Pigeon Man:

"Let the word speak for itself!" But my word is too poor, too feeble, too silent. My word will not speak for itself, I know. So listen to the story. A different one than the one I wanted to tell:

The late autumn sun gently caressed my bald head. The breeze pleasantly whipped reality, and I stared at the cobblestones of my town's market square. There used to be about ten benches, but now only two remained. Vandals. I always sat on one of them, because the other was right by the gate – arched, quite aesthetic (because so is the market square), but I could never stay there because I felt uneasy – sometimes as if someone were urging me to leave, sometimes as if someone were staring persistently.

I raised my eyes and looked at the town hall. I almost got a job at that damned town hall once, but by an unfortunate turn of events (and now I know, by complete luck), nothing came of it. I adjusted my brown coat so the wrinkles wouldn't show too prominently on my back and continued sitting.

Sixty-seven years in this city is enough to know everything, get bored with everything, and then realize you know nothing and start to wonder all over again. So I marveled at how that stallholder (and what a bastard he was—I know it) laid out tomatoes every day, and I marveled at the erection of the town hall tower—despite winters and summers and war and communists and poets and stallholders. I marveled further that the cobblestones in this market square were just like they were before the war, but no one thought to do anything about it. I marveled that the steps to the stalls all around encroached on the sidewalk, making it very narrow, even though the EU doesn't allow it. I marveled that Mr. Zduński, whose volumes from the socialist era the City Hall publishes, and publishes because, to put it mildly, they praised them. And they were so miserable that it was unclear what or whom, ergo, it was enough to change the prefaces to achieve the desired context. And so they praised the efficiency of the socialist labor leaders, praised the new order and pluralism, praised Europe, and would praise the devil himself if necessary.

But I was most surprised by the pigeons.

My days usually look similar. For forty years, day after day, month after month, year after year, I've been running the same gamble. I spin in a once-established cycle like that witch in her frenzied pirouettes, like the plague in its joyful frolics.

I get up every morning, and already the image of the Sacred Heart of Jesus stares back at me from the wall. So I get out of bed and fall to my knees. I pray fervently, even though I'm an atheist. I pray to the cold brown stone wall, from which the white pattern, like leaves, gradually peels away.

Someone has called my profession "free," though it doesn't give me a sense of freedom, but at least I have time. Do I have time? Nobody has it.

I go out to see the gray landscape shimmering like a kaleidoscope, full of vibrant greenery, seasoned with the intermingled scent of present, past, and pluperfect tenses. I always buy a bag of grain at the pet store, go to the market square, and sit on my bench (and that day was no different). I open a book, or a newspaper, or gaze at the town hall and the tenement houses. After a while, I pull the grain from my inside jacket pocket. It depends on the season; if it's spring, for example, I have to spill it on the pavement to attract pigeons. However, if it's late summer, for example, the mere rustle of the wind brings them around the bench.

When I had a woman, she used to say I was "crazy" about these birds. But those were bad times, bad times. Now I don't have a woman anymore, and no one accuses me of my eccentricities. I'm on my own, and I know for myself that her "crazy" is called love. Yes, I love pigeons. I always have. Even when I was racing to school in shorts right after the war, I was often late for my first lesson, which earned me more than one note in my diary and a fatherly slap on the backside. And no one could understand that I had to watch the pigeons, which had just flown in a single file into the trees by the schoolyard.

But then, as for the seasons: the closer to the end of autumn, the better they know me. After that, I don't even have to sit on a bench: I just have to walk into the market square, and they're already there, waiting. Of course, they sometimes perch on me – I feed them from my hand, or I invent more interesting games – sometimes I sprinkle seeds on the brim of my hat – it looks impressive when five or six birds descend on my head. I know because I can see myself in the window of a shop window.

They trust me so much that I can confidently pet them and transfer them from one sleeve to another. They know they have a friend in me; they no longer treat me like other people. This is me, their pigeon fancier.

That morning, I prayed to the bricks longer and harder than usual. I prayed that I would survive without celebration, that Mr. Zduński wouldn't sit down, that the clock in the town hall would keep running, as it always has. Because you must know that this was a special day in its own way. It was a turning point, my little solstice, my annual Rubicon.

As always, I stopped at the zoo. I crossed Chestnut Street, turned onto Roosevelta Street, then onto Wiosenna Street, and found myself in the market square, which was probably also named in some honor, but no one paid any attention.

The birds didn't immediately smell me, but as soon as I sat down, they flew in as one. And so the late autumn sun gently caressed my bald head. The breeze pleasantly whipped reality, and I stared at the cobblestones of my town's market square.

I reached into my coat pocket, because this time the treat for my friends wouldn't fit in my jacket. That day I brought them something special – in a box. A real cardboard one – green!

I spilled some on the ground. The pinkish granules arranged themselves into a delicious arrangement against the paving stones. They began to devour the poison. I added a little, a little at a time, and more kept flying in. They didn't mind that the first ones had already started dropping; they pecked nervously and hurriedly, lest anyone get ahead of them. And I added as needed – I was generous and had plenty of treats for them that day.

Oh, now I see my blunder! It's true – I didn't mention it earlier – I do this every year: I tame them, make them trust me, I become intimate with them, I care for them, I nurture them, I devote my time to them, and at the end of autumn – I poison them. I could have mentioned this earlier – my oversight. It gives me, well, pleasure – essentially, a pure pleasure. It's all quite pretty and fanciful, shimmering and wagging its tail – my peculiar dance with these creatures. And here's a wooing, and there's a sneaking, and then – the grand finale. Like a superb spectacle, you'll agree. Yes, I deceive them, I exploit their naivety. I'm a fraud and a criminal – in this area I suffer a little, I'm a little sad, but on the other hand, it's hard not to praise me for my patience, my perseverance, my consistency – it's a triumph. How can you not praise me? It's not as simple as it might seem. Come on, sir, pour out the poison right away! Pour it out – let's see if it eats it! And they always eat mine...

It's not that I consider what I do good, but – yes – I'm proud of it. Yes, it gives me pride and happiness. But the nations have said, the generations have said, I am doing wrong. So let it be – wrong. But their wrong? I guess it's a little bit mine too – because every time I poison them, when they're dead, I feel like someone has deceived me. I feel like my wrong is greater! So I set off into another year to take revenge, but when new pigeons perch on my shoulders, I already know I'm incapable of revenge. Again I know I love them (with a love pure, purer than that of fairy tales), and again I know I must poison them, and again my wrong is greater. Because I must poison them – how could I be otherwise? What could the market square, the city, the wall, and... me be without poisoning? And to make matters worse – let's be honest – something keeps whispering persistently in the dark corner of my head: "They're only pigeons." And as they died, I almost wanted to raise a song to the heavens, but whether a requiem or an ode—that I didn't know.

And now: if only the doves, if I love... And let's go around, my mad ones! Or maybe it's their fault—or maybe mutual, their half-suicide? What if I'm dreaming this? Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, brick wall!

I was walking back that afternoon through the middle of Chestnut Street, because cars don't go there, but it was as if I were bumping into the walls, as if I were staggering from one side to the other, from guilt to hedonistic solace, from my wrongdoing to theirs, from trust to deception—sixty-seven years in this city, forty years of drunken dancing, hundreds of empty spaces kneeling before a cold wall, me the tormentor—me the benefactor! Ecce homo, pigeon fancier.