by Jerzy Pilch
The motionless, green surface of water in the swimming pool, the triangulation tower on Czantoria excellently visible in the russet radiance, the ball turning dark from the wet grass on the soccer field Start, the smell of mown hay at the villa Almira, the dark radiance of the skin of the girl sitting in front of me at the movie theater, the air thickening in the afternoons like a magnifying glass—all of this was to be abandoned here forevermore, deprived of my presence, my glances, and my touch. My absence was punishment, and the punishing was sweet.
But in the evening, Chowderhead the cat would jump on my bed. I felt the beating of his heart, I petted his head, trustingly nestled in the eiderdown, and I bawled, and I howled from despair. It was perfectly clear that here, in the gigantic house with a garden and courtyard, it will be a million times better for him than in two rooms in Krakow, and it was perfectly clear that we would come for holidays and vacations; and I would be with him then to my heart’s content; and everything fell to pieces, and the entire incredible summer of the year 1962 was so distinct that it drew a curtain over my despair, and to this day I am certain that the entire evil of my life and all my ordeals are retribution for abandoning Chowderhead the cat. I am paying for his year of solitude with my ghastly and unbearable solitude. For the last year of his life—when he looked for me in empty rooms, when he would jump up onto cold sheets, when he would sniff abandoned objects, when, in the hope that, when he woke up, everything would be as before—he would go to sleep and wake up, and I still wasn’t there with him. The path of my life was recorded in the animal heart of Chowderhead the cat. I didn’t choose that path. Father went missing during the move—that was a sign of doom. But abandoning Chowderhead—this was the choice of doom.
VIII
The oddly dressed female vacationer walked in the direction of Oasis. With the light heart of the chosen one, I hastened after her. She turned toward the Dziechcinka; today she was wearing a violet, long-sleeved dress with gigantic, russet fern fronds. When she was under the viaduct, she disappeared; this time, more than usual, it appeared that she had vanished in thin air. I looked around for a while, without panic, and without great nervousness; her sudden disappearance belonged to the order of things. I returned home. In the courtyard stood a special truck with a special tarp.
Father had been announcing all summer long that a special truck from the Academy of Mining and Metallurgy, covered with a special tarp, driven by a special driver, would come to collect our belongings. It had finally arrived and—no big deal. I was disappointed. Not by the truck itself, for, after all, I knew my old man’s excesses well enough not to imagine some sort of heavenly chassis or golden tarps, but by the fact that the world had moved. The pieces of furniture, boxes, objects heaped under the shed had been more unusual in their immobility than they were now as—one after another—they were set in place under the tarp. All the men were working, but on the back of the truck stood a slovenly unshaved guy, with a high forehead that was verging on a bald spot, and he directed the work imperiously and with a false smile.
IX
It goes without saying that I didn’t have a clue that he was deceptively similar to someone with whom Lev Tolstoy had played chess more than half a century before. I didn’t have a shadow of any sort of forebodings, no divine intuitions whatsoever; no otherworldly missives reached me that the special driver of the special truck from the Academy of Mining and Metallurgy—who was bestowed with the inclinations of a leader, and who had just arrived from Krakow for our possessions—was similar to the son-in-law of Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy.
It seems that I didn’t mention this yet, but the petite, and yet inordinately enterprising Russianist, vintage 1968, had in the end established irrefutably that, on the photograph that had so absorbed me, the author of Anna Karenina was playing chess with his son-in-law, Mikhail Sergeyevich Sukhotin. I couldn’t mention it, because when I began to write and to look into the matter, I didn’t know this yet. Now I know, and I am supplementing the data. A friend and disciple of Tolstoy, Vladimir Grigoryevich Chertkov, also came into question, since, as my Russianist claims, he likewise played chess with Tolstoy, and he, too, was photographed in the course of such a game.
But there is no doubt that in the photo, the story of which I have been telling all this time, it is the son-in-law. Arguments of a—I would say—spiritual nature also speak in favor of this: the guy at the chessboard has struck a submissive and flattering pose, as if he were apologizing for not losing straight-away, on the first move. Most likely, everyone who played with Tolstoy struck such a pose, but with the player for whom Tolstoy was also a father-in-law, such a pose could without a doubt be more distinct. After all, if you are rolling the daughter of the author of Resurrection, you have to show some humility. Something for something.
X
Neither I, nor Father, nor Grandpa, nor either uncle, nor the Nikandy boys, who were helping us load our sticks of furniture onto the truck—none of us knew that the guy was a double for Tolstoy’s son-in-law, but all of us could see only too well that something wasn’t right about him.
He rushed about the platform like a madman, shouted out commands in the most genuine fury, in a moment he would restrain himself and pretend that it was all jokes and playacting, that he viewed these incidents from an infinite distance. A second later the fury would possess him again, and he would rage, and he would go at it hammer and tongs, the virtuoso of every sort of packing, loading, and arranging of objects. It was absolutely clear that he was giving us stupid commands and superfluous orders, that he was pretending to be God knows who, and he sweated atrociously while doing it. “Wet as a drowned rat, and there he goes giving commands,” Uncle Ableger finally said under his breath, and as is usual in such situations, a silly, coarse, perhaps even vulgar sentence—after all, it wasn’t entirely clear what it meant—defused the situation and, at the same time, took on the characteristic of some sort of aphorism, or perhaps incantation. “Wet as a drowned rat, and there he goes giving commands,” we repeated, lifting boxes, and we split our sides laughing. “Wet as a drowned rat, and there he goes giving commands!” Tolstoy’s son-in-law—helpless in the face of our laughter and wishing to use the classic method to blur the lines of our laughter—laughed along with us. The results were ghastly, since he laughed with the zeal of the class dunce who was pretending that he best understood the joke he didn’t get. But also, slowly, both his and our laughter died down. Slowly we neared the grand finale—everything was already under the tarp, arranged with the more or less alleged perfection, secured, tied down, wedged in. The little chess table, wrapped in so many layers of The Worker’s Tribune that it looked like a miniature Orthodox church or an atomic mushroom cloud, stood—I remember—almost in the middle, tightly fortified by boxes. Grandma Pech still gave them a bag of apples. She still ran across the courtyard with a package of cutlets for the entire week, wrapped in paper that was already beginning to leak grease. Still, at the last minute, I came to the decision that I would pardon its laziness, and that, after all, I would take The Mysterious Island with me to Krakow, and I threw it into the truck, and—Bombs Away! The final chapter of The Book of Exodus had been composed.
It was getting toward one o’clock. It was probably the most torrid day of the summer. We washed under a black rubber hose pulled out from the laundry room, from which flowed fantastic water, icy and fragrant of fecund meadows. Grandma was preparing dinner in the kitchen, and it suddenly turned out that Tolstoy’s son-in-law had vanished. Just a moment ago he had been by the vehicle, just a moment ago, naked to the waist, he was pouring water on himself like a maniac and boasting of some sort of infinite knowledge concerning the art of pouring water, just a moment ago he was sitting in the cab, just a moment ago he was bustling about, here and there—and now he’s gone. The guy’s gone. He’s not in the can, he’s not under the tarp, he isn’t in the courtyard, he’s not in front of the house. Jesus Christ! Stung by our laughter, our constantly repeated “Wet as a drowned rat,
and there he goes giving commands,” he took offense and ran off further than the eye can see! We had gone too far; after all, the guy worked like a dog, was busy as a bee, worked his ass off with the rest of us. So what if he was a bit strange? Better strange and industrious, than normal and a lazy bum. He couldn’t stand it, and he disappeared into thin air. We knew of such reactions. Disappearing without a trace—that was a constant custom of Grandma Pech. Whenever so much was going on all around that she couldn’t stand it, she would up and vanish, hide away somewhere in the depths of the house, and often it was necessary to search for her for a long time, and with our hearts in our throats. Yet another peculiar and complicated story. How were we supposed to know that he had the same habit? But, after all, he didn’t disappear in the house, he didn’t hide away in our loft, he didn’t climb up into the attic. He took off somewhere, and that was the last we saw of him. A fine state of affairs. Mother had been in Krakow for a few days already, getting the new apartment ready, making space between the new super sofa beds for our Wisła stuff, and now we didn’t know whether there is any point to any of it. My old man wouldn’t go by himself—he doesn’t have a driver’s license. In our house, nobody at all has a driver’s license. The Nikandy boys can probably drive anything, but none of them has a driver’s license either. A tragedy. Simply a tragedy. Or rather—as it was to turn out—the subtle prologue to a tragedy.
Because Grandpa Pech had also vanished. He had vanished, but only for a short time. For—let’s say—a quarter of an hour. He returned after a quarter of an hour, leading Tolstoy’s ashamed, and highly abashed, son-in-law. He hadn’t wanted to cause any trouble during the family dinner, which, as he understood, was also in a certain sense a farewell dinner. He hadn’t wanted to cause any inconvenience. He wasn’t a guest here, he was here to work. He had run out to town for a moment for a cold lemonade. For a cold lemonade before the trip, and for strengthening. Grandpa shrugged it all off, especially upon hearing the words lemonade and strengthening, but all ambiguity was immediately hushed up by the peals of laughter and the spasmodic cries of the women. How could he go for lemonade when there is so much compote stored up in the house! Hundreds of gallons! From our own apples! From our own garden! You can drink and drink, and even so, you’ll never drink it all up. And even if—a new batch will be ready in a flash! Or we can open last year’s! Whatever kind you like! Cherry! Plum! Pear! Please, drink, be our guest! And no need to ask—feel right at home and help yourself! But now you must sit down to the table! You’ve got to eat dinner before the trip! Compote is one thing, but dinner is quite another!
Tolstoy’s son-in-law did indeed soak up whole jugs of compote, but the rest didn’t go down so well. Maybe two spoonfuls of chicken noodle soup, the meat barely at all, the potatoes and cucumber salad scattered about on the plate. Basically, this was unfathomable. It never happened in our parts that a grown man wouldn’t wipe his plate clean. So something wasn’t quite right with him after all. Stomach ulcers? Something even worse? God forbid!
He excused himself constantly and in a roundabout way, saying that he was very sorry, but before a trip—especially such a difficult trip—he eats little, because an abundant meal lowers his psychophysical efficiency. It wasn’t very clear what he was talking about. This was the first time we had ever heard about the harmful effects of eating. But it seemed that pangs of conscience were still consuming us, because everyone zealously nodded in agreement with everything he said—besides, what was there to talk about, now that it was time to set off? The bells call us to devotions from the tower, Mother from the doorway to supper. They’re already calling, it’s time. Time to go home, time.
Just before starting out, Tolstoy’s son-in-law announced that he had to stretch his legs, and especially straighten his back, and walk a bit. And again he disappeared beyond the gate; this time, however, he returned lightning fast and in a suddenly fine mood. Grandpa again shrugged it off, but they were already leaving. Father sat on the right. I opened the gate. The Star, as huge as a hill, rolled along over the field rocks, drove out onto the road in a blue cloud of exhaust, turned left, set off toward the center of town, disappeared in the darkening perspective, and vanished for the ages. Like a stone in water. For ever and ever. Not a trace, not a peep. Now you see them, now you don’t.
I traipsed about the house; from the window in the attic you could see everything, as if it were on the palm of your hand. Suddenly, everything became so near and so distinct, like I was staring through binoculars: female sprinters ran around the playing field, frontier guards walked along the border on Stożek Mountain, the cat walked through the garden on a precise diagonal, there was something terrible in the clouds over the Jarzębata, the bridge groaned under a black Wartburg. In the desolate room, I opened the green-bound notebook with my detective/romance novel, but I didn’t have any ideas. I thought that in a couple days—when I finally landed in the new apartment, about which Father told such miraculous things, when I went out on the high balcony and saw Cracovia stadium down below, when, from the other room, I caught sight of the roofs of the city heaped up and overlapping like wings of a biplane—then I would certainly begin to write up a storm. I would go by train on Saturday with Grandpa Pech: Wisła—Goleszów—Skoczów—Czechowice—Chybie—Trzebinia—Krakow Main Station; on Sunday I would look around a bit, and on Monday I would get going with the book. As you can see: at an exceptionally early age, I found myself in the clutches of the old writer’s superstition—that supposedly a change of place will help. And I remained stuck in it for a long time. Until recently, to tell the truth.
I closed the notebook, and I was just about to dash out onto the soccer field. Any day now, Poland’s national team was supposed to arrive, perhaps it was already there and was having its first practice. I laced up my tennis shoes—probably on the way I would come upon the female vacationer in her next incredible long sleeve dress; I was already in the doorway, I was already turning the door handle, when Mother telephoned from Krakow: “What’s going on? When did they leave? They still aren’t here! They left around two, and it’s already seven! What’s going on?”
Grandpa, usually the calmest member of the household, immediately began to swear under his breath that it’s no wonder. It’s no wonder that they haven’t arrived, because if the driver has to have a lemonade in every roadhouse along the way, lemonade, cold lemonade, they won’t get there even by tomorrow. He spoke too soon. They didn’t get there by the next day. They didn’t get there at all. They never got there. A thunderbolt struck out of the clear blue sky, and everything burned up.
All evening—telephone calls. From Krakow, and to Krakow. There and back again. Through the intercity exchange. Except that Mrs. Gertruda—who had been the telephone operator forever, and who had been hopelessly in love with Grandpa forever—connected us without our having to wait our turn, and quickly. But what good are quick connections when there is nothing to talk about. They aren’t there, and that’s that. Are they there? No. An hour later—are they there? No. All night long—are they there? No. In the morning—are they there? No.
Before noon, Grandma locked herself in the back room, and there resounded the creaking of a wardrobe that was almost never opened. I was afraid. I was afraid that funeral dresses were hanging in the never-opened wardrobe. I feared preparations for Father’s funeral. I didn’t want him—once they had finally found him—to lie in an open coffin in the biggest room. I didn’t want Grandma to wipe his parchment face with spirits. I didn’t want to sleep under the same roof with his corpse. Of the two evils, it would be better that he never be found; that he land—together with the special truck driven by the special driver from the Academy of Mining and Metallurgy—in America, or on the Moon.
Today, when the most diverse attacks on long-distance freight trucks are our daily bread, when almost on a daily basis entire columns of trucks or entire segments of train cars disappear without a trace, as if they had evaporated—this causes no sensation whatsoever. But back
then? A gigantic Star loaded to the hilt has vanished without a trace? Impossible. In any case, the militia didn’t believe it. Neither the Wisła nor the Krakow militia officers believed it. They shook their heads doubtfully, they observed us with a flicker of compassion, and they continually asked whether Father perhaps had had some plans. And whether, before the current disappearance, it had previously happened that he would disappear? And whether, before the current ill-fated trip, he had also recently taken a trip somewhere? Where do you have in mind? That’s just it, where? Perhaps he had taken some unusual business trips lately? Perhaps he had made some calls? Using the intercity exchange? Perhaps international? Perhaps he had submitted the paperwork for a passport? Do we understand correctly that you have acquaintances in London? Were there any letters from them recently? We aren’t suggesting anything. Nothing at all. But whenever someone vanishes with all his belongings, he usually knows what he is doing. And usually, after a certain amount of time, he turns up. In London, or in Munich, or in West Berlin. Absolutely not? Are you sure? Well, in that case, let’s hope for the best. Patrols are on the road, and as soon as we know anything, we’ll let you know. Sooner or later he’ll turn up. After all, he’s not a needle. If he isn’t on a ship sailing for America, he’ll turn up. He’ll turn up. The ill-fated vehicle will turn up. The unlucky Star will turn up. It will turn up. In the middle of the road, in the middle of life, in the open field. Covered by a yellow hill and a hazelnut grove. With an almost entirely burned tarp.
On the morning of the third day, Master Sztwiertnia will drive down in his famous Willys that still remembers the war, he will take Grandpa, without a word they will set off, and, after not quite three hours of careful driving, they will find the place as if drawn straight to it. Suddenly, from the right-hand side, some sort of stench will come to them, the smell of burning, barely perceptible smoke, and they will turn, although there won’t be a road there. Only after a moment will tire tracks appear in the grass. Father, unshaven and battered, will be sitting on a ripped open box, which had been removed from the back of the truck, and out of which were pouring dictionaries and encyclopedias; his face covered in his hand, elbows resting on the little chess table.