Bacacay (28 page)
Authors: Bill Johnston Witold Gombrowicz
“Honey, where’s your wedding ring?”
My wife looked immediately at the maid, the maid at my wife; then my wife said:
“Czesia!”
Czesia replied:
“Yes ma’am!”
My wife exclaimed:
“Thief!”
The maid, her arms akimbo, yelled vulgarly:
“You’re a thief yourself!”
My wife:
“Quiet!”
The maid:
“You be quiet!”
My wife:
“Get out!
Get out this instant!”
Get out this instant!”
The maid:
“Get out yourself!”
Oh, the things that happened!
Heads had already appeared in all the windows, shouts, curses, insults were flying from every direction, and a terrible laughter was rising; then all at once I saw the maid grab hold of my wife’s hair and tug, and tug, and as if through a fog I heard my wife’s voice:
Heads had already appeared in all the windows, shouts, curses, insults were flying from every direction, and a terrible laughter was rising; then all at once I saw the maid grab hold of my wife’s hair and tug, and tug, and as if through a fog I heard my wife’s voice:
“Filip!”
The Rat
The terror of the entire established and prosperous neighborhood was a ruffian, roisterer, and brigand widely known by the name of Hooligan.
He had been born in open country and on the boundless plain—had been brought up in forest, mountain, dale, and wilderness—he never slept in any enclosed space—and this gave him a characteristic massivity and breadth of nature—a boundlessness of soul—a swinging expansiveness of temperament.
Yes, his was a broad nature that rejected cramped corners and was fond of drinking; and expansive gestures were the only kind of gestures fitting to him.
Hooligan the brigand hated anything that was cramped, narrow, or petty, for instance pickpockets; and if he had to choose between pinching someone and smashing him in the face, he would smash him in the face—and he trod heavily and broadly across the fields, singing at the top of his voice: “With a heigh and a ho!
A heigh and a ho!”
He had been born in open country and on the boundless plain—had been brought up in forest, mountain, dale, and wilderness—he never slept in any enclosed space—and this gave him a characteristic massivity and breadth of nature—a boundlessness of soul—a swinging expansiveness of temperament.
Yes, his was a broad nature that rejected cramped corners and was fond of drinking; and expansive gestures were the only kind of gestures fitting to him.
Hooligan the brigand hated anything that was cramped, narrow, or petty, for instance pickpockets; and if he had to choose between pinching someone and smashing him in the face, he would smash him in the face—and he trod heavily and broadly across the fields, singing at the top of his voice: “With a heigh and a ho!
A heigh and a ho!”
People got out of his way.
And if someone failed to get out of the way in time, Hooligan the bandit would smash him right in the face with his paw, or lift him in the air and crush him—or he would simply maul him—then toss him aside and walk on.
But he never perpetrated any hidden or petty killings; all his murders were noisy, bold, expansive and thunderous, committed in a grand procession with singing: “O Marysia, my Marysia!”
...
or: “With a nonny no, Marysia-o!”
For he loved that Marysia of his more than anything else in the world; he loved her noisily, loudly, and broadly, with Cossack dancing, with vodka!
And if someone failed to get out of the way in time, Hooligan the bandit would smash him right in the face with his paw, or lift him in the air and crush him—or he would simply maul him—then toss him aside and walk on.
But he never perpetrated any hidden or petty killings; all his murders were noisy, bold, expansive and thunderous, committed in a grand procession with singing: “O Marysia, my Marysia!”
...
or: “With a nonny no, Marysia-o!”
For he loved that Marysia of his more than anything else in the world; he loved her noisily, loudly, and broadly, with Cossack dancing, with vodka!
Yes, his was the broadest nature there could have been.
He had no understanding whatsoever of quiet—and especially of quietening —the kind of quietening that, it could be said, is the principal thievish quality of people of our times—and he even slept sonorously, with open mouth, snoring, filling the valleys with his snores.
He could not abide cats, and when he saw a cat he would chase after it for ten or twenty kilometers; whereas women he used to catch in abundance and bellow as he did so: S-ing hell!
S-ing hell!”
Or he would shout: “With a heigh and a ho, hoo, hoo!
Hup!
Giddy up!”
And that was exactly how he caught his one and only Marysia!
Sometimes, however, he was oppressed by longing, and at such times the whole land was filled with his loud, sweeping elegies, which shimmered with dismal melancholy, and there rang out the bandit’s croakings to the moon, outdoor, prayerlike, Ukrainian, Romanian, villainous, steppe-bound, or homegrown lamentations: “With a heigh heigh ho,” he would sing, “O sorrow!
O sorrow!
Hey Marysia, Maryśka!”
And the desperate dogs would bark down the lanes, howling dully and darkly.
And in the end this
howling also infected the people.
And the entire neighborhood howled longingly, dully and blackly, straight at the pallid shining moon: “O sorrow!
O sorrow!”
He had no understanding whatsoever of quiet—and especially of quietening —the kind of quietening that, it could be said, is the principal thievish quality of people of our times—and he even slept sonorously, with open mouth, snoring, filling the valleys with his snores.
He could not abide cats, and when he saw a cat he would chase after it for ten or twenty kilometers; whereas women he used to catch in abundance and bellow as he did so: S-ing hell!
S-ing hell!”
Or he would shout: “With a heigh and a ho, hoo, hoo!
Hup!
Giddy up!”
And that was exactly how he caught his one and only Marysia!
Sometimes, however, he was oppressed by longing, and at such times the whole land was filled with his loud, sweeping elegies, which shimmered with dismal melancholy, and there rang out the bandit’s croakings to the moon, outdoor, prayerlike, Ukrainian, Romanian, villainous, steppe-bound, or homegrown lamentations: “With a heigh heigh ho,” he would sing, “O sorrow!
O sorrow!
Hey Marysia, Maryśka!”
And the desperate dogs would bark down the lanes, howling dully and darkly.
And in the end this
howling also infected the people.
And the entire neighborhood howled longingly, dully and blackly, straight at the pallid shining moon: “O sorrow!
O sorrow!”
More and more songs multiplied and poured out around the bandit.
He gradually passed into legend, and thus songs were composed about him too, either broad, outdoor ones or noisy, swaggering ones, though always with the same monotonous refrain: “With a heigh and a ho!
A heigh and a ho!
Ah ha, heigh, a heigh and a ho!”
And there was more and more singing, rolling about, and killing.
Yet in a crumbling and isolated manor house that stood nearby, for many years there had lived a certain old bachelor, a former judge, Skorabkowski, who was exceedingly irritated by the expansive exuberance of the neighborhood.
He was constantly sneaking to the authorities to complain—all in the greatest secrecy, by the way.
He gradually passed into legend, and thus songs were composed about him too, either broad, outdoor ones or noisy, swaggering ones, though always with the same monotonous refrain: “With a heigh and a ho!
A heigh and a ho!
Ah ha, heigh, a heigh and a ho!”
And there was more and more singing, rolling about, and killing.
Yet in a crumbling and isolated manor house that stood nearby, for many years there had lived a certain old bachelor, a former judge, Skorabkowski, who was exceedingly irritated by the expansive exuberance of the neighborhood.
He was constantly sneaking to the authorities to complain—all in the greatest secrecy, by the way.
“I don’t understand how it can be tolerated,” he would whisper.
“Murders committed in broad daylight ....
Rolling and sprawling about ....
Roistering in the inns.
And that singing, oh, that singing, that roaring, those eternal lamentations and howling ....
And that Marysia, Marysia ...”
“Murders committed in broad daylight ....
Rolling and sprawling about ....
Roistering in the inns.
And that singing, oh, that singing, that roaring, those eternal lamentations and howling ....
And that Marysia, Marysia ...”
“What do you expect?”—The chief of police was a corpulent man.
“What do you expect, the authorities are powerless.
Powerless,” he repeated and stared through the window at the endless fallow fields, in which single trees grew here and there.
“The people like him.
They support him.”
“What do you expect, the authorities are powerless.
Powerless,” he repeated and stared through the window at the endless fallow fields, in which single trees grew here and there.
“The people like him.
They support him.”
“How can they support him?!”
burst out the retired judge, releasing his gaze through half-closed eyelids across the plain for many kilometers, all the way to the distant sand dunes of Mala
Wola, then bringing it back beneath his lids.
“They’re afraid to leave their homes!
He kills people ...”
burst out the retired judge, releasing his gaze through half-closed eyelids across the plain for many kilometers, all the way to the distant sand dunes of Mala
Wola, then bringing it back beneath his lids.
“They’re afraid to leave their homes!
He kills people ...”
“Yes, but only some people,” the chief of police muttered in reply against the background of the endless plain.
“The others just watch ....
Don’t you understand?
For them it’s fun—to see a decent murder ....
Aha,” he muttered and pretended not to see, for from a clump of trees not far away a corpse suddenly flew up in the air, followed immediately by a magnificent roar, as if thousands of buffalo were trampling the crops and the wildflowers.
“The others just watch ....
Don’t you understand?
For them it’s fun—to see a decent murder ....
Aha,” he muttered and pretended not to see, for from a clump of trees not far away a corpse suddenly flew up in the air, followed immediately by a magnificent roar, as if thousands of buffalo were trampling the crops and the wildflowers.
The sun was dropping into the west.
The chief of police closed the window.
The chief of police closed the window.
“If you aren’t willing to catch him, I will,” the judge said, almost to himself.
“I’ll catch him and lock him up.
I’ll lock him up and constrict that broad nature of his.
I’ll constrict it and make it a little less generous.”
“I’ll catch him and lock him up.
I’ll lock him up and constrict that broad nature of his.
I’ll constrict it and make it a little less generous.”
But the chief of police merely sighed:
“Magnificent!
Magnificent!
...”
Magnificent!
...”
Skorabkowski returned to his deserted manor and, pacing through the empty rooms in his tobacco-brown dressing gown, dreamed up plans for seizing the ruffian.
The miser’s hatred of the rover gathered in strength with every minute.
Catching him, seizing him, imprisoning and somehow quietening him became an imperative need of his rather constricted mind.
In the end he decided to exploit the hellish straightforwardness of the ruffian, who would always assail his victims in a straight line, and—what was more—he also wished to exploit the excessive way in which the brigand had run rampant.
In effect Hooligan had run so rampant that he was used to everyone running away from him, and the
sight of a person who did not run away but stood still he took as a personal provocation.
Accordingly Skorabkowski ordered his butler Ksawery to walk up to a tree on a nearby hill—and when the old servant carried out his master’s command, the latter suddenly threw a chain around him and chained him to the trunk of the tree.
After this, he dug a large pit with his own hands in front of the servant, set an iron trap in the pit, and hurriedly took refuge in his house.
Dusk fell.
For a long time Ksawery laughed at the “young master’s” little jokes, but when the moon rose and illuminated the entire neighborhood as far as the distant woods on the horizon, the manservant slowly began to understand why he had been secured to a tree trunk on a hill and left so cruelly to the mercy of night’s expanses.
Dogs started to howl, and from the reeds there sounded the plaintive call of the brigand, who was beginning to yield to one of his steppe-wrought nostalgias.
And gradually the great and terrible howling “Heigh ho Maryśka, Maryśka, Maryśka,” began to surge through the night, plaintive and drunken, disheveled, limitless, seemingly unrestrained.
First the bandit howled inexorably, wildly, without tremor or curb, giving free rein to his soul; after him the tethered dogs howled—and then the people howled, timidly and anxiously, through the casements of their bolted-up cottages.
The miser’s hatred of the rover gathered in strength with every minute.
Catching him, seizing him, imprisoning and somehow quietening him became an imperative need of his rather constricted mind.
In the end he decided to exploit the hellish straightforwardness of the ruffian, who would always assail his victims in a straight line, and—what was more—he also wished to exploit the excessive way in which the brigand had run rampant.
In effect Hooligan had run so rampant that he was used to everyone running away from him, and the
sight of a person who did not run away but stood still he took as a personal provocation.
Accordingly Skorabkowski ordered his butler Ksawery to walk up to a tree on a nearby hill—and when the old servant carried out his master’s command, the latter suddenly threw a chain around him and chained him to the trunk of the tree.
After this, he dug a large pit with his own hands in front of the servant, set an iron trap in the pit, and hurriedly took refuge in his house.
Dusk fell.
For a long time Ksawery laughed at the “young master’s” little jokes, but when the moon rose and illuminated the entire neighborhood as far as the distant woods on the horizon, the manservant slowly began to understand why he had been secured to a tree trunk on a hill and left so cruelly to the mercy of night’s expanses.
Dogs started to howl, and from the reeds there sounded the plaintive call of the brigand, who was beginning to yield to one of his steppe-wrought nostalgias.
And gradually the great and terrible howling “Heigh ho Maryśka, Maryśka, Maryśka,” began to surge through the night, plaintive and drunken, disheveled, limitless, seemingly unrestrained.
First the bandit howled inexorably, wildly, without tremor or curb, giving free rein to his soul; after him the tethered dogs howled—and then the people howled, timidly and anxiously, through the casements of their bolted-up cottages.
“Young master!”
Ksawery tried to call.
“Young master!”
But a shout would have attracted the attention of the bandit, and his anxious whisper failed to reach Skorabkowski, who was closely following the course of events from his casement.
Ksawery cursed the fact that we humans cannot disappear, that we have to be exposed, though we do not want to be, though we cannot be, that
someone else can put us on view and do with us in our stead that which is beyond our strength.
The old servant cursed the
visibility
of our bodies, which is independent of us!
But the bandit was already standing, already rising from his lair, and whether he liked it or not the old man had to catch his eye—irritate his pupil—via his optic nerve penetrate to his brain ...
and now Hooligan was already taking great strides to shatter his jaw, smash his nose and breast, crush his exposed and revealed neck!
Haa!
Ahaa!
All at once he fell into the pit and was caught in the trap set by Skorabkowski, who immediately ran up and after a few hours’ labor managed to transfer the thug’s immense body to the secluded cellars of the old manor.
Ksawery tried to call.
“Young master!”
But a shout would have attracted the attention of the bandit, and his anxious whisper failed to reach Skorabkowski, who was closely following the course of events from his casement.
Ksawery cursed the fact that we humans cannot disappear, that we have to be exposed, though we do not want to be, though we cannot be, that
someone else can put us on view and do with us in our stead that which is beyond our strength.
The old servant cursed the
visibility
of our bodies, which is independent of us!
But the bandit was already standing, already rising from his lair, and whether he liked it or not the old man had to catch his eye—irritate his pupil—via his optic nerve penetrate to his brain ...
and now Hooligan was already taking great strides to shatter his jaw, smash his nose and breast, crush his exposed and revealed neck!
Haa!
Ahaa!
All at once he fell into the pit and was caught in the trap set by Skorabkowski, who immediately ran up and after a few hours’ labor managed to transfer the thug’s immense body to the secluded cellars of the old manor.
And so Hooligan was in his clutches!
And so Hooligan the brigand had been dragged into a dungeon, locked up in a cramped space, gagged, chained to a hook, at someone else’s mercy!
The appeals judge rubbed his diminutive hands and smiled composedly, after which he spent the entire night thinking up appropriate tortures.
He had no desire whatsoever to execute the roisterer—cramped, narrow and formalistic as he was, he wished to straiten and constrict his victim a little.
Death was no tasty morsel for him; all he cared about was constriction.
The retired man was in no hurry.
For the first few days he did nothing but relish the notion that he had Hooligan in his cellar—that the brigand could not roar or make a racket, for he was
gagged.
And it was only when he realized that the noisy ruffian would be unable to make any noise, that he was
quiet
—it was only then that Judge Skorabkowski plucked up the courage to go down to the cellar and in absolute silence begin his practices, aimed at constricting and diminishing.
Oh,
how quietly!
How powerful was the silence that rose from the cellars of the house and froze into stillness.
There followed weeks and months of great quiet, the quiet of unroared roars ...
And so Hooligan the brigand had been dragged into a dungeon, locked up in a cramped space, gagged, chained to a hook, at someone else’s mercy!
The appeals judge rubbed his diminutive hands and smiled composedly, after which he spent the entire night thinking up appropriate tortures.
He had no desire whatsoever to execute the roisterer—cramped, narrow and formalistic as he was, he wished to straiten and constrict his victim a little.
Death was no tasty morsel for him; all he cared about was constriction.
The retired man was in no hurry.
For the first few days he did nothing but relish the notion that he had Hooligan in his cellar—that the brigand could not roar or make a racket, for he was
gagged.
And it was only when he realized that the noisy ruffian would be unable to make any noise, that he was
quiet
—it was only then that Judge Skorabkowski plucked up the courage to go down to the cellar and in absolute silence begin his practices, aimed at constricting and diminishing.
Oh,
how quietly!
How powerful was the silence that rose from the cellars of the house and froze into stillness.
There followed weeks and months of great quiet, the quiet of unroared roars ...
And every day at seven in the evening Skorabkowski would descend into the torture chamber, wearing his tobacco brown housecoat, with little sticks or little wires in his hand.
And every night, from seven onward, the appeals judge would labor in the sweat of his brow over the voiceless villain, silently, silently ....
Silently he would approach him and to begin with would tickle him on the heel for a long, long time, so as to stimulate him to a spasmodic dainty giggle; then he would administer petty mortifications with the sticks and constrict his field of vision with the aid of boards; he would prick him with pins and show him peas, beans, and small beets ....
But the brigand did not take it silently, but
in silence.
And his silence grew, surging and thrusting through the darkness, becoming equal to his most magnificent roars—and it was in vain that the judge attempted with his own silentness to vanquish the broad silence of the bandit—and hatred filled the dungeons!
What was it that Skorabkowski actually wanted?
He wanted to change the bandit’s nature, refashion his voice, transform his broad laugh into a narrow giggle, reduce his roar to a whisper, shorten and diminish his entire figure; in a word, he wished to make him resemble himself, Skorabkowski.
With the assiduity of a tracker he sought his weak points, subjecting him to particular and terrible examinations in order to find that point
minoris resistentiae,
the weak spot through which he could properly set about the bandit.
Yet the bandit exhibited no weak spots, but only remained silent.
And every night, from seven onward, the appeals judge would labor in the sweat of his brow over the voiceless villain, silently, silently ....
Silently he would approach him and to begin with would tickle him on the heel for a long, long time, so as to stimulate him to a spasmodic dainty giggle; then he would administer petty mortifications with the sticks and constrict his field of vision with the aid of boards; he would prick him with pins and show him peas, beans, and small beets ....
But the brigand did not take it silently, but
in silence.
And his silence grew, surging and thrusting through the darkness, becoming equal to his most magnificent roars—and it was in vain that the judge attempted with his own silentness to vanquish the broad silence of the bandit—and hatred filled the dungeons!
What was it that Skorabkowski actually wanted?
He wanted to change the bandit’s nature, refashion his voice, transform his broad laugh into a narrow giggle, reduce his roar to a whisper, shorten and diminish his entire figure; in a word, he wished to make him resemble himself, Skorabkowski.
With the assiduity of a tracker he sought his weak points, subjecting him to particular and terrible examinations in order to find that point
minoris resistentiae,
the weak spot through which he could properly set about the bandit.
Yet the bandit exhibited no weak spots, but only remained silent.
Time and again it seemed to the old gentleman that in the course of his strenuous operations he had succeeded in achieving a certain constriction—but every week there would come a time of truth, and for the torturer this was a terrible moment which the wretched, tight-lipped judge feared more than anything in the world.
Because every week he had to take the gag from the bandit’s mouth in order to feed him—oh, with what numb mortal terror he would stick mountains of cotton wool in his ears, place a bowl of food before the felled thug, and with a single convulsive gesture remove the cork from his mouth.
And every time he would delude himself into hoping that despite everything he had succeeded in quietening the villain somewhat, that just maybe, this time he would not erupt ...
And every time the uncorked roisterer would burst out in an infernal orgy of shouts, curses, and roars!
“S-ing hell!
S-ing hell!”—he would roar.
“You louse!
Beat it!
Beat it!
Wait till I get my hands on you!
I’ll smash you in the mug, right in the mug ....
Me, Hooligan, S-ing hell, S-ing hell, S- your mother!
I’ll kill you!”
he would roar.
“I’ll kill you!
Marysia!
Marysia!
Where’s Marysia, heigh ho Marysia!”
And he would fill the cellar with a roar that would spread throughout the neighborhood; he would spit curses, sing songs, vent his soul; and the miserly, shrunken torturer, white as a sheet, would thrust food into his gob ...
while he roared between mouthfuls.
And the people in the local villages would repeat among themselves: “That’s Hooligan roaring!
Hooligan’s still roaring!”
After these sessions the former appeals judge would return upstairs paralyzed with fear and would go on searching for the point
minoris resistentiae.
Because every week he had to take the gag from the bandit’s mouth in order to feed him—oh, with what numb mortal terror he would stick mountains of cotton wool in his ears, place a bowl of food before the felled thug, and with a single convulsive gesture remove the cork from his mouth.
And every time he would delude himself into hoping that despite everything he had succeeded in quietening the villain somewhat, that just maybe, this time he would not erupt ...
And every time the uncorked roisterer would burst out in an infernal orgy of shouts, curses, and roars!
“S-ing hell!
S-ing hell!”—he would roar.
“You louse!
Beat it!
Beat it!
Wait till I get my hands on you!
I’ll smash you in the mug, right in the mug ....
Me, Hooligan, S-ing hell, S-ing hell, S- your mother!
I’ll kill you!”
he would roar.
“I’ll kill you!
Marysia!
Marysia!
Where’s Marysia, heigh ho Marysia!”
And he would fill the cellar with a roar that would spread throughout the neighborhood; he would spit curses, sing songs, vent his soul; and the miserly, shrunken torturer, white as a sheet, would thrust food into his gob ...
while he roared between mouthfuls.
And the people in the local villages would repeat among themselves: “That’s Hooligan roaring!
Hooligan’s still roaring!”
After these sessions the former appeals judge would return upstairs paralyzed with fear and would go on searching for the point
minoris resistentiae.
Other books
Blood by Lawrence Hill
Dirty Harry 03 - The Long Death by Dane Hartman
Trailer Trashed: My Dubious Efforts Toward Upward Mobility by Hollis Gillespie
Forever After (Montana Brides) by Leeanna Morgan
The Enemy Inside by Steve Martini
The Long Hot Summer by Mary Moody
A Victorian New York Romance by Celeste Rane
Rumpole and the Angel of Death by John Mortimer
