A Treatise on Shelling Beans (36 page)

“ ‘What if he comes back, what will I serve him his meals on?’

“And instead of the tray, she sold their wedding rings.

“When she was taking him his food, even though she carried the tray in both hands she wouldn’t let my brother or me open the door for her. The tray would be loaded, there was a tureen of soup, a dish with the main course, a plate, a bowl, the teapot, cup and saucer, sugar bowl, silverware. She would place the tray on the floor, check that neither of us were about, and only then knock at his door. She was taking food to her own husband, but still she’d knock. It’s hard to imagine a more bizarre situation. Not that he ever opened the door for her. She would always open it herself. She’d pick the tray up from the ground and only then go in.

“She usually sat with him till he was done eating. Sometimes, though, she was there much longer. I was often tempted to sneak up to the door and listen in to see what they were talking about, and in general if they were talking at all or if they were just silent all that time. Of course, we’d been taught that eavesdropping was wrong. But the war made us unlearn a lot of things we’d been taught. It wasn’t that that held me back, but rather the fear of what I might hear. Especially because when he didn’t feel like eating, which sometimes happened, my mother’s eyes would be brimming with tears as she came out of his study. And that was how hatred toward my father began to grow in me. I hated him so much sometimes for those tears of my mother’s. Nowadays, yes, nowadays I can guess what went on between them.

“With every meal my mother took to him it became more and more
important whether she’d leave there tearful again, or whether her expression would be calm. Even when I was in the furthest room I’d be listening for her coming out of his study, and I’d run to meet her to see if there were tears in her eyes or whether there was even the least hint of a smile on her face. I even tried to guess if it would happen when she took him breakfast or lunch or dinner. It was then that I first became aware of how much I loved my mother. While my father, every time she left his study crying I hated him more, never mind that he’d come back. I actually felt that it was my job to protect my mother from him. I had the feeling that every time my mother brought him a meal, he was taking her away from me. In fact, my love for my mother also protected me from him. It still protects me today, even though my mother is no longer alive either. If it hadn’t been for that, he may well have pulled me along after him. Because I inherited his bad conscience. I often feel as tormented as he must have been. You seem surprised that a bad conscience can be inherited. Everything can, everything can, my dear sir. We have to inherit it all, otherwise what happened will keep repeating itself. We can’t simply select from our inheritance only the things that won’t weigh us down. That way we’d be utterly entangled in hypocrisy. As it is we wallow in falsehood. Have you not noticed that lies have taken on the appearance of truth? They’ve become our daily bread. A way of life. Almost a faith. We absolve ourselves of our sins with lies, convince ourselves with lies, justify accepted truths with lies. Just take a good look at the world. In any case, I’ve inherited that from him. And I want it that way. Otherwise I might not have become as aware of the undying love I felt toward my mother.

“One day, as mother came out of the study carrying yet another uneaten meal, her eyes filled with tears, she looked in my direction and said abruptly:

“ ‘Your father wants to see you.’

“I felt no joy, believe me. Not even relief. I knocked at the door, my heart pounding. He was sitting on the sofa, in his pajamas, in rumpled bedding, wearing house slippers. He was hunched over, as if the simple act of sitting were agony for him.

“ ‘Come here,’ he said.

“His voice seemed alien to me. I wouldn’t have recognized it.”

“ ‘Closer,’ he said. At that moment I noticed that his face was even thinner and more sallow than when he’d first appeared. His cold eyes seemed almost lifeless. They were turned in my direction, but I couldn’t tell if he actually saw me. My heart was thumping ever more loudly in my chest, though all I was doing was standing in front of my own father. He was a good father, please believe me. He was exceptionally mild-tempered, he never got angry. He never so much as laid a finger on me, unlike my mother. I’d get up to mischief sometimes, and he’d always go easy on me. Now, for the first time I was afraid in his presence.

“ ‘I want to make my confession to you, son,’ he said. ‘To you, not to God.’ A shiver ran down my spine, though I didn’t really understand these opening words. ‘God forgives too easily.’ It was as if he was wrenching the words out of himself. I had the impression he was speaking not with his mouth but with his entire body that had been exhausted by the war, that was so skinny his bones poked through his pajamas. I felt like I could hear them rubbing against each other at every word. ‘Fathers should confess to their sons if memory is to survive. I don’t need you to forgive me. I need you to remember. Your memory will be my penance.’ He had tired himself, he lowered his head and for a long time we remained like that, me standing stiffly in front of him as if I were at attention, him on the sofa like he might come crashing head first to the floor. With a great effort he raised his eyes to me. They were no longer cold and lifeless. It was more as if they didn’t believe it was me standing there. He looked at me for a long time. He looked and looked, and still he didn’t seem to believe it was me. ‘I was ordered to check whether anyone else was still hiding there. In the orchard between the farmhouse and the barn there was a potato clamp. In those parts they dig pits, a bit like a cellar. I ran up to it, yanked open the door, and I saw you. Now that you’re standing here in front of me I’m even more sure it was you. I saw the terror in your eyes. Come closer.’ He stared into my eyes for a long, long time, from so close up I could almost feel our eyes touching. ‘Yes, these are the same eyes. They didn’t believe that the soldier with the smoking gun barrel, who could pull the trigger again at any moment, was your father. I
hesitated for a second. That second made me realize that I have no right to live. Me, your father, I felt disappointed that it was you. I slammed the door, furious, and shouted back that there was no one there.’ He’d grown tired, he was clearly short of breath, but a moment later he took my head in both his hands and laid it on his shoulder. His body was shaking. ‘It would have been better for all of us if I’d not survived,’ I heard him whisper by my ear. ‘But I so wanted to see you all before I died. So very much. I love you, son. But that’s not enough to live. Go now.’ He pushed me away from himself.”

We sat there, both silently immersed in those last words of his father, because what can you say after all that, I’m sure you understand. The cafe was slowly filling up, it was getting more and more crowded and noisy. At some point he nodded to someone, or returned a nod. I didn’t look, thinking that at such a moment it would have been wrong even to show curiosity. Then, greeting someone again, he said:

“But no one could have predicted what would happen soon after. And while he was shaving, with a razor.”

After these words it was as if the life went out of him. Or perhaps he’d come to the conclusion that after what he had said, our meeting could return to being pure chance. And he no longer felt like talking. As for me, nothing came to mind to keep up the conversation. I only noticed to my own amazement that the pain in my right side under the ribs had gone away. I hadn’t even noticed when. It had ceased, just like that. So I’d have gladly had another slice of cake and another coffee. I was about to ask him if he felt like having more, but at that moment he glanced at his watch and said:

“I didn’t realize it was so late. I’m deeply grateful to you. Unfortunately I have to be going.”

He brought out his wallet, counted out the money and stuck it under the sugar bowl. As he was putting the wallet back in his pocket he suddenly hesitated and took it out again.

“Just a minute, maybe it’s in here somewhere.”

He began rummaging through the compartments as before. I thought that maybe this time he wanted to give me his business card. I put my hand inside my coat to get my own wallet and give him mine.

“No, don’t bother looking, you won’t find it in your wallet. It ought to be somewhere in here. I’m certain I have it.” He was rifling ever more anxiously through the wallet. “I wanted to show you a really interesting photograph. Extremely interesting. The person who took the picture captured the exact moment when my father was standing in front of me. Where on earth is it? I refuse to believe it’s not here. The most extraordinary thing about it is that we’re looking into each other’s eyes. My terrified eyes looking at my father, and father’s face fixed in a grimace, his eyes staring at me. Both our faces can be seen together
en face
. It’s hard to credit, but you must believe me, both faces are opposite one another and both are
en face
. The place the picture was taken from seems physically impossible, to have two faces opposite one another and both at the same time looking at the camera. I’ve tried to figure out where that point must have been – so far without success. Because it was somewhere, the picture itself is the best proof of that. If I manage to find it it’ll be quite a discovery. Who can say if it won’t be a new dimension of space that for the moment is inaccessible to our senses, our imaginations, our consciences.”

His hands were trembling, again he began tipping out the contents of the various sections of his wallet, emptying them to the last slip of paper.

“Take a look.” He handed me a photograph. I thought it would be the one he was looking for. “My mother.”

“A beautiful woman,” I said. She really was beautiful. But he didn’t take after her. Except perhaps for something in the eyes, the mouth.

“That was how she looked before father came back from the war,” he said absentmindedly, busy looking for the other picture. Now he was searching for it among all the things he’d tossed out onto the tabletop. “Perhaps it isn’t possible to find that point in our everyday space. Especially as we’re overly used to it, we’ve become one of its dimensions. But after all it’s space that determines
who we truly are. Just as it determines everything else. Not only in the physical meaning of the word. To judge from the photograph it may not be a physical space. That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Sometimes, indications of that space can be seen in the old masters, in their most perfect paintings. The usual laws of physics would never have allowed such a place. But that’s the thing with great art. I mean art as a world, unfortunately one that includes humans. Oh, if only I could find that point. Too bad, I don’t seem to have the photograph,” he said resignedly, as if he’d let himself down. “I’m sorry.” He began gathering up all the things he’d scattered from the wallet and putting them back unthinkingly, without worrying what had been in which compartment. “I’m really sorry,” he repeated. “I was certain.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “You can show me the next time.”

“You’d like to meet again?” he said, surprised.

“Of course. It could even be here, in this cafe. And if this particular table happened to be free …,” I added hurriedly, to assure him I wasn’t just being polite.

“The thing is, though,” he said as he put his wallet back in his pocket, “I’m not sure that would be possible. In fact, I don’t think it would be,” he repeated emphatically. “We’d have to not know each other again, and again say hello to one another by mistake on the street, convinced that we’d already met someplace, some time before. But where, when? Otherwise you’d be right in saying it was just an unfortunate chance.”

You know, I wonder whether he just didn’t mention it, or whether his father hadn’t told him, that when he ran up to the door there was a pig standing in front of it. It had clambered out of the pig shed when the sheds began to burn. The sheds were a little off to one side, I could partly see them through the crack in the door. It walked slowly, it was old. Usually you don’t hold on to pigs as old as that, but this was an uncommon pig. It so was fat it could barely support itself on its short little legs. You could barely see its feet under its flabby sides. You had the impression it was moving along on its sides alone. It headed straight for the potato cellar where I was and started grunting, rubbing its snout against the door. Probably it could smell me. Plus, I was the one it was most attached to. Wheezing and snorting, it plopped down right by the door. He kicked it, and it struggled to its feet. Then, after he slammed the door shut and shouted to someone that there was no one there, out of rage he let loose with a burst of shots at it. He kept firing, though it was dead already. Till his last bullet. Flesh spattered everywhere. How do I know it was his last shot? He had to switch out the magazine.

You can’t imagine what that pig was like. Right from when she was little we called her Zuzia. And from when she was little she wasn’t like a pig. I don’t
know if you know it, but pigs are the most intelligent creatures. Even when she was still suckling she stood out from all the other piglets. Whenever you came into the shed she’d just up and stand in front of you with her snout in the air, wanting to be picked up. She was most comfortable around people. We’d often bring her into the house so she could be with us. She knew each of us: father, grandfather, grandmother, Uncle Jan, he was still alive when she was little, Jagoda, Leonka, and me. Me, she’d always nudge on the leg with her little snout. She never confused me with anyone else. It was easy to see she liked me best of all. She went everywhere with me. Many times I didn’t know how to get rid of her. I’d go graze the cows on the pasture, and here she’d be following behind. I’d be going to school, I’d look behind me and there she was. I’d have to turn back and lock her up in the pig shed. I’d often be late for school because of her. The teacher would ask why I was tardy, but I couldn’t say it was because of a pig. So I’d get a D for behavior that day. I got so many Ds because of Zuzia that by the end of the year I was bottom of the class in behavior.