A Treatise on Shelling Beans (2 page)

You wouldn’t have gotten any beans from them, though, because they were all carvers. The grandfather made carvings, he was old as the hills, he had cataracts but if you could have seen him carving away you’d never have believed he couldn’t see. How he did it I have no idea. Maybe he made his hands look? His three grandsons, Stach, Mietek, and Zenek, they were all carvers. All strapping guys, though you’d never see them out with young ladies. You only ever saw them carving. The only one who wasn’t a carver was their father. He’d cut blocks of wood for them to make their carvings out of, rough-hew them. He probably would have made carvings as well but he was missing these three fingers here on this hand, they were blown off in the war before the last war. But he somehow managed with chopping and hewing. Word was the great-grandfather had been a carver, and the great-great-grandfather, and there was no telling how far back in time you’d have to go with those carver ancestors, because from what they said everyone in their family had made carvings since time immemorial. Even on Sundays, after the service or high mass they’d come back from church and right away they’d start carving what they’d heard from the Gospel so as not to forget it. They had plans to carve the whole Gospel, because as the grandfather put it, the world was the way God described it, not the way people saw it.

Their whole yard was littered with those carvings of theirs, they stood them all the way up into the woods. They went further and further. That may have been another reason they didn’t build a fence on the side of the woods. You couldn’t turn a wagon round in their yard, you had to back up. When they’d lead
the cows out to pasture they had to mind they didn’t knock the carvings over. Cats would lie about on them sunning themselves. Sometimes their dog would start yapping out of the blue, they’d rush out of the house thinking someone must have come in from the woods, but it would turn out the dog was only barking at one of the carvings. Just as well he was on a short leash. Mrs. Kużdżał would go out to throw grain down for her poultry and people would laugh and say she was feeding the carvings, because they were getting bigger and bigger.

They weren’t regular carvings like you might imagine. I can see you’re a decent height yourself, but those carvings were way bigger than either you or me. “The Last Supper,” for instance, when they started carving that they made a clearing in the woods. The table alone was like several of these tables of mine, the benches were several times the size of my benches. And even so, the apostles were sitting so close to each other that it seemed there wasn’t any room for Jesus. He was squashed between one apostle who stood with a glass in his outstretched hand, and another one who was already asleep with his head on the table, and he was a lot smaller than the others. If they’d all stood up next to one another he wouldn’t even have come up to their waists. He was already wearing his crown of thorns, and he seemed worried about something; his head rested on his hand. From the other side of the table another one of the apostles was reaching out toward the crown of thorns as if he wanted to lift it off his head because it was too soon for it, but he couldn’t reach it. On the table there were pitchers of wine, and each one of them, I don’t own anything to compare with it. That big jug over there, or that bucket, they’d be too small. As for the bread, I don’t recall ever seeing such huge loaves being baked anywhere. And back then people would bake loaves that weighed over twenty pounds. They were going to add a roof over the scene, but they didn’t manage to.

I couldn’t tell you what those carvings were worth. Back then I was simply afraid of them. But can fear be a measure for carvings? Especially when you’re the age I was then. When mother sent me over there on some errand, to ask about something or borrow something, I’d tell her they didn’t have any or that
nobody had been home. Did you shake the rattle? I did, but no one came out. Actually I don’t think she believed me, because a short while later she’d send over one of my sisters, Jagoda or Leonka, but she’d do it so I wouldn’t see.

You never heard of them trying to sell any of their carvings. Who would they have sold them to? Take them to market? What an idea. And who would come all the way out here to the village to buy carvings? People came for foodstuffs, like I said, beans, flour, kasha. Though one time the grandfather, that’s right, the blind one, he went to ask the priest for permission to put one or two of the carvings up in the church. But the priest wouldn’t allow it because none of them had gone to any school to learn to carve.

Sometimes I’d have dreams about those carvings. I’d jerk awake in the middle of the night with a shout, bathed in sweat. Mother would think I was coming down with something. I’d have to drink herbs and eat honey because I was afraid to tell her it was the carvings. I don’t know why. Maybe I was afraid that I was afraid. And of carvings on top of everything. Every fear has different levels, as you know. One kind of fear tears you from your sleep, another kind makes you fall asleep. And yet another kind … But there’s no point talking about it. The carvings are gone, the Kużdżałs are gone. Besides, I actually liked honey, though the herbs made me scrunch up my face. But mother would stand over me, drink it all up, it’ll do you good.

Do you like herbs? Then you’re like me. But I bet you like honey? I’ll give you a jar to take with you. At least you won’t be mad at yourself for making a wasted trip. I have my own, not store-bought. Here at the edge of the woods, maybe you noticed, there’s a handful of hives, they’re mine. There aren’t that many of them but when it’s a good year I get oodles of honey. I couldn’t eat it all myself. I’ve got some from a couple of years ago, the best kind is when it’s left to stand awhile. When someone does a favor for me I’ll thank them with honey if they won’t let me pay them. Or like now, in the off-season, whenever anyone comes to visit they won’t leave without a jar of honey. Or if someone has a name day party in one of the cabins, I’ll go wish them all the best and at least take a jar of
honey as a gift. Or where there are children, I always remember children even without any special occasion. Children ought to eat honey.

But honey’s best when it’s drunk. How? You put a teaspoon of honey in half a glass of lukewarm water. Let it stand till the next morning. Squeeze in a half or a quarter of lemon, stir it, and drink it on an empty stomach at least half an hour before breakfast. If it’s too cold, add just a dash of hot water. It’s pure goodness. Good for your heart, for rheumatism. Honey’s good for everything. It’ll keep you from catching cold. When I was young and I worked on building sites, one time we roomed at the house of this one beekeeper and he taught me all that. But back then who gave a thought to drinking honey? There was never the time. And if you were going to drink anything it would be vodka. In those days vodka was the best for everything, not honey.

What kind do you prefer, heather or honey-dew? The honey-dew is from conifers, not deciduous trees, it’s virtually black, it’s much better. In that case I’ll give you a jar of each. My favorite is buckwheat honey. There used to be a guy here grew a lot of buckwheat. Three days ago I repainted his nameplate. The buckwheat hadn’t even begun to flower and already he’d be putting up hives in it. I used to go watch him collecting honey from those hives of his. He’d be wearing a hood with a net over his face, and I’d just be there. And you won’t believe it, but I never got stung by a bee. They’d land on me, but they never did a thing. He couldn’t get over it. You’re a strange kid, that you are. I’m the beekeeper here … Go bring a pot. And he’d pour me some honey straight from the hive.

These days, who’d grow buckwheat around here, and where? You saw for yourself, there’s the lake they made, the cabins around the lake, and the woods. The woods were always there. They’re the only thing that was there then and is here now. Except that the woods were mostly on this side. Now they’ve spread to the other side, where the fields used to be. If you don’t hold woods back they’ll grow everywhere, into your yard. They overgrew where the farmyards used to be. When I say the other side, I mean the other side of the Rutka. The Rutka?
That was the river that used to run through here, I told you how it split the village in two. How could they have made an artificial lake if there hadn’t been a river? The name comes from
ruta
, rue, not from
ruda
, iron ore. Do you know what rue is? You’re not the only one. Here in the cabins hardly anyone knows anything about herbs. At most mint, chamomile. They don’t know their trees, can’t tell an oak from a beech. Not to even mention hornbeams, sycamores. They can’t tell rye from wheat, wheat from barley. They call it all grain. I wonder if they’d even recognize millet. I don’t see many people growing millet these days.

Rue was used to treat different illnesses, on its own or with other herbs. They used it for eyes, for nerves, cuts and bruises, to prevent infection. You could drink it or make a compress. It could break spells. And most important of all, young women wove their garlands out of rue. It was like a magnet for young men. A lot of it grew around here, maybe that’s where the Rutka got its name? You can’t imagine what that river was like. It wasn’t especially big, rivers that run through villages never are. It came down a broad valley where there were meadows, then after the valley the fields began. It was wider at some points, narrower in others. In some places, when it hadn’t rained for a long time you could get across by stepping from one rock to another. When you stood at the edge of the valley and the sun would come out from behind the clouds, it looked like the Rutka was flowing across the entire width of the valley. Course, there were times it actually was that wide, when the ice melted, or when it just kept raining and raining. At those times you wouldn’t believe it was the same Rutka, it was so wild. It didn’t just cover the valley, the fields flooded as well. Anyone that lived close to the river had to move to higher ground. At those times people swore revenge on the Rutka, they wept over it. But then the waters would fall and it’d go back to being calm and good-natured. It would flow in its leisurely way. You could throw a stick into the water and walk alongside on the bank to see who was faster, you or the Rutka. Even if you only walked slowly, you’d always win. It twisted and turned, and in the places where it meandered it got
overgrown with sweet rush, bulrushes, water lilies, white lotuses. When it all bloomed you can’t imagine what it was like. Or if you could only have heard the nightingales in May.

It wasn’t all shallow. Most places it was shallow. But it had its deep moments too. One of them was the deepest of all. People went there to drown themselves. Mostly young folks, when their parents wouldn’t agree to them getting married. They said most of the ones that had drowned there, it was for that reason. That people had always gone there to drown themselves, because that was where it was deepest. Though they did it for different reasons. And not just young people. Though they didn’t always choose drowning, some people hung themselves. And the Rutka just flowed on.

You might find it hard to believe, but to me it seemed the biggest river on earth. I was even convinced that all rivers were called Rutka and that they all came from the Rutka, like from a single mother. I’d already started at school but I still couldn’t believe there were much bigger rivers in the world, and that they each had their own name.

We had a boat. Sometimes I’d drag it into the densest rushes, everyone would be calling me, mother, father, but I wouldn’t answer. I’d just lie there in the bottom of the boat feeling like I was nowhere at all. And if you were to ask me whether I’d ever been happy, it was only ever then. You’d rather not ask me that? I understand. Or I’d take the boat out into the middle of the stream, lie down in it and float and float, and the river would carry me. What do you think, do rivers like that disappear? I really don’t know. Sometimes I go and stand down by the lake and look out there wondering where it must flow now. And you know, one time I managed to make out one of its banks. Which one? To know that, I’d have to have known which one I was standing on.

I couldn’t tell you where it came from or where it finished up. Back then no one went that far. It was scary to walk such a distance, the woods in these parts stretch on and on. Nowadays I don’t go walking that far either, because why would I. Besides, you go into the woods on this side or the other, and right by
the edge you have everything you could need. Blueberries, wild strawberries, blackberries, mushrooms. Not at this time of year, of course. You’re too late for that. Now there’s only cranberries. But you’d need to wait till the frosts set in, because they mostly grow in the bogs. The bogs aren’t far from here. I could give you a jug, you could go pick yourself some. Cranberries are delicious with pâté. Especially when you add pears as well, and if it’s pâté made from hare.

I don’t go picking. I don’t have time, I have to mind things here. Now for example, in the off-season, aside from me and the dogs, there’s not a soul here. Once in a while someone’ll come by to check on their cabin. Though in fact they don’t need to. Everyone knows that it’ll all be OK. It couldn’t not be, because I’m here looking after things. They’ve had many an opportunity to see that for themselves. But I’ve no right to stop them if they want to come and see what’s what. They belong to them. But that’s usually in the morning. This time of day no one’s likely to show up. At this time nothing happens. And dusk is starting to fall a lot earlier. A month ago I wouldn’t have needed to turn on the lights. I could see the letters perfectly well, even the tiniest ones. And I wouldn’t have needed my glasses. Whereas now, like you saw, it’s dusk, and there isn’t even the faintest ripple on the lake. You’d be forgiven for thinking the water had hardened into solid ground. Especially on a day like today, when there’s no wind, someone might imagine they could cross from one shore to the other without getting their feet wet.

So you’re staying in Mr. Robert’s cabin? I don’t think you arrived in the night, I would have heard you. I didn’t sleep at all in the night, I’d have heard. In the night the faintest sound carries across the lake. I only got to sleep in the morning. The dawn was already starting to break, I looked out the window, but you weren’t there then. After that I dropped off, I don’t even know when. The fog held you up on the way? We didn’t have any fog here. True, in the fall you get fog that’s so dense you can barely drive through it. You’re driving along and all of a sudden there’s this white wall.