Beginnings. Falls. Fragment Three

VII.

He had barely fallen asleep and was immediately awake; or at least that was his impression. But he had gone to bed a short distance from the shore in the dark of night and awoke at the crack of dawn.

The shore was a few meters away.

It was still early; and cold. It was a violent shiver—not an internal clock—that roused Somebody from sleep. The man rose, trembling all over. He hugged himself tightly and, massaging his chilled forearms, looked around helplessly. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. He saw nothing.

"Fog," he realized. Clouds settled on the ground.

Casually, on legs numb with cold, he began walking along the shoreline, his gaze fixed on the sandy road ahead. As he trudged along, the monotonous, linear landscape of the shore emerged from the haze—sand, a strip of mud, and the sea lazily flowing in and out helplessly from a gentle rise. Still, Somebody didn't immediately pick up on the novelty, the change in this dull scene. When first a darker stain emerged from the milky whiteness, then an outline, he approached it leisurely, walking as he had before. The mysterious shape took on first color, then texture. When Somebody reached it—floating lightly in the shallow coastal water—he placed his hand on it, examining it questioningly.

After a moment, he realized with surprise that it was a boat. But it wasn't the boat itself that was particularly surprising—just a wooden boat, small and unassuming. Except that a moment ago he hadn't known what it was—and now he even knew—in theory—how to row efficiently.

He lost interest in the boat, however, when he noticed footsteps in the sand leading into the fog. He abandoned his practice of rowing theory and followed the well-trodden trail. The line of footprints in the sand stretched far into the island; He twisted, turned sharply, turned, twisted around, and continued on. Footprints, not footprints.

"Hmm..." the Somebody wondered. "What?"

He continued, staring at the prints emerging from the fog. At one point, the trail stopped, and a shadow loomed at its end. The man cautiously slowed his pace. He approached slowly and silently, on bent legs, carefully examining the emerging outline. When he finally made out a shape—motionless, fixed in one place—and the timid, pale gray colors, he stopped, unsure what to do next. It was then that the object of his observation, feeling the weight of the scrutinizing gaze upon him, turned and spotted the Somebody.

"Aaah!"

Seeing the man, the mysterious figure was somewhat surprised, and probably not pleasantly, because he screamed at the top of his lungs, wincing horribly as he did so. Surprised by the violent reaction—the reaction itself and its form—and no less terrified by the woman's nightmarish grimace and scream than she was by his sudden appearance, the Somebody echoed her.

"AAA!!!"

At this, she screamed even louder, contorting her face even more. He followed her—like an echo—louder, longer, and louder. And so they shouted, mimicking—stronger, more terrifying, and drawn out—until finally they were just shouting at each other with less and less conviction. Neither of them attacked—so why?

"What?" "What?" the Somebody stated, or rather asked. There was a moment of silent pause.

"Ahem," the woman cleared her throat, looking uncertainly from side to side. "I... I be a friend," she began, trying to look him straight in the eye, making friendly, submissive gestures. "I won't do anything to you! I promise!"

The man looked at her blankly.

"I... be a friend?" the woman repeated uncertainly. "Do nothing."

He continued to look at her askance. She tried to say something in her defense, but she couldn't get anything out as he glared at her with disgust.

"Speak normally, I can barely understand you," he finally said, spreading his arms helplessly.

"So... is that what you're talking about? Normally, can you speak?

" "Right! I thought you were some kind of idiot.

" "And... and you won't do anything to me?" the woman, now somewhat calmer, wanted to make sure.

"Do something? What?

" "I don't know. Nothing specific comes to mind. I'm making sure you haven't done anything too.

" "Hmm..." Somebody wondered. "No.

" "Phew..." she sighed with relief. "Well, then I... I'll... go.

" "Where?" the man asked rhetorically.

"I'm looking for someone..." the woman replied, already turning to leave.

"Can I help?" he suggested, then added, somewhat truthfully, "I know this island like no one else.

" "Hmm... I have a photo here." Have you seen this gentleman?

He took the yellowed black-and-white photograph from her. Holding it gently in his fingers, he brought it to his eyes and examined it closely. It depicted a young man. He had sharp features: a prominent nose and strong cheekbones. Bright, piercing eyes stared at Somebody from under prominent, menacing eyebrows. His black hair was neatly combed, tucked behind his ears.

"No, I haven't," he said. He was about to hand the photograph back to the woman when he suddenly hesitated. "Wait, wait..."

Looking at the photograph, he simultaneously examined the curve of his nose. He touched his cheekbones with his fingertips. Astonishment grew in his eyes.

"But... it's me!"

She then looked at him askance, narrowing her eyes, and was about to laugh—but she opened one eye wider, brought her face closer to his, and, searchingly running her fingers over his aged complexion, saw something, felt something.

"It's you..."

And suddenly, that analytical gaze softened. His lips, pursed in concentration, widened into a smile. And as he gazed at that radiant, plump face, slightly confused, his gaze darting away, she suddenly embraced him and pressed him tightly to her. He, too—instinctively—embraced the shorter woman, a head shorter than himself. He stroked her long, wavy, auburn hair and the delicate fabric of her dress. Then he realized something.

"It's you..." he whispered, surprised.

A letter. A card. A heart.

Her.

The woman noticed something too, drawing him close, patting his bare back.

"You know..." she began shyly, in a half-whisper.

"Yes?

" "You're... how should I put it...

" "Yes?

" "Uh... Naked."

He recoiled from her as if scalded. Backing away, he ran his gaze over his elderly body with utter disgust—his bare arms, hands, bare calves, and bare feet. In a throes of shame, he hid his exposed face from her.

Approaching him with a mixture of pity and disgust, she tossed him the unwrapped scarf.

"Here, wrap this around yourself."

He began to clumsily and rather halfheartedly tie the scarf around his head.

"Lower..." she whispered, shaking her head pityingly.

"Oh yes!" he said, and just as clumsily tied it where she'd instructed. "So? Better now?"

With a beige, velvet loincloth around his hips, he didn't look particularly impressive—but at least he wasn't naked anymore.

"You look like a savage anyway," she said sourly.

"Now what's the matter?

" "That hair! That beard! Split ends!" She wrung her hands.

"It didn't bother you a moment ago.

" "Well... because back then you were... a savage to me. It's normal for a savage to walk around naked and have split ends. But now you're... that guy in the photo, and I love him, and I don't want him to have a beard like that.

" "Is something stuck to that beard?" he grumbled.

"Do you like it? With those knots, with the sand?

" "Well... not really. It doesn't even bother me—but you should adore it. Love should be unconditional. Do you love me? Then love all of me!

" "No," she muttered tearfully.

"Oh yes...

" "Yes," she snapped back, pouting.

"So what? Now we'll go our separate ways and never see each other again, and all we'll be left with are the bitter memories of a few beautiful moments that each of us will try to erase from our memories and never succeed?

" "Hmm... No." True, the only thing that separates you from a savage is your loincloth, and you generally look hideous, but I love you. Well, maybe a little less. Hmm... probably almost none at all... But I need you!

"As a friend?" Someone guessed.

"No," she replied, grabbing his thin, bony hand. "As a porter."

Clutching his hand, she led the way, retracing her steps, back to the shore. Someone followed her, trying to keep up with her quick stride. He was taller than her, significantly so, so she dragged him down, forcing him to keep pace with her on his much longer legs. So he got lost, got tangled, tripped over his own calves, stepped on his own feet. He didn't ask any questions; he could barely breathe. And she led him, now faster, now slower, straight ahead—now turning suddenly. She even stopped, lost the trail—and then started again.

They were both almost into the sea. She stopped only when it became muddy underfoot and her beige dress almost touched the shore, which was more muddy than sandy. She made a sour face and looked at an indistinct point a few steps ahead.

"Where is that?

" "What?"

"A boat. My boat."

Someone had only confirmed what she had suspected:

"There isn't one.

" "Hmm..." She shook her head. She pressed her lips together and clenched her hands tightly into fists, crushing the fingers still held in his right. She sighed heavily. "They say: tough. So we're going home.

" "A house?" Someone asked, genuinely surprised.

"Well, a white one, ground floor and first floor, with a black roof, tall windows, and a trimmed hedge all around? A closely trimmed lawn, a bed of tulips to the right and left of the gravel path?

" "A hedge? First floor? Windows?" he said after a moment, unable to dredge anything like that up from his memories. "A house?" He grimaced.

"No?

" "No.

" "Then lead me to the cottage!" the woman half-ordered, half-asked.

"Hmm...

" "A gazebo?

" "No.

" "A hut?

" "I don't remember.

" "A dugout? A sandcastle? Anything?"

"Nothing.

" "Nothing?!

The fog hanging over the island suddenly dispersed, and the woman's eyes were filled with the sad state of affairs. On the island's slightly rounded belly, nothing grew or stood. Not a plant, not a stone. Not a hedge, not a house.

"So what?" she asked, sour.

"What about what?

" "Where will I hang the curtains now, what will I put the tablecloth on? A carpet? Cups, cutlery? Where will I hang the dresses?

" "And where do you have them?

" "They're on the boat.

" "Where's the boat?

" "No," she said. "

Exactly! "

She pouted out her lower lip and snorted.

"You're nitpicking!

" Someone was about to say something, but she beat him to it. Before he could scold her, she began to rebuke him for his unspoken criticism.

"What do you think? That I'm so nice? I'm coming to the unknown! I'm wandering, searching, calling! I'm wearing out my shoes, I'm straining my back! My boat is dying! My nerves are frayed! And I can't even sit down where I'm not, lie down to rest... And then you, who only complain and grumble! Nothing suits you! Yes, yes, walk around naked and unshorn! And also...

It seemed to work. Because the expression on Somebody's face changed, softened.

"You know what?" he asked. "You..." he stammered, as if he didn't know what to say. Or maybe he already knew but didn't want to. "You look beautiful when you're angry!"

And then, driven by some unknown impulse, he lunged at her.

***

The dusk was fading beautifully—gold and red—as she and he lay on the sand, two elbows apart, looking at the sky. Day was turning into night in a particularly spectacular way; He donned many bright colors before settling—as usual—on black. And yet the sight inspired only peace and a serene, quiet admiration.

But sometimes the slightest thing can shatter the pleasant atmosphere. A sudden gust of cold, a distant rumble of thunder. Something completely insignificant...

"I'm sorry..." he said.

They both lay on the sand, an arm's length away from each other, on their backs, panting.

"Oh well..." she sighed.

"I tried," he explained, flushing with embarrassment. "But I'm old, and there are many things I can't do anymore.

" "You really couldn't?

" "Not at all.

" "Did you really try?

" "Absolutely! And yet, it was impossible—simply impossible—to undo even a single button on that dress of yours!"

He shook his head.

The evening wind blew past their heads. It carried fine, dry sand. It leveled and smoothed the island their steps had carved. There wasn't a stone, not a tuft of grass. Only sand. And the two of them, sleeping.

VIII.

The black-haired girl was resting under a large, old tree with grotesque, leafless branches. She was absorbed in a leather-bound book on her lap. It was quite early in the day, and the day was sunny—so she wasn't freezing, and the sun reflecting off the yellowed pages didn't blind her.

Suddenly, she lifted her head and looked around warily, moving only her eyes; she sniffed the air as if sniffing something. She caught something sharp, distinct—though she wasn't quite sure what. Something unnamed, indefinable—but pleasant. She only smiled to herself and stared thoughtfully into the void. A strange feeling of joyful anticipation filled her.

After a long moment, she leaned back over her book.

***

"The baby's coming! Unbelievable!"

The woman looked at the man, her eyes green with surprise, joy with anxiety.

"Child..." she said quietly, lowering her gaze thoughtfully.

The man—without another word—embraced her gently, pressed her to his heart, and kissed her forehead. They entwined each other in perfect symbiosis. He wrapped his strong arm around her slender waist, and she hung on his powerful neck. So different, yet so well-matched. She was fragile, not too tall, slender. He was tall and almost square. She was blonde with hair like rye, smooth and long, almost to her waist. He was fiery red, bearded, mustachioed—and he would probably have curls in it if he hadn't cut it short. Woman and Man. Zosia and Michał. They were different, yet they harmonized—like two instruments, small and large, playing the same melody. And in their eyes—her green, his blue—the same peace and warmth.

"A child..." he whispered, and in that short word he conveyed an immeasurable joy and inexpressible relief. He closed his eyes and smiled, resting his chin on his wife's shoulder. A tear appeared from somewhere.

And so it was always with them. For twelve long years, as they held each other in a close, yet subtle, embrace, neither of them raised their voices above a warm whisper. Always light, warm, close. No shouting, no complaints, no lies, no understatements. Just a tear now and then, disturbing all that peace. Brief but poignant periods of sadness. For though there was nothing wrong with this relationship, and all it contained was infinite goodness, something was missing. They had been waiting for something—and it never came. Some kind of fulfillment—one step towards complete happiness. And that one step further, they had never managed to go. The absence hurt all the more the more they wanted to fill it—and they couldn't. For they had dreamed of the patter of little feet, laughter, sobbing in their home. And when silence reigned in the place they had destined for them, the absence of sound rang painfully in their ears. And though they wanted to, tried—they could not change anything. Somewhere along the path between dreams and reality, the driving force weakened, wandered, or failed to find a foothold—an idea around which it could wrap itself and transform into fact.

That day, however, something shifted, and everything changed.

***

"I think I'll go," Michał finally said, shaking off his bliss. He rose from the armchair and hurried out in his clothes.

"Go, go," Zosia replied, following him to the door. She stopped on the threshold and called after him, "Good luck."

When he was out of sight, she returned to the room. She sat down in the armchair and spread a small note on the table in front of her, repeatedly reading the short, hastily scribbled note:

"Please take care of the boy. His name is Markus Korn. He's a smart and calm child. He won't cause any trouble, and I hope he brings you at least a little happiness."

Finally, she folded it back into four and slipped it into the envelope. She pushed the envelope to the edge of the table. She sank into a chair, and there, motionless, stared at the envelope. The letter was odd, to say the least. The handwriting was decidedly feminine—pretty, even, and round—yet the message itself—concise and to the point, as if written by a woman's hand. There was no explanation whatsoever—why Zosia and Misio, why this person wasn't the one taking care of the child. The letter was undoubtedly sincere and sent with the best of intentions, yet somewhat cold. It asked, explained, but didn't ramble, didn't open its heart, didn't try to bring tears. The pious wish for happiness at the end must have been written in the same hand by someone else.

Zosia couldn't resist and picked up the envelope again. Gently, she pulled out the note and read it again. She knew the contents by heart. However, she examined the calligraphy and noticed that the ornate flourishes were slightly faded. The paper was yellowed and slightly crumpled. The envelope was soiled, and its corners were worn. As if the letter hadn't been written today or yesterday, but some time ago; quite a while ago, at that.

Yet it wasn't the letter that puzzled her most. She was utterly surprised that the letter itself had arrived. Without the child. So far, the whole affair had been characterized by a charming awkwardness, but the fact that the little one, whom she had been talking about, had somehow gone missing struck her as deeply disturbing. Zosia, however, had no doubt that, whatever the sender's insane nature, he had sincerely and seriously intended to entrust the child to her and her husband. He had probably returned home and noticed with surprise that the basket with the little one was still on the kitchen table, not on the porch of Zosia's house, and probably wouldn't be leaving the little one on their doorstep until evening, under cover of darkness, or perhaps even the next morning. She believed—wanted to believe—that, despite everything, there was some point to it, and, supported by this conviction, she decided to wait. Give the chaos a few days to settle and become order, no matter how disorganized and incomprehensible it was at that moment, as she sat with her elbows on the table, her fingers intertwined behind her neck, her gaze fixed on the note.

She told herself: a week, two...

She leaned back in her chair and, with her fingertips, pushed the letter to the edge of the table, where it would lie until the matter was resolved, like a promise, not an obsession. In front of her, she placed a cup on a saucer and brewed some herbs. She poured the infusion, pouring it to the brim. But for a long time, she didn't even touch it. She didn't move, as if the stillness would calm her raging thoughts.

Late in the afternoon, Michał returned home.

"Did you find anything?" she asked hopefully.

"Nothing.

" "Did you check to see if there was a child lying on the doorstep?

" "Nothing.

"

At night, when your head is rocking on a soft pillow, waiting for sleep, you look and see differently. From a different angle. Lying in the darkness, Zosia, with Michał at her side, saw the ceiling in the colors of night. She could clearly distinguish the thin gaps between the beams. During the day, she hadn't even glanced at the ceiling.

"What are you thinking about?" Michał asked, lying on his side and looking at her with one open eye. Already accustomed to the darkness, he could see her profile and her eyes slowly closing and opening.

"Hmm..." she sighed. A compromise between a statement and a heavy sigh. A concise, contemplative expression, a sense of confusion. As if she didn't know where to begin, and decided to stop after she'd supposedly said something, before it had even had time to form any meaning.

Something was troubling her. Because at night, problems are easier to see. It begins to seem as if they are the only ones that exist—thick, layered, and insurmountable, like the midnight darkness.

She thought. She had already considered and become accustomed to the strange surroundings of the whole affair, and decided to wait until the chaos subsided like a cloud of dust, leaving only the child, and all the strange things surrounding him could be forgotten. But she quickly realized that this wasn't enough; that she couldn't, sipping tea, lose herself in blissful anticipation at that moment. Someone wanted to give her their child—and they had their reasons. It wasn't a passing whim. A child isn't just an idea, a pretty word; it's also a beak that needs feeding, and hands that need guiding. And that someone realized that they couldn't handle that beak, not now, nor in a year or five. Such a tiny thing, probably no longer than an elbow, and such a serious matter! Feeding—and even that's not all. If someone wants to take up farming, it's not enough to sow the seed. First, you have to clear the ground and plow—and only then sow. And even then, the troubles don't end there. It's a long road from sowing to harvest, and you have to tend to the crops all the time if you want to harvest anything. And let alone a child! You have to give them a roof over their heads and a place to stand; clothe them so they don't get cold and feed them before they get hungry. Keep their little hands occupied and immediately take care of even the smallest worries. And to spot any problems in time, you have to keep an eye on the little one, never let them out of your sight. Watch, read their minds. And change their diapers.

You also shouldn't waste time when you don't know when the baby will arrive. Because when it does, everything has to be done, perfected down to the last detail. Well, maybe the second to last... Prepare, arrange, clean, sort out what's there and what's not—obtain it. Do what you can yourself, and if you can't, ask for help. And do it as quickly as possible, because time is running out.

Zosia jumped out of bed and was about to run. Michał watched her intently as she stubbornly shuffled her feet beside the bed, trying to find her paws. He didn't say anything, just held out his hand. It took her a moment to notice and instinctively grabbed it. She slipped back into bed—though it was obvious she was doing it against her will. A few moments passed before the stubborn grimace vanished from her face. It vanished rather abruptly as her thoughts abruptly changed direction. She snorted softly through her nose, mocking her own ridiculousness.

And she fell asleep.

***

The morning was beautiful, sunny, and pleasant, and the street seemed to move under her feet as Zosia, basket in hand, walked through the city. The warm light of the spring sun illuminated her smooth face, and even without it, she radiated. She would have illuminated the entire city with her own radiance if the sun had hidden behind the clouds. She greeted the day and people with a broad smile—and it wasn't the simple smile of a country girl who rejoices in the world and smiles at it. The joy on her face came from within. As if that child were inside her. And that serenity lit up her face and shone on everyone around her, and she basked in their friendly gazes. She herself gazed into the distance, at some distant point, a goal; she focused on it, aimed for it—and her eyes held an undying twinkle. She walked briskly, her ankle boots beating out a rhythm on the hard ground. Her still-empty basket swung under her arm. She was simply polite to the people who passed her, greeting them, bowing, sending a kind word to each one, but her thoughts were elsewhere. She almost bumped into an elderly woman who, upon seeing her, stopped right in front of her.

"Good morning, neighbor!" "She said in a cheerful, slightly hoarse voice.

Zosia, startled out of her reverie, stopped abruptly a finger's length in front of the woman. She stopped dead in her tracks and looked down. She blinked. She took a corresponding step back.

"Ah! Good morning, Mrs. Kumata!

" "Where are you running off to, dear child?

" "Oh, so many things on your mind, so little time!

" "Oh, time is so pressing on you that you almost trampled an old woman while running away from it?" the woman laughed softly, then coughed subtly into her clenched fist.

"I'm so sorry!" Zosia replied, pacing in place, furtively glancing over the woman, searching for that distant point where her gaze had been fixed.

"Oh, nothing happened... You'd better tell me where this sudden rush came from! I don't remember seeing you so busy before. Who else, if anyone, but you." What just happened?

Zosia looked left and right. People were passing the two women talking. They were talking, shuffling, tapping, hurrying somewhere. She lowered herself a little, hunched her shoulders, and in a quiet, yet clearly joyful whisper, she said:

"We're having a baby!"

The crowd in the street seemed to slow. The clatter, shuffle, and conversation subsided.

From the corner of her eye, Zosia noticed dozens of eyes staring at her curiously. She blushed in the middle of the still street.

"A baby?!" the old woman exclaimed in a shrill, singsong voice. The crowd didn't echo her astonished cry, but the tension was palpable. The silence that fell after that single word thickened and became unbearable.

"Shoo, shoo, go away, we're talking about important things here!" Mrs. Kumata admonished the crowd, dismissing people with a dismissive wave of her hand. Everyone glanced at each other, embarrassed, then reluctantly, reluctantly, began to sidestep in different directions.

"So, tell me," the woman whispered to Zosia in a conspiratorial whisper, putting her arm around her, slowly guiding her in the direction she was heading.

"So we've just found out...

" "Congratulations, congratulations!" the old woman interjected.

"His name will be Markus Korn..." Zosia continued, still in a low voice, clearly embarrassed.

"Nice, nice, although there's nothing like naming a child Błażej. Think about it, darling, maybe you'll change your mind!

" "...and that's why I'm running around town like this, because who knows when the baby will be. Maybe anytime soon?

" "Oh, not anytime soon, darling!" Mrs. Kumata said, patting Zosia's flat stomach. She poked her navel lightly and smiled indulgently. "But congratulations, sincerely! It's about time! And the handsome blond looks promising!" she added approvingly.

Zosia looked at her, smiling uncertainly. She was clearly tense.

When the ladies who were talking fell silent and stopped, the people walking behind them—a man in a hat, two women, and a mustachioed old man—didn't have time to stop and bumped into them.

The man took off his hat, wiped it with his sleeve with a quick movement of his hand, and looked pointedly at Zosia.

"And what's next?" he asked.

***

"Hello, Lidia," said Michał, greeting the thin woman at the door. His smile turned to surprise when he saw the teddy bear clutched tightly in her hands. "What's this?" he asked.

"Well... I brought it for the baby!" She shrugged, smiling even wider.

"That... that's nice of you," the man muttered, taking the teddy bear from her. "Thank you?

" "You're welcome!

" "And... did you... bring teddy bears too?" He raised his eyebrows questioningly, turning to the growing crowd behind the woman.

"Yes," they replied in unison.

"I have rompers," a female voice shouted from the crowd.

"And I have rattles," a man corrected, and to confirm, he raised one above his head and rattled it.

They deposited them all into Michał's arms until a pile of teddy bears, rattles, and sleepsuits filled the doorframe from top to bottom. The man, wedged in the doorway, suffocated, felt someone constantly cramming more toys into every inch of available space. Suddenly, the plush wall collapsed into the apartment, scattering across the floor, crushing Michał.

Zosia

, returning from shopping, noticed the front door open. Michał's bored voice drifted from inside.

"Teddy bears in a pile by the dresser, diapers and sleepsuits in a pile by the table, rattles against the kitchen wall... "

Stepping onto the threshold, she noticed a man leaving the apartment.

"Good morning, Stasiu," she nodded. She glanced back, surprised as he walked away, but she simply shrugged and entered, closing the door behind her.

"Teddy bears in a pile by the dresser, diapers and sleepsuits in a pile by the table, rattles against the kitchen wall..." Michał repeated in a monotonous, low voice.

"It's just me, Teddy Bear! I'm back from shopping.

" "What do you have?

" "Well... A few diapers, sleepsuits, toys...

" "Well, as I was saying: teddy bears in a pile by the dresser, diapers and sleepsuits in a pile by the table, rattles against the kitchen wall...

" "My only mother!" Zosia clutched her head, looking at the mountains of plush, fabric, and wooden toys scattered all over the room. "Where did all this come from?

" "Are you asking me?" Michał shrugged. He emerged from the bathroom and looked at her, almost terrified.

The door flew open, almost knocking Zosia over.

"You want a teddy bear?" "Ask the pale, black-haired woman. Then, looking around the cluttered room, she thrust it at Zosia without a word—and she was gone.

"Oh, that's it! It's been like this for two hours, non-stop!" He shook his head, panting heavily. "One will come, one will leave, and within half a moment—"

"Do you need a rattle?"

Michał accepted the toy with such gratitude that his nostrils were flaring. Closing the door behind the hundredth donor with a sweet smile, he leaned against it with all his weight and braced his hands on the doorframe. He remained there, a stubborn grimace on his face. Zosia looked at him with a benevolent smile.

"They mean well, Misia," she said.

"But I have no doubt, where else?" Michał defended himself, leaning even harder against the door until the hinges creaked. "I think that's enough kindness for today."

"Leave that door and come help me clean up this mess.

" "Oh my..." Michael muttered, his gaze darting over the piles of diapers and toys. "What are we going to do with all this?"

"It's not appropriate to give them away," Zosia spread her hands, "but the child won't need more than a few pairs of onesies and diapers, three teddy bears, and a rattle. I'll put aside a couple of each, and the rest can be carried up to the attic.

" "Good idea," Michał nodded.

"Okay... I'll wash those few diapers in the meantime.

" "So..." Michał's hair ruffled, scratching his temple. "...so I have to... carry it in?

" "What, me?" Zosia smiled sweetly at him.

"I thought we were... together?

" "Will you help me with the laundry?

" "I have no more questions," the man said hastily, jumping up as if scalded. He rolled up his sleeves, leaned over the pile of teddy bears, and gathered as much as he could carry in his arms. With this load completely obscuring his view, he clumsily climbed up the narrow stairs to the attic. Grumbling under his breath, he repeated the same up-and-down route several more times.

When he finally finished, and not a single rattle or diaper remained on the threadbare carpet, he sat down with relief in the rocking chair in front of the extinguished fireplace. Rocking steadily back and forth, he stared intently at the soot-blackened fireplace. Zosia returned a moment later from the yard, where she had hung wet laundry on the line. She dried her wrinkled hands with a cloth. She rolled up her sleeves and, with a satisfied smile, sat down in the other rocking chair, next to her husband.

Although they were both staring at the extinguished fireplace, their warm hands found each other without even looking.

"You know, I still... I can't believe it," she sighed softly. "There's going to be a baby...

" "I know..." he replied, just as quietly. "What will it be?

" "I don't know," she shook her head, though the serene smile remained on her face.

"Oh, let's enjoy a moment of peace—

" "Good morning!"

There was a bang, and the door flew open as if rammed, and dozens of steps and several conversations rolled across the threshold. Before Zosia and Michał had time to jump up from their chairs, a large crowd had gathered in the room, filling the small room to the walls.

"Excuse me, excuse me," a hoarse voice muttered in the crowd. Mrs. Kumata elbowed her way through the crowd. She circumvented the apartment, peering into every room, a critical grimace on her face. Finally, she stopped at Michał's room. She stood in the doorway and stared at him for a long moment, resting her chin on her hand.

"Here," she finally said.

"What, please?" Zosia asked in surprise.

"This will be the child's room.

" "But I thought she'd be sharing the room with us.

" "Trust me, child, you don't want that," the neighbor smiled indulgently.

- Besides, this is Michael's room. He's there...

"Not anymore," Mrs. Kumata declared, grinning. "That little rascal has chosen a beautiful room for himself. He's got taste, a scoundrel. Well, now a little one will be living here; the old bull won't be occupying it. Shove that table, to the living room or wherever.

" "But..." Zosia and Michał began simultaneously.

"Shh!" the woman ordered. She pointed to the table in the room and made a throwing gesture with her hand. As Michał moved toward the room, several of those gathered had already grabbed the piece of furniture and started to carry it away. They grunted when he stood in their way, as if he had interrupted their holy and most serious mission. He merely grabbed the inkwell, which was sliding left, right, and down the smooth, dark wooden tabletop, and took a step back. They set the table against the wall, directly in front of the entrance.

"So, dear, what do we do with this room?"

"It's a different color," one of the women, the same height and age as Kumatea, said. "Will it be a boy or a girl?"

"A boy. A blondie," Kumata reminded.

"It's blue.

" "Are we painting or wallpapering?

" "Wallpapering.

" "Wait a minute, hello!" Michał interrupted.

One of the women came out to meet him, piercing him from waist level with a piercing gaze.

"Do you know anything about children?" she gritted.

"No," he admitted honestly. "But...

" "Then don't interfere," she grumbled, and slammed the door.

Michał twirled a finger around his temple, glancing at Zosia.

After a few minutes, the women left the room in single file.

"We decided on this: blue wallpaper. It had to have a pattern: stars or something. So, we're going to get supplies now. If we're gone, don't you dare touch anything. We'll be back soon. Wait, don't touch anything, don't try anything." "It's best to stay where you are," she said in one breath, exhaling. "And you, Mr. Smartass, don't show me the lunatics behind your back," she scolded Michał.

One by one, several elderly ladies stepped out, not opening the door too wide. When the last one closed it behind her, Michał tapped his forehead.

"Impolite!" came a muffled, yet clearly agitated voice from behind the door.

Zosia and her husband looked nervously at the group of neighbors gathered in their apartment, who clearly had no intention of leaving their doorstep. They stood completely still, utterly silent, and only smiled. Michał felt a bead of sweat trickle down his neck.

After a while, the elderly ladies returned. They entered, wiped their boots on the edge of the carpet, not on the doormat. They tossed several rolls of wallpaper into the corner. Finally, creaking and groaning, they settled down wherever they could. Mrs. Kumata sat down on the leaves, completely oblivious to the rustling beneath her buttocks. She pulled a silver flask from her breast pocket and took a quick sip.

"Just to clear my head!"

There was a knock, and a moment later a short woman appeared in the slightly open door.

"Is this it?" she asked.

"Come in, dear," Kumata shouted.

"Phew! I've got glue and brushes. Where should I put them?

" "Yeah, smartass," the oldest woman shouted at Michał, who was wandering aimlessly, confused, afraid to sit down, unwilling to stand still and yet avoid colliding with one of the women. "Get the glue from the lady and start messing around. We'll be wallpapering soon.

" "But first we'd need the old wallpaper...

" "Don't be smart, just mess with the glue!" she scolded him and, standing up, flicked her fingernails in his face. A group of old women followed her into the small room, followed by the others.

Suddenly, a long, deafening sound of sanding was heard.

A moment later, a breathless Mrs. Kumata appeared in the doorway. Her long, manicured nails were noticeably shorter. And they were smoking.

"Well, we can wallpaper now. Zosia, you'll sweep up these rags, won't you, honey?" Kumata shouted, glancing at the shreds of old wallpaper now covering the floor. "And you, smartass, give me a ladder. We'll wallpaper.

" "I don't need a ladder. I'm quite tall.

" "You can't," the woman stated authoritatively, smiling slightly. The mirth was palpable in her voice. She spoke to the forty-year-old man as if he were ten times younger. "Leave it to us, child."

And until the very end, they wouldn't let Zosia or Michał touch anything. If one of them picked up a brush, a hammer, or even looked at sandpaper—then, right away, a pat on the paw! They wallpapered it themselves. True, the wallpaper wasn't patterned, but Mrs. Kumata scurried home and returned with white paint to dab patterns herself. After a few sips of whatever she had in the silver bottle—whatever it was—she felt capable of painting the entire city in patterns. However, the mysterious potion confused her senses and intentions, and the stars began to form into flowers, both as expressive as they were nightmarish.

But before anyone could tell her the effect was, after all, uninteresting, she set off to do—and botch—the next thing. And so did her friends.

The front door opened and closed, opened and closed. More and more wives arrived—and never left. It was difficult to squeeze through the crowds in the living room. After piling up more sleepsuits, a teddy bear, a pacifier, and the thousandth box of powder, the women crowded into the small room and added their two cents to the ongoing discussion: how

things should be. "Excuse me, can I...?"

"No! What do you know about children, dears? Have you ever had any?" Kumata shrugged. "You know so little, and you'd get mixed up everywhere. Everywhere! Let the professionals handle everything. In the meantime, I'd like a cup of water, I'm a bit dry."

***

Zosia turned, hearing a rustle behind her. She pursed her lips. She used the broom to sweep a red leaf from the doormat once again and went to sweep the path in front of the house to the end. She pushed aside the thick carpet of dried leaves—red, yellow, brown. She did this efficiently and energetically, because she was already a little cold and didn't want to freeze completely. It seemed that lately—or even for a while now—everything she'd tackled, she'd done in a flash and flawlessly. And only then would she pant—so much so that Michał was often startled, because it was so unlike his speck. She'd completely erased the marks of dozens of shoes on the carpet, kneeling on her knees for hours, scrubbing furiously. She'd picked up every single speck, even the smallest porcelain shards from the broken cup. She'd washed the rompers and bonnets ten times on the washboard. She had repeatedly scalded pacifiers and rattles under the boiling water, turning them over and over in her hands under the scorching water.

The calluses on the carpet had long since disappeared. Kumata and her friends—after spending a week or two—had vanished almost without a trace. Only a crumpled letter remained on the table. They had left, long ago. They had exhausted their ideas, lost interest—and returned to their homes, taking with them brushes, wallpaper, and wisdom.

They were gone, but no one had come to replace them. The grumbling ceased, but neither laughter, nor crying, nor whining resounded. The shuffling and clatter of heels had faded, but the rustle and murmur of rattles had not filled the void.

The wallpaper in the room had dried out. Toys were gathering dust in the playpen, clothes were suffocating in the closets.

The child was gone.

Having swept the path, Zosia returned home, panting, dragging the broom behind her.

The red leaf lay on the doormat again.