Doll part 2

CHAPTER 3

HALINECZKA

A girl not much taller than a pack of cigarettes, with a wreath on her head and transparent wings on her back, sat on a flower and talked to a boy not much taller than herself.

"I don't know if we should get married, my dear.

" "But, my dear Halineczka, how can you say that?

" "You hardly know me at all, and I know nothing about you either.

" "But I love you, Halineczka, and we'll have almost all eternity to get to know each other.

" "Then you must know, my dear, that I've already had several fiancés and generally have a very rich past.

" "It doesn't matter if you tell me now that you love me."

And so, after a short conversation, they both flew away from the flower, wings buzzing.

The sun was already high. Wokulski took off his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt, sat down in the shade under a tree to rest, leaning his back against the trunk and closing his eyes. He took a breath of fresh air and let it out, slowly falling asleep.

Halineczka and her beloved were just emerging from the forest, hurrying to the meadow to drink nectar from a flower. They were just passing Wokulski.

Stanisław Wokulski was slowly dozing off when he heard a steady buzzing sound to his left. Without hesitation, he snapped his hands above his ears, searching for the source of the sound.

The buzzing stopped. Wokulski fell asleep. CHAPTER

4: THE PRINCESS 

He woke up, rubbed his eyes, and stretched his arms. "Time to move on," he said to himself, and rose from the ground. He took a few steps and brushed aside a bush. A road wasn't far off. It wound its way up the hill, disappearing occasionally between the trees, then reappearing. Wokulski decided to follow it; now he could do whatever he wanted. He felt an impulse, so he gave in to it; he hadn't been able to afford it for a while. He threw his jacket over his shoulder and set off. The sun was warm on the back of his neck, but he didn't seem to mind. He simply walked on, content with his life. He had been wandering along the roadside for a while now, but lost in his thoughts, he hadn't noticed how long he had been walking or how far he had come. He came to when, behind the next hill, he saw a castle. Beautiful, though not at all huge. It had two towers, a high wall surrounded it, huge, colorful flags fluttered from the roofs, and two small turrets stood at the main gate. Wokulski felt a surge of excitement and quickened his pace. When he was quite close, he saw a drawbridge and guards at the entrance. He hesitated a bit, but before he could make up his mind, two men rode up to him on horseback. One of them started a conversation. "The gentleman from the ad. " "I don't quite understand the ad."

"It doesn't matter.

" "But...

" "Here's your pass," the guard interjected, handing Wokulski a small piece of paper.

"You'll get into the castle through the main gate. They'll check your pass at the entrance. Show it, and you can go in and try your luck. Go ahead

, man." He moved forward, not knowing what to expect.

He approached the guards standing at the gate.

"The gentleman from the advert." "I understand.

" "You could say so.

" "Then you have a pass, great. You have it even better. This is your number." He handed Wokulski a pink piece of paper with the number 9 written on it. "Go ahead and enter. You'll go straight, then left, then right, then down the stairs, then left again, and you'll pass through the red door. Red, not brown—that's not the door I mean, brown. I mean red. You'll go through the red door, then up the winding stairs. You'll reach the first floor, pass the hall of mirrors, turn left, and you'll be there as soon as you cross the corridor. He'll lead you to your seat." Did you remember or should I repeat myself?

- That's not right. I'll definitely get there.

- In that case, good luck.

- Thank you.

- And remember the red door, not the blue one.

- I thought it was brown

. - What. Oh yes, brown. You're right, brown. Through the brown one.

- You said through the red one, and the brown one…

- Oh yes. Great, I'm just checking you out. So don't go through the brown one, not the blue one. Besides, it makes no difference to me, I'm colorblind anyway. But as you said, through the red one. Avoid the others.

- I'll go now.

- Yes, go ahead. Go ahead, go left here.

- You're pointing to the right.

- Ha, of course I'm stupid, that's the right one. Go ahead.

He set off down a long corridor. On both walls hung ceiling-high mirrors with heavy gilded frames. Wokulski heard some whispers and after a moment saw a group of men crowding by the door of a room. He asked one of them.

- What's this all about, sir

? - How do you mean you don't know? The king's daughter, the princess, can't sleep; something's bothering her.

"Does she have nightmares?

" "Nothing like that.

" "What's going on?

" "That's the point, nobody knows. But the king announced that whoever solves the problem will receive a generous reward, so a few people have gathered and are working on it."

"I see. There are already some results."

"One fatality so far. It so happened that when the Princess started complaining, Brother Ovidius was summoned from a nearby monastery. He was a well-known physician in the area. He was there because when the Princess said something was bothering her and bothering her, not letting her sleep, Brother Ovidius said it might be her conscience. Such a professional perversion, you understand. They executed him the next day.

And by the way, what number are you?

" "Nine.

" "Then you're done for.

" "Well, now it's my turn, wish me luck.

" "Break a leg," replied Wokulski.

"I'm going. Keep your fingers crossed for me.

" "How did it go?

" "Don't ask.

" "What's so bad?

" "A complete failure.

" "He's still complaining.

" "Unfortunately." I massaged my feet, sang lullabies, told a story, and even had a more personal conversation. I must tell you, I've never been so honest with any woman, but the woman keeps whining and complaining that she's feeling a pinch here and a pain there. It's a complete failure, sir.

"Well, maybe I'll manage."

"I don't think so, but I wish you luck; you'll definitely need it.

" "Well, I'm in."

The room wasn't large, bright rays of light streamed in through a large window. Paintings in massive carved frames and a huge lion's head hung on the walls. Richly inlaid furniture lined the walls, and a thick, colorful rug with white fringing along the edges lay on the floor.

"Hello, I'm here."

Wokulski glanced around the room. A woman dressed in a nightgown lay on a large four-poster bed piled high with pillows.

"I'm here, you see me."

"Oh, yes, of course I do." Wokulski, Stanisław, I'm very pleased to hear that."

"Princess, I'm pleased to hear that too. So, do you have any ideas yet?"

"On what subject?

" "About my insomnia, of course.

" "I'm sorry. I must admit, not yet. However, if I could get closer to the bed, maybe something would come to mind. Maybe the furniture is to blame.

" "Just a moment." The Princess took a small gold bell from the table and rang it. A moment later, a short man, dressed very simply, entered the room. He wore round glasses with thick lenses. His mustache and eyebrows were neatly trimmed.

He ran his hand over his bald head.

"I'm at your disposal, Princess.

" "This is Mr. Watson, Mr. Wokulski. Watson, this is Mr. Wokulski. Mr. Watson is the chaperone who will ensure that there are no ambiguous situations.

" "Of course I understand," Wokulski replied.

"Mr. Watson," the Princess continued, "can also offer advice; he knows my case quite well.

" "Then we'll get down to business. If you'll allow me.

" "I'm at your disposal, within reason, of course."

"That goes without saying, Princess.

" "Yes, so Princess," Wokulski began, "how long have you been suffering from these… discomforts?

" "Actually, I don't remember when it started; now it feels like it's been going on forever. This insomnia has made me completely lose track of time.

" "Perhaps Mr. Watson can help me." "

I'm at your service. The Princess has been suffering from discomfort, as you yourself called it, for as long as I can remember, sir.

" "Yes. Your help is invaluable, Watson.

" "Thank you.

" "When was the last time you left this room, Princess?

" "I vaguely remember being with my father on an expedition to Africa as a little girl. But it was so long ago that I don't remember anything more. This insomnia is killing me; I don't go anywhere lately.

" "In Africa, that's interesting. Do you remember that, Mr. Watson?

" "Of course. I had the honor of accompanying the Princess and her father, the King, on an expedition."

"I wonder if something pleasant happened in the Princess's past that would have contributed to her insomnia.

" "I'm sorry to interrupt," Watson interjected, "but there was indeed an event on the expedition to Africa. "

"An event, Watson.

" "An event, Watson," the Princess repeated after Wokulski.

"Yes, an event. Well, the day before the departure, after the King bought the Princess a set of youthful African bedding—one set for each day of the year, each in a different color, a different pattern, and so on. The King bought an unusually large number of them, which also cost him an unusually large sum for the next 15 years, if you will.

" "Let's not get off topic, Watson.

" "Of course. Well, that's when the event took place. It was a hot night, and we were sleeping in tents. Far from the forest, we could hear the sounds of cicadas singing, lions roaring on their nightly hunt, and jackals howling at the moon. That very night, a beast crept into the King's tent. A huge lion, ready to devour our lord, fought. The King grabbed a knife and lunged at the beast. Their bodies intertwined in a deadly dance, clouds of dust obscuring the view. At one point, the King dropped the knife, but refused to give up, grabbed the beast by the mane and pinned its head to the ground. It wriggled free and was about to clamp its jaws around the King's throat when he grabbed it and strangled it. That's more or less how I remember it.

"Is that the lion's head hanging on the wall?" Wokulski asked.

"That's right.

" "I have one more question: is the bedding the Princess is now in the one the King bought?"

"That's right. I think I'm beginning to understand your reasoning, Mr. Wokulski. You seem to think that the fact that the Princess saw her father fighting for his life, then killing the beast whose head hangs in her room, might evoke unpleasant associations, that perhaps that event caused a shock in the Princess's young mind, which to this day cannot forget.

" "No." Wokulski moved closer to the Princess's bed and picked up one of the colorful pillows. That's the reason, my dear Watson. African bedding for teenagers.

" "I don't quite understand.

" "Me neither," the Princess repeated.

"I hasten to explain," Wokulski replied.

"The buttons are to blame. They're made of ivory, and most importantly, they're unusually large. I'm sure that if we turn the pillow over, the Princess will fall asleep without the slightest problem.

" "You're a genius."

"Thank you, Watson. Let's quickly turn the pillows over and see what effect it has."

The princess lay back on the upturned pillows and fell asleep almost immediately.

"Your reward awaits you, Mr. Wokulski. Let's go to the King as soon as possible to tell him the good news

Being like Józef Inglot

 

Yesterday I turned 30 and decided I'd had enough of being young. Therefore, I've decided to be like my grandfather, Józef Inglot. I realize it's a relatively eccentric idea, but then again, it's not as eccentric as the occupation of Iraq, the assassination of the Pope, or even allowing gays to adopt children. So I'll be like my grandfather, it's decided. I'll only bathe on Saturdays, after the newspaper. I'll go to church. I'll garden. I'll always turn on the tap, and if my head gasket blows, I won't buy a new one; I'll just wrap it in some old oakum and cover it with modeling clay. At every name day, birthday, or holiday party, I'll talk about the war. So what if I wasn't there? My grandfather wasn't there either, but he does. I'll wear the same shirt for two weeks. I'll pee in installments. I'll go to bed at nine and get up at five. I'll unplug the radio after I turn it off because who knows if it's drawing power. I'll go for walks in the park and look around carefully to see if anyone's accidentally dropped anything. I'll be rude to my neighbors because they'll annoy me with their political views, their appearance, or whatever. I'll pray every night. A long time. I'll drink a hundred ounces of vodka every day with dinner for my health and to help me sleep. I'll scold my wife about every little thing. It's because she left the light on, or because she's chatting nonsense with the neighbors, or because the gas is too hot under the kettle. I'll wear a dirty handkerchief. I'll read one book every six months so my eyes don't get tired.

And what won't I do? For example, I won't have sex. I won't swear (for the last fucking time). I won't watch movies on TV because I'll find them stupid. I won't laugh unless someone falls, spills soup, or gets their finger caught in the door. I won't listen to music, except for the radio, about two seconds before the news, because why would I turn it on earlier? I won't be interested in sports, because I won't be allowed to get nervous. I won't eat pizza, hamburgers, fries, ketchup, fish, seafood, spaghetti, etc. I won't drink soda. I won't entertain guests, except for name days, birthdays, and holidays. I won't look at women. I won't drive. I won't worry about anything.

Yesterday I turned 18 and I'm an adult. Consequently, I'm allowed to do anything. That's why I've decided to do everything slowly. I'll start eating slowly, because until now I've been eating until my ears were shaking. I'll cross the street slowly—let them honk. I'll masturbate slowly. I'll speak slowly and listen slowly. I'm allowed.

Yesterday I turned 99 and I thought to myself that if I live to see it, I'll be a hundred in a year.

Yesterday I turned six. Next year I'll start school. It'll be fun because I'll finally learn something about the world, learn to read, write, count, etc. I'll make friends with a few friends and we'll be mischievous and play football together. I won't like a few boys and sometimes I'll fight with them over trivial things. At some point, I'll start to notice girls not only as stupid and hostile creatures, but also as somewhat interesting. If I succeed, maybe I'll even accidentally grab one of their breasts, under the pretext of pulling their braids, while they're still growing. I'll think about the history teacher because she'll be the prettiest. I'll be surprised to learn that women bleed every month and don't die. I'll understand the meaning of tautology and pleonasm. I'll smoke cigarettes in the toilet. I'll learn why Russians and Germans are pigs and why the British, French, and Americans don't give a damn about us. I'll spray paint on the walls. I'll fucking swear like a son of a bitch. I'll sleep with a girl. My first time will last about 15 seconds, but I'll tell my friends it was pretty cool, except the girl was a bit sluggish. I'll almost end up in juvenile detention when I cut a lower-class guy's head into a coma and a few zygotes. I'll turn 18 and for a while, I'll be allowed to do whatever I want just because I'm allowed to. I'll barely pass my final exams and go to college so they don't draft me into the army. I'll wear baggy sweaters, grow my hair out, and start wearing glasses, even though my eyesight will be fine. I'll start listening to ambitious music. I'll smoke weed, drink wine, and sleep with random girls. I'll finish Polish studies and work as a teacher, earning, let's agree, not much. I'll get married at 27, but not for love, but because my girlfriend, whom I'm actually planning to dump, gets pregnant. I'll marry out of duty and for peace of mind. I'll be a bad husband. At 30, I'll decide I've had enough of being young and start being like my grandfather. A few years later, my wife will divorce me, and I'll have to pay alimony. I won't see my son. I'll start not giving a damn. Around 40, I'll win the lottery and go to the Canary Islands. It'll be fun, like in the movies. I'll drink a little, but not too much. At 99, I'll think to myself that if I live to be 100 in a year.

City guard

 

To this day, I can't describe what actually happened then.

It was definitely night, dark, somehow sepulchral, ​​the fog spreading sticky shrouds of deformation between the sleepy tenement houses. It was cold, more like autumn than winter. I remember because of the dampness of rain. Perhaps that's why everything was completely unclear from the start, irritating with its cold mystery.

Yes, I think I gave the police a precise description, but now I'm no longer certain of a single detail. Or rather, I'm certain that all those details, as I stubbornly call them, I noticed then were an expression of a desire to understand and classify, as illusory as they were erroneous; and nothing follows from these details, just as nothing followed from them then. Because they didn't convey his dreamlike essence in the slightest.

And they certainly don't explain what happened.

He walked slowly, heavily, and gloomily. He came, I think, from the direction of the Old Cemetery (because really, where the hell could he have come from?), though I didn't pay any attention, to be honest, just as I wouldn't have paid any attention to him. I repeat, I wouldn't have, if it weren't for one thing: he was walking down the middle of the street. Krakowska Street, somewhere up there. But the point is: he was walking on the road.

Okay, I admit, there wouldn't have been anything surprising about it (I myself often find myself unable to fit within the awkward width of the sidewalk—so that's not the point either), if it weren't for the fact that there was clearly, from the very beginning, something distinctly "wrong" with him. In fact, everything was wrong.

I know he wasn't who, when I was approached, so insistently—I admit—he claimed to be: a City Guard. I know those guys all too well; he's not that type. They don't go alone, they don't wear tailcoats or top hats at all, they don't wear loose, flowing waves of silver-flecked hair. They don't smell like the illusion of a dream, or rather a nightmare. They don't smoke imported tobacco from a wooden pipe.

He wasn't one, so he was lying. So I started mocking him lightly.

I wasn't annoyed that he wasn't paying attention to me, except for the faintest hint of an ironic smile, barely perceptible at the corner of his mouth. I'd grown accustomed to these smiles by now, so for obvious reasons, I didn't consider them a reaction.

Instead, I mocked him even harder, sharper, less discerning. Perhaps, though I could be wrong, I finally began to call him names, and with each word my sense of self-worth, long since diminished, grew, and I must have felt good about that. In any case, I clearly had to demonstrate it in some pretentious way.

"You know, we're actually similar," he said unexpectedly. "We constitute the invisible color of this city, which seemingly goes unnoticed. Except they'd love to have you removed, because you're a kind of ulcer, and no one seems to notice our existence. But it's we who, at night, rekindle the city's spirit, fading in the light of new eras, guarding the secret of its unique atmosphere. We are the guardians of its inner fire.

It's true that something warm radiated from him. Or rather, something bright, because the temperature wasn't the issue here. No, probably not bright either. I don't know, but it was undoubtedly an overwhelming, irresistible feeling. Some transcendence flowed through him, perhaps it flowed, perhaps he was only meant to be its carrier, or perhaps a mediator, but he undoubtedly had it within him. I don't know why, and I never discovered its purpose. But it was there then."

He pulled a round watch on a gold chain from his vest pocket. He glanced, raised his head toward the western end of the street.

"One minute to midnight, time to go. Go away. "

I moved away slightly, I admit. His tone, though not one that brooked no argument, had a persuasive effect. I staggered slightly, fell awkwardly, and sat down against the wall of one of the many tenement houses on Krakowska Street, shrouded in fog and monumentally dark.

Truly, upon my word, I have no idea where that tram came from. Blurry, foggy, perhaps more of a premonition than an actual vehicle, I don't know, but it arrived, creaking slightly but majestically.

He climbed aboard and drove away.

And I will not leave you until death...

 

It was 1989, the sun was shining brightly outside and a gentle, warm breeze was blowing.

On June 12, 1979, at approximately 1:30 a.m., a beautiful little girl was born in the hospital. From the very beginning, she bore an uncanny resemblance to her equally beautiful and young mother. They named her Magda. Unfortunately, she wasn't entirely healthy. She had minor breathing complications, and doctors didn't predict her long life. But the girl was very strong, and despite many difficulties, she lived to be seven years old.

In 1995, she entered the "Jarzębinka" preschool. Of all the children, she was the smallest, but she was the only one with an extraordinary sense of humor. Her gentle, always smiling face radiated throughout the building. She loved rhythm and art lessons. She was always eager to help; she was everywhere, unable to ignore anyone who needed help. And it was at this preschool that Anastazja met Natalia. Natalia was very tall for her young age. They quickly became friends, played together, and sat at the same table.

In 1996, they both left preschool. They were sad to be leaving. Magda consoled her friend, saying she would never forget her. On September 1, 1997, Magda went to her first lesson. And to the girl's great surprise, Natalia was there! They immediately sat together in the front row. Their friendship blossomed even more, just as they did.

They signed up for choir, which later turned out to be their only passion. They had similar interests and helped each other with everything. They were like lovebirds.

One day, Magda invited her friend to her house. They went to her room and, while sipping hot chocolate, wrote "The Code of Our Friendship." They wrote whatever came to mind. Magda prepared a special metal box and hid the letter inside. Along with the envelope, she also put in a cream-colored scarf with a drop of their blood—a sign that would forever cement their friendship. Inside was their high school graduation photo. That same day, they went out to the meadow and buried the box under an old lilac tree. Singing their favorite song, they buried it. Then Magda said,

"From now on, whenever we're sad, or when one of us is gone, we'll come here, dig up our treasure, and remember those wonderful days." And so, from then on, whenever they were sad, they went there and left something behind. But time flew by, and the girls grew into beautiful, wise women, now women.

In 2008, both passed their final exams with flying colors. They graduated with high grades. Unfortunately, only Magda got into university. There was no room left for Natalia. So she decided to leave her hometown and go abroad in search of work and adventure. It was August 21, 2009, to be precise. The weather wasn't great. Magda was very sad that her friend was leaving. However, they decided to write to each other monthly.

Four years later, Magda graduated and started a family. She had a loving husband and two wonderful children—a son, Piotr, and a daughter, Monika, whom she had always dreamed of and of whom she was proud! However, after a difficult childbirth, when Monika was born, Magda's health deteriorated. She was no longer the same beautiful woman. The illness had aged her young face—the only things that hadn't changed were that cheerful expression, that radiant, sparkling smile, and those small, gleaming blue eyes. Now she spent more time at home in an armchair than, as she once did, playing in the garden with her children.

One day, she remembered her dear friend. It had been a long time since she'd written to her. She wanted to write something for her, but she didn't know what. The only thing Magda could think of was visiting that memorable place, under the lilac tree. She remembered their solemn oath of friendship. She knew perfectly well that if she went there, she had to leave something as a souvenir. She took a white card from her dresser, wrote a few lines with a trembling hand. She carefully sealed it in an envelope, and left. She never forgot that day...

Meanwhile, in Paris—where Natalia was staying—the sun was shining. She also had her own family with five children. In the evenings, she sat on the veranda and reminisced. One overcast day, Piotr, her husband, came into the house. He handed her a small envelope. Natalia was overjoyed, recognizing immediately that it was a letter from Magda. The only thing that surprised her was the different handwriting on the envelope and the postmark. If she remembered correctly, she had already received a letter from her a week ago. But she was still glad she hadn't forgotten about her and that perhaps he had a message for her. She slowly opened the envelope, careful not to damage it. She carefully removed the note and began reading. Suddenly, a look of astonishment, regret, sadness, and tears all at once appeared on her face. The letter was very short. Natalia stood on the porch, staring motionless at the scrap of paper... the letter read:

Szamotuły, July 24, 2006

Dear Natalia!!

I don't want to beat around the bush, so I'll say it straight away: Magda is dead. She died on July 22nd of this year, on her name day. She was seriously ill. She had been battling the disease for a long time, but this time it won. She had cancer and collapsed on the street. A car hit her, and although doctors stubbornly fought for her life, they were unable to change anything. If you are able to come, the funeral will take place on July 26th of this year in Szamotuły. Best regards,

Kamil...

When she finished reading, she put the envelope down, tears streaming down her face. Without a second thought, she packed her bags and drove to Szamotuły.

The funeral was truly beautiful. The choir they had once attended sang their favorite song, one they often sang together: "There Is So Much Light in the Darkness." It was incredible. For the first time, this song was sung by one person. It was their conductor. Mr. Piotr wanted to personally say goodbye to one of his best choristers. While Remigiusz played the background for the song on the organ, Mr. Piotr concluded by adding: "Magda, you were one of the best choristers we've ever had. You and Natalia made a fantastic duo. You helped me when I couldn't cope. You remembered me, you were always there for me when things were bad and when things were good. You were my best friends, despite our age difference. Remember, I'll never forget you. I'll always hold you up as a role model, and Natalia will help me with that. She agreed to lead the band with me, so things would be like they used to be..."

After the ceremony, Natalia went to the memorable meadow – alone this time. Without much difficulty, she found the old tree, dug up the box, sat on a rock, and started reading. Nothing had changed. There was a photo, various mementos, that old handkerchief with blood stains, etc. At the very bottom was a red envelope. She pulled it out. This was Magda's last letter:

Natalia, my dear friend!!!

I'm seriously ill and don't have many days left to live. I hope you won't cry and that you'll visit this place until the end. Remember how we met in kindergarten? How we liked the rhythm teacher? Those were the days. We used to be really crazy. I think you'll manage without me! You were always stronger than me. I don't know what to write anymore. These few sentences took a lot out of me. And that's all I wanted to tell you. Oh, and one more thing: I love you, my Natalia, and I will never forget you.....

Anastazja 21/07.

I won't forget you either, whispered Natalia.

These were her friend's last words, and they lifted her spirits greatly. She knew that she would be happy up there, watching over her and caring for her. She carefully closed the lid of the box and left, all tears in her eyes, but smiling, for in her hand she clutched a photo of her beloved friend Magda—her beautiful little Magda...

NOW WE WILL BE TOGETHER FOREVER, AND I WILL REMEMBER HER RADIANT, SMILING FACE, HER LITTLE ANGEL—MY LITTLE ANGEL—Natalia thought.

SAVAGE TENANTS I

 

Protecting secrets, I look through the glass that distorts my vision. I hear a whisper that causes a constant headache. It's like the hissing of a thousand snakes, "Protect us, don't betray us! You can't, or we'll be sad, and when we are, so will you. Remember!"

I remember a bright day .

They came with flowers.

They caressed me.

They were a touch, a scent.

Waiting for the dizziness

. They explained. They said, "It's beautiful ."

They were the explanation

. The secrets moved into the house, into my house, not a big one, but my own. I didn't protest. It simply happened. Imagine my amazement when, magically, they enlarged the size of my apartment. "This is for you, Happy One, and make new friends at the same time." They were like a foreigner from a certain Master's novel. And so life spun like a carousel. New acquaintances, new tenants, new tricks for enlarging the apartment. And everything would have been the same if they hadn't stopped explaining.

There are dreams that no one can interpret, or rather, no one should. Why? Because every attempt will be another lie.

After waking up, I realized, without the help of my friends, that it wasn't my house that was expanding. It was the house that had the property, or rather the tendency, to shrink, to become smaller. I panicked then, "God, what will happen when I return home one day and there's no room for me there anymore?" I decided to get rid of the burden. But all I had time to think was, "Protect us, don't betray us..."

II

...suddenly darkness. I think I've lost my memory. It vanished. I'm walking down the street, hurrying, running up every now and then. I glance around furtively. To get a good look at the buildings, I have to tilt my head up. They seem as if they're about to arch, creating a tunnel, thus separating me from the sky. They're like hypnosis. I feel a feeling of claustrophobia slowly creeping over me, I'm breathing very nervously, I'm feeling stuffy, what's going on, help...

"Damn it, the fucking curb!" I almost hit the cobblestones with my nose. When I got back together, I saw scattered garbage and an overturned trash can. I looked around. It was good there was no one around; someone could have accused me of vandalism. I could already see an old woman beating me with a cane, barely standing, screaming, "Drunk enough, he's also knocking over trash cans." The story of the old woman amused me so much that I started smiling to myself. Again, I looked around involuntarily, and after making sure I was alone, I moved on.

Suddenly, I was overcome with a strange, unpleasant feeling that not only was there no one on this street, but the entire city. Had I missed something, overslept, been late, been left out?forgotten.

My thoughts were interrupted by an explosion. It was so massive, as if someone had gathered all the sounds in the world and gathered them in one place. With it came a blinding flash of light. I opened my eyes...

...suddenly silence. Without really knowing what had happened, I began to run toward the rising clouds of dust. I stopped. I was afraid of what I would see, but I knew, somehow I felt it, that I had to, that it was connected to me. Strangely, even though I wanted to keep running, I stood still, not moving a single step. The air became so thick I could barely move. Now I know what a dog on a leash feels like. I gave up this pointless effort. I felt a strange peace and relief. My state was interrupted by words, or rather a whisper, whose source was in my head: "Protect us, do not betray us..."

I turned and saw him. He stood there, watching me without much interest, a smile twisting his face.

"So?"

"What, 'So'?" I replied, confused. That was all I could manage. All my thoughts scattered. I was left alone, and so was he. "How are we feeling after such a magnificent pyrotechnic display?" He

said it as if he knew perfectly well that I didn't understand. Because he did. I couldn't react. Suddenly, his tone changed. He spoke as if he were a fan who had met his idol.

"I'm impressed, words fail me, you're just..." he began to stutter. "Wonderful, that's an understatement."

I felt something inside me scream. "Who is this, what's going on, why are you acting?" No answer.

"I just don't understand one thing," he returned to his original tone. "Why did you come back?" My

vision went black. I don't know if I fainted, I don't know if I fell. I don't remember. Maybe I died...

" III

...the bus doors opening woke me up. I ran out, still not fully aware of what I was doing or where I was. The bus pulled away. I started looking around. Yes, the place was familiar; I'd dozed off on the bus and had a dream, I got scared, but everything's fine now. I headed toward the tram stop. I looked around for anything approaching and quickly crossed the street in the wrong place. Good thing there weren't any cops nearby; they'd probably have jumped me right away. I don't know why I thought that; I pass this way every day, everyone does... I suddenly stopped. I felt my legs give out. God, the same shit again. I must have woken up, or maybe not... Why didn't I notice something was wrong before? The bus is usually packed at this time. Maybe it was a holiday, and I'd accidentally gotten up early, made myself breakfast, and left for work. That naive explanation wasn't enough. I don't remember it. The last thing I remember is an explosion.

I was standing at the bus stop, looking around nervously, waiting for something to happen. Maybe an explosion, maybe some other madness. I had a feeling I'd see him again any moment. He'd emerge from behind a tree with a smile and... No, that wasn't his style—the ground would open, and he'd leap from the abyss. I involuntarily looked down at my feet; something was sticking out from under my shoe. I looked closer, and it was a photograph. I bent down and picked it up. I knew that picture, I remembered the place where it was taken, I remembered the woman sitting next to me.

IV

There were stars... words, feelings, sick monsters of reality are born. One dies, the other remains, lives, remembers, and says:

"The only person I loved was my grandfather."

"I love my grandfather too.

" "But I'm serious. Have you ever wondered what true love is?"

I never did. Now, standing alone with the photograph in my hand, I feel helpless.

V

I heard the tram doors open. I entered, looked around—it was empty, and took a seat at the back. The moment the doors closed, I lost my confidence and sense of security. The tram started moving, and I began to feel afraid. I was thinking so intensely about fear that I didn't even notice when it stopped. The doors opened, and the vehicle, so hated by me, began to fill with people. "Well, finally a bit of normality," I thought. I heard conversations, laughter, fascination, regrets. People were strangely excited. I felt sick again. Why was everyone standing and no one sitting down...

VI

...I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned and saw an old man. He had a very pleasant expression on his face. He reminded me of my grandfather. He was smiling at me:

"Because, sir, we're about to get off, and you're going on."

I was speechless. Who was this guy, and how did he know what was going to happen? Maybe he mistook me for someone else. The tram stopped, and people began to pour out, literally. They looked like porcelain sculptures crashing against the pavement without making a sound. Silence again. The doors closed. He stood at the other end of the carriage, watching me just like last time. I looked away—"I won't give the bastard a chance," I thought. I stood up, trying to approach him, but at that moment the tram stopped. This was the stop where I usually got off, so I did so now. But why? I was going to work. Unless... Yes, that was my destiny... Maybe I'll find meaning here...

VII

...strange, but across the tram tracks stands a bench, like a park bench. I often sat on one with the woman next to me in the photo.

It was like a life story.

Once upon a time, I remember,

I was in Heaven,

if Heaven is the sweetest of feelings,

no matter what you do,

what you say,

what the scenery,

the weather, or the time.

I was there.

I don't remember if it lasted seconds or centuries.

I was there.

A revelation came to me when I least expected it.

I was speechless, unable to express it.

I couldn't hold on to the moment.

So the moment vanished, passed,

and I stood there with a stupid expression on my face

, wanting to know what had happened.

Not only the expression, but the situation itself was stupid.

Now I wonder if it was conscious,

or if it happened without my involvement,

that I was turning Heaven into Hell.

I stand in front of the mirror and burst into laughter. Is this madness? Maybe a tram will come and take me to the woman sitting next to me in the photo...

VIII

Today I visited a country that had never existed for me before. My advisors guarded it from my sight. I trusted them. Even though I felt differently, I didn't protest. I was weak. I will return to a country that smells of warmth. As I drew in the air, I deceived myself into thinking this air was from the country I love. Today I visited it. This air, this country, is extraordinary.

I've been living in a new place for some time now. I no longer need advisors. I no longer hear the whispers "protect us" and "don't betray us."

And my advisors? They are my cheaters.

RANDOM PASSERS-BY

 

I

He woke up drenched in sweat. What he'd dreamed was more than a nightmare. It woke Heniek too—"I must have screamed," he thought.

"Did you have a bad dream?

" "No!" Mietek cut him off curtly. "Just some old story about spiders.

" "Will you make it till tonight?"

"I don't know. I guess not.

" "Because, you know, maybe tonight... And anyway, I'll sell the bottles and figure something out." Heniek got up and went to the kitchen. He could hear the clinking of glass.

It had been like this every day for some time. Since when? He couldn't remember. A year, maybe longer. It probably started when his child died, or maybe even earlier, when his wife died—just like that, in a car accident. Heniek was driving, but it wasn't his fault; he didn't hold a grudge against him. And the child? Just like that—some drug addict had pricked it with a needle because Mietek wouldn't let him have it for his allotment. It lived for another two years, strong. It was a boy, six years old.

He heard footsteps on the stairs—it was Heniek. He walked briskly, which meant he had—"Christ, I'm saved," he thought. He was going to end it, thinking maybe he'd go to the clinic next week.

He didn't. He drank for another three months, until he ended up in the hospital.

"That wasn't a good move," the doctor said. "You'll have a disabled left hand.

" "That's nothing. My right hand is enough for vodka," Mietek smiled, "or maybe..." The scars on his wrists hurt.

A month ago, he'd met a pretty girl. He was captivated by her purity, her virginity. He'd made an appointment with her, but he was late—she was already gone. He tried again, but they argued over something stupid. He'd made a mistake. He shouldn't have met her sober—he was always irritable then. He called her, she liked him, he knew it—she set a condition: he had to stop.

He endured three days, three long, hard days. On the fourth day, he cut himself. He wanted to kill everything this way: conscience, love, addiction, and God. Now he wasn't sure if it was worth it. He'd be here for another month, because to succeed, he'd have to jump from the fourth floor.

"This is going to be a rehab," he thought, legs in casts, broken ribs, a fractured skull, and a liver that wouldn't digest anything. He forbade the doctors to let anyone in.

It worked, he lay here for a month, hands down. It was the worst month of his life. Constant sweats, pain, a high fever, and those nightmares. But he didn't escape. The doctors helped, the nurses too, especially this one tall, brunette girl. She wanted to meet him afterward, but he refused because he still remembered the girl he'd jumped because of... or maybe for whom he'd jumped... or maybe he'd jumped for himself? He didn't know that yet. He only remembered one thing: her name was Basia, and he also knew only one thing: to meet her as soon as possible.

When he left the hospital, it was the first day of spring. Birds, grass, trees—everything pointed to it. He hadn't noticed it before, perhaps he hadn't had the time. He wanted to go to Heniek's, but it was risky; he might have been tempted and given up. He crossed himself and drove to the cemetery.

"You know, I met a pretty girl. I think you won't mind." He laid the flowers and walked away—the cross the only witness to that promise. Large, lonely, and yet some incomprehensible power radiated from it. And it entered him too; he felt it within him, like purification, like the forgiveness of sins. No!—he decided—he wouldn't try to live again, he would do it. He would do it, he would succeed, he was sure of it.

He went to her, to Basia. She welcomed him with a smile, offered him tea, and they sat in the garden.

"I wanted to visit you, but the doctors—"

"I know," he interrupted. "I forbade them from letting anyone in because I was afraid some guy would come." You know, just hanging out with a guy, that's not going to work..." He wanted to say something more, but he just smiled bitterly.

"I understand, and I'm glad. You lasted a month, so maybe you'll stop altogether.

" "Definitely! I plan to revive myself, you know, do something with my life again.

" "Then maybe you'll visit me again sometime," she said with a smile.

He smiled back. What he'd just heard meant that she wanted to see him again. So there was some hope. He smiled at the thought. They talked for another hour, about everything and nothing.

Mietek said goodbye to her and promised to call her. It was well after ten, and he didn't know where to go, what to do with himself. He decided to spend the night at Heniek's and look for a job the next day; after all, he had once been a good engineer, the best in his year. "But if I go to Heniek's," he thought, "it might turn out I can't stand it anymore and do something stupid." He decided this had to be a test, a test to see if he could ever see Baśka again. He thought he'd fallen in love.

As he climbed the stairs, he could already hear that everything in the apartment was as usual. The door was open, and thick cigarette smoke was billowing out. Inside was a crowd: Heniek, Adam, Jurek, his girlfriend Danka, some girls who were surprisingly still dressed, and a number of other people he didn't know or only knew by sight.

"Mietek!" Adam shouted. "Where have you been, man? No one's heard of you for a week?

" "Oh my God, what happened to you?" someone asked, looking at his crutches.

"Come on," another said.

"Leave him alone." Heniek stifled his questions. "Don't you see how he looks?"

He didn't look his best, pale and seemingly frightened. They went out to the kitchen together. It turned out Heniek hadn't told anyone about his suicide attempt. He only said that Mietek had broken his legs somewhere on his bike, which surprised everyone, because the others had long since sold their bikes, along with many other valuables.

"How are you?" Heniek asked.

"Normal, or abnormal, whichever you prefer. You know, tea and crackers all month long.

" "Want some?" Heniek pulled a bottle of vodka from the cupboard. "It was waiting for you.

" "No!" Mietek said, terrified, because he felt deep down that he wanted to. "I'll come back a little later, after everyone had left."

"Okay, I understand," his best friend said. Then he turned and staggered back to the room.

Mietek sat in the kitchen for a while. He opened the window and lit a cigarette. He looked at the river. "She's so beautiful," he thought, "almost like Baśka's hair." He found himself thinking about her. He liked it, but there was also a thought of something entirely different. He was afraid—"God, how easy it is to forget everything." He went out, wandered around a bit, and returned home after midnight. Heniek was already asleep, so he ate something himself and lay down in the kitchen with the window open.

A nightmare woke him. He saw in his face a black figure gouging out the eyes of hundreds of birds, who nevertheless clung to it, like a child clings to its mother after a long separation. He didn't know why it frightened him so much; after all, he'd seen worse scenes in movies. But he couldn't fall asleep again and lay thinking about the figure in the black hood.

At six in the morning, the alarm clock rang, stubbornly invading the morning silence. Heniek got up with a curse on his lips and kicked it, and it stopped ringing, as if fearing for its fate. He walked into the kitchen and saw Mietek sitting by the window, smoking a cigarette.

"What, you're not sleeping? I understand that, I have to get up for work, but you...

" "Work?" Mietek said in surprise. "Don't tell me you're working!

" "Well, if you can't drink, I guess I can work a little. I combine business with pleasure, I work at a construction site," Heniek replied, downing what was left in the bottle from the previous evening.

"I'll look for a job too, but a less harmful one."

He couldn't find any. Currently, no one needed engineers, no one was needed at all. The job market was overcrowded, and they'd gladly lay off half the city's workers. Only councilors and the like were paid enough. He hadn't noticed it before, complained about it, but he complained about everything else too, even though he wasn't worried about anything. He had to find a job, if not today, then tomorrow. For now, he'd go to Basia's

.

A hooded figure casually moved across the square toward the fountain. Accompanying her were birds, which were as much his as he was theirs. He couldn't move around the city without them, couldn't go anywhere without them. He lost his sight at three, now he's thirty-six, and he can't remember any colors or shapes. He grew up with a parrot, and it helped him orient himself.

I tell them the story of my life.

A week later, Mietek managed to find a job. He wasn't happy with it, because as an electrician after college, he transported toys in a small truck. However, it was enough to rent a studio apartment and he could invite Basia over. Which he soon did.

"Listen, maybe we could have dinner, you know, with candles and all, huh?" he suggested a little hesitantly, but she seemed to understand.

"Well, then you can go to my place and propose to my mother, okay!"

He couldn't believe his luck. They hadn't even kissed.

They'd made up for it that evening. The wedding was in a month.

And absolution will come

. He had that nightmare again. The hooded figure was telling him more and more about herself. He learned that she had once been a bird, but it was a hazy memory for her. Perhaps she had only once been in the air and flown, and now she wanted to fly again. She hated birds, and they were drawn to her. In her dream, she saw herself as the embodiment of freedom, and so she gouged out their eyes so as not to lose it.

Mietek wasn't sure if he was dreaming his own dreams or the person he dreamed of. He didn't feel good about it, but he didn't tell Basia.

When there was nothing left to add.

Two weeks after the wedding, Heniek drank himself to death. In this way, Mietek lost his best friend. All he had left was his wife and the myth of happiness. He wasn't sure if he wanted children with her, even though she dreamed of it. He was afraid for himself and for Basia. Until now, he had been losing everything he cared about. He had never loved anything or anyone as much as he loved her. Every love of his had the flavor of that first, ephemeral teenage rose that so many people wrote about.

And if the price for my eccentricity

is gibberish

, I'll accept this:

"Mieczysław W.'s body was found after his mysterious disappearance two months ago, near the K. Bridge. It was most likely a suicide. The body washed up in the river 15 meters from the bridge. A bottle of alcohol filled with animal eyes was found in his jacket pocket. As it later turned out, they were bird eyes."

you in the atmosphere of dying summer days

 

It was a day no one usually likes – Monday. A lunar day, and quite a day after Sunday, when half the population didn't go to church. Maybe they were at IKEA, or listening to the awful song "Important" from the speakers, Mezo, staring deliriously at the flashing red light with the word "Repeat."

Whatever they were doing, they had to be on their feet today, their own, not theirs, on the tram, heading to work, because without work, well, there are no "kołacz," no colored contact lenses, no tickets to a Snoop Dogg concert or Opole 2005. So people try to make sure they don't miss that tram, even though it's very early, maybe even earlier than they'd planned to go somewhere out in the world, on that beautiful day that no one ever habitually likes.

That's why, sometimes with a hateful glance from the eye of your imagination, which suggested a million situations, you might envy yours, like the fact that the lady has a child and it woke her up very early, and even though she didn't go to bed after a very polite party at 3 a.m., she had to get up at 4 a.m., so she basically slept the same number of hours as you. Maybe she didn't borrow anyone's hairdryer, or she wore a bra, maybe she didn't have size D breasts, the kind that make people stop and say: come on, Heniek, I like them with large breasts, but a huge one is too big. They move on, and so on, this one's too small, even though they like small ones, and this one's too medium, so don't worry, Henie, because the vodka ate your liver, hehe, like a raven or some other sparrow for Prometheus. With the slight difference that Prometheus at least brought you a fire with which you can light your pipe, while you gave no one anything but vodka, and in your school days, water with a dashed "O." It happened on the stairs, in some nice stairwell, and maybe your apartment is so nice? Yes, mine, mine, but only in a few months. Please, please. It took you a long time to get ready, my child. Then again, someone probably used that time better, I think, maybe like the one from Leviathan who has a perm. I wonder if a woman is in that "I don't have time to take care of myself" phase. Or maybe she takes care of herself, and this is the result? Oh, how she would cry if she found out what I'm writing here. She would be seething, after all, she was such a nice girl. I sold her four tickets this morning: two concessionary, two student, boo L. But who looks stylish in a Leviathan apron? A little understanding, ladies!

Trams at work, earning money for health and sex, don't make things any easier. Pippi. Stop. Pippi, off. A mega trip to the stars. Beep, wake up, because it's already 3:15, and the clock at the bus stop is beeping, beep, I'm telling you right, it's working, completely beep wrong. How is that man in the corner not ashamed to blow his nose so loudly? Curiosity is the first step to hell. He has a very old-fashioned handkerchief, a normal one, no writing, velvet, soft touch on your face, not even a paper butterfly came to life, no, it's a handkerchief from my great-great-someone, respect me and her, even though I blow my nose loudly.

And now, a course for detail, now, a course for cheapness. You turn your head to the right, and on your left you see a clearly visible window with a fogged-up window, as if a tram had been sweating, its beeping and stops. To your right, however, stands the very thing you were aiming for. A course for detail, Mr. sailor of another ship. My heart, her heart, our hearts are floating through the "Plac Wszystkich Świętych" stop in Krakow, on July 11th, a Monday, a day you usually don't like. Etc., etc.

The girl has red hair, the kind you've dreamed of all your life, ever since you read Anne of Green Gables. She has greenish eyes, maybe like lenses made of glass or something. You've seen this many times. Such a wonderful image of beauty, you've become accustomed to beauty in this life, and what will happen next? Will everything be as simple as today, when you borrow a hairdryer from your beautiful neighbor and walk and rush, daring to follow that red-haired beauty with your eyes, even though you're not a lesbian at all, and her existence intrigues you from a purely physical perspective. Isn't it time to end this gawking? Isn't it?

Monika got off at the stop titled "Kino Wanda." The cinema here is long gone. There are empty auditoriums, empty tapes and empty seats, empty viewers with empty pockets. There's an empty stop in the rain, on a Friday evening, where no one forbids anyone from going to the movies because it's Saturday, a safe, occasionally good, and favorable day. The cobblestones are paved with signs and car headlights, and Monika gets out, unaware yet that she's being followed. She doesn't know Krakow, she walks a bit blind, a bit intuitively, looking at the bushes, the railings, calmly contemplating their uninteresting reality. Monika's reality is even more barren than that juniper in the Planty park who keeps an eye on all the sleeping children in their strollers, making sure a hornbeam doesn't get caught in their hats. Everything for her is divided into categories: life, work, a piece of cake, and a Snoop Dogg concert. She jokes, Monika listens to techno, like her boyfriend Marcin. Marcin is a car mechanic, unaware that if he worked a little longer, he wouldn't have to buy Monika cigarettes or tights for no reason, but he'd rather come up with the idea of ​​buying a canvas. Because no one knows this yet, but if Monika's brain were a little more abstract (something can be done about it), they'd have a true artist in the house. But her talent ended at the elementary school level, second grade "B," where her parents divorced, her mother earned much less without her father's bonus because she only sold pretzels. And there was no money for crayons—a difficult thing, to put it bluntly.

One day, her mother, who is now completely gray, woke up and suddenly remembered: Oh my God! After all, Monisia once painted such a beautiful horse!... Maybe this child would be something, what do you think, Monika's second-me-mother-in-this-case?

The second-me-Monika-mom-in-this-case agreed with the first. But they both fell asleep, Mrs. Monika's whole self woke up around maybe 9 a.m. and went selling pretzels on Kanonicza Street.

And those pretzels were a completely different story. There was salmonella, which thrived especially in Krakow's Market Square and especially in the heat. And all this crap wanted to eat them up, both Krakow and the delicious, crispy, baked crust of the pretzels.

Redhead Monika walked along, completely unaware of how ugly her plucked eyebrows would be. She wants to do it to them today, right after leaving the bank, right after she takes out a loan for her great-grandfather's house, which is already falling apart. But they'll fall for it, both at BPH and PKO, haha. Her eyebrows really annoy her; they're wide and black, hairy, and she hates hair. She once really wanted to get a haircut, but it didn't work out because it was too short. Yeah, she remembers something, I think she even liked to paint once. Yeah, and whatever, Frida had the same eyebrows as her. Hmm, very nice. Frida might have been as poor as she is now, she also had a terrible boyfriend, or maybe a girlfriend, who knows, because she was bi.

But now it'll be over, now she'll be rich and just drive around people's houses and buy herself a Toyota or a Ford. She'll have a brand-name Oriflame trunk. Everything will be different. They can take her great-grandfather's house, it doesn't matter, it's not livable anyway – she knows because she tried once. The stairs collapsed, and her heel came off on her brand-new shoes from Lidka, who smuggled a few pairs from the Czech Republic. Nothing worked. The kitchen couldn't be renovated, and where could I put a TV in the living room? It wouldn't work either. It would be better to at least give up the money for a few cool gadgets. But it's not just gadgets, it'll be her new work environment – ​​Mrs. Ania said she'll make money very quickly. Apparently, you just need to have an idea where to sell the cosmetics. Well, Monika doesn't have that idea, but she'll think about it, and everything will be really okay. I'm sure it will be okay, especially if she takes out that loan.

You follow the girl with a very hungry gaze. The kebab man looks at you with the same look. He doesn't know that no one here is hungry, that he won't actually make anything on dog meat today (some Burek was running around here, I felt a bit sorry for him, hehe – that's what he'd joke if you asked if the meat was fresh and good). A longing glance at your hands immediately sees how beautiful they are, how you delicately draw with a pencil the shapes of buildings, a park, and a child with ice cream. He doesn't know, he will never know, how much anger and unlove you harbor.

Meanwhile, you've passed by without noticing the beautiful brunette in the window with the "KEBAB" sign. You haven't noticed the hundreds of trams, buses, cars, you can't see anything, you just walk, staring colorblindly at a single point of light called a traffic light, and with your squinting eye (the other, green one), you see the red dot of Monika's head. Monika is far away, the green light quite close. For a single moment, you hesitate whether to keep going, satisfying your brain with the nonsense from school, or run as if nothing had happened, chasing this lady this morning.

You'd probably choose the latter. You chase her thoughts, they race faster than yours. Here's Marcin with his dyed hair, there's some nasty aunt who doesn't want to die, and here it's all about money again. What hideous thoughts this beautiful girl has. Who would have thought? You see that thing about plucking her eyebrows again.

You'd approach, flashing that Snoop Dogg memory (di ol dabul ji) into your mind.

"I'm a beautician, can I pluck your eyebrows?" you ask, and she stares at you with such a blue expression that a passing cat looks at you in horror.

She doesn't know what to do, there's no excuse—you've hit the nail on the head—she was thinking about it right now, but you're smart, ugh.

Monika is in deep shock.

Monika is in

deep shock. She wouldn't take a step further now.

Your question, thrown so hopelessly into space, bounces back, resonates, and you divide the time of the bounce by two, because it had to come back.

You're standing in the plantations, and a long time passes, so much so that the leaves start to turn red, then they fall, covered in tacky snow, until they finally grow back. Monika plucked her eyebrows. PFU! You did it for her. One day she sits down, holding a dog in her hand, an Oriflame box:

"I think I'm in love."