Swans Are Fat Too

by Michelle Granas

  The telephone rang in the middle of the afternoon. She dived for it, almost choking on a bit of sandwich.

  "Hania," it was Wiktor's voice.

  "Waaugh."

  "Hania, listen."

  She hated sentences that began that way; they always ended badly for her.

  "We can't get back for a while."

  She'd known it––she'd been sure that's what would happen––she'd steeled herself for what to say. She took a deep breath in order to blast Wiktor with "No! You get back here and take care of your children! You can't use me this way!"

  But he was saying, "Haniu, kochanie, you're a lifesaver, we're so grateful, how could we manage without you? I'm mentioning you to everyone I'm meeting here ––I think I've got a concert arranged––"

  "No! I don't want anything arranged for me!" and there she was, arguing about concerts and completely derailed and then unable to get a word in. But this is ridiculous, she thought, I have to tell him to come home. She took her deep breath again.

  "Wiktor, listen!"

  "Haniu, kochanie, I have to end now." And the line went dead in the middle of her shriek of "Nooo!"

  She listened to the silence for a moment and then slammed the receiver down, fuming. Kalina and Maks were watching.

  "Are they coming back?" asked Kalina in a rather sneering tone.

  "I don't know. I suspect you're stuck with me for a while."

  Kalina shrugged; then she reached under one of the sofa pillows, pulled out a small plastic object, stuck it in her mouth, and began to suck on it. Hania stared, unable to see at first what the object was. Then she realized. Kalina was sucking on a pacifier. Somehow this upset her more than anything that had happened before.

  "It's mine," whined Maks, "I want it."

  "It isn't yours," said Kalina, taking the pacifier out for a second. "I found it in the park." She put it back in her mouth and sucked as she watched the television.

  "I want one too." Maks' lip was trembling.

  Hania said, "Maks, if you really want one, I'll buy you one tomorrow."

  "I don't want anything from you! Why don't you go away?" he shouted and flung out of the room.

  Hania felt for the children, since they'd clearly been abandoned, and because, more clearly, they were accustomed to it. But as they appeared to want none of her, there was not much she could do for them.

  She took her laptop out and considered the paper beside her with Konstanty's handwriting. Those first words might be 'the neolithic peoples' or 'till narcolepsy prevails.' He had walked back to the apartment with her from the grocery store and handed her a large stack of papers. The handwriting was appalling––a series of mountain peaks peppered with stray accent marks. "I'm writing something on the order of a brief history for foreigners," he had said, "nothing scholarly, you understand, just a sort of hopefully readable, rough outline to fit into a guide with a lot of economic information. It's for my sister's PR company––she thought it would amuse me to choose what goes in and what stays out, since I've always loved history. And it has afforded me some pleasure, I admit. But I type at the speed of––well, let's just say, any bird hunting and pecking at that speed would die of hunger"––there had been that flash of amusement, so quickly disappearing––"and I have doubts about my English…" His English was quite good, actually, thought Hania, rather British-accented. "We weren't required to write a lot in medical school." That slight, deprecating smile again. "Then, too, I'd like another opinion about what to leave in and out––this is intended, you see, for people whose knowledge of the country, even though they may be considering investing here, will probably be very limited." The choices were good, she thought, but the writing was rather convoluted. Some––no, a lot––of the sentences needed rewriting. They were fairly grammatical, but not constructed in the way a native English-speaker would speak or write.

  There was an email. Konstanty had written to her. She stared at the heading for a moment before clicking on it: Respected Madam, I am eager to know whether in your opinion the text that I gave you is in need of much work?

  She hesitated. It wouldn't do to be fulsome or gushing, to say 'oh thank you for writing to me, I feel so much less lonely now.' And besides it did need work. She had a curious image of her grandmother standing beside a piano student.

  Respected Sir––that was how one began letters in Polish––Yes.

  She clicked send, and very quickly received an answer.

  Respected Madam, I am obliged for your prompt and laconic reply. I was not aware that it was as unacceptable as your answer leads me to believe. I wonder if you could elaborate?

  Respected Sir, In English, one says and writes, 'I'm going for a walk.' Polish people say 'I'm going for a walk,' and write 'I intend to fulfil the concept of performing the action of going for a walk.'

  Respected Madam, I retire, carrying my wounded pride on a stretcher.

  Oh dear. Was he joking? Had she hurt his feelings? Respected Sir, It's very interesting. You are joking about the stretcher?

  Respected Madam, Yes.

  By evening she had corrected several pages of text. Maks had disappeared after his outburst, which should have put her on her guard, but she was wrapped up in her reading.

  The Slavonian tribes, Procopius writes, governed themselves in democratic fashion, without a leader, 'and therefore they are all concerned with what is successful and what detrimental…and agree on everything together...' The Slavs agreed so well that they often, curiously, turned to outsiders for leadership…

  Konstanty had added in the margin: Would it be better to write––'a jealous guardianship of their equality persisted through the centuries…'? Of course, she realized that he must have written the words for himself, before he had any idea that she would be working on the text, but for a moment she had the pleasing illusion that he was asking her opinion.

  Mieszko, a 10th century duke with whom the beginnings of the Polish state are connected, may have been of a Danish royal family. He had two wives: the first was a Christian noblewoman from the Czech lands; the second was a German nun, whom he abducted from the monastery of Kalbe.

  Hania smiled at this, but besides the occasional images of prosperity and developing culture, of a land rich in 'grain, meat, honey, and fish' with stone palaces and cathedrals going up, some of it, of course, made her blood run rather cold:

  Mieszko also engaged in marriage-making. He had 3,000 men in armour and paid for their children's marriages, says the chronicler Ibn Jakub. His own daughter, Sigrid the Haughty, married the kings of Sweden and Denmark respectively, was famed for her 'exuberant lifestyle' (she burned two of her suitors alive), and became the mother of King Canute. Another daughter––or sister, the chronicles aren't certain––one Adelaida, was mother of the first king of Hungary, who became Saint Stephen. Adelaida, however, 'drank excessively and rode on horseback like a knight. Once she even killed, in an access of furious rage, one of her husbands…'

  Mieszko's son Bolesław behaved better with his unwanted wives; he simply sent them back to their parents. With his political opponents, however, he was harsher, ordering their eyes to be put out. Such were the times, and such ferocities common across Europe.

  Konstanty had written at the bottom of the page, and then crossed out: Think, for instance, of the 15,000 Bulgarian soldiers taken prisoner by the Byzantine Emperor Basil II in 1016, all blinded and sent home with a one-eyed guide, or of Richard I of England setting up a grandstand to watch the cold-blooded execution of 3,000 Muslim prisoners in the succeeding century.

  Hania sat for a moment, contemplating. One could skim over things like this in history books. Not let them really sink in. These things had to be left padded by the layers of years in between or the sense of revulsion became too strong. Shuddering away the images of pain and gore, she turned back to the text, and began to rearrange a sentence.

  Maks appeared at her side. That was unusual. He actually looked like he'd gotten over his anger, like he wan
ted something from her. She felt a little surge of warmth towards him. She had an impulse to click off the text before he saw it, but then remembered he couldn't read English. Actually, she didn't know if he could read at all.

  "Maks, can you read?"

  "Of course." He pushed his glasses up and regarded her with his disdainful, owlish eyes. "But why should I read when there's the television? It says on the news that there's a murderer around."

  She should pay attention to what he watched, she realized. Children shouldn't watch the news.

  "Yes. A murderer of children. He chops them up with a knife."

  What did one say to that? Oh, surely not? Not here in Warsaw. Hardly ever anywhere? Err…

  "Well, I'm sure you're quite safe, Maks. There are a couple billion children in the world and the murder statistics among them are miniscule. Um…There aren't any murderers here, I'm sure." So why did she have that creepy feeling down her spine now? Drat Maks. He gave her a long look and turned on his heel. "I'm going to bed," he called over his shoulder.

  Hania went on typing for a while, then rose, made sure the apartment door was locked, made sure the chain was in place, and prepared to take a shower. Both children appeared to be asleep. She wandered from room to room, peering into each; she didn't know why. She had an urge to lift the curtains, to look behind them before she turned her back.

  The apartment was large and eerily empty-seeming. Steamy in the hot weather. In the bathroom she piled her heavy brown hair on top of her head, and paused for a moment to look over her shoulder. The door was closed. It was difficult to get over the sides of the high tub. She pulled the curtain, let the water run. In the shower one heard nothing. Somehow she didn't like that. She turned the water off a time or two and listened, but no sounds reached her. Why did she have that strange feeling? Almost gooseflesh in spite of the heat.

  She got out of the tub, dried herself, and let down her hair, feeling all the time that she should hurry, hurry, and telling herself that that was ridiculous, what could have happened? She would come out and the children would be in bed sleeping, horrid as ever, but safe. She put on her nightdress and robe and opened the door. No sound. The light was on in the hall.

  But what was that on the floor? Her heart gave a painful thud. A long smear of blood. And another down the hall. Dear God, no. Her mind sent her racing toward Maks. Her legs kept her rooted to the spot, shaking. She forced herself to move, to follow the red stains to Maks' room. The light was out. She batted at the wall wildly, mouth dry and hands almost powerless for trembling. Somehow she kept jerking her head over her shoulder to see if someone were there, were waiting. "Maks," she rasped, "Maks." The light sprang on. And her heart stopped. Maks lay in a heap on the bed. His arm was flung across his face and blood ran over it and around his neck, blood soaked his shirt, and a knife lay beside him in the bed.

  The world reeled, time stood still––no, thought Hania, this can't be happening. No, no, no. And then: first aid measures. Was he still alive? Go to him. And ice in the veins freezing movement.

  Then the world righted itself. Still shaking, she crossed the room, reached for the bottle lying half under the bed covers, turned about, and left the room, snapping out the light as she went. She stalked into the kitchen, threw the ketchup into the garbage bin, and returned to her room. She lay down on her bed and stared at the ceiling, relief and rage and shock washing over her in turns. It was such an old trick but who would have thought a six-year-old could make it so real?

  A loud wail arose from down the hall. It was Maks. "Heeeelllppp! I'm afraid of the daaaaark!!! Kaliiiiina!!!" And louder: "Kaaaaliiiina!!!"

  Sometime later Hania rose and went into the piano room. Holding down the soft pedal to muffle the sound, she began to play scales. Up and down, up and down. The noise was just enough to take the edge off Maks' sobs. This way she could think. Something had to be done about these children. They needed help and she didn't think a psychologist would fit the bill––even if she had the authority to take them to one, which she didn't. So she had to be the help. At least she had to do what she could while she was here. Maks needed attention and Kalina needed comfort. Actually, she thought Kalina was a harder case than Maks, but she'd have to try for her too. She looked across the piano top at the photo of Babcia with the singer…You did this Babcia, she felt like saying, you had no time for your children, you left them with nannies, you wouldn't listen to them, you were unkind and authoritative and denigrating; you made sure they'd grow up to behave the same to their children. Had Babcia been treated that way herself? Each generation was responsible for the next, and everyone was required to help out where possible. She hadn't intended to come to Warsaw to be a surrogate mother, but that's what had been handed her. She'd better put her mind to doing it well, at least for the short time she would be here.

  Maks was still crying in his bedroom. Why didn't Kalina go to him? She left the piano, peeked into the girl's room and found her sleeping, curled in a ball with a pillow over her head. She went to Maks, turned on the light, and sat down on his bed.

  "Truce, Maksiu.

  4

  She was up early, working at her laptop. She wrote an email to Konstanty: Respected Sir, I'm sending back the parts I've done:

  By Mieszko's time, the slave trade had existed for over a millennium, first as the prisoners of inter-tribal warfare were sold to Roman traders, later from raids of the Vikings and Slavs living along the Baltic. Sometimes also, impoverished parents sold their children.

  Sell Maks? Hmm, there was an idea.

  ...The adoption of Christianity did nothing to stop the practice. Bolesław the Wrymouth, a 12th century king of Poland, supposedly took 8,000 maidens and children to sell after he conquered Pomerania. Czechs, Danes, and Poles sold one another back and forth. Prague, too close to Poland for comfort, joined Dublin and Marseille as a European centre of the export trade to Muslim and Byzantine markets.

  Isn't it appalling, Hania added as a postscript, that the slave trade still goes on in our day?...At least old women are now safer. The numbers you give of those executed in Poland over the centuries for witchcraft are also bloodcurdling––even if they were less than in the Holy Roman Empire or France. Still, it's rather intriguing what you say about the end of the pagan rites on Mt. Łysogóra and Mt. Slęża, and how witches were later said to come there riding on broomsticks. It's like the Walpurgis Night celebrations on the Brocken mentioned in Goethe, isn't it?

  '…the whole length of the mountain side,

  The witch-song streams in a crazy tide.'

  Do you suppose women really did gather on the mountains?

  Hania added a word or two about the number of marriages recounted in the text, and sent the message off. Then she sat thinking about women who were witches and warriors. She rose and went to a bookshelf that covered one wall to head height. It was way too early to wake the children yet. It was the time change that had pulled her out of bed at this hour. She stood before the books. They were practically lost under sheaves of music that had been stuffed in over the tops of the bindings, but by lifting the papers she could see beneath. There were the usual books of music theory, a number of lives of great composers and pianists, correspondence between musicians, and the usual array of Polish classics: Reymont, Żeromski, Orzeszkowa, Dąbrowska, the Nobel Prize winner Sienkiewicz. She paused before his Deluge. There, that was exactly what she was thinking of: what a revolting passage that was where the patriotic young woman thinks her fiancé has joined the wrong side during the Swedish invasion and sternly consents to his execution. What a strain of iron in the soul. Like the young woman insurgent of the Warsaw Uprising in 1944, who composed the song 'hey boys, get your bayonets out.' Brrr. Hania shivered. She'd posed for the mermaid statue too, that one; it's holding a sword, of course.

  Well, thought Hania, she was glad none of the Polish women she knew displayed those martial capacities, and as for herself, she was just a young musician, whose life had revolved around piano practi
ce, who had lived rather too long in America, and who was beginning to doubt her ability to cope with practical matters. Perhaps if she ate something, then dealing with the children wouldn't seem so bad. Determination always carried one through, she thought, as she finished off four eggs.

  She prepared breakfast for the children, and then sat at a piano and played reveille fortissimo with the sustain pedal down, and when that didn't rouse them, she marched down the hall, banging on their doors: Kalino! Maksiu! Get up! We have important things to discuss!

  "What? What's so important?" Kalina growled as she sat beside Maks at the kitchen table. "Why'd you wake us up like this?"

  Hania could see that curiosity was gnawing them, keeping their rudeness just slightly in check.

  "I'll tell you when you've eaten." A pause. "And it might be your last meal for a long time, so eat up. Go on." She folded her hands on the table and waited, her face calm.

  Maks looked at her with interest, Kalina gave her a half glance under the lids and a small sneering lift of the lip, but both started to eat.

  She waited until they were finished.

  "So the deal is this. Your parents didn't leave any money. No money equals no food. I have a little, but, if I'm going to spend it, I'm going to need some cooperation. Look, we're all in this together, aren't we?

  "I hate them." Said Kalina with vehemence. "They make me sick."

  "Okay," said Hania, recruiting her ideas. "Okay. But what we need here are some positive ideas. Hating people won't help."