A Treatise on Shelling Beans

by Wieslaw Mysliwski

  “Don’t make jokes.” She burst into tears.

  A short while later she took me to an herbalist. He was a doctor, but he treated people with herbs. In those days doctors didn’t believe in herbs. I don’t know how she found him. She made an appointment and went with me. He was an old man, when I told him my symptoms and how long I’d had them he mumbled to himself. Then he gave me a big sack of herbs. My wife prepared infusions and made sure I drank them regularly, three times a day at the same times, morning and midday twenty minutes before eating, in the evening twenty minutes after eating supper. Though the evening one she’d put into a thermos for me to take to the club.

  And would you believe it, within a month I’d already begun to feel better, it hurt a lot less, I started to put on weight. In four months I was already back to my regular weight. I could eat anything, I even had a glass of alcohol from time to time, with no ill effects. I drank the herbs for a whole year, then after that only in spring and fall. And since then I’ve been fine.

  Would you like to write them down? I’d just need to find you a slip of paper and something to write with. Well, maybe later. I remember what they were, I’ve not forgotten. If only I could remember everything like that. Though could anyone live in such a way? Actually, I don’t think that sort of memory would be any more real.

  No, my wife and I broke up for a different reason. I didn’t want to have children, as I mentioned, and she very much did. I liked children, I still do, as I said. But I didn’t want any of my own. Why not? I’ll leave it to you to figure out. Me, I might not tell you the truth. Do I regret it now? Maybe yes, maybe no. We broke up when I was already well again, I’d almost forgotten about being sick. Wives don’t leave you when you’re sick. Especially her, she’d never have left for a reason like that. True, for a long time I hadn’t let on I was ill. When she found out, she even said to me one time:

  “I’ll leave you if you don’t get treatment.”

  I didn’t want to worry her with my illness. I’d never presume to worry anyone with my own ill health, especially my wife. It hurt and that was all there was to it. You can get used to any pain if it hurts constantly. Like back then in the cafe, it hurt, but I kept listening to the man. And maybe it was under the influence of the worsening pain in my right side, under the ribs, that I asked:

  “Was he unwell?”

  You should never ask questions based on your own pain, as I realized immediately.

  “No,” he said. “He committed suicide.” He spoke calmly, you might say, but at the same time he lifted his cup to his lips even though it was empty. And he added: “It was years and years ago, but I still find it painful. More and more painful. So thank you for letting me buy you coffee.”

  That I did not understand, let me tell you. We’d nodded to each other by mistake, and here he was thanking me. Out of the blue he asked:

  “What year were you born in? That’s what I thought. I was more or less your age when my father came back from the war. Luckily, or unluckily, he wasn’t taken prisoner. He was in hiding for some time, so he didn’t come back right away. We didn’t think we’d see him again. Then one day, unexpectedly, he showed up, dressed in civilian clothing, unshaven, gaunt. You’d think all the more that there couldn’t be anything more joyful. That’s what people usually think when someone comes back from the war … And rightly so. Any return from the war has joy written into its very nature. Unless it’s someone coming back to an empty house, to ruins. Think about what a return from the war always meant. Someone came back, someone else didn’t, that alone is a measure of our experience. Someone cames back, someone else doesn’t – that pretty much sums up our own predicament. As if human fate were forever vacillating between joy and pain. If you look at war from such an angle, it might seem to be exclusively for homecomings of that kind that wars are fought. As if there were no greater measure of a person’s happiness. Or greater pain when someone doesn’t come back. Coming back from the war might be the clearest proof that life can triumph over death. Yet it’s a triumph for which we need constant evidence. Because it’s like a return from another world. So even when someone comes back a cripple, armless, legless, eyeless, the very nature of the situation means we should greet them with joy. They bring joy across the threshold of the house along with their saved life.

  “Too bad we didn’t even have time to express our joy at father’s return. As he walked in he glanced at us with cold eyes. Then, when mother burst into tears and tried to throw herself into his arms, he held her back. The same went for me and my little brother, when we hugged him he moved us away from him. He at least ought to have picked my brother up and said, My, how you’ve grown, son.

  “I mean, that’s one of the basic principles of homecoming. Especially since when he went to war, my brother had just been learning to walk. He asked mother for a glass of water. As he drank it we both looked at him almost greedily, as if it was us who were thirsty. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in this funny way. To give vent to the joy he’d dampened in us, we laughed at his Adam’s apple. Mother made the best of our laughter, she evidently had a premonition, and she said:

  “ ‘See how happy the boys are.’

  “He didn’t say a thing. He just looked at us with those cold eyes, and the laughter died inside us. He handed the glass back to mother and walked into the living room without a word. He dropped heavily into an armchair. Mother started to ask him if he wasn’t tired, maybe he should lie down, or perhaps he’d like to take a bath and change his clothes. She had everything ready. All his shirts and pajamas were washed and ironed, his suits were cleaned. She’d borrowed a razor and had the neighbor hone it, he could shave. She’d even managed to get hold of some shaving cream. Or maybe he’d rather have something to eat first. There were a few eggs, she’d gotten hold of them by some miracle. Would he like them fried, or would he prefer soft-boiled?

  “But nothing she said had any effect on those cold eyes. He sat there without a word, lost somewhere deep inside himself. Perhaps he didn’t believe he was home, that he’d come back. Mother was helpless, she didn’t know what to do or say anymore. She smiled and cried. She kept hurrying out to get something as if she’d just remembered about it, then she came back empty-handed. I felt sorry for her. I thought to myself, I’ll go and play something for him on the piano, maybe that’ll convince him that he’s home, that he’s back.

  “Whenever he used to hear me playing, however busy he was he’d always come into the living room, sit down and listen. He never asked me to play any particular piece, he just listened. I knew he wanted me to carry out his own unfulfilled ambition. He’d wanted to be a pianist, apparently he had ability, but it all came to nothing after his father, my grandfather, died in the previous war. Every generation has to have its war, as you see.”

  I didn’t know if he expected me to agree, or to offer a different opinion, because he broke off and became pensive, he was gazing off somewhere. Though I hadn’t caused his outpouring in any way, I somehow felt as if I’d intruded into his life. And it was making me more and more uncomfortable. I decided it was time to look at my watch and say, I’m really sorry but I ought to be at my rehearsal by now, which as it happened was true. Till next time maybe if you feel like it. The next coffee’s on me. We can even meet here, in this cafe, tomorrow, the day after? At the same time? Here’s my card.

  He spoke before I’d had a chance to say anything:

  “What’s your instrument?”

  I was shocked, because I hadn’t yet told him I was supposed to be at rehearsal.

  “The saxophone,” I said. I was about to seize the opportunity to say I had to be getting to my practice, since I was running late as it was, I was very sorry.

  With what seemed to me a hint of scorn he repeated:

  “The saxophone.” And again: “The saxophone.” He drifted into thought once again. “It makes no difference what a person plays. What’s unfulfilled remains unfulfilled. So I had good reason to think that if I play
ed for him … and for our sake too. Because we also found it hard to believe he was with us, he was back. Mother had cried her eyes out all through the war. All through the war we’d prayed for him. Hope faded as the war dragged on. His letters came less and less frequently, then in the end they stopped altogether. Mother wrote him, he didn’t reply. So she started getting us used to the idea that we’d have to live without a father. The war ended and he still hadn’t come home, so our hopes were almost extinguished. And now, out of the blue here he was, he’d returned. You must admit that in such instances it’s easier to come to terms with the fact that someone will never come back than to believe that he’s here, he’s returned. Tears may be more in place at those moments than joy. Tears seem more appropriate in a situation where you don’t know what to do with yourself. But we kept our tears in check, and we couldn’t imagine tears appearing in those cold eyes of his. If there weren’t to be any tears, music was the only thing. When hearts are bursting, music is the only thing.

  “My fingers were already over the keys when he raised himself from the armchair and said:

  “ ‘I’m going to go get some sleep.’

  “Mother tried to hold him back, have him wait a moment, she’d make the bed, in the meantime he could have something to eat, take a bath. It was like he didn’t hear her. With a heavy step, almost as if he were hauling his own body, he dragged himself to his study, not to the bedroom. Mother took out a blanket and pillow and hurried after him. For a long time she didn’t reappear. My brother and I waited for her just outside the door of the study. As she came out she led us away from there, then she told us God forbid never to go in to where father was. Not even to go near, to stay away from the door. And in general to keep quiet. Me, I shouldn’t try to play the piano under any circumstances.

  “From that moment on he slept in the study on the sofa. He only left to go to the bathroom. Even then he’d first crack open the door, and if he saw me or my brother nearby, he’d close it again at once. Besides, mother kept an eye on us and made sure we didn’t hang around the hallway needlessly. One time I asked mother why father didn’t want to see us.

  “ ‘Not for the moment, son,’ she replied. ‘He needs to rest. You understand how exhausted he must be.’

  “He didn’t eat with us either. Mother took his food to him in the study. Three times a day. Always on a silver tray. The same one the maid had once brought our meals on. Because of the war we’d learned to eat without niceties, and we’d completely forgotten ab out the silver tray. We’d not had a maid for a long time either. Plus, what we ate didn’t merit a silver tray or a maid. Often there was nothing to eat at all. Mother sold various valuables to buy food. She’d even thought about selling the silver tray, because if father didn’t come back it wouldn’t have been any use to us. Once she took the tray from the dresser intending to finally sell it, but then suddenly, as if she had a presentiment she said:

  “ ‘What if he comes back, what will I serve him his meals on?’

  “And instead of the tray, she sold their wedding rings.

  “When she was taking him his food, even though she carried the tray in both hands she wouldn’t let my brother or me open the door for her. The tray would be loaded, there was a tureen of soup, a dish with the main course, a plate, a bowl, the teapot, cup and saucer, sugar bowl, silverware. She would place the tray on the floor, check that neither of us were about, and only then knock at his door. She was taking food to her own husband, but still she’d knock. It’s hard to imagine a more bizarre situation. Not that he ever opened the door for her. She would always open it herself. She’d pick the tray up from the ground and only then go in.

  “She usually sat with him till he was done eating. Sometimes, though, she was there much longer. I was often tempted to sneak up to the door and listen in to see what they were talking about, and in general if they were talking at all or if they were just silent all that time. Of course, we’d been taught that eavesdropping was wrong. But the war made us unlearn a lot of things we’d been taught. It wasn’t that that held me back, but rather the fear of what I might hear. Especially because when he didn’t feel like eating, which sometimes happened, my mother’s eyes would be brimming with tears as she came out of his study. And that was how hatred toward my father began to grow in me. I hated him so much sometimes for those tears of my mother’s. Nowadays, yes, nowadays I can guess what went on between them.

  “With every meal my mother took to him it became more and more important whether she’d leave there tearful again, or whether her expression would be calm. Even when I was in the furthest room I’d be listening for her coming out of his study, and I’d run to meet her to see if there were tears in her eyes or whether there was even the least hint of a smile on her face. I even tried to guess if it would happen when she took him breakfast or lunch or dinner. It was then that I first became aware of how much I loved my mother. While my father, every time she left his study crying I hated him more, never mind that he’d come back. I actually felt that it was my job to protect my mother from him. I had the feeling that every time my mother brought him a meal, he was taking her away from me. In fact, my love for my mother also protected me from him. It still protects me today, even though my mother is no longer alive either. If it hadn’t been for that, he may well have pulled me along after him. Because I inherited his bad conscience. I often feel as tormented as he must have been. You seem surprised that a bad conscience can be inherited. Everything can, everything can, my dear sir. We have to inherit it all, otherwise what happened will keep repeating itself. We can’t simply select from our inheritance only the things that won’t weigh us down. That way we’d be utterly entangled in hypocrisy. As it is we wallow in falsehood. Have you not noticed that lies have taken on the appearance of truth? They’ve become our daily bread. A way of life. Almost a faith. We absolve ourselves of our sins with lies, convince ourselves with lies, justify accepted truths with lies. Just take a good look at the world. In any case, I’ve inherited that from him. And I want it that way. Otherwise I might not have become as aware of the undying love I felt toward my mother.

  “One day, as mother came out of the study carrying yet another uneaten meal, her eyes filled with tears, she looked in my direction and said abruptly:

  “ ‘Your father wants to see you.’

  “I felt no joy, believe me. Not even relief. I knocked at the door, my heart pounding. He was sitting on the sofa, in his pajamas, in rumpled bedding, wearing house slippers. He was hunched over, as if the simple act of sitting were agony for him.

  “ ‘Come here,’ he said.

  “His voice seemed alien to me. I wouldn’t have recognized it.”

  “ ‘Closer,’ he said. At that moment I noticed that his face was even thinner and more sallow than when he’d first appeared. His cold eyes seemed almost lifeless. They were turned in my direction, but I couldn’t tell if he actually saw me. My heart was thumping ever more loudly in my chest, though all I was doing was standing in front of my own father. He was a good father, please believe me. He was exceptionally mild-tempered, he never got angry. He never so much as laid a finger on me, unlike my mother. I’d get up to mischief sometimes, and he’d always go easy on me. Now, for the first time I was afraid in his presence.

  “ ‘I want to make my confession to you, son,’ he said. ‘To you, not to God.’ A shiver ran down my spine, though I didn’t really understand these opening words. ‘God forgives too easily.’ It was as if he was wrenching the words out of himself. I had the impression he was speaking not with his mouth but with his entire body that had been exhausted by the war, that was so skinny his bones poked through his pajamas. I felt like I could hear them rubbing against each other at every word. ‘Fathers should confess to their sons if memory is to survive. I don’t need you to forgive me. I need you to remember. Your memory will be my penance.’ He had tired himself, he lowered his head and for a long time we remained like that, me standing stiffly in front of him as if I were at at
tention, him on the sofa like he might come crashing head first to the floor. With a great effort he raised his eyes to me. They were no longer cold and lifeless. It was more as if they didn’t believe it was me standing there. He looked at me for a long time. He looked and looked, and still he didn’t seem to believe it was me. ‘I was ordered to check whether anyone else was still hiding there. In the orchard between the farmhouse and the barn there was a potato clamp. In those parts they dig pits, a bit like a cellar. I ran up to it, yanked open the door, and I saw you. Now that you’re standing here in front of me I’m even more sure it was you. I saw the terror in your eyes. Come closer.’ He stared into my eyes for a long, long time, from so close up I could almost feel our eyes touching. ‘Yes, these are the same eyes. They didn’t believe that the soldier with the smoking gun barrel, who could pull the trigger again at any moment, was your father. I hesitated for a second. That second made me realize that I have no right to live. Me, your father, I felt disappointed that it was you. I slammed the door, furious, and shouted back that there was no one there.’ He’d grown tired, he was clearly short of breath, but a moment later he took my head in both his hands and laid it on his shoulder. His body was shaking. ‘It would have been better for all of us if I’d not survived,’ I heard him whisper by my ear. ‘But I so wanted to see you all before I died. So very much. I love you, son. But that’s not enough to live. Go now.’ He pushed me away from himself.”

  We sat there, both silently immersed in those last words of his father, because what can you say after all that, I’m sure you understand. The cafe was slowly filling up, it was getting more and more crowded and noisy. At some point he nodded to someone, or returned a nod. I didn’t look, thinking that at such a moment it would have been wrong even to show curiosity. Then, greeting someone again, he said:

  “But no one could have predicted what would happen soon after. And while he was shaving, with a razor.”