THE RED COCK BAR.

The "Under the Red Cockerel" bar stood in a run-down, working-class part of town. It was a small pavilion nestled among old tenement buildings. In its heyday, it could accommodate up to forty guests at a time. However, the days when tipsy patrons crowded the tables and buffet were long gone. Nowadays, a dozen or so gentlemen sat there, able to spend half an evening with a single beer and a hundred. The floor was paved with black and white cubes arranged in a diamond pattern. Tables with rickety metal legs and torn tablecloths covered it. A fashion statement during the Gierek era, but now just another relic of the past. Moreover, it was cherished mainly by older residents. Purely out of sentimentality. After all, they had spent a good chunk of their lives here. An elderly man, around sixty, entered. He wore a dark jacket dripping with rain, wrinkled gray fabric trousers, and a corduroy skullcap.

"Good evening, Mrs. Halinka," he greeted the barmaid.

"Good evening," the woman grumbled.

She stood washing mugs in a sink almost filled with water. She was in her late fifties. Portly, with a face as sad as the place itself. She showed no enthusiasm for the new guest.

"A beer and a hundred, Mrs. Halinka," he said, trying to encourage her with a smile, if not to talk, then at least to exchange a few words.

Seeing the woman showing no interest, he glanced around the room. There were perhaps ten guests inside. Some were dozing, propped up over their mugs, others were playing cards. Three men sat in a corner by the window. When he saw him, one of them, thin and stooped, with a rat-like face, waved at him. He recognized him as Wiesiek, an old colleague with whom he had worked for about thirty years.

"Ahoy, Ernest, you're welcome to join us." He didn't need to shout; the noise was minimal, as if muffled by the pouring rain outside.

Ernest nodded, then poured a hundred into his beer and set the empty glass aside, taking only the tankard. The barmaid grimaced and took the glass, tossing it into the sink. She slid the carefully counted coins off the counter and into a drawer. Mr. Ernest sat down at the table by the window. The man who had called him over introduced the other two guests.

"Do you know, perhaps this is my son-in-law?" he pointed to a large man with a beer belly.

"Hello, hello," the old man shook his outstretched hand.

"We're just sitting here, Andrzej," he pointed to his son-in-law. "I've got a job, so we're going to do it.

" "Anything definite?" Ernest asked, sounding uninterested.

"Is there anything definite today?" his old companion hunched even further and looked conspiratorially around the room.

- And this one here - he pointed to the other guy - is his friend.

Both Mr. Wiesław's son-in-law and his friend were around thirty-eight years old. Their expressions betrayed neither enthusiasm for the new guest nor for the new job, as his father-in-law put it. They sipped their beers in silence. Outside, the sky had turned gray. The rain was still lashing furiously against the windows, almost lulling them to sleep. Ernest took out his popular one and lit it. Taking a drag, he blurted out, not to start a conversation, not to state a fact.

"The weather's a mess," he exhaled a large cloud of almost white smoke.

"Well, everything's going to the dogs," Mr. Wiesław mused, "so the weather isn't too?"

They laughed, as if a bit artificially, forcing their mirth. The conversation was getting stale. The two younger men stared into their mugs, toying with them, swirling them around. Mr. Ernest glanced around the room again. He recognized most of the guests. Jurek, a former foreman on his shift, sat at the back. Despite his advanced age, he still retained his stocky figure. Beside him were the rest of his friends. Some he had worked with, others he knew by sight. He stared at the clouds of smoke billowing from the ceiling. Mrs. Halinka was still furiously polishing the mugs, lining them up neatly on the counter. She did it with the same abandon as a little boy arranging toy soldiers on a shelf. The world didn't exist for her. "How many years has he been working here?" Ernest counted in his head, "about twenty." He pondered himself and his life. Only Wiesław, sitting next to him, roused him from his lethargy by nudging his shoulder with his elbow.

"Will you have another drink with us?" he asked.

"Why not? It's pub weather, you don't want to stay indoors."

Andrzej rose and, with somewhat unsteady steps, walked to the bar. After a moment, he placed four beers on the rickety table. His friend, dressed in a flannel shirt, dipped his bushy mustache in the foam. He swallowed contentedly, then felt an unpleasant shiver run through him.

"I think someone jumped over my grave," he laughed softly.

"Or maybe it's the rain," Ernest added. "Mrs. Halinka, you're not heating well," he shouted toward the buffet.

The woman shrugged, not even sparing them a glance. They returned to their own business, overlooking her indifference. The rain continued to fall. Ernest grabbed his forearm; it hurt. It always hurts when it rains. "A hell of a souvenir," he thought, washing it down with a beer.

"In weather like this, it's a shame to even throw a dog out," Wiesław said, looking at his friend massaging his forearm.

"Maybe you'll tell them what happened to you, you know, back then," he concluded uncertainly.

Mr. Ernest instinctively stopped rubbing his hand. He took a sip of beer and pulled out a cigarette. Toying with it in his calloused, old fingers, he pondered.

"Because I know if there's anything to talk about." He feigned indifference.

- What is this story? - the younger ones asked.

"Sometimes, strange things happen," Ernest continued enigmatically, twisting his face, wrinkled like a tablecloth.

"Go ahead," Wiesiek urged, "Mrs. Halinka, four hundred, please come to the table."

He offered cheerfully, as if this order would loosen his colleague's tongue. Silence fell. The two younger men stared alternately between Wiesław and Ernest, their curiosity already piqued. But not a word was spoken. The muffled chatter of the other guests surrounded them, and cigarette smoke hung over everything. The rain continued to drum its sad melody rhythmically. Ernest continued to play with his cigarette, turning it between his fingers. Finally, the barmaid approached. She brought four glasses filled to the brim on a metal tray. When she left, everyone looked at the old man expectantly.

"It was about fifteen years ago," he began, lighting a cigarette. "It looked a bit different here back then." He mused, cigarette in mouth, and smiled sadly at the old days.

The two old men exchanged glances, full of understanding about the past. A certain sadness washed over their table. A sort of longing for the old days, perhaps caused by the hypnotic melody of the rain, or perhaps they'd already had too much to drink.

"It was raining exactly like it is now, and the time was identical. The beginning of autumn, somehow"—he inhaled—"there were quite a few of us sitting here, it was as crowded as a train station"—again, that strange, pensive look—not like today.

" "Go on," Andrzej encouraged him, slightly impatient with his digressions.

"Sure, sure, sorry," he said hastily and continued. "I'd already had a few drinks, it was dark outside, and there was that damn rain everywhere. I said goodbye to my friends and left. I wanted to go home.

" "I remember," Wiesław interjected, "I was here then.

" "You were right." So I left the bar, lifting the collar of my coat to get some shelter from the rain. It was cold as hell, I remember. "Here I am," I said, "I walked about ten meters from the pub, and I was just passing a garbage can. Right there."

He pointed out the window. A street lamp was standing right next to it. Everyone looked where he was pointing. Through the pouring rain, they spotted two metal garbage cans.

"I'm walking, and suddenly I look, someone's standing right by the bins. I get a little closer, and what do I see?"

Everyone looked at him expectantly, wondering what they might have seen. Ernest took a deep drag.

"A girl.

" "Ugh, ugh," the one with the bushy mustache choked on a sip of beer.

"Nothing less than a girl was standing there. She was maybe," he mused, "I know, about twenty-something. She stood there soaking wet in a summer dress. She was shivering from the cold. I asked her what you were doing out in the open in such an outfit." "I'm cold," she replied. Her blond hair was wet and stuck to her head, and I'm telling you, it was as long as fields of grain."

Both men nodded in astonishment. Wiesław, despite having heard the story several times, still showed considerable interest, and even a flush appeared on his face.

"I was a bit drunk, you know," he made a strange gesture, but they didn't understand what he meant. "I started looking at her, well, you see." They nodded with a smile, showing complete understanding. "Her dress was so wet I could see her breasts. Wonderful, full breasts. I couldn't see much because it was pitch black, only that streetlight, which is still there to this day." Swaying a bit, I approached her and touched her shoulder. "Oh my God, girl," I said, terrified, "you can't stay here, you'll freeze to death." And she said again, "I'm cold." So I took her by the arm and led her to my apartment. My parents had long since died, I had no siblings, so I lived alone. What times were those?" he mused, escaping the story.

"And what about her, what... what did you do?" Andrzej made an ambiguous gesture. His friend laughed, and Ernest continued.

"So we went into the house. She was standing in the hallway, shaking all over. Every now and then she kept saying she was cold. Even though I was tipsy, I noticed the poor thing was pale and her face was turning blue from the cold. I brought her a towel, but she threw it away. I stood there, surprised, looking at her, and I had to brace myself against the wall with one hand to keep my balance. 'Warm me up,' she said. I don't know if it was the vodka or not, but when I heard it, I felt instantly aroused. I realized I'd had a good opportunity. I glanced at her shapely hips and everything... You know. I felt a fire in my groins. I went up to her and grabbed her breast, just like that. Her nipples were hard, and her breasts were firm and terribly cold. It didn't bother me then. I groped her, squeezing her breasts, and she stared at me with her dull eyes. She had this bleary look. I was only inflamed by her passivity and slipped my hand under her dress. I reached for her panties and began caressing her, already thoroughly aroused. She was still standing there, saying, "Warm me." I was about to unbutton my pants when my dog ​​suddenly emerged from the room. The old man was poor and sick, barely able to drag his feet. The girl, surprised by his presence, made a strange noise. I can't describe it to you. It was inhuman. It wasn't a woman's voice at all, not even a human one. Although I can't describe it to you, it made my blood run cold with fear in an instant. Then, seeing her reveal herself, she looked at me. Her eyes lit up like two torches. She started laughing. To this day, talking about it gives me goosebumps. She laughed like a hundred devils, as if a hundred others were behind her. A thick, guttural voice. The dog began to growl and bark. She opened her mouth, and worms spilled out. Small and fat as hell. I instantly felt nauseous. My heart was pounding like a jackhammer. Only then did I realize I was still holding my hand in her panties. Actually, I remembered it when I felt something move in my hand. From her, you know—they nodded—some strange eels, larvae, and god knows what else were emerging. Her whole dress was moving as if it were alive. I knew underneath it was full of that filth. I absolutely didn't want to see it. I was close to madness then. I yanked my hand away in disgust. I don't know how it would have ended if it weren't for Azor. He jumped at her and bit her leg. Then the apparition, or whatever it was, burst into flames. She screamed so loud that every window in the apartment shattered. The roar reminded me of the scream of some enormous beast. Like a lion or something. She burned in my hallway, screaming. I didn't have time to back away before she grabbed my hand. Then I screamed in fear and pain. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I think I let go. I only managed to make the sign of the cross with my other free hand. Then all the fire seemed to sink into the floor. The screaming stopped. I must have sobered up in a matter of seconds. Wiesiek can attest,the next day I was as gray as a Chinese scholar.

"Right," his friend agreed, downing his beer—gray as a dream.

Silence followed this tale. Ernest reached for his still-full glass and drained it, moved by his memories. The two younger listeners still sat silently, staring at him. Finally, Andrzej took a long sip of beer. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, lit one, and said,

"You old fools, you must have been drunk and had hallucinations or something.

" "No way," his friend added, "you can see all sorts of things when you're drunk."

They smiled at each other. Ernest glanced at Wiesiek. Their eyes were full of understanding for the younger men's arrogance and stupidity. For a moment, the murmur of the other guests reached them again. The rain outside hadn't let up one iota. Ernest stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. He suddenly felt old and tired. He finished his beer.

"When it's raining outside, it's windy as hell, and the weather's generally awful, all sorts of crap are going around. You should stay home then; it's not worth going out, I tell you. Autumn is such a terrible time," he spat behind his back.

The two younger ones exchanged knowing glances. There was no doubt they had already taken him for some storyteller and a doting old man. The kind who has no idea what to do in a pouring rain and regales everyone with his fantasies. They both stood up.

"Well, whatever, we'll be getting ready.

" "Before you leave," the old man pulled up his sleeve, "because I see you're amused by my story, just look."

The two men standing there looked at his forearm.

"One day nothing, the next you have..." Wiesław added, looking at his son-in-law ironically.

They stared at the wound on his arm. Burn scars, four from the top, five at the bottom. He turned his hand over, and they saw the fifth. They sat down heavily again.

- Four more beers, Mrs. Halinka - one of them called out.