Nine (27 page)

As they went back up, by Tamka, Syl took Iron Man by the arm. Embarrassed, he walked with his elbow elegantly stiff.

“It's just to begin with,” she said. “I'll get used to it soon.” They turned on Dobra, and she looked for a cab. At the stand a white Tempra came by. Syl waved; the cab pulled over, and the girl pulled Iron Man.

“Come on. We're going back, aren't we?”

He gestured to the cabbie to drive on. He freed his arm and started patting his pockets for cigarettes, but instead of a pack he took out the bottle top from the Królewskie. He examined it, turned it in his fingers like a coin, put it away again.

“We're not going back,” he said finally.

He reached into his pocket again and pulled out his wallet. Took from it everything that was left. Thought for a moment, kept the small change, gave Syl the hundred-zloty bill. She took it unthinkingly, crumpled it in her hand.

“What?” she said.

“That's what Bolek said. I mean, he told me to tell you that you should go home.”

In the distance, a local crossed the railroad bridge into Praga. The sound reached them with an unreal delay.

“That's how it is sometimes.” He wanted to add something, but his head was empty, so he just raised a hand. She moved to the side, helpless. He turned and set off toward Old Town, but he didn't take Dobra, instead turning on Tamka and then into Topiel, as if he were covering his tracks. A wind had started up, and now there were clouds over Å»erań.

 

This time he took the Wybrzeże Helskie and for a moment saw the red humps of the camels over the fence. Again he thought it was time to have a son. He saw Irina's broad hips. “Her breasts too,” he said to himself with a smile. To the left, the Vistula sparkled like brocade. Out of the corner of his eye, the brick spire of Our Lady's. “I'll take her to Old Town,” he decided. “Lots of culture, monuments, the royal castle—they don't have those things where she's from.” He wondered if they ever had a king. He remembered the Kremlin, recently on television. It looked like a high-security prison. “Not like here—everything's
flashy, turrets, a clock with gold hands. We'll go to Old Town, leave the car, take a walk, some nice place to eat, not a bar, with tablecloths and candles, and a menu in Polish and English.”

Approaching Gdański Station, he recalled Winniczek and his tin shack in the middle of a field by the river, selling only beer and sausage. “How could anyone live like that?” he wondered, turning. “Going to work, leaving work, a beer on a windy patch of bare earth, and on top of that the cops checking ID like everyone was a derelict.” The Beamer exited the curve with an agreeable swish. He lowered the driver's window and spat in the direction of the Golędzinów barracks. The water cannon idle. “Pricks,” he thought but without hatred. Since he'd begun working for Mr. Max, he stopped taking them into account. “Don't you worry about them,” Mr. Max would repeat, “worry about the work.” A few young guys in T-shirts and combat pants playing volleyball. At Stalingradzka he let an 18 tram pass, waited politely till the light was amber, turned left. He was in a hurry but at the same time no hurry. In the left lane, but the needle settling at seventy. A red Twingo honked. At any other time, he would have raged, but now didn't even look in the mirror. The little car overtook him with disdain. He checked to the right, changed lanes. Kotsisa came up right away so he pulled off, found a spot between a baby Fiat and a Skoda, and parked. He took out his cell phone, dialed the first three numbers of the hotel, and lost his nerve. A teenager on a skateboard went past. He reached into his inside pocket and took out a hip flask. He sat with the phone in one hand, the flask in the other. “I'll have a drink, then make the call. No, I'll call first, then have a drink.” He went with the tried and true: had a drink, waited for it to kick in, dialed the number, closed his eyes.

 

Five minutes later, the Beamer shot out on Stalingradzka in a squeal of tires. He heard horns but didn't bother to look. Second and floor it, third and floor it, and in the distance, the viaducts already. The first drops of rain on the windshield. He whistled a mixture of Kalinka and Katyusha, entered the shade of the viaduct doing well over sixty. The way ahead was empty, smooth, and straight. He could see the road like metal as it climbed to the bridge over the canal.

The woman appeared out of nowhere. Dressed in white, walking at the crosswalk by the bus stop, carrying a little plastic basket with a handle. He honked, but she must have been deaf, she didn't even turn her head. He hit the brake, obscenities spilling from his lips like prayer. He felt the Beamer fishtail, so he took his foot off the pedal and straightened a little, but had to brake again, because the white figure loomed, larger than the car now, like a cloud about to engulf.

He felt nothing, merely saw the red plastic basket high in the air, and as he watched, the car gave a jolt, a network of cracks appeared on the windshield, and everything stopped. Except the basket, which rolled across the asphalt and bounced on the curb. A striped cat came out of it, tried to walk, but couldn't move its hind legs.

 

It seemed to be greenery. Vegetable gardens, Skaryszewski Park, Praski Park, or the bushes along the riverbank. It moved with a rustle, was moist, and glistened as if after rain. Crossings, passageways, paths led into a safe labyrinth of meadows repeatedly surrounded by trees. The grass swayed in the wind, making the whole picture sway like a reflection in water. She tried to breathe evenly and deeply. Outlines again filled the blackness, and they were followed by colors. She feared that her strength
would fail her and the dark would sweep her into a well. The dark, dense, came from the walls, furniture, floor; the mattress was soaked with it, and it left a cold slick on her palm. Sometimes the greenery opened up and covered all the places she knew and could remember. Kijowska disappeared, Targowa disappeared, so did the dirty river, and Downtown with all its skyscrapers and its endless streams of cars, people mad for lack of sleep, the underground whine of the metro, the apocalyptic jets and the electric horizon, as if none of it had ever existed. She felt the rough bedding and was overcome, because she couldn't remember a thing. At least the two were still there, she could hear their conversation and the everyday bustle in the kitchen. “It means they don't know where to go,” she told herself. Relief swept over her like sleep, and the kitchen sounds recalled the morning noise at home when her mother was getting ready to leave for work and she could spend another hour in bed. She would curl up and doze before the alarm went off. From time to time opening her eyes to check the minute hand. The ticking loud and distinct. Morning slipped in through the half-open window: the clatter of crates, the rattle of bottles. Delivery vans driving up to the stores. The banter of the drivers and shopgirls. In the early, clear air, the sounds were resonant, and it seemed to her that the world was so large, it had room for everything. She would close her eyes to make the clock disappear. She would move her hand in the bedding to find a pocket of cold. When she found one, she would press her shoulder into it, her chest, trying to fit her entire body in it, until the cold was gone and she could start the game all over again.

 

Rain began to fall on Marszałkowska. Big drops hit the black roof and broke with a dry crack. They smiled at each other and
shrugged, because everything around them was a joke they didn't get. A moment later, the downpour, and they crawled in search of shelter, but there was nothing but antennas, ventilation ducts, superstructures for elevators.

“Is there anything electrical up here?” asked Paweł.

“I don't think so. In the city it's all done with cables, underground.”

“There could be lightning.”

“Not in April.”

“I didn't know that,” said Paweł, and heard the city below go silent. He leaned back against a concrete wall. The rain penetrated his clothes, ran down his skin. The skyscrapers had disappeared behind a gray curtain of rain, and it was like being stuck on a strange, black, gleaming island. The rain intensified and blinded them completely. They moved closer to feel each other's touch.

 

At exactly this time the blond man came into the kitchen. Luśka closed the door behind him, then went and turned on the sink faucet. She took the dishwashing liquid, squeezed some onto his hands. He washed them for a long time, thoroughly, almost to the elbows, rinsed them off, put more liquid on, and rinsed again. She handed him a tea towel. He dried his hands and reached for the phone. He looked out the window toward East Station, which was not visible, and patiently dialed.

“Maybe it's because of the rain,” said Luśka.

“That has nothing to do with it.”

He tried again, and again, then put the phone back on the windowsill. Kijowska was hazy deserted, cut in two by the tram tracks like a fish along its spine. Beyond, nothing but the quivering gray of the rain.

“The fat bastard,” said the blond man. “He's never there when you need him.” He put the cell phone in his pocket, turned from the window, looked at Luśka.

“She doesn't weigh much. The car's right outside.”

“I'll look for something for the rain,” she replied.

“Find something for her too. For appearances.”

The girl went into the hall, and the blond man looked at the station again. Thoughts came, and they fitted perfectly. He checked that his keys were in his pocket. He pressed the button on the remote and wondered if his wet car had responded.

“OK. We can go,” he heard from the door.

 

In the late afternoon it stopped raining, and the sun came out above the overpasses around the bus terminus. The shadows below were black, but the light was the purest gold. The power plant shone, the asphalt gleamed, the facade of the drab church was aflame, its iron railing too. The priest in his black jacket and black shirt locked the church door, walked down the steps, and closed the gate behind him. He was carrying a briefcase. Tiny bits of glass crunched under his feet. He slowed and looked around, but there was nothing. It was only when the cars pulled up at the light that he heard a faint noise. On the wet earth next to the sidewalk, in last year's grass, a dull-colored cat. Trying to move. The priest put his briefcase on the ground and went to the animal. He took it gingerly in his arms, picked up the briefcase, and headed back to the church.

 

A
NDRZEJ
S
TASIUK
deserted from the Polish army under Communism, was sent to prison, and there began his writing career. He is the author of thirteen books—short stories, plays, poetry, and novels—and in 2005 he won the NIKE Award, Poland's most important literary prize. He lives in the Carpathian Mountains.