Nine (17 page)

After a month the woman stood on the steps of the house and called him in. In the sitting room everything cool and dark. Cut glass shiny in a cabinet. She sat him down in front of a picture of a naked woman asleep on her back. Roses twined, and in the background a deer drank from a pond. The woman wore a kimono with yellow and black flowers, and her leather slippers were red and gold. A scent he couldn't put a name to. On a side table, a cage with an orange canary. On another, a lace napkin and a blue Virgin Mary with her foot on the head of a snake. He sat in a deep armchair and watched her open a cabinet and take out a white envelope. She had to stand on tiptoe. He could see her flexed calves and a yellowish raised heel. In the envelope, a thousand-zloty bill with a picture of Copernicus. “I'm pleased with you,” she said. She must have been as old as his mother but looked completely different. She lit up and pushed a hard pack of women's cigarettes toward him. He took one and lit it with a refillable lighter of the kind he dreamed about every time he passed a kiosk. It was enamel and decorated with pictures of birds of paradise. Cost sixty-five zloty and was made in China. He smoked and answered her few questions. Out of the corner of his eye, her crossed legs. He could feel his crotch growing warm, but didn't let it, because his mother kept appearing, as if standing in the door and watching. He didn't want tea or
cookies, he wanted to leave as soon as possible, to get rid of this shame and take a good look at the bill.

That same day he bought himself the Chinese lighter. He rode the bus for a few stops because he didn't want to do it at his neighborhood kiosk. Then he walked back on foot and at a different kiosk bought a pack of Carmens. Eighteen zloty. He stopped for an orangeade, was tempted and bought a chocolate bar. Walking home, when the street was empty, he tried the lighter. A click, but no flame. The blue spark flared in the dusk and died. Then he realized there was no fuel, so he ran back to the kiosk where he bought the cigarettes. For eighty groszy, an egg-shaped capsule of soft plastic. It was then that he noticed the pack of cards. Thirty-six zloty. Hard, angular, pleasant to the touch. He also bought a tiny penknife on a chain for nineteen zloty. He cut the capsule with the knife and filled the lighter. It worked, and he was happy. As he walked, he touched the pockets in which he'd put his new things.

At night he had a dream. The woman in the kimono leaned over him and took out some bills, took them from her cleavage, waistband, between her legs, her ass, under her arms, and she handed them to him. He jammed the money into his pockets, but the bills wouldn't fit, they kept falling out, scattering. He gathered them, excited and embarrassed, and when he woke up his pajamas were wet.

This dream inside his dream made him pull his knees up under his chin and wrap his arms tightly around them. Warmth swept over him. The sounds of the building, no longer gravelike, surrounded him like water. He was sinking to the bottom, convinced he would never emerge again, that time itself would yield to his weight.

On the last day of that summer he worked till sundown. The next day the job would end. From time to time he'd squat and take out a pack of twelve-zloty Albanian Arberias. In another pocket he had blue Caros that cost sixteen, but the Arberias had a stronger and stranger smell, so they did a better job of masking the stench of the cages. The glow of the cigarette red in the gathering darkness, he collected his tools, put them away, and went for his money. It was like before, but a lamp was on and the canary was gone. She handed him an envelope.

Inside, a thousand and two one-hundred notes. He looked at her. She said it was a bonus. “We should have a drink to celebrate the end of the job,” she added, and brought in a bottle of Yugoslav vermouth and two cut-glass tumblers. He liked the taste of it, a little like medicine and a little like juice. Sticky, and it left a bitterness on the lips. The flounced red curtains were drawn. On the wall, gold lamp brackets with colored shades. The rug a sheepskin. Hard to tell whether the flowers were real or not. He'd never seen so many expensive things and such a big living room. He sat in the same place as before. She stood in front of him. He didn't raise his eyes and could see only her hands.

Later, when he was on her and licking slowly and evenly, because that was what she told him to do, he learned that skin does not always smell like skin. It reminded him of an object that can be owned. He tried with his teeth, nibbling and tasting. She told him to do this, that. He followed her orders delicately. When by accident his mouth met the fabric of the armchair, he did not stop the caress and felt no difference. It was the same with the rug when they moved to the floor. The touch of the white fur was just as nice as her body. He nuzzled the rug, until she had to call him back. It went on for a long time, because from the other end of the house he heard a clock strike the half hour,
then the quarter, then eight and nine. She led him to the kitchen, to the bathroom, told him what she wanted, as if they were still at work. In the bright bathroom her nipples were the color of raw meat and hundred-zloty bills. She examined him too, touching, choosing this part, that, using it however she wanted. The water could not wash from her the smell of furniture, clothing, perfume, the whole house. Her hands were rough, like those of other people. He was surprised there was no hair under her arms, and her ass was tanned all over. Her red toenails were like the playing pieces of a board game.

When their clothes were back on, she told him that whenever he came around, he'd get money. He asked how much. She said it depended, say two hundred, and he remembered the extra two bills in the envelope.

 

Iron Man stayed behind, as Bolek told him to. He had no desire to leave. The last thing he heard was: “I'll be back in two hours. Make yourself at home,” and Bolek gestured at the littered table, the unfinished bottle. Syl didn't know what to make of it, so she pretended to sulk until the door closed behind Bolek. Then she smiled and said:

“Have another drink, Iron Man, and tell me more about those times.”

He poured himself a drink, settled comfortably, lit a cigarette, almost as if he were stalling, but actually he just felt good and had no desire to talk.

“What's there to tell? Water under the bridge.”

“It interests me. I was born in December eighty-one, and Porkie, I mean Bolek, doesn't tell me anything. He just comes and goes; he wants food on the table, and has only one thing on his mind. And I'm so ignorant.”

“Don't you go to school?” asked Iron Man.

“I went to cooking school for a bit, but there's no future in that.”

“I'm not so sure,” he said pensively. “People need to eat. And they're eating more and more. In our day there were only three kinds of soup. And now? Or main dishes. We used to have pork chops, ribs, dumplings, fish on Fridays, and once in a while a roast on a Sunday. That was it. If you wanted extra, you went out. Bolek and I would go over to the milk bar on Targowa near Ząbkowska for lazy pierogi, Silesian pierogi with mushrooms, or
pyzy
in butter . . .”

“What was that?”

“
Pyzy
. Round dumplings. They sold them at the bazaar too, but I was fussy, could never eat off plastic, and there they served them on those little saucers you put under flowerpots.”

“What else was there?”

“At the bazaar? Tripe soup. From a milk can. There was an old lady with a five-gallon can wrapped in a blanket or kid's clothes, the whole thing in a baby carriage. And it was good business, because there was nothing else at the bazaar, and you had thousands of people. Everyone was hungry. Not like now.”

“And Bolek?”

“What about Bolek?”

“Did he eat that tripe soup?”

“Sure. He was never picky when it came to grub.”

 

The guy on the floor was moving less. He lay on his side, as if trying to ride a child's bicycle, curled up, knees under his chin, turning his legs in a fading circular motion, his socks bright as bandages. The man in the purple tracksuit wondered what to do next. He was weighing options. He could keep kicking, but the
guy was barely conscious and probably wouldn't feel it. He could pick him up and sit him somewhere. “Screw that,” he thought. “He'd just fall down again. I'd have to keep putting him back like it was a potty.” He took a deep breath. “If we were somewhere out of the way, I'd run him over. With one wheel. He'd survive, but he'd remember. Cars are useful.” Holding the edge of the table, he jumped with both feet on the clenched hand of the man on the floor. He heard a crunch, but it wasn't much, so he did it again. Sneakers were no good for work like this. Then his eye fell on a cue stick left on the pool table. He picked it up, hefted, tried to bend it, swept it through the air to hear the swish.

“Boss,” he called, “I could stick this up his ass. A nice surprise when he wakes up.”

Bolek was sitting on the edge of the table smoking a cigarette. He rubbed his chin with his hand and said no.

“Why not, boss? I can't leave him like this.”

“You'll spoil the tool.”

“What?”

“You heard. Didn't you ever do time?”

“No. And I don't plan to.”

“Exactly. You're all like that these days. When something's spoiled, it's no good anymore. You have to throw it out.”

“So we throw it out. What's the problem?”

Bolek sighed, put the cigarette out, got up.

“The problem, son, is that things are divided into yours, other people's, and things I tell you to break. The cue isn't yours. It belongs to Mr. Max. Like everything here,” he said patiently, and headed for the door. He stopped in front of the man cowering in a corner.

“You saw?” he asked. “Go and tell who you need to tell it to. And take him away.”

In the barroom he went up to the counter. As usual Storkie stood still, his hands doing something. Bolek patted him on the cheek and said:

“Good boy. Now unlock the door for us.”

The bartender took the key and went toward the exit.

 

“There's something I need to take care of,” said Jacek, when the sliding doors from Emilii Plater opened automatically in front of him. In the main hall they were immediately immersed in figurines. He left her by the sandwich stand and went downstairs. The smell of coffee, perfume, subterranean air. She went up and asked for something without meat, was given a cheese sandwich, ordered tea as well, and sat down at a table. The poisonous white bread was surprisingly good. An unwavering light fell from above and made cadavers even of the clean and rested people. Though in motion, they were the dead from a sunken city. She went back for another sandwich, another tea, added three spoons of sugar. She tried reading the big timetable over the ticket counters: too far away. She realized she had never been anywhere. To the country near Siedlce a few times while her grandmother was alive, and once she visited her mother in the sanatorium for a couple of days. She hid in the room, and her mother sneaked food for her. She couldn't recall the name of the place, only remembered flower beds stretching out endlessly. They came back in a crowded train. They got out at East Station, crossed the street, and were home. Now she remembered that in her mother's bedroom a souvenir from the place still hung on the wall. Plastic, with the name of the town.

An elderly man in a dark-blue overcoat came up to her. He inclined his head in her direction and sat down on the chair next
to hers. He glanced, now at her, now at the people passing by. She swallowed and said:

“If you're wondering if I have a place to sleep, don't bother.”

The man gave her a flustered look, got up, and left. She went on eating and trying to remember the name. When Jacek returned ten minutes later, she said to him:

“Let's go away somewhere.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere. Today. For instance to the mountains, Zakopane. I've never been.”

He sat down opposite her and toyed with the empty Styrofoam cups from the tea. She smiled: as if she were asking him to go to the movies or for a walk.

“I have almost two million,” she said.

“Not enough for Zakopane.”

“I've never seen the sea either, Jacek. Honestly. We'll manage. We don't have to buy tickets.”

“I'm too old for that kind of thing, kid. I need a ticket.”

“Fine, we'll buy one. For you.”

“And then? Where do we sleep? It's winter there.”

“I know, you're old. You need a bed.”

Both laughed. He set the cups aside, drummed his fingers on the table, and looked around the hall as if he were waiting for an answer.

“All right,” he said. “There's one to Zakopane in an hour or so. I'm meeting a guy. He's not here yet but will be. If all goes well, we'll have some money”

“I didn't bring anything,” she said, passing her hands over the pockets of her army jacket.

“You can buy yourself a toothbrush,” he said. “I'll be back in fifteen minutes, OK?”

“OK. I'll buy a toothbrush.”

 

The woman disappeared. Maybe she'd moved to someone else's dream. Now he was in an endless field, and it was much earlier, because he was wearing short pants with crossed suspenders. His knees bruised and sore. Kneeling on the hard, parched earth while others passed, overtaking him. When he reached the halfway point, they were already on their way back. Some paused by the edge of a wood to smoke a cigarette in the shade and talk, but even so they were always faster. The high sun didn't seem to be sinking. His shadow was a small patch at his feet. Sometimes he ate a strawberry to quench his thirst. The fruit was covered with dust. He chose the biggest, which were watery. In the middle of the field, a wooden shack, the stink of chemicals and fertilizer. The people took full baskets there and got empty ones in return. The man had a ruled notebook and put crosses against names. Paweł had the fewest. The deal was simple: for a full basket you got four zloty. That was a loaf of bread in those days. At church, you put two zloty on the collection tray. He got that much from his mother on Sundays. He would clutch the aluminum coin with the crossed sheaves of corn, making it hot and damp. One Sunday he didn't move as the sacristan in the surplice passed. Fear afterward, but nothing happened: the heavens were indifferent, and the two-zloty coin didn't disappear from his pocket or burn up in the fire of a curse. From that time he didn't move. Bambino ice creams cost exactly two zloty. An old man in a white apron sold them outside the church. He looked like the twin brother of the sacristan, and with time the two men became a single person, so the money
ended up where it was supposed to. Later the ice cream changed, to a double flavor, a stripe of vanilla and a stripe of pink fruit. It cost one zloty eighty, and when he got his twenty groszy in change, his conscience stirred, but then went back to sleep.