My Friend

I often

go there, although I'll admit that I'm just as often hit by a stone that flies out of there. So you have to skillfully dodge it, and when it hits, pretend it wasn't a real stone, just a verbal, paper one.

In the vestibule, I pass sharp ledges, the terrain is uneven, and the air is cold. I don't like such places and avoid them as much as possible, but in this case, the awareness of warm armchairs, delicious coffee, and cigarette smoke wafting somewhere deep inside compels me, even if I have to cut my face open on those damn things.

In truth, I think I'm the only one who knows this route. Others are either discouraged by the regularly flying stones or aren't captivated by the vestibule's decor. I'm not surprised, because if I were discovering this place now, I'd be discouraged too.

However, calling myself lucky doesn't detract from the truth, as I discovered this warm cave at a time when there were no stones in it yet, and when the rock mass movements hadn't created those perfidious sharp edges. And when I first entered, I couldn't yet know that it was for a reason, Your Honor!

II

Well, while, by implementing the assumptions, one can argue that it was Him, now I must question either the assumptions or His very existence as Him. What doubts do I have, Your Honor? I simply entered, saw that He was gone, and when I was about to leave, I experienced the sensation of another being besides my own. But I know there was no one there, Your Honor. Immediately upon entering, I turned on the light, looked around, and even called out to him, because He was always there, which made me all the more surprised. He was always sitting in an armchair, smoking a cigarette. A fire crackled merrily in the fireplace, and He, pleased but only slightly showing His joy, would calmly invite me in, offer me tea, and offer me a cigarette, as always, brought from a country that from now on I will associate with the tobacco industry.

But then, everything was as usual, except for Him. The fire crackled in the fireplace as always, a cigarette protruded temptingly from its pack, and even the tea in that strange porcelain, crafted in the factory by some wizened craftsman especially for him, smoked and waited for me, because that was simply who he was.

Yes, yes, the assumptions. I apologize, Your Honor. The assumptions were always the same—his place, his home, his world, and his faith. You could argue, you could bring other worlds with you, but you were never, I repeat, never allowed to change the Cave. He arranged it. He lived here, and He felt at home here. What's more, He never left it. And… I apologize, Your Honor, I thought Your Honor knew that the Cave was everything His feet had experienced. That's why I was so surprised when I saw he was gone. In fact, it still baffles me, and I still wonder what drove Him to do this.

Because, and here I must approach Your Honor, because I feel awkward speaking out loud, because when I arrived and didn't find Him, besides the feeling of another being besides my own, besides the usual refreshment waiting for me on the table, I was met with a sight I will remember for the rest of my life—the sight of dirty men's underwear scattered and spread everywhere possible. And I'll tell Your Honor something else—this underwear reeked of what, without insulting Your Honor, Your Honor himself feels when he takes off his own underwear, smells them, and then shouts to his wife, who is putting rollers in her hair, that he won't eat that fish soup again. Do you understand, Your Honor? I know, I'm sorry. I simply experienced something akin to provocation. In what sense? No, it wasn't that someone threw it out of the linen closet while he was away. He simply threw his underwear where he was most often. They simply stood by the kitchen, making tea, floated in the toilet bowl, all mixed with paper, lay on the bed with a book they had become a bookmark of, and sat in an armchair, which finally decided my return, took the other armchair, and began to argue, as I do every day, about the latest event that had taken place on the stage of the nearby theater.

III

But it was so different back then! The charm lies in the fact that this place, this cave, is constantly changing. A dozen or so years ago, I still saw remnants of balloons there, a few posters of completely forgotten bands, and the sound of smiles. There was also more light, almost no windows, and it was drafty. The lack of any rock outcroppings, the smooth surfaces in fact, made one feel safe, but not particularly at home. There was none of what is here now, which, despite the sharp edges and the unpleasant entrance, makes one want to enter, sit in the armchairs, and engage in conversations that…

IV

But Your Honor cannot accuse me of causing it, because the evidence clearly supports my defense. And I will not bow to any accusations Your Honor may bring against me, because I know it wasn't as Your Honor suggests. Yes, stones were thrown, but everyone knew about it. Signs warned those who didn't. So Your Honor, don't make the case for deliberate causation! Such a thing simply didn't happen! I arrived, avoided the rock outcroppings, a few pebbles whizzed past my ear, and I was already inside, where I could enjoy the Best, because He always had the Best. And what followed, these absurd accusations, are merely the result of a mistake, a complete misunderstanding. Yes, I fell asleep for a moment, then I felt a nudge, a pain somewhere in my right calf, so I applied pressure, but that's how we usually do it, for a laugh, to ignite the hot, tar-thick atmosphere, thanks to which the heat escaping from the fireplace isn't the only warmth in this vast chamber, with its unexplored recesses disappearing into the shadows.

V

Two glasses of anisette. A tap, a swallow. A gasp, a shake, a hiss. Then several long moments with the lights off, because that's the best way to draw constellations, patterns, positions on the ceiling. All in memorized recollection. As we cavemen do...

VI

Well, damn it, I was on all fours looking for her. And so was he. Because, Your Honor, you understand, there were times when you had to listen to exactly that, precisely what was on your mind. And most often, it couldn't be found, so on all fours, on the floor, in some nooks and crannies, sometimes even rolling up our sleeves and dipping our hands in the toilet, we searched until we found it. And we always succeeded, always someone finally shouted, raised the trophy above their head in victory, and then turned it on, filling the Cave and everyone gathered there.

But not this time. This time, she couldn't be found. The incomprehension on his face took on a catastrophic dimension. The light in the cave dimmed on its own. The fire in the fireplace stopped crackling merrily. I tried to occupy myself with something else, to turn it into a joke and forgetfulness, but the feeling of inappropriateness that gripped me made me get up and, under the slightest pretext, disappear.

Your Honor, does this have anything to do with the case? I don't think so, because it was later found in its entirety with someone who visited him briefly, borrowed it, and refused to return it, or forgot, as I prefer to call it, which he doesn't like and for which I often get a painful thrashing at the door, even though the pebbles are usually peanuts.

VII.

Mrs. X. – woman from the neighborhood.

I was just passing by when the bra fell out.

Mr. Inspector.

Didn't you see the warning signs?

Mrs. X. – woman from the neighborhood.

I saw it, sir, I saw it. And I know, because people said it wasn't just stones flying out of there. But bras!! That's reprehensible!!

Mr. Inspector,

what did you do then?

Mrs. X. – a woman from the neighborhood.

She jumped after him and tried to tear it up.

Mr. Inspector

: Tear it up?

Mrs. X. – a woman from the neighborhood.

Tear it up like that! Because who saw a bra on the outside? Sir, that's a disgrace!!

Mr. Inspector

: Where is that bra now?

Mrs. X. – a woman from the neighborhood

. Well, it's torn...

Mr. Inspector :

Can you show me where the remains are?

Mrs. X. – a woman from the neighborhood.

What is it?

Mr. Inspector :

Where are the remains of the bra, woman?!

Mrs. X. – a woman from the neighborhood

. Well, she threw it away... Mr.

Inspector :

Where?

Mrs. X. – a woman from the neighborhood

. Because I remember... It's not the same old days anymore...

Mr. Inspector:

Either you remember, or we'll go there again!!

Mrs. X. – a woman from the neighborhood

Well… poor me… I took the bra because it fit me well…

VIII

In the town downstairs, they always asked me what it was like and why I went there. I looked at them a little in disbelief, a little pity, and out of spite, I replied that he was just like you, a son of a bitch and a whore. But unlike you, he dons it like some whore and, proudly parading around the Cave, mocks you because he knows you won't go in anyway. Because it's too far, too unwise, too dangerous, and too different from the gently and evenly spaced tenement houses of your town, where there will always be deaf people who, when I come back from your place, will ask what it's like and why I go there.

IX

Your Honor, I ask, what was I doing there? I actually went there for the conversation, to light a cigarette, for the comfortable armchair, and because I never had to come for anything. Although there were times when I did go in for sugar, salt, or my favorite pepper. Sure, he lent it, because he was a good man, but he always devised a sort of game—he'd hide a given item, let's say sugar, and give me the task of finding it myself, playing the role of arbiter, consistently enforcing the rules governing the search. So, adhering to these strict rules, I wasn't allowed to be guided by taste, I wasn't allowed to seek Magda's help, whom he would immediately shake his finger at, I wasn't allowed to ask where he'd hidden the sugar, and I wasn't allowed to leave the armchair. The search was a kind of Poetry He Never Expressed. He knew that while I was pondering the subject of the Place Where the Sugar Is Hidden, my head would tilt slightly differently, that the fire in the fireplace would crackle more vigorously, and that the armchair would sweat slightly. He also knew that the electricity in the Cave would dim slightly, and Magda would become a ball of fur hooked on his shoulder, something he loved and would pet while purring. And he knew that when I shouted that the kilogram of sugar I'd come for was in the fridge, everything would sparkle like never before – a rather spectacular explosion would occur in the fireplace, the light would flash in dozens of flashbulbs, Magda would be happy, something she'd express immediately after I left, and the armchair, subtly suggesting I should go, would deftly kick me out because it needed to dry from the sweat in which the inverted flames of the fireplace danced wonderfully, something I always admired for quite a while before I actually disappeared, flushed by the full breaths of lovers.

X

No, Your Honor, nothing happened. Just a small party. The Court knows, a few wines, some beer, nothing else. No, absolutely no brawls! Just a few friends, memories, music, and singing. That sort of thing, no excesses, anyway. No, that's impossible! Your Honor, what about the Court?! Bras flying out?! Bras?!?! How could someone throw a bra away?! And what would they come back in?! Does the Court think it's so easy to sneak around in our town without a bra? The Court itself is probably aware of this. So how can the Court assume a bra flew out?! Aaaa, a woman?... A witness?... In that case, I can only apologize. Someone probably got carried away, someone thought it would be funny... I'm sorry, it won't happen again. Yes, I know, Your Honor, we said the same thing before what happened. But now it's for sure. I know a bra isn't a stone, that it's a much more dangerous weapon. That's why I want to promise once again...

XI

Whatever the case, she, I mean, Magda, always stood by him. Magda knew what he wanted, Magda sensed it in an instant, and she didn't pretend to be him. Because many people, Your Honor, pretended to be him. They were afraid of him, truly afraid. But not her. Yes, sometimes he let Fuka loose on her, but only out of impatience, because she was young, trying to catch up on the years between them, and probably a little out of breath because of it. Sometimes she also fell victim to Perfidnie, that thing he often carried with him and used at the most unexpected moments. But apart from those exceptions, she loved him deeply, and that was probably the main reason he let her into the Cave and let her stay.

She didn't have many responsibilities there. She loved to cook sometimes, though she didn't have to. She loved long baths and midday naps while he worked. Sometimes she also did laundry, but she never had to rush it, because it should know when to do it, as he used to say. And when stones fell in, she was always the first to cover it with her breast.

Anyway, things were going well for them. Until that fateful day came. I'll never believe what they say. He couldn't have done it! Not him! I know it was coincidence, it was chance, it was coincidence, maybe something angered him, or he did it for fun and that's how it turned out. I know, Your Honor, it's not up to me to judge. I just wanted to say how I feel, and I'm telling it like it is, in black and white, that she, Magda, always stood by him.

XII

"Always after my morning coffee, if I drink it, and I usually don't, so after noon comes the moment when I should go to the water lily to sit, read, and relax... to indulge in the pleasure of being there." – he used to say, and that sentence haunted me on days of solitude, when I tried to understand the reasons, to unravel the mystery. It shouldn't have surprised me, really. Everything he did led to this. Those automatically thrown pebbles, sometimes other things, depending on who was passing or what was flying next, because he always wanted to throw something at the city. No, he could never succeed, because the city was too far away. He would have had to drag a cannon here, and that was too risky. Although, yes, I must admit, what he did was bigger than a cannon salvo. Yes, I bow to the idea he came up with, and at the same time, I know it caused a change that couldn't be avoided after such an act, and which is the beginning of a new chapter in his life and ours.

XIII

I'd go there many times after that. Always alone, but always greeted with the same ritual – fireplace, tea, cigarette, armchair. It was rude to refuse, so I sank into the armchair, smoked a cigarette, sipped it with tea, and chatted about the latest trends in Irish filmmaking, from where an optimistic wind had been blowing lately. In the meantime, without interrupting the interesting topics, I'd decide to tidy up a bit. Knowing that Magda had been here yesterday and that I didn't have much to do, I brushed dust and cobwebs from the highest recesses that the beautiful woman couldn't reach. It was a little ticklish, though I tried my best, but I know, because she told me, that things were much better, that the Cave was breathing calmly and evenly, and that she could stay there as long as she wanted without unnecessary sneezes, sniffles, and sniffles. Sometimes I brought wine and poured it into glasses, drank it, and, like in the old days, I toasted, ignoring the aroma, because it wasn't a particularly good vintage, a fact clearly pointed out to me by the not-so-thoroughly-washed glasses on the drying rack.

But when it came time to leave this oh-so-pleasant room, I always felt that not petting the wall was both tactless and foolish. I wasn't alone in this, because Magda always did it too, as she recently admitted to me, Your Honor.

XIV

Fuka – this terribly hairy and allergenic creature can hiss and make a mess when left to its own devices, which He deeply dislikes, and for which Fuka often hisses. Fuka isn't just for fun – it's usually needed for defense and to end arguments, with the emphasis on His victory.

Perfidnie – a tiny and cunning creature, always peering out from under his jacket, waiting for the slightest signal to attack his opponent with a polemic as sharp as Perfidnie's teeth. Perfidnie serves solely for defense. We assume it was Perfidnie that drove him to this despicable act. And we add that Perfidnie likely fled.

XV

During one autumn visit to the Cave, I experienced a shock and a feeling of utter happiness. The armchairs were finally starting to grow hair! He'd always worried about it, because other armchairs had long since grown hair, but his hadn't. Magda later told me he'd be thrilled and that she'd always thought the armchairs would be just like that – hairless, completely untickled, and childlike. Now, those few hairs on the armrests became the object of special care and attention. Daily washing, brushing, and drying. Rubbing with oils and smoothing, something Magda particularly enjoyed because it felt like the old days, when, often at breakfast with him, she'd suddenly grab his hand when he got up, wanting him to stay with her. Back then, she said, he'd struggled to escape thanks to the hairs, which now, it's safe to say, he can't seem to get away from.

And neither of us even felt a jolt in our glass when, during a chat in front of the fireplace, he groaned and sneezed, as was his wont. And then he asked for a tissue.

XVI

Then the sink bloomed. There was nothing to regret. He never washed those damn dishes very thoroughly, so when it bloomed, we decided that thank God, it was finally here. Magda cared for it and nurtured it fiercely. Just as she later did for the wild vines on the walls, as she did for the lilies on the floor, and often asked for help taming the dreadfully messy armchairs. But when the fireplace decided to go aside one evening, we considered it provocation enough and shouted "Enough!"

And fortunately, you came to your senses, though I'll admit it openly, you weren't in much of a hurry. Your voice was as sweet as ever; it was lovely to hug you and chat for a while, and to see Magda sink into those arms she tended, combing their hair and caring for their nails.

XVII.

There were many indications that he did it during Magda's afternoon nap. She fell asleep as usual, slept soundly, and he always watched with delight her dreams, projected onto the walls and leaping across the recesses. And perhaps this gave Him the idea, this was the seed of the drama we are all witnessing—a drama in an infinite number of acts and a single scene. Magda later said that upon waking, she saw it projected onto the walls and leaping across the recesses. She said she couldn't understand the laughter perfidiously echoing silently off the cave walls, that she was distraught because she knew something incredible was happening, something that, in her opinion, was terrifying, and that she knew he shouldn't have done it, that he wasn't allowed to, that the ban covered the entire planet! But only He knew that the ban was not written down anywhere, and that no one was to blame for it…

XVIII.

Actually, it was always like this. There were always more than one pebble to contend with, naughty armchairs, a fireplace that grumbled, and a sink that didn't like bad wine brands and always didn't clean up the glasses. It was always like this: when we talked, the sofa rocked your Magda slightly, the coffee machine made coffee, and the cigarettes were brought to the table, because that's how it's always been with you, and nothing has changed. We were the only ones who couldn't believe you'd emerged, that for the first time in your life you'd emerged from the Cave, brushed your skin, stepped over the protrusions of your teeth, dodged flying stones, and come face to face with the Impossible Thing to Hate. No one in town spoke of it, no one even commented; everyone avoided the topic like the plague, exchanging it for unimportant bras and the usual scattered pebbles. Only a few, silently approaching the entrance, dared to throw a few larger stones in, which had happened before and thus prevented them from giving themselves away. Only Your Honor tried to unravel, but failed to break through the wall of silence of the people against whom you aimed this.

Now we are happy that we can come as usual, sink into you, sit, take advantage, listen, or support you so you don't fade, and even walk around or dance. We know full well that, as usual, you'll make tea, then offer coffee, and even roll more than one cigarette from that tobacco you supposedly brought from somewhere.

We, your old friends, have only one request for you – we beg you, the next time you release your Provocation, that animal with huge fangs and the wild laughter of a hyena, which you keep in the deepest crevice of the Cave and don't let anyone get close to it, to always let us know in advance, because we are sensitive people, which, as you probably understand, leads directly to the conclusion that we ourselves experience this provocation and were shocked when you emerged from the cave and showed your pale ass to the camera, which transmitted the image in excellent quality to a huge screen placed next to the entrance!