Field Study (19 page)

The farmer drives steadily, the road widens, cars overtake them. Ewa wonders if Marek tells his sons about strikes and solidarity and life in the underground, or if he prefers not to. They are out of the countryside now, but not yet in the city. All along the roadside are warehouses, car parks. Places to buy wood, furniture, VCRs and garden tools. Perhaps the farmer has stories to tell his daughter: about her grandfather’s land maybe, about the collectivisation and the spirit of 1989, or what the country looked like before there were superstores and DIY. She always liked hearing about the past herself, wonders if the girl next to her does, if she wants to be a farmer at all, or rather a petrol-station attendant or a dental assistant.

Ewa doesn’t tell Jacek stories. Realises she has never tried, and now that she thinks about it, she is not sure what she has to say.
We wanted it to change and then it did.
Not much else comes to mind. She says:

– I hated Russian lessons. German, English are much more useful.

A statement out of nothing after such a long silence, and Ewa can see in the wing-mirror that she is blushing.

__

The farmer drops her at an underground station, and she
rattles along the dark blue line until she can change to the green and make her way to Piotr’s neighbourhood. The train runs on elevated tracks above the traffic, level with the windows in the flats that line the wide city street. Balconies full of flowers and bicycles, graffiti, peeling paintwork. The stations are announced in a calm, automated voice. Ewa gets out one stop early and walks. Dark-haired, dark-eyed children play on the streets; women stand in small groups laughing, wearing headscarves, long coats, and Ewa can’t understand what they say, but it doesn’t sound like German. Arabic, Turkish, perhaps. In the shop windows there are half moons and stars, red Turkish flags.

Ewa finds a café, orders by pointing at one of the large bowls of milky coffee being drunk at the next table. After the waitress has gone, she worries about how much it will cost, and finds a menu, tries to read it. Thinks she recognises the word and that she will have to pay a fair amount of what she has in her pocket, but still she is not certain. Wonders how Piotr managed, if he can speak German now, how quickly he learnt it. Last time she was here she got by without speaking to anyone. When Adela was in Krakow, she had a boyfriend who now works on a building site here. She says he’s been in Berlin two years and can’t speak a word. Doesn’t need to, stays amongst his own, the legions of legal-illegal Polish men rebuilding the old-new capital.

Ewa thinks, this was West Berlin, and that it doesn’t look so different from the area she was in last time she came.
But then Paula had told her this is where all the hippies and immigrants live. Go out to the suburbs, she said, endless houses with double-garages, that’s the real Berlin-West. Ewa opens her map out on the table, finds where she is now, where she was two weeks ago, figures the river must be somewhere behind the houses over her left shoulder. Already some things are familiar, the sound of the yellow trains, the warm damp-and-bread smell in the underground stations. The high tenements, uneven paving on the roads, small children sitting on bicycle seats in front of their parents. She can see why people like it here, why Piotr would want to stay, but he couldn’t have known about any of this before, so it doesn’t explain why he came.

__

Four names on the buzzer, none of them Piotr’s, none of them even Polish. But this is the second floor, just as Marta had directed, the door on the right as you come up the stairs. She wonders as she rings the bell whether Marta may have warned him. Your wife came to see me. You never said you had a kid.

After the bell there is quiet, and Ewa experiences a brief moment of panic. But then come footsteps and there is no time left for worry or doubt. The door is open and just inside is a face, both familiar and unfamiliar.

– Hello.

– Ewa.

– Hello.

A little fatter, this face, softer, hair a little longer. It makes Ewa’s throat ache. Piotr looks tired. He wears jeans and T-shirt, slippers, and his hands are damp, covered in suds.

– Can I come in?

Ewa smiles, her mouth, throat, chest hurt. Piotr doesn’t say anything or move, and Ewa is aware of how calm she must seem, stepping past him into the hallway where a vacuum cleaner stands plugged in, hose discarded on the floor beside it. The kitchen door is open and she can see dishes piled high on the side, soapy water in the sink, and above it a clock showing ten past three. Ewa tries swallowing, to shift the ache a little lower. There seems endless space down there for it to occupy. She can feel herself drifting a little, there in the hall. The motorway journey in the loud van, she thinks, or maybe this hollow body feeling is what you get seeing your husband again after such a long time.

He has not shaved. The stubble on his chin is darker than his hair, more red than blond and stronger than she remembers. When he left he had just turned twenty-three. Strange to think that his body has been changing, thickening, ageing, when he is still so young. Her hair colour has changed many times over the years, thanks to Dorota, but Ewa thinks there must be other, new things about her, and perhaps Piotr can see them. She turns to
check, and he is looking at her. She blinks, and then he says:

– You got my letters?

That empty-ache feeling again.

– I got three letters from your lawyer. The papers.

– You have them with you now?

– No. I don’t.

The flat is large. Ewa counts four rooms off the wide hallway, and there is a corridor at the far end which leads round a corner. Piotr sees her looking.

– It’s just me at home. The others are working.

Ewa waits, but he doesn’t say who the others are. Friends, flatmates, lovers.

– You’re cleaning.

– It’s my turn. Do you want coffee?

__

When they were younger, they spent their summers at the river. Always, from May to September. The last one was after Jacek was born, and Piotr would join them there in the evenings, after he finished working. Animated talk on the riverbank with friends, the election results debated and celebrated under the late summer sun. Cigarettes and dry-sour red wine from Bulgaria; old tractor inner-tubes inflated, floated out onto the slow-flowing water; she and Piotr lying together, feet and hands dipping into the river;
drifting through the cool evenings; Jacek, their long baby boy, lying across their bellies.

Ewa remembers this now, in Piotr’s Berlin kitchen. Thinks that was the last time when they were really together. The last time when everything seemed possible: the wall dividing this city had not yet fallen, but in their country, things were already moving.

Two years later he was gone. Was it just not fast enough for him?

__

Piotr stands when he hears the key in the door, hands hovering, eyes fixed on the hallway, and Ewa has to resist the urge to stand as well when she hears a German voice call.

– Hello! It’s me. Piotr?

– Here.

He is at the kitchen door already, before the woman in the hallway has called his name. She steps into view, holds out an arm to him in greeting, and now Ewa stands, too. She is a little taller than Piotr, long dark hair loose, tucked behind her ears. Her face is broad and clear, she is smiling, and tries not to stop when Piotr introduces them.

– Nicole, Ewa, Nicole.

No explanations. Ewa smiles back at the German woman,
but none of them can find a way to break the silence which follows. Ewa can smell the coffee boiling on the stove, the washing-up water, the cool smell of the afternoon outside which the German woman has brought in with her. She hears her ask Piotr out into the hall.

Their voices stay low and calm, and it is brief, their conversation. Ewa doesn’t know what they say to each other, but she sees how the flush spreads across the skin on the German woman’s neck. Shocking red. How she puts a hand up to cover it.
Nicole
.

She doesn’t look at Piotr as he pulls his jacket on, turns away and walks into one of the rooms off the hallway. Ewa is still standing in the kitchen, sees Nicole disappear, hears the door closing. Piotr takes hold of Ewa’s elbow and then they are out in the stairwell, and down, at the front door. He looks straight ahead, walks fast, crosses one road, and then another. Ewa has to jog to keep up.

– Where are we going?

He doesn’t answer immediately.

– I don’t know.

He drops his pace. They come to a corner, a junction with the wide road where the traffic runs on either side of the elevated railway. They walk along more slowly, following the line of the tracks, with the sun behind them. Late afternoon, cool but clear; shopkeepers pack away their crates of aubergines and apples, people sit outside the
pavement cafés with their coats on, faces turned to the sun’s last rays.

Piotr starts a few explanations. He wants to study; he will have to save some money, but thinks it might be possible here. Bicycle bells ring them to the other side of the pavement and they jump into line, walk in single file for a while. Piotr ahead, Ewa aware of the paving stones beneath her shoes, the gritty feel of the pale dusting of sand, just as she’d imagined. The walkway widens again, Piotr drops back beside her, and now she can ask him:

– What do you want to be then?

– A nurse. For old people, I think. I’m not quite sure yet.

He looks uncomfortable, Ewa doesn’t know why. Perhaps because she is surprised.

– I did some work like that before, I was good at it, I think. It’s how I met Nicole. I worked for her family, took care of her grandfather until he died.

Piotr frowns and Ewa is aware now that she is staring at him. She looks at the path ahead.

– Sorry.

A nurse
. Not what she had expected; but it is a good idea, sensible. At home, he’d worked at the factory, like so many others, until it closed. She had never thought to ask him what he actually wanted to do. Be with her, is what she’d presumed. And Jacek.

– What do you do now?

He avoids eye contact.

– You’re not working?

– I was. But Nicole. It’s illegal and she doesn’t want me to get caught, get sent back.

– So she supports you.

– Just for now.

Ewa is quiet. All the restaurants they pass have chalkboards outside and it’s written all over them.
Spargel, spargel
. Asparagus, asparagus. With potatoes and butter. Wrapped in bacon. German asparagus with Italian ham. Some even have the name of the village on them, the farm where she is working.

– She’s a teacher.

Grew up here, he says, in the east of the city, works in a primary school in one of the western suburbs. Ewa stops at the next chalkboard.

– Let’s eat something. You can buy me dinner.

She is surprised at herself, her tone of voice, but Piotr doesn’t argue, just finds them a table outside on the wide pavement, under the trees. It is busy and the waiter ignores them, so Piotr gets up to fetch a menu and Ewa looks up and around. The branches above her are thick with leaves, the heavy smell of their greenish blossom. The elevated track runs behind them and Ewa catches
yellow flashes: glimpses of colour as a train passes. She watches the carriages tilt and slow as the tracks follow the curve of the road. She is not sure what she wants to say to Piotr now and thinks, briefly, about leaving, getting on one of the overhead trains, then out of the city. But Piotr is back, with bottles of beer from inside, and a menu, which he starts to translate for Ewa.

– It’s okay, I know what I want. Asparagus.

– Yes?

– I’ve been cutting it for weeks, I want to eat some.

– It’s good here. They cook it well. With potatoes is best, traditional.

– You come here a lot?

– Sometimes.

She thinks about his modest life, his shy girlfriend. Qualification, a steady career path, a reasonable apartment, the occasional meal in a mid-price restaurant. It doesn’t seem so different from lives led in Krakow, Gdansk, Wrocław; not so different from the life she wants, either, with the exception that he sees his life without her.
Things have improved at home you know, since you left us
, she wants to object, but so much about him is different, so much she hadn’t expected, that Ewa feels her protest vanish, even before she’s made it. Just like her country, she thinks: trying hard but still left behind somehow.
Is that how he sees it?
She doesn’t want to cry, can’t even feel angry. Thinks maybe that will all come later, and the thought is a little frightening.

– And Jacek is fine?

Ewa thinks she can hear the answer he wants in his question.

– Yes, he’s fine.

She waits, but Piotr doesn’t seem to have more to ask about their son, and so Ewa talks to cover the silence, her disappointment.

– He does well in school. Doesn’t work hard enough, but he’s clever. A bit wild sometimes, but I like that. I didn’t bring a photo. Sorry.

– That’s okay.

Piotr takes a sip of his beer, looks at her across the table.

– I’ll send you money for him, Ewa. Soon as I start earning.

He holds eye contact, the promise is sincere but the moment uncomfortable. Ewa picks up her beer and drinks, too. The ache in her throat is back and she wants to swallow it. She needs the money, of course, but to Ewa the promise feels like second best, humiliation. Not what she came for.

She doesn’t say anything, can only think how Dorota will react when she tells her: a sarcastic demand, probably, for Piotr’s statement in writing. And then their food comes, and with it a moment’s grace to think of a response, while the waiter lays the plates on the table.
Be pragmatic, be like
Dorota.
Ewa calculates: this meal will cost about the same as a week’s rent, and if Piotr sends them that every month, she and Jacek can move, and she won’t have to sleep in the kitchen. But then the waiter says he is changing shifts and could they please pay up front, and Piotr takes so long to find enough to cover the bill, searching through his pockets, that Ewa abandons her pragmatics again. Pushes at the long white spears on her plate instead, picks up her fork and crushes a potato. She doesn’t look at Piotr. Doesn’t move to try her own pockets, knows she has just about enough for the train fare back in borrowed money. She will not tell Dorota about this, says to herself,
doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter
. They have got by so far without him and it will just have to go on that way.