WHISPERS OF WALLS, MAPS OF MIST

What remains of November

From the restlessness of early spring

And the creatures of hot summer

And the snowdrops underfoot

And the hollyhock that raises high

Red into grey and scatters

Snow-covered late flowers?

Thomas Stearns Eliot

East Coker

What could be so exciting about working as a psychologist, living a quiet and stable life in a small town? Daily routines from eight to three with children with complexes, a two-week shift at the clinic alongside a bored psychiatrist, and a monthly shift at a homeless shelter. A shelter. I didn't like that place. The kids really needed me, the psychiatrist's patients sometimes used my help, but the shelter's clientele... Sure, I felt very sorry for the unfortunates who used his services, but all they needed was a bowl of hot soup and a dry place to sleep. Sure, someone wanted to talk to me occasionally, but how could I possibly help a homeless, alcoholic man? All my knowledge seemed to be perfectly balanced and precise. However, my sense of professional duty wouldn't let me give up this job. And in that depressing, dingy shelter, I experienced something I'd never experienced before. I'll forget; something that resembled a strange, drugged dream.

We

lay in the warm darkness filled with Brandenburg concertos, clinging to each other like Siamese twins. I loved moments like these—warm, cozy, and peaceful. The room seemed like a safe haven, separating us from all the evil in the world, a space capsule suspended in the icy void. I would have liked to stay like that as long as possible, but...

But I knew well that soon I would have to leave the asylum, and that usually involved a standard exchange of words. Words almost unchanged, always equally irritating.

I reluctantly raised my head, glanced at the cherry-red digits of the alarm clock. I sat up and turned on the light.

"I have to go," I muttered.

Miśka immediately assumed a provocative stance. She leaned back against the pillows, drew her knees up to her chin, wrapped her arms around them, and fixed me with eyes darkened with anger.

"And why?" she asked. What are you doing hanging around there, hanging out with those degenerates? Or maybe I need you more than they do today, have you thought about that?

The quiet haven instantly transformed into a place charged with negative emotions. I took a deep breath and mentally counted to ten.

"It's my job, honey," I said in a relatively calm voice. "Only one night a month..."

"But always that night when I want you to be with me," Miśka interrupted. "Do you prefer those filthy people to me?

" "Stop it!" Something gurgled dangerously in my throat. "You're starting to get hysterical. And don't call my patients filthy people, okay?"

"Patients..." she gritted through her teeth. "Good uncle, he's going to comfort a bunch of alcohol enthusiasts."

She turned her face to the wall and covered her head with a blanket. I didn't want to prolong this idiotic discussion, which couldn't lead to anything good. I got dressed, threw two spare packs of cigarettes into my bag, and went out into the hallway. Already in my jacket and shoes, I returned to my room to say something more. Miśka, her face grim, was flipping through the pages of a glossy magazine. I just shook my head and left the apartment without a word.

The world was enveloped in a thick, icy fog. I shuddered, turned up my collar, and walked slowly forward. The late November evening suited my mood perfectly. I walked, trying to avoid puddles. I slipped on the wet leaves that thickly covered the sidewalk. The sparsely spaced streetlights drizzled with meager light. The fog muffled all sounds, the bare maple branches dripping with moisture. I inhaled that unique scent—a mixture of rotting leaves, chimney smoke, and mold. The smell of November. I felt a little uneasy. The monotonous march was beginning to hypnotize me. I was slowly merging with the fog, the dampness, everything becoming less and less real, dreamlike. And evil. I had the feeling that in a moment my body would disappear, that I would become part of the fog, a shadow frightening latecomers. A wave of irrational anxiety suddenly swept over me. I stopped and looked around uncertainly. "What's wrong?" I asked myself in a low voice. "Are my nerves starting to fray?" I lit a cigarette. The bright flame of the lighter and the warmth of the tobacco smoke restored a sense of reality. I walked faster. The strange anxiety seemed to have passed. But it was the relief I felt at the sight of the bright lights of the shelter that made me realize how tense my nerves were. I shook myself like a wet dog and decided to postpone the analysis of my mental state.

II

"Good evening, Mr. Krzysztof," I greeted the porter. "Many clients?

" "The room is full, sir," he said, setting down the newspaper. "And they're all nervous today; the doctor has a lot to do. A nasty night...

" "Yes, nasty," I agreed and entered the duty room. Tomek wasn't there. He was probably bustling among our guests. As I changed, I thought of my duty partner. Tomek's motives for working at the shelter were hardly altruistic. Young, with a fresh specialization in internal medicine, cynical. He often couldn't hide his contempt for the shelter's guests. But instead of working in the emergency room, for much better pay, he spent most of his nights here. He had a purpose. He dreamed of a career as a provincial politician and in this way he worked to gain the reputation of "one who has served the local community, the poorest of the poor."

I attached my ID badge to my sweatshirt and marched into the main hall. It was indeed crowded. About thirty people. Most sat at rickety tables, staring listlessly at the television screen. A few shapes wrapped in gray blankets lay on camp beds. In better weather, the place was usually deserted. The homeless only came under our roof when the cold became unbearable. Stray birds from another world, inhabitants of the archipelagos of backyards, garbage cans, and allotment gardens.

"Good evening," I said, trying to keep the optimism in my voice. "I'm the psychologist on duty at this institution. Would anyone like to talk to me? Perhaps I can help?" The reaction was predictable. No more than five people scowled at me, and someone said, "Get lost!" "If only..." I managed a smile, "I'm here until seven in the morning."

I returned to the office. Tomek, comfortably reclining in his armchair, sipped his tea.

"Hi, Freud," he grinned at me. "So? Have you healed a few broken hearts with your highly learned ramblings?"

I sat down across from him and lit a cigarette.

"Spare me the irony," I muttered. "I'm not in the mood for cynical jokes today.

" "You see," he continued, "and I did a few useful things. I stitched up my bruised eyebrow, handed out some greetings... Shall we play a game of chess?" He abruptly changed the subject.

I shook my head. "You know, I don't feel so good. I think I'll go to bed. Wake me up if anything happens."

Tomek looked at me carefully, and I realized that something was indeed happening to me. I spoke in a wooden, tired voice, and that nagging feeling of anxiety returned. A premonition that something bad was about to happen, the tension, the anticipation of a blow.

"It's the weather," he said. "A night of ghosts." Fortunately, I'm not superstitious," he smiled. "And you're frustrated, that's what you are," he continued with a highly learned expression. "You feel useless here, don't you? Go to the ward and drag someone out for a psychoanalytic chat. It won't hurt the patient, and it will help you," he cackled idiotically.

"No," I said. "I won't bother anyone. Television will replace psychology. Let them sit there quietly and watch soap operas full of beautiful women, rich men, luxurious limousines, and yachts. They need to absorb as much of these false stories as possible and then fall asleep. Let them dream celluloid dreams of a world of fulfilled dreams.

" "Hey, what's the matter with you?" Tomek was clearly worried. "You became a preacher?"

"I'll tell you more." I stood up and began pacing nervously around the room. "Do you realize we're disgusting? We're frauds, the worst of the worst, because we deceive ourselves. Look at how damn cheaply we buy ourselves a sense of self-satisfaction. Tacky little sisters of mercy who, with calculated care, bend over every homeless tramp. But in reality, we loathe them, despise them. We fear them. But we do it. Because it's worth it, isn't it? Because every now and then we find our pictures in the local newspaper and words of admiration for how wonderful we are. Next month, at a nice banquet in the town hall, the mayor will award one of us the title of Person of the Year. For charity, for tireless work on behalf of the poor. False, false, and false again! And if things were even a little different, if we truly felt a little heartfelt compassion... Do you think that would change anything? Bullshit! In the morning, they'll get a slice of bread and cottage cheese and go back to their garbage dumps, their stinking sewers. And we, smiling, filled with a sense of duty well done, will shave our faces with good cream, brush our teeth with the world's best toothpaste, and march back to our well-groomed, fragrant wives. Why do we despise them, huh? What guarantee do we have that, through some disastrous chain of events, we won't become like them? Damn hypocrites...

"You're bullshitting!" Tomek stared at me, his eyes wide with astonishment. "You think we should give away everything we have and live among the homeless? Then we'll be okay, right? You're really going crazy. Trouble at home?

" "Damn it..." I muttered, rubbing my forehead. "I'm sorry, Tomek. I don't know what got into me. I've been a little dizzy since I left the house. I'll try to sleep this mood off."

I lay curled up on the hard couch. Anxiety still plagued me. But finally, exhaustion began to take over. I promised myself that over the next weekend I would get really drunk and fall asleep.

III

"Get up, fucking quick! Get up!" Someone was tugging on my arm and shouting directly in my ear.

I jumped up from the couch. At the sight of the doctor's pale face, I instantly shook off the remnants of sleep.

"What's going on? Some kind of brawl?" I asked.

"Worse," he muttered. "This is fucking insane... Oh fuck, good thing I'm not alone here, that others can see it too. I don't think I've gone crazy after all..."

His voice was shaking. I stood there, stunned, unsure what to do. Tomek ran to the closet, pulled a bottle of vodka from some hiding place. He sucked on it like a professional alcoholic, and in the blink of an eye, drank half of its contents.

"Want some too?" He held out a half-liter bottle to me.

"Thank you for now," I said. "First, maybe you should explain to me what's going on."

Tomek took another sip and put the bottle down.

"You, that's pointless, it's fucking impossible. It's impossible! Things like that don't happen..."

I decided I couldn't reach an understanding with him. I moved toward the door leading to the main ward.

"Wait," he grabbed my hand tightly. "There are nurses there, right... Nothing urgent, just... I'll tell you... Wait. "

I nodded and sat him down in the armchair.

"Go on," I said.

"Imagine," his voice calmed a bit, "they brought in this creepy couple. I mean, brought, not brought," he corrected. "You know, that asshole from the newspaper, that Andrzejek, who's always sniffing for news. He was wandering around town and found them...

" "So what about them?" I interrupted. "What's so special about them?

" "No, no, no!" he groaned, reaching for the bottle again. "Listen, first of all, I was scared of them." Before I even looked at them properly, before I started listening to their bullshit... I was scared of them, you know? When I approached them, it was like... fucking, I was standing on the edge of a precipice, like I was falling into some damn bottomless pit. Do you understand?

"No, I don't understand," I said. "Can you speak more coherently?"

He ignored me and continued. "And when I got a better look at them... It's November, the middle of November. You, imagine... She's wearing a wreath of wildflowers! Is she getting through to you?! A ragged drunk in some muddy rag that she thinks is a dress. With a wreath of wildflowers... In November, fuck... And that creepy lover of hers—a branch of blooming lilac peeking out of his jacket pocket. Fragrant, fresh lilac! And when they started talking..."

He stopped abruptly and stared at the desk.

We sat in silence for a few minutes. My mind was a chaotic jumble. "Drinks?" Is he on some kind of medication? Lots of doctors resort to all sorts of nasty things. Had he gone mad? Maybe something strange had actually happened?

I had to go and see for myself. One thing was certain—I'd never seen this cynical joker in such a state before.

"Tomek, stay put, okay?" I pleaded.

"Of course I won't," he grumbled. "Go, see for yourself what the ghosts look like."

IV

I walked through the main hall of the shelter. All our guests were asleep. There was no indication that anything bad had happened. I headed for the treatment room. What I saw there was indeed quite eerie. Two people sat on the floor, their backs against the wall. Three perplexed nurses stood above them.

"Why are they sitting there in those wet clothes?" I asked sharply.

"Well, that's what the doctor ordered," one of the nurses said. "That until you talk to them, you shouldn't touch them. They're fine, neither drunk nor high, I think. But he's a bit of a troublemaker, our doctor. Well, some—"

"Okay, okay," I interrupted him. "Let one of you gentlemen go to the on-duty room and accompany the doctor; he's feeling unwell. The rest of you prepare blankets and soup. I want to stay here alone.

" "And me?" someone said.

Only then did I notice Andrzejek, a well-known gossip and sensation in town, a journalist for the local weekly, sitting in the corner.

"I hear you brought them?" I asked, gesturing for the nurses to move.

"Yes," he agreed. "It's a bizarre story. I won't make any fabric out of it, it's nonsense. I just messed up the upholstery in my car. All my gains, damn it."

I asked him to tell me in a few sentences what had actually happened.

It turned out the journalist had gone on a night photo shoot. In one of the parks, he found a soaking wet man curled up on a bench. He took him to his car and drove him to the emergency room. From there, they sent him to a shelter. On the way, the passenger started begging them to go back to the park because there was still "something" or "someone" there. Andrzej couldn't quite understand him, but he complied. The man ducked into the bushes and after a moment, led the woman out. All three of them piled into the car and drove here.

"You know, they were acting strangely, muttering incoherently. And where the hell did those flowers come from?" he shuddered. "And the doctor... It's like he got electrocuted at the sight of them, what's wrong with him?

" "None of your business," I snapped. "Go away." "Oh," I added, "and I hope I don't find a newspaper article describing the unusual behavior of the shelter staff.

" "Sure, sure," he smiled slyly. "The doctor took a sip of something... Understandable, on such a cold night.

" "Good night," I said emphatically. The journalist bowed and marched off.

At the end of our conversation, the nurses brought blankets and two bowls of soup. I dismissed them and approached the couple sitting on the floor. Suddenly, I felt a deep, almost unbearable, overwhelming sadness. At the same time, I felt an immense sense of relief. It was as if whatever had been troubling me that evening, whatever was about to happen, was already beyond me. It was hard to pinpoint the feeling, but I had the impression that something was emanating from them. I shook my head and took a deep breath to dispel the mood. I knew I had to talk to them; something whispered to me that they weren't just an ordinary couple of alcoholics who had fallen asleep in the park after drinking a few bottles of fruit wine.

"Good evening," I said, crouching down beside them. "Would you like something to eat?"

The woman shook her head.

“Cigarette, give me a cigarette,” the man croaked.

I handed him the entire package and the matches. I looked carefully at our guests. They weren't old, but it's difficult to judge the age of a heavy drinker, and it was clear they were both alcoholics. The woman looked grotesque, even ghastly. A wrinkled face with smeared remnants of cheap makeup, a dirty, torn dress, and those unfortunate wildflowers in her tousled, long-unwashed hair. I timidly reached out and touched the wreath. It wasn't artificial—real, living poppies, cornflowers, and some other flowers whose names I didn't know. The bunch of lilacs in the man's pocket was also real.

"Is something bothering you, perhaps..." I didn't know how to start the conversation.

The woman saved me. She perked up and began to speak. "

V.

You're a good man... You'll listen to me. He, the doctor, didn't want to. He shouted. He even wanted to hit him," she nodded at her companion. "What for? What did he do to him?" Listen to me. I'll tell you everything. I'm not a whore. No. Well, I drink, right? And what am I going to do if I have to drink? But I'm not a whore. It was bad that evening. Because I had no money. I went to a friend's, and she had no money either. I'm not a whore. But I had to drink because the telepek was already going. It was close. And I'm scared when it shakes. The ambulance will come, they can take me to a mental hospital. So I went walking down the street, thinking maybe I'd meet someone, maybe I'd find some money. To drink some wine and not shake. And this guy, whom I know a little, came up and said he had some wine for me. But not for nothing.

He'll give me wine, but I have to go with him. I didn't want to. I have my dignity. I'm not a whore. But without wine, the telephone is empty, I'm afraid of the shaking. We went to my place. Because I live there. I don't live on the street, no. I have my own room. I live there. And he opened the wine and said, "Here, drink a little. Just a little. Then I'll give you another bottle." I drank a little and felt sick, stuffy. Because I have a heart condition. And I opened the window, even though it was cold and foggy. And just as I was about to go back to him, to the one who gave me the wine, a rose flew in through the window. Lord knows, a flower. And I thought I was about to die. Or maybe I already had. Because once upon a time... Once upon a time, there was someone who loved me. And he always came to me with my window open. And he would throw the rose in. I started screaming at the one who gave me the wine to go away, because I'm not a whore. He slapped me in the face, but he didn't do anything more. He left. And I look out the window and see that there's no night or fog there. It's day. Sunshine. And he, the one who used to always come to me with a rose, is standing there. And he waves me over to him. I see that I'm young and pretty. Just like I was long ago. I have beautiful hair and a dress with big polka dots, which I made myself, and he liked it, such a pretty dress. I wore it for him. And my vision went blurry. I ran outside, and there was nothing there. He, the one who came with the rose, was gone. Night and cold. And fog. And I hear someone saying to me—run, search, search, run, it will be like before, run, search. I ran. Straight ahead, through the places I used to go with him. My heart ached and I couldn't breathe. But I ran. And I looked, and I was near the cathedral. I stand to catch my breath and hear again—run, search, search, run, it will be like before, run, search. I lean against the wall and hear the bricks telling me to search. And suddenly I'm inside. I'm in the cathedral. I don't know how, but I'm there. And it's full of people, and the choir is singing. Children are going to their First Communion. I look, and there I am, so tiny, with other children. And I started to cry because I thought I'd already died. Then I'm running again down the street. Out of town. To where the one who loved me used to take me for walks and always brought me a rose. It's daytime and warm. And he holds my hand, I pick flowers. Poppies, cornflowers. And he wants to kiss me because I've never let him before, and I laugh that I'm not allowed. And so we go, I'm wearing a big polka-dot dress. And then again there's nothing. In the park, I'm sitting on a bench, a river flowing. The river speaks to me, I hear it clearly—run, search, search, run, it will be like before, run, search. But I can't run anymore. My heart aches. And then he's sitting next to me, someone's driving me around. But now I don't know if he's the one who, when he came to see me, always brought me a rose.

She said it all in one breath, very quickly, but clearly. She fell silent, panting heavily. I stroked her hand with a soothing gesture.

"And you? What do you remember?" I asked the man.

He shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat. "Well... Almost nothing... What can I say, right? I wanted a drink, but with someone. Well, I had some wine, so I bought it. I was standing in the street, thinking maybe some guy would come along, so I'd have a drink with him. But I looked, and there she was running. And it seemed to me that she was this one who used to... Well, as they say, I loved her. And I ran after her. Don't ask me why. I don't know. I somehow had to. It was hard to catch up because of the fog, and I kept losing her. Then she got away from me, but..." He broke off, clearly embarrassed. "Well, if I tell you more, will you believe me?

" "I will," I agreed.

"Aha," he nodded. "Why should I tell you this... huh? Well, whatever. I'll tell you about those cigarettes." Then I see I'm in the park. And just like she said—I'm a young boy too. It's a festival, spring. I'm sitting with her, with the one I once loved. The band is playing, people are dancing. She says I should pluck her lilac. Then we're sitting further, and a guy who takes pictures of people for money comes up. And I tell him to take a picture of us on that bench. Because something suddenly hurt inside me, and I thought that soon it would be so good. That soon it would be just her and me. And such fear, sir... Because I know that I'm only with her; without her, I'm gone. Well, without her, I'm not really gone, sir. But now, somehow, I don't know if she's the same as before. Maybe, maybe not...

He cleared his throat again and lit a cigarette, letting me know that he considered the conversation over. I was sure he'd been through a lot more, but like a "tough guy," he wasn't in the mood to confess.

VI

I instructed the nurses to, as an exception, allow a pair of "phantom lovers"—as I mentally dubbed them—to spend the day in the shelter. I wanted them to sleep off the tiring night. I went to see what was happening with Tomek. He stood staring at the swirling fog outside the window. He was calm now.

"So?" he asked. "Did you listen to all that nonsense?

" "Yes," I confirmed.

"Then tell me exactly, step by step," he said. "I'll tell you what scared me so much," he smiled sheepishly.

"I don't believe in such things," he said when I finished. "I don't, but... Let's systematize the facts. First, your twisted mood, then the adventures of our lovers—because we have to assume that something was happening to them. They didn't make it up. Then my wild panic attack... This isn't a series of coincidences.

"I agree," I nodded. "But maybe it's better not to analyze all this. We won't reach any conclusions anyway. Let's end this with some hastily cobbled-together theory... Well, nothing original, but one is always looking for some explanation. Listen... Maybe time doesn't flow so straight, but meanders like a river? Maybe each of us lives is a winding stream of time that flows into the main stream? Anomalies can happen, right? Streams intersect, a storm comes, causing the river to flow slightly differently for a moment? What can we really know? Maybe the adventures of these unfortunates weren't just a random eddying of the river? Maybe someone wanted to give them a sign? A return to the good old days for a few seconds? For a few seconds, because there will be no continuation or romantic ending. They'll sleep it off and go their separate ways. Besides, probably—to use their style—"she's not the she, and he's not the he." It's a small town, it's impossible for them to meet for the first time now, after all these years. They walk the same streets, drink in the same dens...

Tomek shrugged.

"It doesn't matter if you're right... I just want to quickly forget about that fucking fear that gripped me. Fuck, I thought I was dying, you know? They..." he stammered, "they... Well, if you're right that it wasn't accidental, that it was for something... Well, I know what it was for. To scare me. To make me understand that I'm a miserable bastard. To make me believe in the existence of... Because I know what? A soul? I have something to think about," he sighed. "I'm packing my bags, I'm going home. And I won't be back."

• • •

"It's good that you're here," I said to Miśka the next evening. "And you have to always be there, because I'm only with you, because without you I'm nothing."