Swans Are Fat Too

by Michelle Granas

  "Yes. Do. I like it."

  He sat down to listen; pushing up his glasses, he pulled his legs onto the bench and wrapped his arms around them. She took his presence as a compliment. She selected some music, put it on the stand, and began to work in earnest.

  She would put an advertisement in the paper, she thought, and perhaps visit some music schools to ask if she could put her name up for private lessons. Would they allow it? She didn't know. If her grandmother had been here, all would have been so easy––well, logistically speaking, anyway.

  After she had won her last competition, in Toronto, she had sent her grandmother a recording of her performance––and got back a letter beginning, 'I suppose you're expecting congratulations, but what can I say? I suppose the judges were rather deaf...Beethoven would be turning in his grave at your use of rubato in the...' And only at the end, the little note, 'however much I deprecate your abuse of emotion, it at least makes a change from the mechanical perfection of too much of today's playing. If you keep working you may make a pianist someday...' And that she had taken as high praise, because her grandmother rarely accorded anyone the honor of really playing the piano: "Rubinstein?––not a pianist. Horowitz?––hmpf." (On the other hand, she had been just as likely, for a younger pupil, to reach into the past for some previously disdained model of the art, to be held up as a pinnacle never to be attained: "ah, if you had heard Horowitz now...")

  However, pianist or not, Hania wasn't so well known that she could expect pupils to line up for her at a moment's notice. And in the meantime, how did one make money quickly? She would have to buy books for the children when school started, and many other things. The apartment fees were unpaid and several other bills she guessed. They would shortly have nothing even to buy groceries with.

  The line from the Scottish poet kept running through her head: 'Is there for honest poverty?' Not amongst those who've tried it, she thought, as she considered their financial position. Could she sell something? What did she have to sell? She didn't think the puppies, in spite of Maks' hopes, were going to be worth their weight in złoty, so that left...

  "Kalino," she said later, "what could we sell, and how?"

  "Why?" Kalina looked surprised; obviously the thought that they might run out of money had never occurred to her.

  "We need money."

  "Haven't Mama and Tata sent you any all this time?"

  Hania shook her head, and was about to say that she was sure they'd pay her back when they returned, but Kalina was already raising her voice in indignation: "Oh, that is so like them, so..."

  Hania cut her short. "Yes. But that won't help. We need a practical solution here..."

  "I know! We can sell Tato's piano on Allegro."

  "Sell his piano!? We couldn't."

  "Sure we could. We have to eat. You'd still have the other two."

  "What's Allegro?"

  "Oh, it's like e-Bay. I can show you how it works."

  "Yes. Would you, please? I could sell some of my dresses perhaps––some of them haven't been worn much. My new one, for instance. It cost a lot. Maybe someone in the country is in need of a size-umpteen dress. It won't bring much, of course, but even fifty dollars would help. I'm sure there must be lots of women my size who have trouble finding things."

  Kalina gave her a dubious look but refrained from saying anything, and soon they were seated together in front of the computer.

  "So you see," said Kalina, "you'll have to get a Polish bank account first."

  She had done that in the morning, and then she had gone to the park with Maks. It was one of the last hot days of summer, one of the final days for shorts and tee shirts and bare legs and little flirty dresses. She looked down the line of benches surrounding the playground, at the ranks of waiting mothers. Every woman had one hand up, holding a cell phone, talking, talking; each had one leg tossed over the other. They were bare legs, tanned, with polished toenails and little ankle bracelets. The playground was surrounded by lines of legs in thin strappy sandals.

  There were only a few days left before school started, and as she watched Maks playing, she thought that she didn't know how he was going to stand the discipline. Neither he nor Kalina had ever suggested that he'd had problems at his former school, but she could see that he was a social misfit. Someone––stout older ladies, prim younger ones––were always telling him he was playing the wrong way, that he shouldn't go up the slide, or sit crossways on the swing, or go over the bars instead of across. Rebuffed by the Polish crowd, he tried the foreigners––and there were many at this park––and had no better luck. A woman with a big smile on her face and 'Colorado' in large letters across the seat of her trousers was engrossed in her own small child. Maks tried his few words of English on her, but she ignored him entirely. Hania was amazed at her own sense of wrath, her sudden surge of protectiveness for her cousin.

  "Come on, Maks," she called, "let's go find more congenial company."

  He came willingly enough.

  "What's congenial company?" he asked as they walked along.

  "People who like us and whom we like, that sort."

  "Nobody likes me." The words were said without pathos or self-pity, just matter-of-factly. "Not even Mama and Tata. That's why they stay away."

  Hania stopped. He couldn't really think that, could he? Maybe he did. What did one say?

  "I...no, Maks, I'm sure you're wrong. They stay away because they have many things they have to do ...I'm sure they love you very much. Really."

  "You're lying," he said, in his strange little voice. "I can tell. You're turning red. You told me I shouldn't ever lie and now you're lying. Ha ha." He seemed quite satisfied with the fact.

  Really, she thought, maybe he just was too horrible to like.

  It was two or three days later that she decided Kalina also had to be added to the too-horrible-to-like list. And she had been completely unsuspecting. She had seen Kalina and Maks bent over the computer screen one evening late, and they had quickly turned it off when she approached, but she hadn't thought anything of it, not really. That is, she had thought they were probably playing some sort of game she wouldn't approve of, because she heard them calling out numbers:

  "5,000!"

  "Kalina! Look, again!"

  "5,500! 6,000!"

  And a little later: "Yes! 6,500! Ha! Ha!"

  "8,000! I can't believe it! 8,500!"

  "What sort of game are you playing?" she asked.

  "Oh, a numbers game," Kalina answered, innocently. "It's all right. I won't let Maks play anything he shouldn't."

  No, she was quite unsuspecting. It was only when they returned from the park the next day, in the late afternoon, and she went into the piano room to continue her practicing, that she was struck. Something was different about the room. She had a moment of confusion. Very different. The piano was gone! The Steinway! For a moment she stood still, unbelieving. There, where it had stood, was a large empty space. Feeling chills up her spine, she backed out of the room.

  "Kalino!" she called.

  Kalina and Maks were sitting together on the sofa, looking very, very, innocent and conscious.

  "Where's the piano?" She asked, still not understanding. "Did your parents come home? Did they have it taken somewhere?"

  "It got stolen," said Maks.

  "Stolen?" she gasped.

  "No," said Kalina, "Maks, stop lying all the time! We..." She reached for her pacifier and began to suck it. A few sucks and she took it out. "We sold it."

  "You did what?"

  "We sold it on Allegro. We auctioned it off. They came for it today."

  "You can't have!"

  "Yes. For 9 million złoty. It was great!" said Maks.

  "9 thousand, Maks!" corrected Kalina.

  Hania sank down in a chair. "You sold your father's Steinway for 9,000 złoty?" 3,000 dollars. Less than that.

  "You said we needed money. Well, now you have 9,000 in your account."

  "No," said Hania
, as calmly as she could. "Tell me it isn't true. Oh, what am I going to do?" She stood up again. Sat down.

  "Listen. Do you have the number, the address of whoever bought it? We have to get it back."

  "No. We don't." Kalina and Maks shook their heads, Kalina beginning to look a little more worried.

  "Listen. A Steinway––that Steinway––is worth much more than that. Much, much more. And it wasn't yours to sell anyway. What do you think your father's going to say when he comes back?"

  Kalina shrugged defiantly, "He should have left us some money, shouldn't he?"

  "Yes, but that's not the point––I'll be responsible––I'll...Don't you see what position it puts me in?" She began to walk about the room, wringing her hands, "What am I going to do? Your parents will come back––and here they'll find that you're pregnant and the piano's gone and..."

  "And which do you think they'll mind more?" asked Kalina in a derisive tone.

  "I don't know. But I'm sure they'll think it's my fault and that I didn't look after you properly...and...Did you do it for revenge?"

  Kalina shrugged, picked up the television remote and flicked it on.

  "––Oh, there's no point talking." Hania left the children, went into her room, and turned on her laptop. Somewhere, hopefully, on the Allegro site, there would be the address and telephone number of the buyer. A little searching and she found it. The buyer was a Wojciech Kwiatkowski, and there was a cell phone number. She wrote it down and hurried into the other room to call.

  She listened to the phone ring. He couldn't have come for the piano more than two hours ago. Perhaps she could catch him before it was unloaded. A curt voice said hello, over the noise of traffic. So it was still being transported; it must be going somewhere outside of Warsaw. She took a deep breath.

  "Hello. Is this Mr. Kwiatkowski, who just bought a piano?"

  "That's right. Who's this?"

  "I'm"––she hesitated, what was she? She plunged on––"I'm the cousin of the girl who sold the piano to you. The problem is, er, the problem is that it wasn't her piano to sell. So, I'm really sorry, but, er, I wonder if you could bring it back? It belongs to her…"

  "I bought this piano from someone named Hanna Lanska. Is your cousin Hanna Lanska?"

  "No, I am. But…"

  "You advertised the piano on Allegro. It was you?"

  "Yes. No! I mean, yes, it was under my name, but…"

  "There aren't any buts. You sold me a piano. I've got it."

  "But I didn't"––well, yes, it had been on her account––"I mean, it wasn't mine to sell."

  "Lady, don't give me that," His was getting offensive. "I know what it is. You've found a buyer who'll give you more and now you want it back. Forget it. Even if you try through the courts, you won't ever see this piano again." The line went dead.

  Hania dropped the receiver back in its socket and strode down the hall to her room, banging the door a little as she shut it. What was she going to do? But the man was quite right; there was nothing she could do.

  Well, she thought after a time, she could go on with her work; that would be better than pacing about the room to no purpose. She sat down, calmed herself, and went back to her typing. She was almost at the end. What, she thought, in a state of nervous exasperation, was she going to do when she no longer had this task to take her mind off things?

  15

  ...Who feels strength's elation

  Let him fight the elements, let him make probation,

  When the fire catches, water's no salvation.

  – Hieronym Morsztyn (c.1581-1623),

  'Cold Love'

  She was typing lickety-split, but in counterpoint to all these words was the thought about the piano––that piano which had been a real and solid presence, and whose absence from the piano room was so conspicuous. How could they? How could they? What will Wiktor say? How could they?

  And yet, after a couple of hours, her interest gradually fixed itself on what was before her. Konstanty had made a number of comments.

  The first socialist party was formed in 1892. The most famous of its later leaders was Józef Piłsudski, a freedom fighter––or terrorist, depending on one's point of view? Hania added in a note for Konstanty––who in 1904 formed an armed organization (Japan helped some with the arms and Austria with training) for the purpose of assassinating Russian functionaries and sabotaging the state. The estimated casualty figures for the organization's peak year vary from several hundred to 1,000 Russian officials. In 1908, Piłsudski also took part, along with his future wife and three future prime ministers of Poland, in a spectacular train robbery. They made off with a fortune.

  And yet, thought Hania vaguely, there's the Pilsudski museum here, and a Pilsudski square, and a Pilsudski statue…She would take the subject up with Konstanty, next time she saw him.

  When World War I broke out, Piłsudski formed the Polish Legions, and––with an eye only for Polish independence––took them into the conflict on the Prussian and Austrian side, assuring the British that he only meant to fight Russia. Unfortunately, although the country regained its liberty at the end of the war, this did not mean the end of strife. The areas of the former partitions had mixed populations; before the borders were settled, acts of violence and armed uprisings took place in Cieszyn/Tesin in Czechoslovakia; in Greater Poland (where a speech by the pianist Paderewski may have sparked an insurrection against the Germans)…

  ––Tsk, thought Hania, as if this vaguely besmirched her profession––

  …and in Upper Silesia (three uprisings) before it was decided to divide the territory. There was also a fight over Lviv––25,000 soldiers died. And a war with Russia over western Ukraine in 1919. Depending on the historian, Poland saw its chance to expand its territories, secure its borders, or make a pre-emptive strike. Russia had its own views of expansion. By the time the Bolshevik army was turned back, 100,000-150,000 Russian and 60,000 Polish soldiers were dead. A victory was claimed by each side and a division of the territories made.

  And yet, Konstanty had written in the margin, when I see the issues that people were willing to kill for––actually kill other human beings––my hands drop. I know that conflicts are carried on, usually, by a small portion of the population; I would like to believe that few parents truly feel that a border, or any other issue, is of more importance than the lives of their children. I would like to believe that the only 'patriots' are thoughtless young persons, or the ruthless minority who make use of them.

  How strange, thought Hania, reading and suddenly concentrating. Those are almost the exact words I was going to write to him once. These last paragraphs had been written recently; he'd handed them to her the other day. He hadn't written earlier sections in quite this tone. It had been obvious he'd always disliked bloodshed, but he hadn't expressed his distaste for his country's actions in quite this form; there had been a little reserve. Was even he, descendant of the past establishment, coming to feel that settling differences by violence should be as outmoded as cannibalism? Maybe her questions had moved him to take a less conventional view? Her natural modesty asserted itself: no, he must have arrived at this point on his own.

  It is distressing, too, that the Polish victors should have behaved at times so like their previous oppressors. But why am I surprised? Repression is known to beget repression, and insecurity frequently leads to fighting. It is only that I would be pleased for my country to have the high ground of magnanimity. Not to mention that the after-effects of the uprising in Greater Poland are sometimes cited as having contributed to Hitler's rise to power. These words were crossed out. Presumably he'd decided his own views were irrelevant to the subject. And surely the next sentence was a speaking commentary on the times:

  ...Perhaps it was not as surprising as it may seem that one of the largest organizations in inter-war Poland––with one million members––was a society promoting the establishment of Polish colonies in Africa...

  In May of 1926, Piłsudsk
i staged a coup, with the avowed intent of 'purifying' government, and thereafter, remained Poland's virtual dictator until his death in 1935.

  It was the phone ringing that made her leap up and open the door again. Maybe it was Wiktor or Ania.

  "It's for you," Kalina held out the phone.

  Oh, thought Hania, maybe it's Konstanty. She took it with her breath held. She had half expected him to call today, and then she'd forgotten, because of the piano, but now the piano ceased to exist and her whole being was concentrated on the telephone. It was Konstanty. He was asking her what plans she had for the next day.

  She was thrown off guard, hastily cast about in her mind for tomorrow's plans, and began to stutter: "I…I told Maks we'd go to Wilanów. I read that one can take boats on the canal––I thought it might amuse him and I haven't seen the palace." But that was before she learned about the piano. Oh, why couldn't she just have said, no, I don't have plans? Why was she so slow?

  "If I can find which bus to take…"

  "Would you like me to drive you?"

  Oh. And she'd have to take that wretch Maks with her after what she'd said…

  "Yes. Yes, thank you. That would be very kind of you."

  Konstanty put up his cell phone and went back into the hospital. His step did not quicken but his heart was unaccountably light. There was his colleague Kowalski, with his neat haircut and too much cologne, who always annoyed him by having too ready smiles for him, and calling him 'Pan Doktor Prince,' and being just a shade too curt with everyone else below the rank of director. Today, however, Kowalski couldn't faze him; he gave him a much more benign nod than ordinary; he smiled at a nurse he rather disliked; he went into his office. Some tune kept jiggling about in the back of his mind as he talked to a patient. He sat at his desk and wrote out a prescription.

  The voice of his patient, a heavy, elderly woman, broke in on his thoughts. "Well, Doctor, I don't know what my heart's beating to, but from what you've been telling me, it's not the cha-cha."