Nine (22 page)

His turn to move. She heard the swish of his clothes, the crackle of cellophane.

“Give me one too,” she said, reaching.

Their hands tried to find each other in the dark like a game with a blindfold. He caught her wrist, held it, put the cigarette between her fingers. They were dry and warm.

“Ever been to Zakopane?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Are the mountains nice?”

“I don't know. We always got there in the evening, loaded the goods, and had to go back.”

“What goods?”

“Leather, sheepskins. When they went out of fashion, the trips stopped.”

“You never saw the mountains?”

“Once we were there in the daytime, but it was foggy.”

The tips of their cigarettes made slow red lines in the dark. In the silence, they could hear the smoke leaving their mouths. The beating of their hearts. They were completely alone. The city crouching in wait below. A copper glow over the traffic circle. The bodies of people in their beds were reddish, as if molded from clay and baked in an oven. Refrigerators hummed quietly; clocks showed the hours and minutes; thermostats turned on the central heating. In the old-fashioned cold-storage plants in remote spots, freon condensed and vaporized in turn. Current flowed, maintaining essential operations. The girls in the purchasing office dozed off for a moment. In concrete tunnels, the stream of sewage slowed and at times stopped entirely.

She crushed out her cigarette and said:

“I have to go.”

“Where to?” he asked.

“Home. He might call.”

“It's up to you,” he said.

He heard her knock at the door on the floor below, then the silence fell again.

 

People dreamed different things that night. Everyone dreams. The worst people and the best. Iron Man fell asleep in the backseat and dreamed he was a watchmaker. He was sitting in a warm place on a soft chair, and people kept bringing him their watches. A lamp was on, and a large table held hundreds of timepieces. Some were ticking, some only lit up, and some had quartz hearts to push the hands around. He listened to the gentle ticking, studied the straps and bracelets, unscrewed or prized open the casings to check that dust hadn't gathered inside and to gaze at the little red jewels. The modern ones he set aside, though some were expensive. With clockwork there was no
trickery, but with electronics you never knew. When a real watch stopped, there was something wrong you could fix; when an electronic watch stopped, it was dead. A clockwork Atlantik, sometimes it was enough to blow on it to start the tick tock again, and the little silver bird chirp. Polyots, Vostoks, Raketas, each had its own sound, but those Casios—a boring flow of electrons like everything else in nature, nothing there to admire. This was Iron Man's dream. He sat, wearing black sleeves over a white shirt, reaching for a magnifying glass to look deeper. Beside him, a fresh bottle of Królewskie beer and a full pack of Caros.

 

Bolek and the blond man were not asleep. The blond man drove, and Bolek stared into the emptiness of łazienkowska. They came to the bridge. To the right, the dark Torwar skating rink. Bolek thought about Irina, compared her to Syl. They were a little like mother and daughter. It resembled a dream, because he couldn't stop one from turning into the other. He was going to Syl but would have preferred Irina. A man needs a woman who understands him. What could Syl understand? He tried to remember what he understood when he was sixteen: things happened, that was all. He wanted someone to understand him without words. Also, Irina was bigger. The silver streetlamps reminded him of her earrings, the night of her black brassiere. Syl, on the other hand, was a sparrow, nothing to hold. Syl and Irina, Irina and Syl. At some point he lost the “a,” and it was Irin. It sounded nice. He'd call her that when they next met.

 

The blond man had his eyes open, but he never woke up. Life took whatever shape it wanted, and there was no point in thinking about that. People did one thing or another, for different
reasons. Dreams were dreams, and you couldn't back out of one. Things were a little more even than people, since they didn't change as quickly, because people always wanted something. He knew what he wanted and wasn't afraid to take it. As they crossed Paryska, he clapped both hands on the wheel and said:

“Don't worry, boss. We'll get him.”

“I'm not worried. I was just thinking,” said Bolek.

 

Zosia dreamed of Pankracy. He was bigger than a dog—almost as big as a lion. They walked down a dark alley with a confident step. By his side she was nimble, strong, and pleasantly empty. He was leading her, not she him. She touched the fur of his neck. Muscles rippling under skin. The road was wet and glistening, and the buildings they passed grew smaller and smaller. No lights on in the windows, and the cars all old and shabby. She'd never been here before and wouldn't have come on her own, but now her eyes pierced the dark. She was all in black. But this also wasn't a dream, because she could see it as she lay with eyes open. Pankracy was asleep, curled in a ball on the pillow. The curtains were drawn, and all the lights were on.

 

Outside, it was as bright as a stage. The world went farther, no doubt, but here it resembled a blue box. Friday morning, and the usual stream of cars from Ochota to Praga, from Żoliborz to Mokotów and back again, bringing to mind geometry. The planes of the buildings superimposed on one another, all coming to rest against the plane of the sky. The eastern light crumbled against the straight edges of the roofs. Below, shadow, the puddles not yet thawed, ice reflected in glass, multiplied and magnified images. What he saw was only the sum, resultant, of
an incalculable number of reflections, a satisfying thought. He could simply stand there, knowing no formula to make sense of a million random events. The traffic circle a convex mirror. He imagined images gliding across its shining surface and disappearing, while the view from the window was infinity. Except he could not make out what lay beyond the blue sky, which hindered a precise grasp. When he stopped thinking, things returned to their places. But his thoughts had come to an end anyway. The ribbon of impressions was now a blank tape that passed through his head with a rustle.

“Have you remembered it yet?” he heard behind him but didn't turn, because it was too dark back there, too cramped and complicated.

“You don't even have a towel.” Paweł raked his fingers through his wet hair. “Or a fucking lightbulb, or toilet paper. I need that number, okay?”

He moved toward Jacek, but Jacek's immobility took his courage away. He stopped in the middle of the room and looked at his wet hands. He shouted: “The number! Don't play games! You said you'd remember it. You've been standing there like a prick for the last hour and staring out the window at nothing.” He kicked the chair, startling himself. Jacek, not moving, said:

“If you don't stop, I won't remember. I have to concentrate.”

“You've been concentrating for an hour. You've lost your goddamn mind. Anyone can see that.”

“Call the first number again.”

“I can't. He told me not to. He said he'd only say it once, and that was it.”

“So? Do you have to do what he says? Go and make the call.”

“Remember it.”

“I'm trying. I can't.”

“You can't remember it, and in the night you couldn't let me in . . .”

“I couldn't.”

“Out of fear! You were so afraid, you shit in your pants!” He moved toward Jacek again, his hands dry now and clenched into fists.

“Don't shout. You'd better leave if you're going to shout.”

“And where am I supposed to go? I need that phone number. You're in deep shit yourself.”

“I'm not in anything.” Jacek's voice a tone higher.

“They're coming to kill you. They'll find you, because you're as stupid as I am, even more, and then you'll really shit yourself, and they won't knock, all you'll be able to do is jump out the window, but first you'll stand at the door for hours listening. Like me. You'll walk around asking people to remember a phone number or let you in, but no one will, because bums like you have to stand at the door and listen.”

Jacek jumped and sank his fingers into Paweł's face. The two careened across the room, knocked over the table, fell to the floor. The bookshelf rocked, and books tumbled down on their wrestling bodies. Rubble and ruins, each trying to strangle the other or tear off a limb, but they were too weak, could only tug at clothing, hair, thrashing like clowns or death throes, floundering among broken plates from the table, crunching things into smaller pieces, slipping in the soup smeared across the floor. At times they lay side by side or one on top of the other gasping, then resumed the struggle, which was not mortal, merely desperate, like drunken love or a hysterical fit. They rose to their knees, put their arms around each other, fell back down, but more slowly, because now even the weight of their own bodies was too much. They climbed as if the floor had no air
and they were trying to reach the surface. Then simply looking for a body to lean on. Someone hammered. They froze, listened, clinging to each other. It was only the neighbor below banging on the ceiling. They slipped to the floor, panting like dogs. Jacek crawled to a corner, turned his back, curled.

Paweł pushed himself higher with his hands a few times, but finally gave up: it was better to lie and listen to the new silence. His nose was bleeding. A red drop on his lip. He tried to touch it with his tongue. “We can't even fight right,” he thought. “There was no one to teach us. Always being pushed around—bring this in, take this out, sweep it up, carry the suitcase down the platform. Now it's too late.” He put his hand in his pocket to find something familiar. He took out a small amount of money and started counting: he always did that when he had time. He smoothed the bills, put them in order, folded the wad in two and put it back in his pocket. That calmed him. His breath had settled, his muscles had stopped twitching. He got up, went over to Jacek, and squatted down.

“All right, easy,” he said as naturally as he could. No response. He patted him on the shoulder, but that had no effect either, so he shook him a little, then more. Slowly, heavily, Jacek rolled over on his back, full length, his arms out.

“Asleep,” Paweł said.

Jacek was actually snoring. He lay like one shot, but he snored. The sleeve of his jacket was ripped, something spilling from it. He slept like an empty shell, cold air entering and leaving. The clocks in the city showed seven. Not a cloud in the blue sky. Mothers entered rooms and woke children. People sat in their cars listening to the morning news, or glancing through newspapers at red lights. Everything in place, fifteen channels, ten news programs, no surprises, everything matching. Express
trains set out in all four directions. A long-distance train pulled into Central Station after an overnight journey. Nothing needed to be added or subtracted. There was no wind. The flags over the gas stations hanging motionless. It was promising to be a nice day.

 

“Porkie's pissed,” said Syl, rolling back to her warm spot. “He doesn't like anything, though this is his best time.”

“I didn't get enough sleep,” said Bolek.

“Couldn't you have come home sooner? I thought something happened.”

“What could happen?” Bolek grunted.

“You never tell me anything. I know you have a lot on your mind, important stuff, but you could tell me sometimes.”

“Uh,” said Bolek, and turned his back on her. Syl took the corner of the blanket and held it to her cheek.

“And you haven't bought me anything for ages. When we first me, you said you'd buy me things.”

“And what, I didn't?”

“But not recently. I can't keep going out in the same clothes.”

“You never go out at all.” Surprise in Bolek's voice.

“Exactly. You don't take me anywhere. I have to stay here and clean and cook.”

“The cooking hasn't been great lately.”

“What do you mean?”

“Iron Man had a stomachache yesterday.”

“He kept taking seconds and didn't say anything.”

“It didn't hurt then. Later.”

“It was from all those seconds. Not everyone can eat like you, Porkie.” Syl tried to put her arms around Bolek. Against his huge white back she looked like a doll. “You know what I mean.
A scrawny little guy can't compare with you. You could pack away half a dozen seconds with no problem.” She moved her hand lower, murmured:

“Porkie, I saw these really neat shoes . . .”

He rose on his elbow and cocked an ear.

“Where did you see them?”

“On TV, silly. Where could I have seen them?”

He fell back, reassured.

“What were they like?” he asked.

Syl perked up.

“You know, really smart, all black with little stuff here . . .” She threw the blanket aside and lifted a foot to show him. He watched her quick, precise gestures.

“And here they had . . .”

Sunlight began entering the room, through a crack in the curtains. Gold fell across their bodies like an eerie mist. The world was telling them something, but, like all lost souls, they saw only themselves, in their simplicity believing that only they were beautiful. Syl's pale skin took on the hue of honey, and Bolek reached out. The whirl of sunlight came to the center of the room. Particles of dust rose and spread in a trembling fan. The light submerged them, and a moving edge of shadow passed like a razor over Syl's breasts, then passed on.

“All right,” said Bolek, “we'll figure something out.” Syl clapped her hands, scrambled onto his belly, slapped it with her bare ass, hugged it with her knees.

“Porkie, you're great! When are we figuring it out?”

“Maybe today,” Bolek mused. “We'll see.”