Absolute Sunset (23 page)

Hanka didn’t listen to the rest of the information, because in the middle of the big screen in front of her was a poster promoting the film. Black man, dreadlocks, yellow band. A hand raised as if he was blessing someone, pink on the palm and brown on the back.

Afterward she didn’t remember how she got home—turning the key in the lock brought her around from her fugue. She glanced at her hand, tight on the door handle. For a moment she didn’t know to whom it belonged.
What time is it?
Then she focused. Ada. Mietek. What about them?

“Think, you moron!” she screamed at herself.

She closed the door. The Internet café! She hurried there, searching for information about which hospital the shooting victims had been taken to. Then post office! She bought ten telephone cards. She dialled the number of the Toronto General Hospital and in her poor English tried to ask the staff about her relatives.

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you. We don’t give any information over the phone,” a woman answered, when Hanka managed to explain why she was calling.

“
Cholera, oszaleć można z tymi Kanadyjcami
,” Hanka swore in Polish, angry at the indifferent tone of the receptionist. She was about to end the call, but the woman suddenly answered in Polish. Surprised, Hanka stared at the receiver.

“Madam,” the woman said. “I’m Polish, too! I came here some time ago and I’m a nurse. Well, almost a nurse. We aren’t allowed to say anything on the phone, but I’ll make an exception for a countrywoman. Besides, nobody here will understand what I’m saying. Listen! They brought him in already dead. He was almost cut in half by the bullets. The entire belly slashed open! But miss Ada lives. Her father tried to shield her, so he was hit more heavily. Everyone here in our department cried when they learned about it. He shielded her from that maniac with his own body!” The woman started crying. “She’s alive. She was shot in the belly, too. She’s barely holding on. She’s in intensive care. If she wakes up, I’ll pass her a message. I’ll try to help her call you. Give me your number. I’ll do my best!”

The phone rang during the night. Hanka had fallen asleep sitting in the armchair, but woke up on the first ring.

“Ada?” she said into the receiver, out of breath.

“Hanka?” a familiar voice whispered.

“Ada!” Hanka suddenly got up from her armchair. “Ada, I have a ticket. I’m coming in four days. Ada, please, hold on. I’ll be there right away!”

“I’ll wait...” Ada’s voice was weak.

After a moment something tapped and a nurse spoke.

“Ms Hanka, it’s me!” she said
sotto voce
. “She’s not doing well, but please, don’t panic. I heard that you’re coming. Pardon me, but I was listening in case I could help. Pack up and come. We’ll look after Ada! Don’t worry! We’ll take care of her! I have to go or they’ll catch me here—I’m not supposed to be in this area! Bye!”

The strange Polish woman from Toronto called one more time, at dawn Warsaw time. Hanka had just closed her suitcase. She hadn’t been able to sleep anyway, so she’d been packing.

“Ms. Hanka,” the woman started, and Hanka dropped the sponge bag she had in her hand. “I have bad news. She’s just died. I shouldn’t have let her talk with you—it was far too exhausting for her. I am so sorry. You two shouldn’t have talked so long!”

Hanka put the phone back to the table. Calmly, without emotion. Then she took pillows from the couch. She dragged the blanket off it and piled everything in the middle of the room. Surrounded it with chairs and threw books from the bedroom on top. She added net curtains, curled up into a ball. From the kitchen she brought two wooden stools. Oil! That would be useful! She poured oil over the pile, muttering:

Dark, sooty ashes are the cure

as fire makes everything pure;

a fertile soil can only be

one fed with embers of lea

The curse, however it’s put on,

with flames alone may be undone

She entered the bathroom and took a can of deodorant from the shelf.

“You are cursed!” she screamed at her reflection, her face twisted with grief and anger. “But your time is up. Witch!”

She came back to the living room, to the pile. She pressed the button on the aerosol deodorant. It smelled of violets. She put a cigarette lighter to the mouth of the bottle and flicked it. A powerful flame burst out, like a flamethrower.

“It’s the end for you!” she muttered and directed the outlet of aerosol to the pile of oil and junk.

The oil caught on fire, and right after it the stools. Then flames jumped to the large pillows. They covered net curtains, which caught flame and billowed toward the ceiling. Hanka sat down on the floor. She watched how the elemental flames consumed the furniture, the carpet, the floor. The sweet smell of smoke surrounded her, pushing itself deep into her throat. Her eyes filled with tears. Suddenly she heard somebody calling her through the roar of the flames.

“Hanka, Hanka!”

It was Mrs Ram. She had come for her! No!

“Hanka!” Mrs Ram grabbed Hanka by the shoulder. “What’s going on? Let’s go!”

“No, I’m staying!”

“Hanka! I called the fire department, come on!” Mrs Ram didn’t understand what Hanka was up to.

“No, I don’t want to. I’m cursed!”

“Hanka!”

“No!”

“Hanka, I’m sorry, but I’m not going to listen to this! I’m going to drag you out of here, even against your will!” Mrs Ram grabbed a crystal vase from the cupboard, took a swing, and whacked Hanka on the head. Before Hanka could even cry out in pain, she was unconscious.

Hanka—I’m Normal

She ended up in a mental hospital, in the special care department. It was special only in that the patients were shut carefully in solitary rooms. The ones who acted out were tied to their beds with belts—for their own good, admittedly. If Hanka hadn’t been firmly attached to the pallet, she would probably have torn her wrists open with her teeth. Or banged her head against the wall until she lost consciousness.

But now fighting didn’t make sense—the trained staff had done their job well. “You won’t die here!” What a perfect slogan for this gang. So Hanka stopped fighting. She also decided not to swear or spit on the nurses. It was barely a problem for them to give her an injection. The more she tried to escape, the more they made sure she couldn’t.

Having calmed down, she followed the hospital staff with her eyes when they entered her room. Maybe her constant observation would baffle them? No, they just did their jobs. Gladly, in no hurry. Real assholes!

One day a stranger appeared. His hair was thin on top and his facial hair must have been at least three day’s worth. He was short.

“Paweł Niewiara,” he introduced himself. “A psychiatrist and psychotherapist. I want to talk to you and help you somehow. What can I do for you?”

“You can fuck off—just like that,” Hanka suggested and closed her eyes.

Yet, Paweł Niewiara, a moron with the moronic surname, was persistent. He came every day, looking into Hanka’s chart, trying to talk to her.

“Nice weather today, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Get lost,” Hanka was slowly running out of curses.

“Why do you attack me?” Paweł looked her in the eye, but gently.

“Fuck you.”

“Okay. I can fuck off. But I’ll keep coming. I’ll wait and maybe you’ll be willing to have a word with me.”

One day the echoes of a fierce discussion going on in the duty office reached Hanka’s ears. Nurses, Paweł, and the head of department were arguing about something. “She” was repeated over and over again. Who? Whom are they talking about? Hanka concentrated.

“You can’t cut her off diazepam, she’ll wreck the entire department!” the head of the department roared.

“What about reducing the dose?” the shrill voice of the ward sister suggested.

“We should cut her off. Completely! It’s the only solution! It’s bad for her and isn’t helping at all!” That was Paweł’s.

“You must be crazy!” the head of department said in a commanding tone, skeptical and sure of himself. “That’s out of the question!”

“In my opinion it’s the only way,” Paweł emphasized each syllable. “Stop pacifying her. Just give her something for the night. I can’t understand what she means, because she is so drugged that she just mumbles! Do you want to make her an addict? Is that really what you want?”

“Either she becomes an addict or she’ll fucking hang herself, just like the one last month!” The head of department reached high C with his voice.

“But Hanka isn’t that guy!” Paweł shouted and bashed on something. Probably with his fist. Hanka raised her head. It was about her!

“Paweł...”

“No more ʽPaweł’! Give me a chance. I’ll make an agreement with her! It’s not even really a chance for me—give
her
a chance! I really think I can to do this! Please!”

“Paweł, hush...” the head of department said. A door slammed. Everything went quiet.

Niewiara appeared in Hanka’s room the following early morning.

“You’re going to be free, but there’s a condition. No stupid moves!” He unfastened her belts.

Hanka sat up. She’d had no idea that just sitting could be so pleasant! She moved her numb shoulders, jumped off bed, approached the window. The world! It was still out there! Leaves had already fallen from the trees and it was getting cold. Hanka touched the window pane with her forehead and burst into tears.

Why did she trust him? She didn’t have a clue. Was it all about the dogged determination with which he fought for her? The patience that he’d had, coming and asking about her frame of mind? Hanka didn’t know.

Their relationship was like one between a wild, skittish animal and a patient caretaker. The psychologist didn’t press her—he simply waited until she herself would decide to speak. He also talked quite a lot about his own life, as if he wanted to give her something of himself.

Hanka learnt that Niewiara had once had a wife and a child. Unfortunately, she couldn’t stand Paweł’s involvement in his patients’ treatment. Niewiara would go to the hospital at all hours, he’d give out their home telephone number and their address to the people he was treating. They would come and knock at the door, drugged or drunk, and he’d let them in, clean their clothes, feed them, and put them to bed.

“It’s my job!” he explained to his wife.

“I can’t bear it!” she retorted.

“They need help!”

“Your son is afraid of them! He’s horrified! I am, too!”

In the end she left him. She took the child and just went. She met a businessman, the owner of a sawmill in a small town in Silesia. She got married again, had two more children. She was happy, and his son was happy as well. They hadn’t contacted Paweł, apart from rare requests for his consent to some trips abroad.

Hanka was listening and thinking. She listened, and she felt sorry for this calm man who had sacrificed his own family for the mentally ill. For people like her, for nuts. She listened and she wanted to comfort him, to say “Hey, I have worse problems than that!”

She told Niewiara about Sabina, about her love of vodka. About the beatings. About Bartek’s death. Then about living without her mother amongst nosey neighbours, all gossiping about her. About the loss of her friend. About her hope for emigration and the death of her father, and then of Ada and Mietek. Paweł listened and from time to time he asked about details. He shook his head sadly. He didn’t rush her.

“I promise you that you will get better. You’ll live a normal life,” he said.

“I have nobody to live for. I have no job, no family, I have no life. Nothing!”

“We’ll put everything together...”

“How?”

“I managed to do it, so it can’t be that difficult!” Niewiara smiled gently.

He didn’t judge her. He didn’t give moronic advice. He gave her hope.

“What do you dream about having?” he asked.

“A normal family. A mother and a father taking care of me. Siblings, who will be with me forever,” Hanka cried, then attacked. “And what? What are you going you do about it? Are you going to turn back time?”

“I won’t. But you can get everything you want by yourself. On your own. You have a limitless influence over your own life.”

“Will I ever leave this place to live like a normal person?” Hanka knew that she was on compulsory treatment. She was considered to be a public threat. Until they cured her, more or less, she wouldn’t be leaving this prison.

“You’ll leave. I’ll help you. I’m giving you your life back.”

The raven dropped by once in a while. He wasn’t fond of diazepam, so his visits were rare and short. He walked around the room for a moment and flew away, without proposing any trips.

“Don’t tell this doubter about me!” he warned Hanka during every of such visits.

“His surname is Niewiara,” Hanka reminded the bird.

“I don’t care about his surname. Don’t tell him anything!”

“Why? Are you afraid?” She proudly lifted her chin.

“Oh stop it, he can’t do shit,” the bird laughed. “He simply won’t understand. He’ll hurt you.”

“You hurt me. You and your dreams. Why won’t you foretell something nice for me for a change?”