asked why neither he nor his mother had been present. Nor did he ask why, in fact, Pilski was getting married.
Nor did he manage to question Mrs Ogrodniczak, the chairman and sole shareholder of the Elizabeth Garden Fun Factory Company. For the past two weeks she’d been staying at a health clinic and it wasn’t her custom to inform her employees of when she’d return; they expected her at any moment. Bartol also waited; he didn’t want to scare her away with a sudden summons. He knew she’d left the country and hadn’t yet returned.
He felt he was running around in circles again – during the day. In the evenings, on the other hand, everything spun all the faster – and it spun pink.
III
elżbIetA ogrodNIczAk didn’t even try to fall asleep; she never could in planes. She kept touching her face, avoiding her still painful lips. She felt she wouldn’t be able to laugh for a long time. It didn’t bother her much. She rarely laughed.
***
Polek’s wife was pleased he wasn’t home. She waited for her daughter to fall asleep then started packing. She didn’t have to explain to anyone why she was taking stiletto heels and a pair of practically invisible, golden thongs she’d carefully hidden earlier, to a three day training conference. She smiled at the panties and blushed again, as she had when buying them.
***
The girl stared at the child she was feeding and didn’t feel anything, not even that she was feeding. She was sure that the following morning the doctor would come and say, just like her head of department had once done:,‘You’re not competent enough’. Maybe she’d even ask: ‘To do what?’ And he’d reply: ‘To be a mother’. And this time, too, she’d agree; this time, too, she wouldn’t even cry.
***
A truly pissed occupant on the top floor of the tenement in Wilga had smoked almost a whole cigarette before noticing the couple kissing on the terrace. The view was obscured by branches, those of a cherry tree. He pondered a long while over how they’d managed to carry such large trees to the roof before he returned to his room and beat his own woman, out of sheer bitterness that things hadn’t turned out as well between them.
***
Melka’s night shift began unusually. First the man with strange glasses had appeared uninterested, then paid up front, and now he was kissing her all over for at least ten minutes. Somehow she felt ill at ease; her boyfriend, after all, was downstairs in the hotel bar. Finally, she asked the man to stop; he laughed scornfully and finished off like an ordinary client.
***
Krzysztof Bolko, the regional leader of a neither poor nor rich area near Szczecin, lay in bed waiting patiently for sleep to come. The room seemed unbearably stuffy and too bright for the middle of the night. He could have got up, opened the window and pulled the curtains to, but he didn’t. He kept closing his eyes only to instantly open them again. He knew that, in the end, he’d have to turn over on his other side and part from the drowsy and soothing wall. Sometimes it worked. A bit on his back, a bit on his other side, then turned to the wall again. Sometimes, but not this time. His wife performed the manoeuvre almost at the same time. They’d have nearly collided had the duvet, which she’d unknowingly thrown to his side, not absorbed the undesired blow. For a while, he stared at her with what could have been disgust or perhaps boredom. Her nightdress, exceptionally short because of the heatwave, had ridden up to her neck, revealing enormous white knickers. Not for the first time did he have the impression that he was looking at gigantic rings of over-pickled white sausage, produced by a drunken butcher. He’d have swiftly turned over again if it weren’t for the malicious satisfaction with which he watched two persistent flies which – chased away by the nervous twitches of the slumbering body – stubbornly kept landing on it again.
‘So she didn’t manage to wipe them all out,’ he muttered to himself, smiling a touch scornfully at the recollection of how she’d raged with the fly swatter, swiping the flies just when the sports news was on, probably so that they wouldn’t distract her by sitting on the television during the serial which followed the news. The loud slap of a hand trying, in sleep, to kill yet another fly which obstinately kept sitting on his wife’s cheek woke him up completely.
He got up, made energetically for the kitchen then slowed his pace midway. He’d just remembered that the fridge was going through yet another family diet, grapefruit this time. He didn’t even approach the fridge to check what else was there; he’d bought five kilos of grapefruits that day himself, so what else could there be? He went instead to his bag which lay by the armchair; there were some chocolate bars in the bag, slightly melted, but they were there. He ate all five. He laughed heartily to himself; one for every kilo of the nasty bitter stuff.
He adored such moments when he felt he’d outsmarted somebody or something. And maybe this hadn’t been his only success that day, he thought, as he remembered the very promising applicant. Complaints all day long then, towards the end, a request concerning land available for development. And on behalf of Mrs Garden. He’d never have thought that she was so forgiving. Up until then he had, in fact, been frightened of her. He’d won the last elections loudly fulminating against the previous regional leader for having agreed to the construction of a warehouse with all that filth, when it was still in construction. Initially, he’d pretended to a certain degree that he was trying to prevent it. The councillors, as usual, couldn’t do anything but helplessly counsel, whereas he’d been vociferous while doing nothing in the hope of the case petering out in time. And it had. A beautiful complex had appeared, beautiful profits from property tax – the largest in the district, employment and salaries for a large number of people – also the highest in the region. Somehow it had all turned out. He was just as quick to explain to himself where the friendly attitude of such a woman could have come from; big money and serious people weren’t as petty as the riff-raff. He thought the same of himself even though he hadn’t spoken to his neighbour for ten years because the latter had sold him an allegedly good car; but that was an entirely different matter.
He’d been slightly terrified when first talking to the man. The man had been a bit strange, wore strange glasses, and a not particularly masculine little heart hung at his neck. Bolko must have broken into a sweat when he heard the client ask about land for an enormous toy warehouse. He was afraid to even think what sort of toys the man had in mind but the latter, sensing his unease, had smiled warmly and jokingly set things straight by saying he meant ordinary toys for children, teddy bears, board games and so on. They’d both laughed. The atmosphere had relaxed considerably. To such an extent that he’d very willingly offered to deliver the gift to Mrs Elżbieta – who’d just left the country – in person. So the man wouldn’t have to visit her company again, seeing as he was so busy. Krzysztof Bolko didn’t generally do people favours but this applicant had been so polite, so promising for the region’s future and for him, that he hadn’t been able to refuse. Nor was a personal visit to Mrs Garden without significance. With a present from a friend whom she’d recommended, he could even phone her at home and arrange to meet for coffee, or perhaps even something else.
‘Oh, that woman is certainly elegant and must surely know something about her kind of trade,’ he laughed lewdly at his own thoughts.
He went back to bed and fell asleep with a smile. mAcIej bArtol had been pacing the room for an hour. Now he stood at the door, listening for footsteps on the stairs. He knew the unique rhythmic clatter of heels, knew it since birth, and was simply scared. All day long he’d devised complicated escape plans, realising they were absolutely senseless. In the morning, not only the day had attacked him with its brightness and his lack of sleep. Not only had the alarm rung
, but his mother, too… had rung.
Just so, as it were. They’d been intending to go together to visit his daughter and her granddaughter anyway; his mother couldn’t get over the joy of it being a girl because that was, as if, better than a grandson. He’d left a message in the evening, explaining why he hadn’t been able to visit the previous day, but had the odd impression that she hadn’t listened to what he’d said or, what was worse, had listened to it but in her own way. She’d said, almost calmly, that she’d first drop in on him then later they’d go to the hospital together. It wasn’t until he’d simply asked why, seeing as the hospital was closer to where she lived, that all hell had broken loose. She’d replied in an entirely different tone of voice, saying she was just in the right mood to discuss the city’s topography. And that even if corpses lay strewn in a row all the way along Święty Marcin Street from Kaponier Roundabout to Stary Rynek, he was to be at home.
There was little hope of escape.
The footsteps strode in, inevitably and resolutely. ‘Hello, it’s nice to catch you at home. I wasn’t entirely sure
you wouldn’t find some desperately convoluted excuse.’ ‘You used to say I was your little hero.’
‘A lot of time’s gone by since you brought home that little
bird with a broken wing in your scarf.’
‘Mum, please stop. You know it isn’t easy for me either.’ ‘Even though the Caesarean section spared you some trauma,
I hope this is only some sort of male post-natal depression.’ Bartol stared at her dumbfounded. He opened his mouth to say something but didn’t have time.
‘Please be so kind as not to enlighten me.’
‘Mum, you know I couldn’t yesterday.’
‘Then it’s a very good thing you can today.’ She walked through to the living room and sat down in the armchair.
Bartol thought that was the end of the assault, but he was wrong.
‘And please don’t explain anything, not today, not now and preferably not tomorrow.’ She brushed the hair from her forehead in a specific way, as though casually, as though she were thinking something over. He knew the gesture perfectly well and knew that now she was going to say what she really wanted to.
‘You know, an old saying has been going round and round in my head that explains everything. You know which one? It’s the one about catarrh and love being the two things you can’t hide. But maybe it’s going around in my head because it’s lost its way, what do you think?’
It seemed to Bartol as though she’d paused intentionally, just to see whether he’d turn pale. He did. He had no idea whether she knew anything or whether she’d played va banque and now, by just looking at him, had seen her conjecture prove true. He had no illusions that now she knew for certain.
The phone rang. For some reason he’d been sure it was Lentz but he was wrong. It was Magda. He had no idea of the expression on his face but he must have looked crushed because he heard:
‘Pick it up or the phone’s going to blush.’
‘I’ll pick it up later,’ he mumbled and muted the ringtone.
‘But don’t worry,’ his mother began after a while. ‘I’m not going to say it’s bad timing and I’m not going to think it over or ask you any questions now. There are more important things I’d like you to resolve in the way I taught you. Successfully, I hope, because I invested masses of work and time in it and, in my old age, don’t want to think the time or money was wasted.’
‘Well then, how many times are we going to go back to the same conversation? I accept the child, am going to help bring it up as best I can, although it all seems so abstract to me right now. But I’m not going to live with them. I’m not going to pretend my love’s come to an end because love had never even begun. What else am I supposed to say? That I don’t rush to the hospital because I don’t know how to behave? That I see the child but don’t yet know what I feel?’
‘You know where the problem lies? In that she doesn’t know how to behave and doesn’t know what she feels either.’
‘Mum, regardless of anything else, she wanted that baby.’
‘She also wanted a wedding with a hundred people, a dress made in Paris and a film star like Żebrowski for a husband, all in a package. And so what? Do you know how much one imagines about motherhood has got to do real motherhood? About as much as an advert for Pampers has to do with dirty nappies. I was there yesterday. It’s no better, if not worse.’
‘You said she was tired after giving birth.’
‘I did because she was. She’s already been in hospital for a week, the baby’s jaundice is almost gone but she’s not getting any better. She’s being discharged today and mustn’t be left alone, not even for a minute.’
‘So what do you propose, because I suppose you do have a solution?’
‘We’ll go there together and you, concerned, are suddenly going to have the brilliant idea that since she shouldn’t be alone and you have so much work, she could go and stay with me for a while. I’ll be delighted with the simplicity of the idea and on top of that I’ll be extremely happy. It’s your problem to convince her and make it look convincing.’
‘Have you still got that Franciszek on your shoulders by any chance?’
‘From time to time. Except that he’s less trouble than you are, even when you’re asleep. Besides, he’ll probably prove useful.’
‘You think she’ll agree?’ he asked after a while. He didn’t expect the stage of forcing the plan about their initially living together would end so strangely.
‘She’s got to agree. Believe me. For the first six months I loved you differently than for the rest of your life, except in those days nobody explained this could happen. The word depression was reserved for the Żuławy flatlands. After giving birth, a woman was allowed to be tired yet happy, but I wasn’t tired yet I was unhappy.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘You didn’t have to.’
‘Mum,’ he said after a long pause, ‘do you think it doesn’t take it out of me, the fact that everything’s not going the way it should?’
‘Don’t be all that worried. The sun also has spots. Get yourself together, we’ve got to go.’
She agreed. Dispassionately, indifferently, or out of tiredness: it was difficult to say. He made two runs between the housing estate in Polanki and Ogrody. He carried and brought things although he didn’t quite know what they were for. It was hard for him to believe that all this was for that tiny bundle he’d brought from the hospital. He was scared to pick the bundle up, so his reason dictated; was also afraid of staying at home too long, but couldn’t honestly say why. Fortunately, nobody asked him and, fortunately, again he wasn’t the centre of attention.
Once again he blocked Magda’s neighbour’s car when parking in front of the tenement in Wilga. The neighbour wouldn’t be able to drive away in the morning but apparently he didn’t get up before nine anyway so there wouldn’t really be any problem. The rain was light, but it was enough to act as an excuse. Bartol left his phone number on the windscreen.
He knew it was one of many, albeit the smallest, of temporary solutions he came up with in his life and about which he tried not to think beforehand. He knew they lulled his vigilance through ostensible and blameless action; he knew and did nothing about it.
It was a near certainty that one day the neighbour would get up early and the morning would be a write-off, just as Magda would finally find out about the child, about the fact that the child was living with her mother in his mother’s apartment; and this, too, would be a rude awakening.
As he was reaching the first floor, the thought occurred to him once more that he should tell her everything, but the thought was obviously too heavy and stayed on the second floor, could no longer be seen from the fifth and, as he knocked on the attic door, he forgot it had even existed.
Again he was touched by the same view. Sheets of paper spread out on the floor, next to them a couple of books, spines up, a couple put as
ide, one open and on it a heavy, small statue of a laughing Buddha who saw to it that the book didn’t close, a glass of wine. And the words: ‘It’s a good thing you’re here…’
For a long time he didn’t even listen to what she was saying; he didn’t really want to hear more. She turned away to look for something and returned with an illustration she wanted to show him. It was small. He didn’t study it, handed it back to her and pulled off his damp sweater.
‘Good.’ She gave him a moment. ‘Sit down and look carefully. Do you want something to drink?’
He didn’t have time to reply. Picked up the illustration again. Studied it and froze. It was a photograph of an etching depicting a mother with a child on her knees; from behind her back peered some more children. Bartol sat, or rather collapsed ,onto the sofa.
‘What is it?’ was all he could manage.
‘Love,’ Magda answered quite naturally. ‘Well, what will you have to drink? Wine?’ She looked at him and smiled. ‘Or something stronger? You’re a little pale.’
‘Make it something stronger…’ he replied, slowly regaining his balance. It wasn’t an allusion; probably something she simply wanted to show him.
‘You’re right. The air’s too heavy, as if a storm’s brewing… Take a look at the other pictures on the table. I’ll be back in a minute.’
It still took him a long while to gather his thoughts. The illustrations showing fragments of paintings and etchings depicting mothers with one, three or a whole group of children, didn’t help. Only when Magda had returned and sat down next to him, only when he’d almost choked on his gin with its drop of tonic – the way he liked it – did he start to regain peace of mind.
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