Swans Are Fat Too

by Michelle Granas

  He looked up in surprise and she regarded him with some amusement. Had he been humming? That tune? He, Pan Doktor Prince Konstanty Radzimoyski? What was happening to him?

  "Well, well," said the woman with a smile.

  Hania had done her best to prepare Maks for the outing by telling him a little history: "the palace was built by Poland's famous warrior-king, Jan Sobieski, three hundred years ago," and reading him the riot act: "behave or else." Still, some of Hania's nervousness must have shown the next day, because as they were fastening their seat belts in Konstanty's car, Maks leaned forward and assured her earnestly, in a loud, conspiratorial whisper: "Don't worry. I'm going to be good today."

  She saw Konstanty's mouth twitch as he started the car, and she had to smile too; she turned around and said, "Thank you, Maks."

  Maks nodded, and leaned back in his seat, preparing to chat confidentially, man to man, with Konstanty. "This is an old car," he said.

  "Yes, but it runs pretty well."

  "I'd buy a BMW."

  "That's a nice car."

  "Why don't you buy a BMW?"

  "Well, I don't think I can afford it."

  "Why?" said Maks with curiosity, "are you poor?"

  "Oh, moderately," Konstanty replied with good humor, and glanced at Hania, who whimpered "Maaks..." and looked out the window.

  But Maks was thinking the matter over in the back seat. After a moment of silence he spoke again, slowly, consideringly, obviously without ill intent: "You're poor...and Hania's fat...I guess that makes you alike, doesn't it?...Maybe you should get married."

  "Maks, please!" Hania cringed against the window in an agony of embarrassment, unable to look at Konstanty.

  But Maks wasn't finished. "Then you could have a baby. Like Kalina."

  There was a moment of silence. Then Konstanty began loudly and decisively to talk about the palace.

  "A certain 18th-century English visitor to Poland claimed there were a number of noble houses here where the inhabitants lived better than anyplace else he'd seen in Europe. I imagine Wilanów was one of the places he had in mind. It was owned by the Sieniawskis at the time, although the Saxon king, August III, was living there."

  So now he knows about Kalina, thought Hania, through waves of hot blushes. But then he already knew. He wasn't surprised at all. It was so kind of him to keep talking when no one was listening. She had to pull herself together.

  "Sobieski's sons must have hated that August not only took the throne from them, but was living in their father's summer residence. Still, unlike in many other European countries, such shifts were common in Poland. Few noble families managed to live on the same estate for many centuries. My own ancestors lost Radzimość twice, and only regained it the second time through marriage. They were frequent visitors to Wilanów in the 18th-century; there are old letters mentioning various entertainments at the place. One time, for instance..."

  He carried on determinedly in this vein to drown out any more ideas Maks might have, and Hania was eventually able to recover and made an effort to join in so he wouldn't think her affected by what had passed. Somehow they reached the palace and parked in the lot.

  As soon as they were out of the car, Maks made matters worse again by sidling up to Hania and saying in a loud puzzled voice, "Why are you angry? What did I do wrong?"

  "Never mind, Maks." She had herself under control now, "Look, you can see the palace from here. Isn't it beautiful?"

  "No. It looks old."

  But she didn't let him express more of his opinions; she bored him mightily with a patter of talk, so that he disconnected from the two adults and stared about the park as they all walked together toward the gates. But Hania, even as she talked, was thinking, I am fat, I am fat, and this man walking beside me knows it, and even if he is being polite and ignoring the fact, Maks has brought it to mind...She made a gigantic effort to try to shake off the mood, to concentrate on her company and surroundings instead of on herself.

  Well, she thought––trying to take some pleasure after all in the scenery, in the heavy greenery of late summer at the penultimate moment before the arrival of autumn, in the white palace laid out round the courtyard lawn before them, the gold of the tower finials and medallions glinting down at them––well, King Jan Sobieski built this place for his wife, whom he adored––whom he worshipped––and Marysienka wasn't exactly a nymph in figure either. She was pretty hefty actually...

  They went inside. She hardly dared look at Konstanty, but she had to say something. They stopped before a statue of Sobieski on a small horse, trampling over two prostrate Turks. "There," she said, "that's just the sort of statue I think could be dispensed with."

  Actually, Sobieski was no lightweight either.

  "Why is that man crushing that little horse?" said Maks, looking at the statue from a different angle. "I don't think that's very nice."

  Konstanty laughed. A tour guide turned and gave the three of them a reproving glance, and a museum employee stepped forward and asked them to move on. Konstanty, who was not used to being treated in that manner, whose ancestors had danced down these very rooms, stared in astonishment and then moved on with Hania and Maks.

  This trip is just one long embarrassment, thought Hania, looking at museum exhibits with unseeing eyes and trying to make intelligent comments about marble urns. I wish I could go home, I wish it were over.

  It was over. They were shepherded out of the building by the last of the attendants and stood again on the gravel walkway. "There's the park too," said Konstanty, who had a feeling that all was not well with Hania but who thought it would be rude to cut the expedition short on his own initiative, "if you're interested in seeing it?"

  "Yes, I'm afraid I promised Maks a ride in a boat."

  "That's right. I'd forgotten for a moment. Let's go then." He headed toward the ticket counter again.

  He wants to go home too, thought Hania, but he can't say so without being rude. The idea added immensely to her discouragement. The three walked past the ornamental grape vine with its great leaves, through the formal garden with its clipped arborvitae and fountains, down toward the bank of the lake canal––even the sculpted cherubim on the balustrade were fighting, Hania noted with dismay. A short stroll along a wooded path brought them out by the water. The bank, inhabited by a few ducks, jutted steeply downwards from the walkway to the water. One gondola was receding into the distance with a boatman and a party of tourists; another was pulled up, resting partly on the bank. No one was around. It was rather chilly here; a slight breeze, unfelt in the park, swept the damp off the water and blew it toward them.

  "I don't know if we have to wait till the others come back..." said Hania uncertainly.

  "Why don't we take this one?" said Maks, pointing at the boat, and beginning to slide down the bank.

  "No, Maks, wait, perhaps there's someone in that building over there."

  Konstanty went in search of a boatman. The door opened to his knock, and Hania could hear Konstanty asking someone if they might be taken for a ride.

  "Yes. But not that lady," said a man, emerging from the boathouse, and making no attempt not to be overheard. "Sorry, but she's simply too heavy."

  Konstanty told the man quite peremptorily to be quiet and strive for intelligence, at which the man shrugged and retreated into the boathouse. Konstanty knocked on the door again.

  Hania, aching with shame, started forward to say that it didn't matter, she really didn't need to go with them, it was only for Maks, etc., when a cry made her turn abruptly about.

  While her back had been turned Maks had jumped into the boat, and the movement had freed it from the bank. It was floating out into the deeper water. As the distance widened, Maks stood up in the boat.

  "Help!" he shouted, looking with anguished eyes at Hania. "Help!"

  "Sit down!" shouted Konstanty, too late.

  Maks took a step toward the edge of the boat and fell forward, against the gunwale, so that he was half ben
t over the gunwale and the gondola dipped dangerously toward the side. "Hania! Help!" he shrieked in terror. The movement had shoved the gondola further into the current and the distance from the bank was widening with the seconds.

  "Can he swim?" asked Konstanty, but Hania had already ripped off her shoes and was down the bank and diving for the water. She couldn't wait. Maks could hardly dogpaddle. If he went in he would panic and it would take too long to reach him.

  Konstanty on the bank had a moment of hesitation: is it necessary, is it kind? Then he too tore off his shoes and jacket and dove into the water. It was very cold.

  Hania was a good swimmer and a few powerful strokes brought her up to the boat. She caught hold of Maks, and with Konstanty's help––O boże, he was there too!––was able to right the boat, pull Maks' terrified iron grasp off the gunwale, push him down onto a seat, and wade with the boat back to shore. They wallowed out of the water, Konstanty with his usual gravity, she like a hippopotamus, or so it seemed to her, and pulled the gondola back up onto its perch.

  The boatman was watching them with crossed arms from the top of the bank.

  "Told you so," he said with glum satisfaction to Konstanty. "You can explain yourself to the security guards."

  And in fact, two security guards were hurrying towards them.

  The security guards were happy to exercise their functions, and expostulated at great length on the illegality and large consequences of damaging and appropriating property within the park, etc.; a discourse punctuated by the boatman's cries of "Amen" and "I told him so," and "what sort of people are they?" and "what sort of an idea?"

  "Your name?" the security guard was batting a pad of paper with a pen.

  "Konstanty Radzimoyski."

  The guard hesitated, pen over paper. Konstanty began to wring water out of his clothing. Hania wished she were dead.

  The guards abruptly lowered their tone, asked rather politely if they could see identification papers, considered, hemmed, admitted that it had probably all been an accident as the gentleman said, suggested that the gentleman and his family probably wanted to get home quickly and change their clothes, said "good-day" quite civilly, and took themselves off.

  Hania, Konstanty, and Maks walked through the woods, past the fountains, the topiary, and the flowerbeds, through the entrance gate––how the tourists stared!––and, in silence still, across the grass to the parking lot. The wind that had been hardly noticeable before struck them with icy claws under the green leaves of the trees.

  Hania didn't dare look at Konstanty and her face was grim and set.

  If Hania had smiled at him, had looked up to share the moment, Konstanty would have seen the funny side. As it was, he felt a vague and unaccustomed sense of dissatisfaction with himself, of humiliation, that made him speak shortly.

  "I should carry a blanket in the car, but I don't have one, I'm afraid."

  "I'm sorry, we'll get your car wet."

  "It doesn't matter."

  "I didn't get my boat ride!" said Maks, loudly.

  "It doesn't matter, Maks," said Hania quietly.

  "I'm cold!" he whined.

  "Let's all get in," said Konstanty, unlocking the doors.

  They got in. Konstanty started the engine. "It has to run awhile, I'm afraid, before the heating will kick in." He set the car in reverse, and as he turned his head to look behind, his glance fell on Hania and was arrested there. Her face was averted. Really, she looked like she thought he was the biggest fool in the country. So he was. He certainly hadn't arranged matters very well that day.

  A heavy jolt and grinding of metal threw them forward. Konstanty never swore, not ever, but certain impolite words flashed across his mind. He jammed on the brake, opened the car door, and stepped out. He had backed into a passing Mercedes, and the owner, a youngish and bull-headed man, emerged with every display of rage and evidence that he wished to do battle. Konstanty listened politely while he was called several unspeakable names; he stood unmoved, his gravity only increasing, while the other man danced about, swinging his arms, almost but not quite aiming blows. This dignity eventually had its effect. The other man ran out of epithets, and became aware, as people quickly do in Poland, that the moral upper hand was not his. He subsided into head-shaking and huffing.

  "Do you want to call the police," said Konstanty, "or shall we just fill out the insurance forms?"

  The man grumbled a good deal, and agreed to do the forms. By the time they had filled out the papers––(Maks, in spite of Hania's efforts to control him, was bouncing at the car window, asking excitedly, "are they going to fight? Are they? Will the police come?")––the man had ceased to be angry and even suggested a garage where Konstanty could get his car fixed. "Not too expensive...I suppose yours is only liability insurance," he added rather smugly, looking at Konstanty's older vehicle. Then he shook hands and departed.

  Konstanty got back in the car. Hania didn't say anything. She wanted to say, "I'm sorry, if you hadn't brought us here today none of this would have happened..." but she didn't trust herself to speak. They drove home in complete silence.

  On the staircase Maks ran on ahead, and they could hear him knocking on the apartment door, hear it open and close. Hania and Konstanty went on up more slowly. Hania hoped that none of the neighbors would see them. Konstanty considered the possibility and decided he was really past caring. They stopped outside the Lanski's door. Hania had been gaining resolve as she climbed. She had to say something. She took a deep breath.

  "I––I'm so sorry. None of this would have happened if it hadn't been for us." She was having difficulty speaking. She gestured toward his wet clothes. "A-and the car. I'll pay for the damage, of course."

  "You'll do no such thing. It was entirely my fault. I was the driver, not you." He looked at her, unsure. Was that a tear, or only the lake water still? Her hair clung in wet strands to her cheek. He put out a hand and gently smoothed it back.

  She froze at the gesture, and he did too, startled at himself and at her reaction. She raised wide eyes to his. He stepped back. "You'd better get dried and changed." He had his foot already on the stair up. "Goodbye."

  "Goodbye." She turned quickly away and went through the door.

  16

  He who bravely bears the punishments of fate

  And all his cares, and changes not

  Either in evil times or good,

  Him I call a man and thank him for his manliness.

  Hieronim Morsztyn (c.1581-1623), 'A Man'

  Hania went indoors, took a warm shower, put on dry clothes, sat down in a chair with a cup of tea, and stared into space. She was curiously numb. She couldn't bear to think over the last hour, and only shook her head when Kalina asked her curiously what had happened. She didn't feel like talking at all.

  For some reason the words 'Marysienka was fat too' kept repeating in her mind like a broken record. And other little bits, that she remembered typing not too long ago, recurred too. Jan Sobieski wrote passionate letters when he was away from his wife. One he began 'my most beautiful little wifey, greatest consolation of my heart and soul!' and continued, 'I hope that notre amour ne changera jamais en amitié...it has seemed to me that I could not love more or deeper, but now I admit that not more––because it is not possible to love more––but je vous admire ever more, seeing perfection and such a good––and in such a beautiful body––soul.'

  A beautiful body? Few persons looking at portraits of the queen would think that. That was the effect of love. It was possible then, for love to transform the outline of the beloved into beauty. Still she would be foolish, very foolish, to think the amitié between herself and Konstanty would ever be transformed into amour. One had to protect oneself and be reasonable. And yet he had put out his hand.

  So there it was; she had tried to keep her mind off it but she couldn't. The memory was present all evening. She went to bed with it, dreamt about it, woke with it in the morning. She relived the moment over and over, so that
all day long, whatever she was doing––fixing breakfast, sweeping the floor, playing the piano, talking to Maks––she was conscious of his hand putting back her hair, felt the brush of his fingers against her skin.

  He will call me today, she thought, or he will write an email, and she waited for it, both patient and impatient, holding off from the moment of hearing his voice, of seeing his words, and yet savouring it in advance.

  Konstanty did not write or call. In the evening he drove out, in his damaged car, to Konstancin, to his sister's house. She had a number of guests, as usual, including Kalpurnia, who greeted him with just that precise calculation of distance and familiarity that he expected. Here, he thought, as he sat on a sofa beside her, is a woman who would never see in me anything but the sum of my social parts; here is a woman who would never cause me to jump in a lake.

  He began to make conversation. How oddly thin she is, he thought, as he talked of other things. Pelagia too. I wonder if she's becoming anorexic? No, surely not, he considered, as he watched his pretty sister laughing with her guests, hers wasn't at all the personality. And Kalpurnia's personality? Oh, Kalpurnia didn't have a personality, only guidelines set down by her circle. Unkind, unkind, he told himself, she's really very nice, and to make up for his thought, he turned and smiled at her, but fortunately didn't have to speak again, as his attention was claimed by another guest.

  Pani Topocka was the sort of woman whose respectability stood out around her like an aura. She was a sturdy woman in her sixties, with her hair in a chignon, flat shoes, and a serious expression, a woman whose life work was to ensure the erection of statues and the inscription of plaques for as many acts of sabotage or insurrection as she could find. She was now organizing a monument, Pelagia said, to the women from the Konstancin area who had participated in a World War II plot to poison German officers in city restaurants. There would be an unveiling ceremony and Father Wysocki was going to speak and give the blessing.