B005GEZ23A EBOK (22 page)

Suddenly Henia slipped into the living room.

She didn’t notice me—she walked over to Vaclav—she sat
by him, quietly. As if—suggesting reconciliation. She was undoubtedly polite (I didn’t see it clearly). Conciliatory. Affable. Meek. Helpless perhaps. Forlorn. What was this? What was this? Could she too have had enough … of that other stuff … was she scared, did she want to back out, looking for support from her fiance, his help? She sat by him politely, without a word, leaving all the initiative to him, which meant: “You have me, so now do something with us.” Vaclav didn’t budge—he didn’t move a finger.

Like a frog, motionless. I had no idea what raged within him. Pride? Jealousy? Umbrage? Or did he simply feel awkward not knowing what to do with her—while I wanted to scream, oh, that he would at least embrace her, place his hand on her, his salvation depended on it! The last resort! His hand on her would have regained masculinity, and I would have jumped to it with my hands, and everything would have somehow resolved itself! Brute force—brute force in the living room. Yet nothing. Time was passing. He didn’t stir. And this was suicide—a flop—a flop—a flop—and the girl rose, walked away … and I followed her.

Supper was served, during which, because of Madame Maria, we turned to casual conversation. After supper I again didn’t know what to do with myself, one would think that in the hours preceding a murder there would be a lot to do, yet not one of us did anything, everyone dispersed … perhaps because the deed that was to take place had such a secret, drastic
character. Fryderyk? Where was Fryderyk? He too had disappeared, and his disappearance suddenly blinded me, as if a blindfold had been placed over my eyes, I didn’t know what had happened, I had to find him, right now, right away—I began my search. I went outside. Rain was in the air, hot humidity, the wind rose at times and whirled about in the garden, then calmed down. I walked into the garden almost groping, guessing at the paths with a boldness that a step into the unseen necessitates, from time to time a familiar silhouette of a tree or a shrub announced that everything is as it should be, that I am where I expect to be. Yet I discovered that I was not at all prepared for the garden’s immutability and that it rather surprised me. … I would have been less surprised if the garden had become topsy-turvy in the dark. This thought set me tossing about like a small boat on the open sea and I realized that I had already lost sight of land. Fryderyk wasn’t there. I ventured as far as the islands, this venturing clouded my perception and every tree, every bush, crawling out in front of me became a fantasticality, attacking me—since even though they all were as they were, they
could have been
different. Fryderyk? Fryderyk? I needed him urgently. Without him everything was incomplete. Where was he hiding? What was he doing? I was returning to the house to look for him again when I happened upon him in the shrubs in front of the kitchen. He whistled like an urchin. He seemed displeased at my arrival, and even, possibly, somewhat embarrassed.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I’m racking my brains.”

“About what?”

“About this.”

He pointed to the window of the pantry. At the same time he showed me something in his open hand. A key to the pantry. “Now we can talk,” he said freely and in a full voice. “Letters are superfluous. She … you know … well … nature … she won’t play tricks on us any more, because things have gone too far, the situation is clearly defined … No need to tiptoe! …” He was saying this in a strange way. Something peculiar radiated from him. Innocence? Sanctity? Purity? And, clearly, he had ceased to be afraid. He broke off a branch and threw it to the ground—at another time he would have wondered three times over whether to throw it or not to throw it. … “I brought this key with me,” he added, “to force a solution on myself. As far as … that Skuziak is concerned.”

“And so? Have you thought of something?”

“Indeed.”

“May I ask what?”

“For the present … not yet … You’ll see it at the appropriate moment. Or rather. I’ll tell you now. Here you are.”

He brought out his other hand—a knife in it, quite a large kitchen knife. “And what’s this?” I asked, unpleasantly surprised. Suddenly and for the first time I realized with all certainty that I was dealing with a madman.

“I couldn’t think of anything better,” he confessed, as if justifying himself. “But this is enough.
Because if the young man
kills the older man, then the older will kill the younger
—don’t you see? This creates a whole. This will unite them, the three of them. The knife. I’ve known for a long time that what unites them is knife and blood. Of course, it must be carried out simultaneously,” he added. “When Karol plunges his knife into Siemian, I’ll plunge mine into Józaaa … aaak!”

What an idea! Crazy! Sick—insane—how can this be, he’ll butcher him?! … And yet this insanity, somewhere, in some other dimension, was actually something quite natural, in and of itself understandable, this madman was right, it could be done, it would unite them, “unite into a whole.” … The more bloody and horrible this absurdity, the more it united them. … And, as if this weren’t enough, this sick idea, wafting as if from a hospital, degenerate and running wild, an intellectual’s disgusting idea, exploded like a flowering shrub with a choking aroma, yes, it was delightful! It delighted me! Somewhere from the other side, from “their” side. This bloody enhancement of murderous youth and this uniting through a knife (of the boys with the girl). It was actually a matter of indifference what kind of cruelty was being perpetrated on them—or with them—any cruelty enhanced their flavor like hot sauce!

The invisible garden swelled and suffocated me with its charm—even though damp, even though gloomy, and with this monstrous madman around—I had to deeply breathe in its freshness, all of a sudden I was bathed in a wonderfully bitter, heartrendingly seductive elemental force. Everything, everything, everything became young and sensual again, even ourselves!
And yet … no, I could not consent to this! He had definitely overstepped the bounds! This could not be tolerated—impossible—knifing this young fellow in the pantry—no, no, no … He broke into laughter.

“Oh, calm down! I just wanted to see if you have confidence that I don’t have a screw loose. Really! Nothing of the sort! These are just daydreams … from sheer frustration that I haven’t actually thought up anything with regard to this Skuziak. What an idiotic idea!”

An idiotic idea. Really. When he himself admitted it, the idiotic idea arrived in front of me as if on a platter, and I was displeased that I had fallen for it. We returned to the house.

There is not much more to tell. Actually everything went smoothly, more and more smoothly, to an ending that … well, surpassed our expectations. And it was easy. … I felt like laughing that such a crushing difficulty was ending with such winged ease.

My role was again to watch Siemian’s room. I lay on my bed, supine, hands under my head, straining my ears—we entered into night, the house was ostensibly asleep. I was waiting for the creaking of the steps under the feet of the killing little couple, but it was too early, by five minutes. Silence. Hipolit was standing guard in the courtyard. Fryderyk was downstairs, by the entrance. Finally, at twelve-thirty sharp the stairs creaked somewhere downstairs under their feet—shoes off most likely. Bare? Or in socks?

Unforgettable moments! A gentle creaking of the stairs became audible again. Why were they sneaking up like that—it would have been more natural if she simply ran upstairs, only he needed to hide—but it’s no surprise that the conspiracy had
spread to them … and their nerves must have been strained. I almost saw them walking up from one step to the next step, she first, he behind her, feeling with their feet to keep the creaking to a minimum. I felt bitter. Wasn’t this sneaking together a poor surrogate for another sneaking, a hundredfold more desirable, when she would have been the goal of his sneaking steps? … and yet their goal at this moment—not so much Siemian as the killing of him—was no less carnal, sinful, and hot with love, and their sneaking was no less strained. … Oh! It creaked once more! Youth was approaching. It was inexpressibly delightful, for under their feet a horrible deed was transforming itself into a blossoming deed, and it was like a breath of fresh air. … However … this sneaking youth, what was it like, was it pure, was it truly fresh and simple and natural or innocent? No. It was for “the older ones,” if those two had forced their way into this affair it was for us, obligingly, to endear themselves to us, to flirt with us a bit … and my maturity “for” youth was to meet on Simian’s body with their youth “for” maturity—there you have it, what a rendezvous!

Yet there was happiness in it—and pride—and what pride!—and something more, something like vodka—the fact that, in agreement with us, with our whispering into their ear, and actually from their need to serve us, they were taking a risk—and they were thus stealthily sneaking!—they were thus setting about a crime! It was heavenly! It was amazing! In it lay hidden the most fascinating of the world’s beauties! Lying on
my bed, I was utterly beside myself at the thought that both of us, Fryderyk and I, were an inspiration to those feet—oh, creaking again, now much closer, now silent, silence ensued, I thought they had perhaps broken down, who knows, perhaps, seduced by their sneaking together, they had turned away from their goal and turned toward each other, and now, in an embrace, they forgot everything because they were after their forbidden bodies! In the dark. On the stairs. Breathless. It could be. Really … really? Yet no, new creaking announces that my hopes were in vain, nothing changed, they continue walking on up the stairs—it turned out that my hope was utterly, but utterly, in vain, totally out of the question, out of their style. They were too young. Too young. Too young for this! So they had to reach Siemian and kill him. Then I wondered (for it was again silent on the stairs) whether their courage had failed them, perhaps she has caught his hand and is pulling it down, what if the tremendous burden of their task has suddenly appeared to them, its crushing weight, this “to kill”? What if they saw it and became scared? No! Never! This too was out of the question. And for the same reasons. The precipice attracted them because they could jump over it—their lightness strove toward the most bloody undertakings because they were changing this into something else—and their approach to a crime was actually an annihilation of crime, by carrying it out they were annihilating it.

Creaking. Their marvelous illegality, the lightly sneaking sin (boyish-girlish) … I almost saw their feet in secret unison,
their parted lips, I heard their illicit breathing. I thought about Fryderyk, who was catching the same sounds from downstairs, from the hallway where he had his assigned post, I thought about Vaclav, I saw them all together with Hipolit, with Madame Maria, and with Siemian, who was probably, just like me, lying on his bed—and I breathed in the flavor of virgin crime, of youthful sin. … Knock, knock, knock.

Knock, knock, knock!

Knocking. That was she, knocking on Siemian’s door.

It is here that my account actually ends. The ending was … too smooth and … too lightning fast … too nimble and easy for me to be able to tell it in a sufficiently believable manner. I will limit myself to stating the facts.

I heard her voice: “It’s me.” A key turned in Siemian’s lock, the door opened, a blow followed, and there was the fall of a body that must have tumbled flat onto the floor. I think the boy used the knife twice more, to leave nothing to chance. I ran into the corridor. Karol shone a flashlight. Siemian lay on the floor, there was blood when we turned him over.

“It’s done,” Karol said.

Yet the face was grotesquely bound in a kerchief, as if he had a toothache … it was not Siemian … and it wasn’t until a few seconds passed that we realized: Vaclav!

Vaclav instead of Siemian, on the floor, dead. But Siemian too was dead—on the bed, that is—he lay on the bed with a knife wound in his side, his nose nestled in a pillow.

We turned on the light. I watched this, full of eerie misgivings. This … this didn’t seem one hundred percent real. Too neatly arranged—too easy! I don’t know whether I’m expressing it clearly enough, I want to say that it couldn’t really be this way, because a suspiciously proper arrangement was inherent in this solution … as in a fairy tale, as in a fairy tale. … This is what must have happened: Vaclav, right after supper, managed to force his way into Siemian’s room through the door connecting their rooms. He killed him. It went smoothly. Then he waited for Henia and Karol’s arrival and opened the door. He arranged everything so they would kill him. Smoothly. To make sure, he turned the light off and bound his face in a kerchief—so that he wouldn’t be recognized right off.

The ghastliness of my divided consciousness: because the tragic brutality of these corpses, their bloody truth, was too heavy a fruit of a tree too easily bent! Two inert corpses—two killers! As if an idea, deathly final, had been pierced right through by recklessness …

We retreated from the room into the hallway. They watched. Saying nothing.

We heard someone running up the stairs. Fryderyk. Upon seeing Vaclav he stopped short. He beckoned to us—we didn’t know what it meant. He pulled a knife out of his pocket, held it for a moment in the air, then threw it to the ground. … The knife was covered with blood.

“Józek,” he said. “Józek. Here he is.”

Fryderyk was innocent! He was innocent! He was beaming with innocent naïveté! I looked at our little couple. They were smiling. As the young do when faced with the difficulty of extricating themselves from a predicament. And for a second, they and we, in our catastrophe, looked into one another’s eyes.

Stanis
ł
aw Bara
ń
czak

Ocalone w t
ł
umaczniu (Saved in Translation: Sketches on the Craft of Translating Poetry)
, Pozna
ń
, a5, 1992.