So grandfather started singing the praises of the canned food, he said it was really tasty, and not just because his belly had been growling, but in general he liked to say nice things about everything. The day, the night, life, people, God. That’s the kind of person he was. So the other man told grandfather to finish off the whole of the rest of the can. Out of gratitude grandfather got to talking about himself. That he’d left a young wife behind at home. That he hoped to go back to her. That he had three cows, two horses, this many acres, some meadow-land, some woodland. That he sowed and plowed, day after day. And in the fall and winter they mostly shelled beans, because they planted enough of them so there’d be sufficient for the shelling all fall and winter. They’d all sit down, the lamp would be lit, they’d be shelling beans and telling stories. When he got back he’d tell stories about the war, and about how the two of them had eaten a can of food together.
The other man said he envied grandfather. True, he didn’t know how to shell beans, but he’d rather shell beans than do what he did for a living, especially as it didn’t serve any purpose for people. So grandfather asked him what he did. The other man introduced himself to grandfather, saying he was a philosopher. He gave his name. Grandfather repeated the name to himself all through the war, so as not to forget it when he got home. He wanted to at least repay the man with his memory, for the can of food he’d shared. Unfortunately though, he forgot. Who do you say that was? Are you sure? Did you know him? It’s too bad grandfather’s no longer with us, you could have reminded him.
In any case, grandfather could talk forever about wars. And especially during bean-shelling, it was like his memory opened up completely. I don’t know if it was the wars that had that power, or whether it was the beans that could open any memory right to the bottom. You actually had the impression that war and beans got along together.
You know, I sometimes wonder whether grandfather really did kill those three men. Maybe he just imagined he’d killed them, hoping that because of that at least they’d appear to him in dreams. It could have been his way of doing something about the fact that he never had dreams. Like I said, in everything he nearly always turned to wars for support. Even when he wanted to offer comfort to himself or other people. He’d always bring up something from one of the wars. Not necessarily the one he’d been in. Sometimes it was another one, a more recent one or an older one, one when he hadn’t yet been born.
One time when we were grazing the cows on the meadow, I heard the other boys whispering that Uncle Jan wasn’t grandfather’s son, because he’d been born too soon after grandfather got back from the war. Though I never noticed grandfather treating his two sons differently in any way. And Uncle Jan never gave any indication he didn’t feel like grandfather’s son either. When he hung himself, it affected grandfather more than anyone.
“How was he not my son, how?” he kept repeating. Then another time he said: “No one can even imagine their son might hang himself. It’s too bad I had that burst of strength back then and didn’t let those three guys stick their bayonets in me. Three bayonets, I wouldn’t have had to live to see this. Oh, son, son. If you’d at least died in wartime it wouldn’t be so sad.”
Who knows how it actually was. Grandfather’s gone, grandmother’s gone, Uncle Jan’s gone. At times it seems to me that everyone’s gone. Maybe I’ve gone too? I sometimes try and figure out whether I’m here or not. Except you can’t be a witness to yourself. Someone else has to testify on your behalf. People are too easy on themselves. When they can, they protect themselves from themselves. They dodge and twist, anything so they don’t have to go further, deeper, to where they have something hidden. Everyone wants to appear to themselves the way they look in their wedding picture. Neatly combed and shaved, in a suit and tie, well-fed and smiling, looking like a decent guy. And as young as possible, of course. And they believe that’s them. Though if they really took an honest look …
Every wedding photo is a happy one, as you know. Heads close, shoulder to shoulder, like two poppy seeds that found each other in a tub. If you believed in destiny you might think this was a photograph of destiny. But what happens afterwards, that you won’t see in any photograph. The camera doesn’t exist that can do that job, or the photographer. Maybe one day there will be one, who knows. But so far, all wedding photos are always happy. Think how many happy pictures there are like that hanging in people’s homes. Though honestly, I sometimes wonder if happiness can only ever be found in a wedding picture.
There was a wedding photograph in that guy’s cabin too. Oh, I never finished the story. So when I got woken in the night by that shout, I decided to go see what was up. It was a dark night, the stars were hidden behind clouds. It was so quiet that my own steps sounded like I don’t know how many pairs of feet walking. I could even hear the dogs’ footsteps. I went between the cabins, put my ear to various walls, stuck my head in where there was an open window. But everyone was sound asleep, some of them I could hear snoring. I was starting to think I must have dreamed it. Then all of sudden the dogs start pulling me. What is it? But I let them lead me. And by one of the cabins I see a white body. A woman. Naked as the day she was born. I lean down, there’s no sign of life. When I shine my flashlight on her face I see it’s all bloody.
I picked her up and brought her back to my place. I laid her down through there in the living room and cleaned her up. She had so many bruises that even today, telling you about it makes me mad. I wrapped her in a blanket and held her, because she was shivering all over. I made tea for her but she couldn’t drink, her lips were too swollen. I had to feed her the tea on a little spoon, propping her head up with my other hand because she couldn’t hold it up by herself. When she opened her eyes she looked semi-conscious. She started to talk, I leaned over her but the only thing I could make out was a frightened whisper:
“Who are you?”
“Get some sleep,” I said. “Sleep’ll do you good.”
But I don’t think she slept, because I kept being woken by a sobbing sound through the wall. Or maybe I was just dreaming she was crying through there, and the dream kept waking me up. Early in the morning I went to get her clothes from the guy whose cabin I found her by. To begin with he denied it, swore blind it was nothing to do with him. No way. I mean, I’d often seen his wife. She hadn’t come with him this time because she wasn’t feeling well. Here, that’s our wedding picture, you recognize her, right? He had no idea who the other woman was. Plus he took a sleeping pill last night, he hadn’t even heard any shouting. Must have been one of the other cabins, you must be mistaken. I found her outside your cabin, I say. Then someone must have dumped her there out of spite. You ought to know the people that come here, what they get up to, he says, you’re the one keeping an eye on it all.
If it hadn’t been for the dogs he’d have kept denying it. But the dogs dragged some women’s clothes from under the bed, underwear, blouse, skirt, house slippers. And can you imagine, he wasn’t at all shamefaced about it. All he did was laugh.
“Come on, buddy, what kind of world are you living in? Don’t be so old-fashioned. If you feel so sorry for her you can have her. I was going to get someone else anyway.”
He tried to offer me a beer. The dogs had their hackles up, I had to quiet them down, easy Paws, easy Rex. They were only waiting for me to give them a sign.
“Maybe I am old-fashioned,” I said. “But if anything like this ever happens again I’ll burn this place down. And you’ll never know who did it because you’ll be inside.”
“Keep your nose out of things that aren’t your business, mister!” he said, getting angry.
“Everything’s my business,” I said evenly.
“We pay you to keep an eye on things!”
“Exactly.”
4
This time of year, the off-season, one day is pretty much like all the rest. In the morning, like anyone getting up, I wash and I put my clothes on. Though I’ll be honest with you, when I think about the fac
t that the whole world is getting up with me, washing, getting dressed, I sometimes feel like going back to bed and just this once not getting up, or not getting up ever again. It’s like some curse hanging over you, making you get out of bed, wash, dress every day. From all that you’d be justified in losing interest in the whole day, even though it’s only beginning, losing interest in anything that may or may not happen that day. Now imagine feeling that through your whole life. How many times have we gotten up, washed, gotten dressed – and for what?
It goes without saying that I’m talking about this side of the world, the day that’s just beginning. Because on the other side, when we’re getting up, washing, dressing, they’re undressing and washing and going to bed, which we’ll only do at the end of the day, when they’ll be doing what we did in the morning. And that’s the clearest indication the world is turning and not going anywhere.
I divide the world into two sides, but only for the morning, because by evening there aren’t any sides anymore. By evening people are all broken into little pieces, the same everywhere. Whereas in the morning people are still whole.
No, first I have to feed the dogs. They have to get their food on time. Especially in the morning. Even if I couldn’t get out of bed they’d still need to be fed. Whether I’m sick or not. They get it once in the morning then a second time in the late afternoon. When it comes time they let me know. They lie down flat and stare at me. When I wake up in the morning they’re already lying there staring.
So how can you not get up, however much you don’t feel like it or you don’t see the point. Their eyes are shining, not because they’re starving but because they’re certain they’re going to get fed. How can you not get up? Let me tell you, these days I couldn’t exist without them. I often have the feeling that without them the day would refuse to begin and refuse to end.
After that we go see what’s up with the cabins. Then it can be this or that. It varies depending on the day, though it’s mostly the same. Sometimes I’ll hop in the car and go get some groceries. That’s right, I have a car. I have to run errands from time to time. Swing by the post office or the bank once in a while. Other than that I don’t go anywhere. I don’t have anyone to visit, any place to go, any reason. Plus, there’s always something needs doing around here. The laundry, the ironing, the dishes; sweep the place out, tidy up. And even when I don’t have any other jobs, there are always the nameplates. They take up a lot of my time. Though I don’t work on them every day. Some days my hands work well, other times they hurt. I don’t have a regular daily schedule.
I start each day like I don’t expect anything of it, that it’ll bring what it brings. Though I don’t expect it to bring anything. Honestly, keeping an eye on the cabins is the only thing that gives any kind of order to the day. It’s only from the cabins that I can see the day isn’t standing still.
It’s fall now and you’d think the days would be getting shorter and shorter, but for me they get longer and longer. Often, when I wake up in the morning and think that I have to live through till evening, I feel it’s like living from birth to death all over again. I don’t know if you’ve ever felt anything like that, but it’s as if it’s harder and harder to live through the day. No, it’s not that it’s long. How shall I put it. Well, like today. It’s a day like any other, but at the same time it’s the whole of life.
In the evenings I read a bit, or listen to music. No, I hardly ever watch television. The dogs don’t like it. When I turn it on their hackles rise and they start growling. So I have to switch it off. Maybe if I played. If you ask me, nothing binds life and death together the way music does. Believe me, I played all my life, I know. That’s right, I even have three saxophones, I brought them with me. Soprano, alto, tenor. I played all three. They’re through there in the living room. You want to see? Maybe we can take a look later. Let’s finish with the beans first. I have a flute as well, and a clarinet. Sometimes I’d play piano too, when someone was needed to step in. But my instrument was the sax. Did I go to school? Depends what you mean by school. By my book I went to several, though I can’t say I have any diplomas. But do you need to sit at a desk for years to know how to do something? It’s enough that you want to know how to do it. And I wanted to ever since I was a kid.
I started on the harmonica. Got it from my Uncle Jan. One time we were sitting at the edge of the woods, under an oak tree, and uncle was playing. He was really good. He could even play tunes from the operettas. All of sudden an acorn fell on his head.
He stopped playing, looked upwards and said:
“Maybe even from this oak.”
“What about the oak?”
“That I’ll hang myself,” he said. “But for now don’t say anything to anyone.”
He put the harmonica back to his lips, but he only passed it across them without a sound, then he lost himself in thought. After which he gave me the harmonica and said:
“Here. I won’t need it anymore. It’d be a pity for it to go to waste. It was a good one.”
I asked him:
“Why don’t you want to live?”
“What can I tell you. You wouldn’t understand. You should play me something instead.”
“I don’t know how yet, uncle.”
“That doesn’t matter. I’ll know if you’re going to be able to learn.”
I started blowing and moving the harmonica back and forth across my lips. I couldn’t get the sounds to match up. But uncle evidently heard something:
“You’ll be able to play. Just make sure you practice.”
And that was how I began. Does that count as the start of school in your eyes? Let’s say that was only preschool. Back then they called it nursery school, not preschool. But since that oak tree I started to play. Actually, I was really determined. I played for days on end. I wanted uncle to hear me play before he hanged himself. On the pasture the cows wandered wherever they wanted, but I kept playing. When they sent me out of the house, I ran off into the woods and played there. When it was raining they’d kick me out because they couldn’t take my music any longer, so I’d just go stand under the eaves and keep playing. I’d climb trees, go as far up as I could, so they wouldn’t be able to reach me and make me come down. I’d get in a boat, drift down the Rutka, and play. I’d even go to the outhouse, latch the door shut, take out my harmonica and play. They couldn’t understand how anyone could take so long in the outhouse. Luckily the outhouse was behind the barn and they couldn’t hear me playing.
No, Uncle Jan was still alive then. It was like he was waiting to be able to hear me play. One time I saw him sitting under the same oak tree at the edge of the woods and I went up to him.
“Will you listen to me play, uncle?”
“Absolutely.” Then, as he listened he said: “I see the harmonica won’t be enough for you much longer. When the time comes you should choose the saxophone. No one here has even seen a saxophone, you’ll get asked to play all the dances and weddings. Maybe even further, higher. Saxophones are in these days. And a saxophone is the whole wide world. I’ve got nothing against fiddles, but the fiddle is a Gypsy instrument. You have to have Gypsy blood, a Gypsy soul. Roam like the Gypsies, steal like the Gypsies. A non-Gypsy will never be able to play that way. There are people in the villages play the fiddle, but they’re not real musicians. Fiddle and accordion and drums, they get together and they play everything all in the same style. One two three, one two three. They’ll never play any differently, that was always how it was here. That was how they lived, how they played, and they’d die that way. One two three, one two three. For it to change, a saxophone has to come along. Maybe when that happens they’ll start to dance differently, live differently. One time I went to a dance in the town, in the band there was a saxophone, and I’m telling you … Then I saw one just like it on display in a shop window. Next to it there was a fiddle. If I’d had the money, which I didn’t, I’d have bought it. I’d have taught myself. You can learn anything if you just set your mind
to it. It cost the earth. Much more than the fiddle next to it. I don’t know how much you could get for this land of ours … I’ll leave you my share, maybe that’ll be enough. If not, then save up. Perhaps if I’d been younger … But you need to be your age to start.”
It happened that after the war I found myself in this school. It wasn’t an ordinary school. The best proof of this was the fact that the rec room, which took up a whole hut, was crammed with musical instruments. You wouldn’t believe what all they had in there. Music school? No, nothing of the sort. But trumpets, flutes, trombones, oboes, bassoons, clarinets, violins, violas, cellos, double basses. There were instruments whose names we only learned from the music teacher, once he was brought in.
There was a saxophone too, an alto. True, it was missing two keys, but you could cover the holes with your fingers and more or less play it.
Some instruments were in even worse shape. Bent, cracked, torn, they had holes from bullets and shrapnel, as if they’d fought in the war too.
But there were also ones that were perfectly fine, or at any rate that all that was needed was to solder something together or fix it back on, or stick on an extra part, or take bits from two or three of them to make one whole one, transfer something from one to another, strings for example, on something else switch out the mouthpiece, and you could play. There were shops there, so you could mess around with little repairs like that.
A Treatise on Shelling Beans Page 9