‘Have you been to that sauna over in Zelwerowicz?’ She giggled, wanted all the juicy details. But suddenly got serious, spooked:
‘I have to get back to my catechism now, to my prayer books, my little pictures of saints and sheep. I have to get back to the reading room. Bye-bye.’ I have no doubt they’ll canonise her at that college; and there she’ll be, a figure in a fresco, St Rolka of the Cruising Ground with a teddy bear in the crook of her arm, her eyes rolling upwards, the patron saint of perturbation, crisis, and transiency.
SMS from Paula
Dear Vicômte! Carriage has gone ahead. Your Marquise is in the summer palace, coming by coach to take the waters this pm. How are things with la intrigue, don’t forget the hat
The Painted Swede
At the gym a lady we call ‘Miss Cat’ comes over to me. A svelte blonde in a tight-fitting black jumpsuit that makes her look like a figure skater. All she needs is a tail. She crouches nimbly, feline, lying in wait for me to begin my workout in the little room with its scales, mirrors, and mats; she leans against the wall and steers the conversation to the topic of makeup. How I was sweating so much, how I was even glowing…
‘Don’t you use any powder? Really, Mr Witkowski, between you and me… You’re such a worldly man, always off to Berlin, Zurich, Budapest… You really should know more about such things: in the West lads wear makeup. Nothing too obvious, just something to create an effect. But you can’t actually prove it. Listen, I’m renting a room from this Swedish guy who’s working for a company here, he’s the boss.’
‘And he’s letting a room…?’ I look at myself in the mirror over the sink. I really am glistening with sweat, like a dog’s balls in springtime…
‘Maybe there’s a reason, maybe he’s not rich enough yet, or maybe he just doesn’t care, or else they can’t get set up here? He’s so… quiet. It’s as if he’s not even there. One day I was in the bathroom and came across a little bag from Sephora and there, inside, he’d got himself some foundation, mascara, eye creme from Christian Dior, and what else? Eye creme, mascara… Oh, and he got himself a blush brush made of… it was written right on it… Chinese goat hair or something like that. Nothing special. But the receipt was in there, too: four thousand zlotys!’
‘Please, they must make something like fifteen thousand euros a month working in those Swedish firms. Michael Jackson said in some interview that he spends four thousand a month on makeup alone – in dollars!’
‘Well, it doesn’t do him any good. Anyway, I went and hid in the kitchen and waited to see how that Swede would look when he came in to boil his eggs for breakfast. It was just as I thought: his face was smooth, golden, but you couldn’t tell he was wearing makeup. He just made himself look really nice, so you’d think, Just look at that nice-looking man. Tanned, sharp features. You know? It was enough to make me jealous…’
‘And he didn’t have a boyfriend?’
‘Yes, of course. That goes without saying!’ She burst out laughing.
Invasion
They’d fallen asleep on my blanket. I was reading their tabloids, and to tell the truth I was utterly revolted. Krystyna Janda’s oven had blown up in her face: that’s what they had on the front page as the day’s top story, along with a photo of the actress with an appropriately alarmed look on her face (heavy makeup, her eyes popping out of her skull). ‘Krystyna Janda escaped death by a whisker yesterday. When she went to open her oven…’ Suddenly there was a swooshing sound, and a droning, as if a gigantic oven were exploding on the beach, but in fact it was some gang riding up (even though it was banned) on motorcycles, in leather jackets, music blaring! The Old Dears blanched with fright and hid under their blankets, hoping somehow or other to survive the invasion from outer space; they must have remembered from health and safety training what you’re supposed to do in such situations. They were pressing masks made of underwear to their mouths and noses, and jumped under the blanket, into the hollow. Later on they started digging a bunker in the sand. That got a lot of laughs because they took branches from the woods above the dunes to cover their ‘bunker’, i.e., the hole they’d dug out in the sand all the way down to the water, so now they had a trap for all the most handsome Martians flying over the beach, and one after the other they set their lures in order to catch something. But those weren’t Martians at all, just that team from Poznań that was here yesterday. Weird, Americanised, beefed up. They had faces straight out of an American movie, square-jawed, upper lips raised like Rambo or Rocky or something. They went about in boxers even though it was a nudist beach (America is prudish). And they were a ‘team’ because in the United States the individual doesn’t count for anything, only the group, brainstorming, teamwork. They all act in unison, as if they were playing football, a team sport! Clones. When they want to swim, they jump up suddenly from their blankets and rush into the water at full force, diving right in. And as soon as they run out, they start rolling around in the sand, all of them at once, as if it were choreographed. They were all cut from the same cloth, even if they didn’t know each other, and they would all do exactly the same things, behave identically, even on a completely different day. No doubt they thought they were being masculine, boyish even. The lady pensioners and the other queens, once they’d mustered up the courage to go in the water, would take half a day just to stick their pinky fingers in, then they’d recoil with a squeal, roll their eyes, and swoon at how cold it was, how they wouldn’t step foot in there for all the tea in China!
Dune Patrol
‘This one time I looked up, and all the chanteuses were fleeing the dunes, running helter-skelter down the hill to the beach, their drawers in their hands, running in pairs, until they disappeared in the water. That whole colony of Poznanites camped out at the end of the beach, beer-drinking youths – they were running away, too. As if someone had let dogs loose in all those bushes. As if the sweltering heat had set the evergreen forest at the edge of the dunes on fire. But it was patrolmen – border guards. In full gear. Our first thought was: swim to Sweden! We’re already part of the EU, after all…
‘Then came the shouting: “Can’t you see the signs? Everything’s prohibited!” And more signs, warnings: Tick Alert. And still more: Don’t Litter! Don’t Spoil the Environment! And how every weed on these dunes had been planted there by a human hand? And more and more and more signs, how this is a military zone and might have mines in it! And then the fines. We were just over there… Under that tree… until we bolted. But not far away this old thing had been watching us, peeping at us from behind the bushes. She was so engrossed she didn’t even see them coming and she fell right into their clutches. Her comeuppance for watching us like that… And they said:
‘“Your ID, your passport.”
‘And she replied:
‘“Can’t you gentlemen see I’m standing here as nature made me?”’
The Nonchalant Blond
I sent one of the Old Dears into Międzyzdroje for cigarettes, newspapers, and mineral water. The other went off of her own accord to Lubiewo for lunch, to the Społem cafeteria (they still run one just for her in the woods). And I went off to my blond! He’d been standing there in the bushes, trying to attract my attention, as naked as Adam. They’re all Adams here anyway, and none of them, no matter how much they’ve sinned, even cares: they’re still not ashamed; they don’t feel their nakedness. What’s nakedness after all when everyone is equally, legally nude? Everything here is out in the open, in broad daylight. No prohibitions, no sin. He was standing there. And he kept on standing there. Even though I ostentatiously made room for him on my blanket, tidying away the cigarettes and sunblock. I even patted the blanket a few times, so he’d know… Finally he came over, stood a couple of yards away from me, and… talked. He talked and talked, all the while stroking himself. But nonchalantly, as if he were pushing away a lock of hair or petting a dog. He was young and handsome, and had a yellow mane of hair, but it seemed as if he was covered in dust. And though he was young
, it was like he was old, and though he was good-looking, it was like he was used, chipped (bruises on his legs, an appendectomy scar). And after a minute I realised: he’s poor.
He’s poor. That’s how his story starts. What his name is, he doesn’t say, but he has a daughter(!), Olivia (pretty name). They’ve taken away his benefits for some reason or other, I don’t really understand. Any day they’ll cut off his gas. The anonymous ‘they’ are always taking something away, cutting something off, lurking everywhere. He lives somewhere near Szczecin, and today or yesterday a friend in Międzyzdroje told him on the phone that he’d give him a hundred zlotys, but that he had to come get it. So he hitchhiked here. Olivia went to the neighbours. The route, which by train takes two hours, took him from five in the morning until twelve noon, from one village to the next, then two more hours waiting in the dust and heat. And all for nothing – his friend had lied. And the blond spent his last grosz on the trip. Now ‘they’ were cutting off his gas, and his landlady was going to kick him out (kickin’ me out, she is), and he’d be living on the street again with his little one, and it wouldn’t be the first time. He even went from house to house in Międzyzdroje today, asking everyone for a zloty, but of course no one gave him a thing, because they’ve got beggars there in droves, what with all the buskers, street artists, and mimes… Hasn’t he tried to have Olivia taken into care? He wanted to, but decided against it; he’ll raise her himself. And what about the mother? She doesn’t want anything to do with the child. The whole time he was talking he was playing with himself, but it was like he was doing it without realising! Completely nonchalantly, absentmindedly. So I said:
‘You could always sell your body!’
‘No, that’s something I can only do for love…’
Unfortunately, if that’s what love looks like for him, playing with his willy like that, nonchalantly, just going through the motions, then I, for one, am incapable of reciprocating, Marquise! Eventually he thanked me for listening to him and asked me for some money. But I couldn’t give him anything, because – following the old cruising-ground custom – I never take money with me to the beach, so that I won’t get robbed when I’m in the dunes (I keep my key on a chain around my neck), and what if there’s no one to watch my blanket when I go in the sea? I always give to the Great Christmas Orchestra Charity, but I really didn’t have anything on me today! He thanked me again anyway for listening to him and went off into the dunes. A moment later I saw him there, standing on top of a dune among the brush, stroking himself, just like before, nonchalantly, as if he were petting a dog! At the same time he was looking about to see if ‘they’ were anywhere in sight.
Mistake No. 18
Throwing caution to the wind, I amble down the beach, crossing over towards Międzyzdroje. Maybe there’ll be some action over there, because honestly, Vicômte, I don’t think that blond would’ve been of any use to you… But, why… Here’s some! Here! Here! Oh, wonderful! Wonderful! And I’ll be fucked, he’s in sports kit, too. Mmmh, very nice! You better get out your best bag of tricks, Marquise, he just looked your way… The first rule in situations like this: under no condition let the totty know you’re interested! Slow down a bit, but keep walking. Don’t turn around, and whatever you do, don’t stare! Let him come after you. Because if you throw yourself at him he’ll think you’re just some old trollop who’d go off with the first thing that comes her way, without even bothering to suss it out first. So with my chin held high I slow down, and without looking back at him, I walk straight ahead. I try not to swivel my hips, I straighten my posture as much as I can and turn my left profile (the better one) a tad towards him. Sucking in my stomach, I reach down and pick something up from the sand and hurl it, and with a manly kick I send a can flying. He catches up with me, overtakes me, glances at me. He’s thirty, I can tell out of the corner of my eye… Athletic. So I slip my slim pack of cigarettes out of my bathing suit – I only ever strip off in the hollows between the dunes – and ostentatiously I sit down on top of a dune. And now, according to all the rules of the game as I know it, he should sit down, too, a few yards further on, and we should begin exchanging glances, back and forth. Only the real pervs start jerking off right away. I smoke, and my hands are atremble with the thought of what an easy catch this was, what tonic for the heart…
But then, Totty commits Mistake No. 18. He can go to hell for all I care! He does sit down, but it’s much too far away, and all the way down in a hollow, so he’s invisible, and there’s no way for us to look at each other! Basically, I know he’s right there, but what now? He’s probably kicking himself, too, for pulling an 18, but it would be awkward for him to stand up now without a good pretext. And he was so hot! And he had his jeans balled up in his hand, and now he’s probably laid them out on the sand under his naked, hairy, ruddy little tush. He’s probably got his hand down his pants, too, not that it matters, it’s so completely out of view! And it’s not like I can stand up either, cruising being cruising after all; we’d both end up acting totally embarrassed, as if we didn’t know what was happening, that it was all purely coincidental, that was the thrill. So it’s not like I’m going to get up off my arse to walk over and start chatting him up. I can see smoke rising from his hollow. Maybe he’s sending me smoke signals? Oh, if only I could write words of love in smoke in the air, but I’ve already extinguished my cigarette (and stuffed the butt-end back in the pack – I’m no litterbug). Well, after fifteen minutes I simply don’t care any more whether or not it’s appropriate: I get up and walk over along the top of the dunes and look and – no one’s there! He’s gone! Just a dent in the sand where he’d been sitting. But how? If he’d got up and walked away along the beach I’d have seen him! He must’ve gone over the top of the dune. I comb the area for a good half hour, but nothing. Vanished into thin air. A fata morgana…
Gypsy
Suddenly I look up – there’s a deckchair there. But what, or rather who, is in the deckchair? It’s Gypsy. Her legs are crossed and she’s reading the paper.
Paula already told me about her, about her uncanny way with straights. Well, I’d love to see her try it with my bit of totty!
‘She’s an absolute troll, that one, traveling all over Poland selling rugs. Her hairline starts way down her forehead… Her hair is bushy and bleached… But the peroxide can’t get through all the dye, so instead of blonde, it’s totally orange. “Bottle blonde” is what they call it. Hideous. And it’s not like she’s really interested in a shag; she just comes up to you on the street, on the picket line, all serious, and says:
‘“Hello. Pardon me. My name is such-and-such. Very pleased to meet you, sir. I am a homosexual and I have an offer for you. You won’t regret it, I assure you. You will be completely satisfied. Please, allow me to explain.” Then she sits with you on a bench and the words keep coming (the grunt probably expects her to pull something out of her bag and try to sell it to him).
‘“If you do not mind, sir, I should like to masturbate you. I promise, you will be 100 per cent satisfied. I’ll do anything you like, for free, here, right now – behind that wall. Please, consider my offer, I mean it seriously…” And she doesn’t even crack a smile! She’s completely with it, like she’s trying to sell you some new retirement package or insurance policy. And they fall for it.’
Ah well. That was some time ago, and here I am running into Gypsy in Lubiewo, in a beach chair. She tosses the newspaper away and engages me effusively, telling me all about her recent adventure in Ostrowiec – grammatically, she speaks as a man. She’s utterly earnest, as ever, her brow furrowed:
‘I was travelling. On business to Ostrowiec. To buy some used Taiwanese rugs. In Ostrowiec, I hopped into a taxi, a very handsome driver (complaining about his wife, children). So after we’ve driven a little bit, I say this to him.’ Here Gypsy gets even more serious, clasping her hands as if she’s going to pray, bowing slightly. She continues:
‘I have something to ask you, sir, a proposal, if you will. I w
ill pay you double your rate, twice the amount on your metre and a bit more on top, if only you will agree to my request. Please, sir, allow me to give you a blowjob. You will not regret it. Here, we can stop in these woods for a moment, I’ll suck you off in mere seconds, suck you dry, right down to the very last drop, and I’ll swallow as well. However you like it, your wife won’t give you better service. You can do it to spite her, sir (Gypsy remembered that he’d been complaining about his wife…). You need only to unfasten your belt, sit back, and presto. Really. You will be satisfied.’ The fellow stopped the cab, wham bam bam, Gypsy did what she had to, paid him double, and said:
‘I am very pleased that everything went so masterfully, but I have another proposal for you, sir. As I am here often on business, why not meet again? In a month’s time I’ll be back for rugs from China; I’ll simply get into your taxi, once again I’ll pay you double, and once again I’ll suck you off.’ The bloke agreed.
At this point Gypsy vigorously expels smoke through her nostrils and mouth.
‘So you see,’ she continues, ‘I found myself there a year or half a year later, in Ostrowiec. I went to the taxi stand and looked. The cabbies were all standing in front of their cars, in a group, talking, and I started walking towards my cabby, then he whispered something to them, and they all fell about laughing! And stared at me. What do you think he could have said about me? That I did everything he wanted me to do and paid him, fair and square? Is that what he was blabbing to them about? And what was so funny? I ask you. What’s so funny about me…?’
Lovetown Page 9