Where the Devil Can't Go (2 page)

Janusz stood to greet his friend and, without thinking, put out his hand. Oskar roared with laughter and, ignoring it, embraced his mate in a full bear hug, kissing him on alternate cheeks three times. Janusz cleared his throat: between Poles the effusive greeting was no big deal, but after two decades in England, it made him squirm.

Oskar put a hand on one hip and mimicked an effete handshake as he sat down. “You’ve been in England too long, mate. Soon you’ll be wanting to fuck with men!” He chuckled delightedly at his joke.

Janusz smiled wearily. He loved Oskar like a wayward kid brother – a friendship that dated back to their first day of military service in 1980 – but he could be a pain in the ass. He could picture it still. A rainy day behind the barbed wire of Camp 117 in the Kashubian Lakeland, and the line of new conscripts, heads newly-shorn and uniforms at least two sizes too big, looking more like bedraggled baby birds than soldiers. He felt a flare of anger. At seventeen, he and Oskar –
all
those young men – should have been full of hope. Instead, all they’d had to look forward to had been was endless months training for the threat of invasion by Western imperialist forces – and then what? Martial law, curfews and rationing... the dreary
realpolitik
of the socialist dream.

Oskar waved a pudgy hand at the table where his dawdling workers had sat. “Seriously though,” he said. “These kids don’t know how easy their life is these days. Do they have any idea what site work was like here in the Eighties? 12-hour shifts, no ‘
health and safety
’. Never mind an hour off for lunch, we didn’t even get a fucking tea break.”

Janusz grunted his agreement. “And if you wanted goggles or ear defenders, you had to buy them yourself,” he said, tearing apart a piece of bread.

Oskar used his sleeve to wipe a porthole in the condensation of the window and peered out at the traffic. “Remember that
chuj
,” he mused, “The Paddy foreman on the M25 job – the guy who treated us like dogs?”

“The one whose thermos you pissed in?” asked Janusz, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, that’s the one,” said Oskar, a beatific grin spreading across his chubby face.

“Fuck your mother,” he said, peering at Janusz’s plate, “What is that shit you’re eating?” – then, to the girl who had just arrived to take his order – “The
bigos
for me, too, darling. It looks delicious.”

After she had left, Janusz finished his last mouthful and pushed the plate away. “Too much paprika, perhaps, and the duck was a little overcooked, but not bad,” he said with a judicious nod. He pulled out his box of cigars, then, remembering the crazy no-smoking laws, reached for a toothpick instead.

“Listen Oskar, I still want the booze, but I’ve got a problem. Any chance of you waiting a couple of weeks for the cash?”

Oskar, mouth full of good rye bread, mumbled: “Don’t tell me – that donkey Slawek made a
kutas
of you?”

He helped himself to a slurp of Janusz’s lemon tea, shaking his head. “I can stand you half a dozen cases, mate, but not much more than that. I’ve got no slack right now.” A secret smile crept along his lips, “I just sent five hundred home so Madam can buy a new living room carpet.”

“I thought you were saving up so you could go home for good?” said Janusz. “You’ll be here forever if you let Gosia spend all your
smalz
on carpets.”

Oskar belched philosophically: “Like my father used to say: ‘The woman cries before the wedding; the man after.’”

The girl put a plate of
bigos
in front of Oskar, whose eyes rounded with childlike greed. “Duck!” he exclaimed indistinctly through his first mouthful.

Ever since Janusz had known him, Oskar had worked like a navvie to support Gosia and the kids. They had slogged together through the night building motorway bridges in the Eighties – back-breaking twelve hour shifts – but come next day’s rush hour, when Janusz was still in bed, Oskar would be standing in a lay-by on the A4, flogging hothouse roses to motorists heading home. Even now, alongside his job as foreman for one of the biggest Olympic site contractors, he still found time for what he called his ‘beverage import business’.

It amounted to half a dozen clapped-out Transit vans that plied the cross-channel ferry routes, bringing in cases of cheap booze and cartons of cigarettes to sell on to traders like Janusz. The bottles of spirits ended up on optics in private clubs where no one questioned the ‘NOT FOR RESALE’ label, especially since the bottles carried another, reassuring promise: ‘EXPORT STRENGTH’.

“Listen,” said Oskar, with a mischievous look, “If you’re short of cash, I could always get you a shift on the site”. Dropping his fork he grabbed Janusz’s hand, and turning it over to check the palm, chuckled. “
Kurwa
! All this ‘
wheeling and dealing
’” – he used the English phrase – “gave you hands like a schoolgirl’s! You wouldn’t last five minutes on a real job.” He scooped up another tottering forkful of bigos, “You want to come over later, watch some football?”

“I can’t tonight,” said Janusz. “I’ve got a ticket for a lecture at the Royal Institute – one of the physicists from the CERN project.”

Oskar frowned. “That big metal doughnut in Switzerland – the one that keeps blowing a fuse?” he asked. “Something to do with the First Bang?”

Janusz nodded – it was easier.

“They say the universe will collapse one day, you know,” said Oskar, adopting a scholarly air. He clapped his hands to demonstrate: “
Pfouff!
down to the size of a beachball.” Before he could offer any further cosmological insights, the café door rattled open to admit three lanky buzz-cut youngsters, dwarfed by their rucksacks. Their loud voices exuded confidence, but the way the trio hung close together, shoulders almost touching, told the real story. First-timers, thought Janusz, straight off the 0830 Ryanair flight from Warsaw. When the tallest one spotted Oskar his relief was palpable.

Joining the men at their table, the boys greeted them politely. Oskar balled his checked napkin and after wiping the grease from his lips, punched out a number on his mobile.

“
Czesc
, Wassily, you old hedgehog-fucker,” he bellowed. “You still looking for ground-breakers? I’ve got three beauties for you – real musclemen.” He winked at Janusz. The youngsters exchanged apprehensive glances, shrugged. “I’ll bring them over now.”

Oskar levered himself up from the table on powerful arms with a sigh. “Some of us have man’s work to do,” he told Janusz. “I’ll put your name on a dozen cases,
kolego
, but if you can get cash for more by tomorrow, let me know.”

Oskar departed, trailed by his clutch of new recruits, but at the café’s threshold he turned.

“Remember what we used to say when we were skinny-arsed conscripts shivering in the barracks?” he shouted to Janusz. ‘Life is like toilet paper...’”

Janusz finished the saying for him “...very long and full of crap.”

. . .

The rectangle of oak slid open and Janusz bent his head to the aperture.

“I present myself before the Holy Confession, for I have offended God.”

He shifted in his creaking seat and coughed, a bassy smoker’s rumble. Through the wire mesh, he could make out Father Piotr Pietruzki’s reassuring profile, topped by his unruly shock of white hair.

“It has been, uh, three months since my last confession,” he said.

“Six,
faktycznie
,” corrected the priest. “I did hope that we would see you at Midnight Mass, at least.”

“I’m sorry, father. I’ve had a lot of...business to attend to.”

Unconsciously, he clenched his right hand, stretching the grazed knuckles white.

The priest tugged at his earlobe – it was a familiar gesture, but whether it signalled resignation, or exasperation, Janusz never could tell. He felt a surge of affection for the old guy: Father Piotr had always looked out for him, from that first morning more than two decades ago when he’d showed up here after a 48-hour bender, rain-soaked, wild-eyed, and stinking of
wodka
.

Back then, before every inner-city high street had its own
Polski Sklep
, homesick Poles had beat a path to St Stanislaus, hidden away down an Islington back street. English Catholic churches, all modern steel and concrete, were unappealing, but St Stan’s was solid, nineteenth century, its stone structure curvaceous as a mother’s cheek, and since the
masa
was conducted in Polish it had felt almost like being at home. And the shop in its crypt where you could buy real
kielbasa
, cheesecake and plums in chocolate, didn’t hurt either.

These days he wasn’t even sure he still believed in all the mumbo jumbo, so why did he still come? Partly, he supposed, because the Church felt like the last remaining pillar of the old Poland, a place where respect and honour were valued above all else. Or maybe because he’d never forget how Father Piotr had found the drunken boy a bed, fed him lemon tea, and later on, put him in touch with a foreman looking for site labourers.

Even if it meant the old bastard never got off his case.

“Have there been any recent incidents of violence?” asked the priest.

“One scumbag who was beating his wife. She came to me for help.”

“And?”

“I like to help women. I helped her. He decided to get another hobby,” Janusz shrugged, pressing a smile from his lips. Better not to mention the woman in question was his girlfriend.

The older man sighed. It was never straightforward with this one: his methods might be unsanctionable, but his instincts were often sound.

“Anything else to trouble your immortal soul?” Janusz detected a trace of sarcasm.

“Sins of the flesh, father.” A sudden image: a rumpled bed, the rosy S of a woman’s naked back, Kasia’s, framed by an oblong of light. “The normal things.”

“These ‘things’ are
not
normalnie
. You are a married man: that sacrament is
indissoluble!
” – the priest actually rapped out each syllable with his knuckles on the mesh.

The old fellow had – unusually for him – raised his voice, stirring up a little rush of whispers from outside the box, where, Janusz knew, a bevy of old dears would be waiting to confess their imagined sins. Maybe the priest was right, but what was he supposed to do? He and Marta had read the last rites over their marriage long ago, and he wasn’t cut out to be a monk.

“Yes, father,” Janusz bowed his head a fraction. The exchange didn’t alter much with the years. It was a pain, yes, to be lectured, but like the church’s smell – incense, spent candlewicks and ancient dust – it was strangely comforting, too.

“I know you and Marta have been estranged for many years”, Father Pietruzki continued, his voice lower, but still firm. “Nonetheless, you
must
try again – for the sake of the boy, at least. Build some bridges with her, hmm?”

Janusz moved his head in a gesture that he hoped might pass for assent. The priest waited for something less ambiguous – in vain.

“Say three Hail Mary’s and the act of contrition”, he said, blessing Janusz with his right hand, “And I’ll meet you at The Eagle in half an hour”.

Janusz stood and stooped to leave the box, the step loosing off a gunshot crack. The ladies outside rustled with excitement, like birds disturbed at their roost.

“
Dzien dobry, Panie
,” he bowed, recognising many of the faces. They chirped greetings back, but one, sitting in the middle of the pew, grasped his arm as he tried to pass.

There was no escape. Pani Rulewska’s upright posture and the deference of the other women marked her out as their leader, even though she was in her late fifties, a good couple of decades their junior. He paused, bowing his head a fraction.

She wore a dark red skirt suit of some rich, soft material, which even he could see was beautifully tailored. He recalled that she owned a designer clothes factory in the East End, and never let anyone forget that a gown created by her Polish seamstresses had once graced the shoulders of Princess Diana.

“Now, Panie Kiszko, I hope that we can count on your support in the forthcoming patriotic event?” she demanded in her rather grating voice.

Patriotic event? He felt a flutter of panic, like he was eight years old again, and unable to remember the next line of his catechism.

“The election?” she prompted. “The older people, of course, can be relied on, but the youngsters, the ones here, they are another matter. They are away from home and family, they are led astray by
straszne
English habits. Drinking, sex, drugs...” Pani Rulewska shook her head. “This is no longer the England we once loved.”

The other women bobbed their heads, murmuring assent. He nodded, too, and not entirely out of politeness: the England he’d found a quarter of a century ago might have been duller and greyer, but hadn’t it also been gentler, and more civilised? Or am I just getting old and cantankerous? he wondered.

“You are known, and respected – mostly...’ she qualified. “You can reach the young ones, tell them how the new president will rebuild the country and give them all jobs back home where they belong.”

Despite Janusz’s instinctive distrust of politicians, The Renaissance Party candidate did seem to offer Poland a way out of the predicament it found itself in after twenty years of democracy. Sure, the economy had bounced back after decades of Communist mismanagement, but there still weren’t enough well-paid jobs to prevent the exodus of a million or more young people overseas, most of them to the UK. The country’s graceful Hapsburgian squares were fast disappearing beneath a deluge of fast food chains and gangs of stag-partying Brits, and unless Poland’s exiled generation could be lured back home soon, he feared for his country’s identity.

Janusz liked the
Partia Renasans
’ big idea, a massive regeneration programme to create jobs and attract the exiles home – and the way it reunited the alliance of the Church, unions, and intelligentsia, which in the Eighties had defeated the Communist regime under the Solidarity banner. The Party had already won the
Sejm
and the Senate, and now its leader, Edward Zamorski – a respected veteran of
Solidarnosc
, a man who’d endured repeated incarceration and beatings during the fight for democracy – looked set to become President.