Nine

by Andrzej Stasiuk

  He dashed into Nowogrodzka, but it no longer made sense. He was soaked, old, and had had enough. The fear that had sent him flying up the steps was gone, and the big man was bound to get him before they reached Lindleya. Behind him he could hear heavy footsteps, the tapping of cleats. “You either wait or get the fuck away,” he thought. The buildings on either side barely moved as he went. Up ahead, someone walking a dog. Nothing but apartments here, curtains and flowers in the windows, the blinking red lights of car alarms. Everything simple, empty. “Cops and the military live here,” he thought. “Some guy in pajamas and slippers could put a bullet in you.” Still that click of cleats behind him. He thought of Michael Jackson: If he wanted to buy Bemowo, he could buy this place too, since there was nothing here either. Then they’d be running through the amusement park, lights, flashes, idiotic flora and fauna, the two of them wearing caps with the initials MJ, and the other million and a half inhabitants of the city too would be in the service of Ferris wheels, merry-go-rounds, glass roller coasters, laser galleries, halls of mirrors, and everything forever after would be make-believe. But Lindleya wasn’t getting any closer. He stumbled over a paving stone but regained his balance. His mind racing. A bitter taste in his mouth, from sniffing the junk, in the john, all the way up into his brain. The air was bitter too. The big man neither closer nor farther. They could just keep on running and running like this, across goddamn Lindleya, then Raszyńska, the Airman’s Monument, toward Żwirki and Wigury—from there it was broad and straight, and by the Russian military cemetery autumn would begin, in September the trees bursting into red and yellow, and from the vegetable gardens the smell of burning leaves and grass. Old people going to their sheds with sandwich bags and flasks of tea, dogs running in a misty yet mild day. From the airport, blue buses with sophisticated people coming to take a look at our country. This was how he passed the time, but Nowogrodzka refused to end, a dream in which space had come unglued from time. If the big man was alone, if the other one was gone, he could turn and face the fatso, or do something else. What else? Nothing that he might pick up and use, a trash can, a flattened cigarette pack, dog shit—no weapon. It wasn’t courage, he was just tired of running, being trapped in this endless street. He thought of movies he had seen, things he had owned, counted them, named them, when suddenly he realized that he was running alone.

  The big man had come to a stop. He was some distance away but under a streetlamp, and it was plain that something was wrong, because he was oddly bent, his arms out, as if trying to creep up on something. Jacek looked one more time, then turned and left. The corner of Lindleya was a few steps away.

  A clatter woke him, but he curled up even tighter, because it sounded like footsteps, as if a giant were striding from Żoliborz to Mokotów. Before he went back to sleep, he saw that the dream of his life made no sense. His first briefcase, which cost four hundred and fifty zloty, made of hard black plastic, with aluminum fittings. In those days everyone had one like it, and in the trams you could hear the click as they knocked together in the crush. But now it wasn’t a tram but the stairwell of a tall apartment complex out in Gocław. He was coming down slowly, as if afraid, standing in front of each door in turn, then continuing, until he reached the first floor. At the next building, he waited until no one was near the elevator before pushing the button. On the way to the top floor he swore to himself that he’d knock on the doors with numbers that had a lucky 3 and 7. Everything smelled of fresh gray paint. In his head he repeated the words he’d learned by heart and tried to smile. Good morning, we’d like to offer our services in interior finishing, good morning, we’d like . . .

  He went one floor down, counted off, went to a door behind which were noises. It opened at once, and he found himself in a hallway surrounded by children who stared at him as if he were Santa. From the far end of the apartment a woman in a dressing gown asked what he wanted. He explained about wood paneling, but she didn’t understand. He then gave her the presentation, rested his case on his knee and opened it: “These are some samples, ma’am. We can do the walls in ash, pine, or oak, and for the door the padding can be claret, brown, beige, or black.” The children stood on tiptoe to see. One grabbed the edge of the case, and everything was on the floor. They threw themselves on the treasures, each picking up a piece, and the women smiled. “Give the man his things back,” she said. “Mommy will find you something else to play with.” To him she said, “We’re only renting. Wait a moment, and I’ll get the landlord’s number for you. Maybe he’d like to have it done. Paneling would be good. The kids dirty the walls.”

  That day he sold nothing. Did not get beyond those few words. Did not stick his foot in any open door. Became confused, offered the wrong things. The next day too. He tried different apartment buildings, riding up, walking down. He met some men in overalls who were soundproofing doors and paneling hallways. A few times when someone opened a door, he said, “Sorry, wrong apartment.” For four days, the same. His feet hurt. He thought about how much the briefcase cost. On Friday he ran out of clean shirts, put on the one from Monday. It was hot. He took more breaks. He did two complexes in Witolin, crossed Grochowska, sat in the square by Kwatery Głównej, smoked two cigarettes, thought of giving up, went back to the complexes. Outside a new building he was stopped by a short, skinny guy: “You do soundproofing for doors, right?” “I take orders.” “I thought so. I need something like that. Come with me, I’ll show you.” They went into the stairwell, and the guy wouldn’t stop talking. “It’s an unusual job because it’s in the cellar. My workshop is there and the neighbors complain about the noise. I need a layer of foam and something on top to make it look nice, but the door’s an irregular size, it’ll need to be measured. You don’t have a tape measure? No problem, I do.” It was dark on the stairs. The guy said he’d go first and turn on the light. Then someone pulled. There were two of them. They pushed him into a cramped place and hit him a few times, not particularly hard, and told him if he ever showed his face on their territory again, they’d knock the shit out of him. They took the case and smashed it against the wall or floor. Then it was quiet. He found the door, but it was locked. He stumbled over the broken case. After an hour he started to shout, and someone called the super. Later, in the park, he examined the briefcase carefully, but nothing could be done with it. In his dream, he saw the number 1985, bright over the city like a neon light, a significant date, the beginning of some age, yet worthless, like everything else. That was what he thought between waking and sleeping, and he dived again, hoping that somewhere at the bottom he’d find the true beginning.

  “You didn’t say it had to be uncarbonated,” said Iron Man.

  “Do I have to spell everything out?” said Bolek.

  “What am I, the Holy Ghost? How was I to know? You told me to buy water on the way. When a person’s been drinking, bubbles are good. We always used to buy it after drinking.”

  “What, I’m supposed to tell you over the phone?”

  “What difference does the phone make?” asked Iron Man.

  “Some things don’t need discussing,” said Bolek.

  “Oh.”

  Practically in whispers as they stood in a dark courtyard off Nowogrodzka, but some of the windows were still lit.

  “So how is it?” asked Iron Man.

  “Stings, because of those damn bubbles,” answered Bolek.

  “I’ll know next time, Boluś.”

  Despite the dark, Bolek was visible because he wasn’t wearing anything, not even underwear. Pouring the water from the bottle on himself, washing. Iron Man stood nearby, sniffing.

  “She must have put something in my food. When I get back . . .” whispered Bolek.

  “Come on, Boluś, we were all eating from the same pot, weren’t we? You overate, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “I never overate in my life,” said Bolek.

  “Never say never.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.
But you should ease up on the food, Boluś. We’re not young anymore.”

  “Now I’m supposed to ease up? When I can buy what I like? You remember how strapped we used to be? A roll and cheese, some milk. And now . . .”

  “Food’s just food.”

  “Why should I deny myself?”

  Bolek tossed away the empty bottle, and Iron Man handed him a new one. Bolek rinsed front and back, bending like a dancer. Finally he decided it was enough.

  “That should do it.”

  “I don’t know,” said Iron Man. “You still smell a little.”

  “Any more water?”

  “I only brought that.”

  “You couldn’t bring three bottles?” Raising his voice.

  “Come on, Boluś. You call in the middle of the night, bring me this, that, I run like there’s a fire or some accident, and you only shitted yourself, and then you get mad at me . . .”

  “Let me tell you something, Iron Man,” shouted Bolek, but didn’t finish because a light went on in an apartment over their heads and a man appeared in an open window:

  “Stop that noise or I call the police! And get out of the courtyard, you fags! Now!”

  Without another word Bolek put on the clothes that Iron Man had brought, the underwear, the pants, hopping. Iron Man squirmed: he didn’t like people saying “police” when he was around.

  Of course she could have run after them, after Jacek and the big man and the blond guy. Her heart was pure, noble, a stranger to fear. But she had hesitated, and they were separated by the crowd, the people walking up the steps. The men were gone. She followed, but felt herself going slower and slower, and in the end she stopped. And turned back. Her strength failed her. On the departures board the black letters formed ZAKOPANE. Everyone around was busy with his own business, as if her shout and the men’s pursuit was nothing, a hallucination. It occurred to her that everything happened this way: it ended, broke off without a trace, and the world immediately healed over in that place. She touched the toothbrushes in her pocket, and tears welled. She walked in that direction again, because it was darker below and people wouldn’t notice. There was the same dull-yellow light. An army patrol passed her, officers with solemn, childlike faces. They too knew nothing. Solitude on all sides, endless. The glass doors slid open, slid shut, mingling the dark night with the station light. At the tram stop she tipped back her head to check exactly where the Marriott melted into the sky.

  “What do I care?” Jacek thought. Cars drove along the Aleje as if there were no problem. “You can’t even do a lousy little business deal without getting chased.” A train rumbled down the other side of the street. “Looks like that vacation will never happen,” he said aloud. “There’s no justice.” The station to his right enticed with its glow. He ought to go back there, put an end to it. The curly-haired kid had once walked him all the way to his building. “One more bit of business screwed. The world’s become too small. You meet someone and don’t know what it’ll lead to. Things used to be easier. Maybe he remembers, maybe he doesn’t feel like remembering. I’m not a good person for him to know right now.” A number 7 moved from the stop, scattering sparks, as if the street might catch fire. He cut across the Aleje, into Żelazna. The old apartment buildings absorbed the light, their windows flickering, from oil lamps or candles. The people were probably afraid that the city would come and reclaim their old cave and force them out, and then they’d go blind. At Złota he turned right. Jana Pawła was deserted. He ran, hopped over the fence, and was on Emilii Plater. No lights from the Palace. “Great fucking center of the universe,” he thought. “A few watchmen on the first floor, and not a soul in the bushes because it’s too cold.” But the place was as good as another, so he crossed the road and went among the trees. The first night buses revving their diesel engines. He watched them head toward the Aleje and disperse. It looked like some great calamity or plague, because the streets and bridges were empty now, and the people in the buses were prisoners or refugees packed in and hurrying to the distant cliffs of Natolin, Wawrzyszew, Targówek, Kabaty. A 601, a 602, a 605. “Three sixes, the devil already,” he laughed. “Or eighteen, that’s adulthood, the right to vote and buy alcohol. Everything falls into place so nicely, a person can’t see the join.” The world sped along but offered no hope, left no memory. Its content entirely of now: without consequence or continuation, like a television image. He decided against a bench in the dark and a cigarette, because it would have looked like an interruption in the transmission, a power outage, please stand by. He went at an angle to Świętokrzyska, where the shining cars, the window displays, and the endless details were food for the soul. The brain needed something to occupy it, so it didn’t have to occupy itself—the horror of the vacuum. An orange street sweeper moving with an insect hiss. In the glare of the intersection, its top glistened with sweat, then it entered the black ravine of Świętokrzyska. He waited for the green light, crossed, made for the traffic circle. From the right, night rolled in and broke against the silver department stores. One long arm of it reached deep into Żłota and didn’t end till the lights of Nowy Świat. “When it used to be Kniewskiego here,” he thought, “the shop dummies weren’t as sexy.” He tried to hold on to that thread to the past, but it snapped and again he was alone on a long, bright, straight line past the charade of empty clothes for the rich. He went down into the underpass. By the phones it occurred to him that he ought to call Beata, to tell her or warn her, but he didn’t have a card or token, and that calmed him.

  “I had a dog too, but it ran away,” said the blond guy.

  “What kind of dog runs away?” Bolek sipped his drink.

  “It happens,” said Iron Man. “We had a cat once, and it wouldn’t stay in the house either. It would come when it felt like it, then it stopped coming altogether.”

  “Cats are awful,” put in the blond guy.

  “A cat’s not a dog,” said Bolek. “Cats don’t get attached.”

  “I don’t know,” Iron Man said thoughtfully. “We had one once that never went anywhere. It would lie around all day and only get up to eat.”

  “With cats you can never be sure,” said the blond guy.

  “But can you be sure with dogs? You said your dog ran away.” Iron Man was annoyed.

  They were sitting in the closed Hoochie-Coochie, each drinking something different. Bolek had a beer, Iron Man a vodka, and the blond guy rum and cola, because he was driving and Bolek had told him to go easy. Behind the bar Storkie wiped glasses. It was dark in the pool room. Iron Man straightened the blue jacket he had on. Bolek’s bomber jacket was on the back of a chair. The blond guy had hung his up along with the top of his tracksuit, and from time to time he looked at his biceps.

  “My Sheikh never goes a step away,” said Bolek. “When I’m out, he won’t eat or drink. He lies there or stares out the window, though he can’t see anything because he’s too short.”

  “He’s not short,” said Iron Man.

  “For a dog he’s big,” agreed Bolek, “but too short to see out.”

  It was almost two in the morning, and the smoke circled over their heads. Bolek was smoking Marlboros, the blond guy Camels, and Iron Man both. Storkie kept polishing glasses, to handle time. Even though the glasses were all polished, he took them to the back room and started washing them. Looked in the mirror over the sink and thought: “This is what I’ll look like in ten years, if I’m still alive.”

  The men at the table watched the street through the blinds. Through the narrow slats the night was a television out of focus.

  “Maybe I could call for some babes, boss,” the blond guy suggested.

  “No,” said Bolek. “We have work tomorrow.”

  “Then let Storkie put some music on; we’re sitting here as if something bad happened. Don’t worry, boss, it’ll all be fine. I’ll take care of it.”

  “All right, he can put music on,” agreed Bolek. “But something quiet.”

  “He’s got this neat song
about a mother and a bike,” said the blond guy, pleased. He called toward the bar. Storkie came through the bead curtain with a glass in his hand.

  “Put on the thing that was on before, Storkie. The one about the motorbike.”

  Storkie nodded and started flipping through the CDs. He found it, put it in.

  “What’s the name of them?” asked the blond guy.

  “The Fireflies,” said Storkie.

  They listened, and Iron Man even tried to tap his foot to the rhythm. Bolek finished his beer, played with his glass, pushed it aside, and said:

  “I can’t say I know this kind of music.”

  “Right, it’s not Boney M.,” said Iron Man.

  “Better take us back. We have work in the morning,” Bolek concluded.

  They walked out into the dark. From below, from the Vistula, came a cold, odorless wind, and distant car horns called out like the frozen souls of the damned.

  He was in Berlin again, riding the U-bahn, counting the stops and clutching the ticket in his pocket. Sometimes people looked at him, but it was just after the unification, so maybe they took him for an Ossi. Everything he owned was in a plastic bag labeled USA from the Różyckiego bazaar. Above him, the city that he hated and desired. He felt the touch of its immense feet. A crappy job: three days of hammering, dust, and rubble, and nothing but a cold-water faucet, so he stank for sure, even though he’d taken his Polish Wars deodorant with him. The guy was surprised to see him. A month before, in the middle of the night on Targowa they’d hugged like brothers and swore they’d never forget each other. Now he had three hundred marks in a pocket fastened with a button and safety pin. He counted the stops. At Oskar-Helene-Heim two black men got on. Afraid to lift his eyes, he stared at their new white Nikes. His moccasins were cracked and gray from the dust. The tassel missing on one of them. He hid his feet under the seat. The cut on his hand hurt. Thielplatz, Dahlem-Dorf, and in his pockets shreds of tobacco and a handerkerchief stiff with dirt. But he could have gone on riding forever—this wasn’t at all bad. There was nothing he had to do. He didn’t have to elbow his way through the crowd around the station or point to which sandwich he wanted, or drink beer slow to make it last. It was fine here. His imagination filled with angular, martial German women trying on gold jewelry and black lingerie in the big department stores on the Kudamm, he watching through a window, unseen by the naked women, as if he were not there. The light bounced off their bodies as it did off varnish. They walked from floor to floor of the towers of glass, trying on overcoats, garter belts, tossing them aside and moving on to the next display or hanger or shelf for more shoes, perfumes, gloves, rings, discarding these in turn, finally wading ankle-deep in a heap of things scarcely touched, in an infinitely mirrored series of rooms, a labyrinth, like paradise or eternity. He too tried to enter, but the glass walls were smooth, without the tiniest chink or crack. More and more women came, appearing on the street where he stood, passing through the glass and, once inside, immediately casting off their old clothes, and on the gleaming floors rose piles of fragrant garments.