Nine (21 page)

 

“I had a dog too, but it ran away,” said the blond guy.

“What kind of dog runs away?” Bolek sipped his drink.

“It happens,” said Iron Man. “We had a cat once, and it wouldn't stay in the house either. It would come when it felt like it, then it stopped coming altogether.”

“Cats are awful,” put in the blond guy.

“A cat's not a dog,” said Bolek. “Cats don't get attached.”

“I don't know,” Iron Man said thoughtfully. “We had one once that never went anywhere. It would lie around all day and only get up to eat.”

“With cats you can never be sure,” said the blond guy.

“But can you be sure with dogs? You said your dog ran away.” Iron Man was annoyed.

They were sitting in the closed Hoochie-Coochie, each drinking something different. Bolek had a beer, Iron Man a vodka, and the blond guy rum and cola, because he was driving and Bolek had told him to go easy. Behind the bar Storkie wiped glasses. It was dark in the pool room. Iron Man straightened the blue jacket he had on. Bolek's bomber jacket was on the back of a chair. The blond guy had hung his up along with the top of his tracksuit, and from time to time he looked at his biceps.

“My Sheikh never goes a step away,” said Bolek. “When I'm out, he won't eat or drink. He lies there or stares out the window, though he can't see anything because he's too short.”

“He's not short,” said Iron Man.

“For a dog he's big,” agreed Bolek, “but too short to see out.”

It was almost two in the morning, and the smoke circled over their heads. Bolek was smoking Marlboros, the blond guy Camels, and Iron Man both. Storkie kept polishing glasses, to handle time. Even though the glasses were all polished, he took them to the back room and started washing them. Looked in the mirror over the sink and thought: “This is what I'll look like in ten years, if I'm still alive.”

The men at the table watched the street through the blinds. Through the narrow slats the night was a television out of focus.

“Maybe I could call for some babes, boss,” the blond guy suggested.

“No,” said Bolek. “We have work tomorrow.”

“Then let Storkie put some music on; we're sitting here as if something bad happened. Don't worry, boss, it'll all be fine. I'll take care of it.”

“All right, he can put music on,” agreed Bolek. “But something quiet.”

“He's got this neat song about a mother and a bike,” said the blond guy, pleased. He called toward the bar. Storkie came through the bead curtain with a glass in his hand.

“Put on the thing that was on before, Storkie. The one about the motorbike.”

Storkie nodded and started flipping through the CDs. He found it, put it in.

“What's the name of them?” asked the blond guy.

“The Fireflies,” said Storkie.

They listened, and Iron Man even tried to tap his foot to the rhythm. Bolek finished his beer, played with his glass, pushed it aside, and said:

“I can't say I know this kind of music.”

“Right, it's not Boney M.,” said Iron Man.

“Better take us back. We have work in the morning,” Bolek concluded.

They walked out into the dark. From below, from the Vistula, came a cold, odorless wind, and distant car horns called out like the frozen souls of the damned.

 

He was in Berlin again, riding the U-bahn, counting the stops and clutching the ticket in his pocket. Sometimes people looked at him, but it was just after the unification, so maybe they took him for an Ossi. Everything he owned was in a plastic bag labeled USA from the Różyckiego bazaar. Above him, the city that he hated and desired. He felt the touch of its immense feet. A crappy job: three days of hammering, dust, and rubble, and nothing but a cold-water faucet, so he stank for sure, even though he'd taken his Polish
Wars
deodorant with him. The guy was surprised to see him. A month before, in the middle of the night on Targowa they'd hugged like brothers and swore they'd never forget each other. Now he had three hundred marks in a pocket fastened with a button and safety pin. He counted the stops. At Oskar-Helene-Heim two black men got on. Afraid to lift his eyes, he stared at their new white Nikes. His moccasins were cracked and gray from the dust. The tassel missing on one of them. He hid his feet under the seat. The cut on his hand hurt. Thielplatz, Dahlem-Dorf, and in his pockets shreds of tobacco and a handerkerchief stiff with dirt. But he could have gone on riding forever—this wasn't at all bad. There was nothing he had to do. He didn't have to elbow his way through the crowd around the station or point to which sandwich he wanted, or drink beer slow to make it last. It was fine here. His
imagination filled with angular, martial German women trying on gold jewelry and black lingerie in the big department stores on the Kudamm, he watching through a window, unseen by the naked women, as if he were not there. The light bounced off their bodies as it did off varnish. They walked from floor to floor of the towers of glass, trying on overcoats, garter belts, tossing them aside and moving on to the next display or hanger or shelf for more shoes, perfumes, gloves, rings, discarding these in turn, finally wading ankle-deep in a heap of things scarcely touched, in an infinitely mirrored series of rooms, a labyrinth, like paradise or eternity. He too tried to enter, but the glass walls were smooth, without the tiniest chink or crack. More and more women came, appearing on the street where he stood, passing through the glass and, once inside, immediately casting off their old clothes, and on the gleaming floors rose piles of fragrant garments.

 

Green and white lights went on and off in the shadows, reminiscent of Christmas. A chill blew from far Krakowska, and she felt a prickling on her cheeks. Some white already gathering in the seams of the sidewalk. The wind drove bits of ice and formed them into flakes. A booming sound to the right, lower, and the earth shook. Her hands numb in her pockets. The plane landed. In a movie once she had seen a landing strip like black water. It seemed as if the plane would keep falling, to the center of the earth, but it didn't.

She was calm now. What she had run from floated slowly back to her, cooled, transparent. The fear no longer rattled in her body, it settled in her throat like a pellet. The driver told her that this was the last bus, that she could catch a night bus back. The trams had all left too. She walked a little, just to hear the
sound of her footsteps, it was so deserted. Cars passed the concrete island, some headed for the wide world, others returning. She felt something in the lining of her jacket, found the hole and fished out her old leopard lighter. The flame didn't last. “The fuel must have evaporated,” she thought. In the cigarette receptacle of a trash can she found a long butt with a white filter. She warmed the lighter in her hand and managed to light up. The smoke had a minty taste. A limo sped by. A rumbling, pulsing bass came from inside even though all the windows were up. The glow over Downtown was so bright that she couldn't tell where the sky began and where the air of the city left off. Somewhere over Mokotów the moon occasionally appeared, white as mercury and almost a circle. It never completely disappeared in the clouds, as if that cold, sightless eye couldn't leave her. Another booming of a plane. Those people up there were happy as angels, sitting in comfortable seats, being served colorful drinks by beautiful young women, the city below like a crystal palace, but the glow of her cigarette they couldn't see, it was too tiny. Green and white flashing signals again, now from the south, from the depths of the darkness. “That's where Zakopane is,” she thought, and at that exact moment tasted the burned filter. “But they're coming from some far, hot country.” She pictured palm trees, sun, blue water. She tossed the butt away. The roar descended, covered her, but this too was a kind of shelter.

 

Something went wrong with the mechanism. There were slips, breaks, blanks, as when a film snaps, the screen goes white, and the audience starts whistling and stamping. Strangers appeared and wanted something from him. They spoke directly to him, like the people on TV who read the news. Berlin vanished. The
past gone, its place taken by a present that made no sense. That's always the way when the mind has had enough and wants out. Terrified, he couldn't breathe, he opened his eyes, felt around, knocked over the bottle of mineral water.
“Ich entschuldige,”
he said, to see if what he had dreamed was true. The words came easily. “
Zug nach Braunschweig
. I'm fucking nuts. Next minute I'll start speaking Russian,” he finished in Polish. He found the bottle, took a swallow, said,
“Danke,”
in a whisper, beginning to enjoy the game.

“Autobahn, Strasse, bitte,”
giggling, short of breath.
“Hände hoch, schnell, schnell,”
breaking out in a sweat. “Hands, hands, Hans,” trying not to burst into laughter in the darkness. He dozed again and saw Zosia in an apartment he didn't know. She was walking from room to room, but the rooms were endless. He followed her, not to pursue but in a kind of game, because she looked around from time to time, to see if he was keeping up. Everything in order: beds made, tables cleared, chairs arranged, vases on shelves, heavy drapes drawn across the windows so you didn't know if it was night or day. The light from an unknown source, because as he walked he saw no chandeliers or lamps. Completely quiet. Zosia wore high heels. He was certain that she was leading him somewhere, showing him the way, taking him to a safe place deep in the labyrinth, where no one would find him. There were sofas, padded footstools, couches, bookcases filled with objects. At times he came within arm's reach of her and could see the double swell of her ass under her short dress, the back of her neck with a visible line of backbone, the outline of her shoulder blades beneath the bright, colorful fabric of her dress. She opened door after door, but he couldn't grasp any handles, couldn't touch any piece of furniture, he was too far. He trusted her, loved her. Tears welled. He
broke into a run, saw her profile, her smile. She quickened her pace lightly, her hair flowing as in a wind. He was happy, sure that he would catch her in the end and that she wanted him to. Mahogany shelves left and right, red and gold cushions piled on leather sofas, mirrors in carved frames, black televisions on low silver tables beneath papered walls, unlit candles in ornate candlesticks. She pushed open a double door, and they were in a huge kitchen. The metallic surfaces gave off a cosmic light of luxury and desire. The floor was warm, and he was aroused. Since no more doors led anywhere, he understood that the chase was over. Zosia had her back to him, her hands on an immense sink. The memory of a porno flick, but it wasn't like that, from now on everything would be different and he wouldn't think about such things. He went up and put his arms around her, felt sweetness and trembling, slipped to his knees and embraced her hips. She turned to face him but was no longer wearing the flowing dress, it had turned into a purple tracksuit, and above him, legs planted apart, stood the blond man. Paweł tried to move away, but the man grabbed him by the hair.

 

The light blinded. It went off, then on again. He felt the wall at his back and another flash. He raised an arm to shield himself. The light went out again, and a woman said quietly:

“I thought it was Jacek. Someone was moaning, and I thought it was him.”

Beata put the lighter in her pocket and knelt by Paweł in the dark.

“He's not in the apartment. I knocked. I thought something had happened to him, that it was him hiding.”

“Is that you?” asked Paweł.

“It's me,” she said.

“Why isn't he there?” he asked. “I knocked too, then I came up here and I've been waiting.”

“You were yelling in your sleep, having a dream.”

“Where is he?”

“He ran away. I saw them chasing him.”

“At Central Station,” he said.

“How did you know?”

“I didn't. I was guessing.” He curled into a ball, put his arms around his knees. He couldn't see her but felt her warm breath on his face.

She touched his knee, his jacket, as if looking for something, then grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Tell me, you have to tell me.”

He tried to pull away. “They chased him before, so they could chase him again,” he answered, so she'd leave him alone. He had a bad taste in his mouth. He turned and spat into the darkness.

“Who was chasing him?”

“How should I know? Listen: I came here yesterday. I don't even know him. I used to, now I don't. I don't know anything. I'm waiting till he gets back, because he has a phone number I need. Not written down but in his head, an important number. I'm here by chance. Nothing connects us. I had nowhere else to go. Some business of his is going badly, but it has nothing to do with me.” All this in a whisper, quickly, but when he felt the girl's grip relax, he stopped.

“I'm afraid,” she said.

“Everyone's afraid.”

“Afraid for him.”

“He'll be fine,” Paweł said. “He always lands on his feet. He makes no effort, but it comes out OK.”

“We were going away.”

“He would always laugh at me when I tried to do something.”

“I even bought toothbrushes. See?”

She moved, and he felt cold air.

“They're yellow,” she said.

“When were you going away?” he asked.

“This evening. I've never seen the mountains. He said he had something to take care of and we could go. He left, then I saw him running.”

“Ran off with my phone number,” Paweł muttered.

“He said he'd be right back and bring more money. We only had two million. Not that we needed to buy tickets, right? At worst they take down your names and addresses. Like in the tram. I don't know how many times that's happened to me . . .”