Billboard

I licked my lips as I stood in front of the mirror. They were nicely shaped, I had to admit. Just like the rest of my face. Regular features. A shapely nose. Yes, I liked what I saw. No, I wasn't in love with myself. Just looking at myself soberly. Why look for flaws where there aren't any? I ran my hand through my hair. It was pleasant to the touch. So long and light. What color is it exactly? Blond? Brown? I've had it for so many years, and I still can't quite pinpoint it. The same goes for my eyes. Green? Gray? Or maybe blue? Anyway, it doesn't matter. I finished looking at myself in the mirror. Time for a shower. I carelessly tossed the loose T-shirt I'd slept in into the corner. A moment later, I felt the cool, yet pleasant, water trickle down my body. Thousands of droplets gently, each in their own way, trickled down. I smiled to myself. I turned off the water and dried myself with a towel. White and soft to the touch. Just like the ones in the makeup ads. I wrapped another one around my wet hair. I left the bathroom. I felt the bedroom carpet under my bare feet. It tickled slightly. I sat down on the bed. There was no need to rush; I still had plenty of time. I opened my underwear drawer. I studied its contents for a moment. I reached for a silky white thong and a matching bra. I returned to the bathroom mirror and began drying my hair. I brushed it. I tied it in a ponytail. I considered makeup. I wouldn't need it. Just mascara. Yes, perfect. I went to the closet and surveyed its contents. I reached for a white blouse with a delicate, light pink motif that was practically invisible. I also wore a flowing skirt. I looked at myself in the full-length mirror. Nice. I can skip the jewelry. Just a silver chain with a heart-shaped pendant. Old and already slightly rusty. A family heirloom, passed down from mother to daughter. Most families have something like this, and mine was no exception. I also put on light-colored sandals. With strings tied just above the knee. I grabbed my purse and mentally checked to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything. Keys? There. Wallet? There. Phone? There. Everything, I guess. No point in staying home any longer. I called a taxi.

The sunlight magically lent color to the gray streets. I watched the cars. So many of them. And among them, me, in a yellow taxi. Everyone was rushing somewhere, in a hurry. Millions of people, millions of important things to do, millions of reasons to hurry. The taxi stopped in front of a building. When I got out, I felt a rather strong wind on my face. I closed my eyes. I stood there for a few seconds, then went inside. I skipped knocking; the door was already open. I found myself in a photography studio. A professional one. One of those where they take photos for the covers of glossy magazines. I looked around, but saw no one. Music played somewhere in the background. "Where does my heart beat now? Where is the sound?" Celine Dion sang through the speakers. I slowly approached the centerpieces. A low, square table covered with a white cloth so large it completely covered the table and even trailed across the floor. Beside it stood a basket of tea rose petals. I touched the fabric with my hand. Pleasantly cool. I noticed a silk robe hanging on a chair. I picked it up and examined it closely. It had some kind of flower embroidered on the chest. I don't know much about flowers. It looked a bit like a lily. I took off my clothes and put on the robe. The material felt pleasant and cool against my skin. I sat down on the chair where it was hanging. There was nothing left to do but wait. I didn't feel the need to check my watch. Why?

The darkroom door opened a crack. A boy emerged. No older than 25. I smiled to myself. He had funny hair. It reached about ear-length. Brown, with light streaks. It made him seem even more childish. Or maybe it was the earrings? He came over to me. A handshake. Nice to meet you. We can begin. No, don't take off your robe; the photos will be in it. Please, sit on the table. Look up. Yes, that's good now. A little more to the left. Wrap your arms around your legs and bow your head. Yes, perfect. He jumped around me with the camera, and I obediently followed his instructions. But nothing gives a person as much power as a lens. The people standing in front of him obey every command. Interesting.

After a while, he tossed rose petals into the air. They fell on me like snowflakes, and he continued taking photos, insensitive to their beauty. When they had all fallen, lingering in my hair and on my body, he handed me a single whole tea rose. "Please, hold it. Play with the petals. Smell it." I did as he said. I felt his hands around my neck as he arranged my hair. He ran his fingers through it. He gently pulled down the robe, gently exposing my shoulder. I didn't adjust it. After all, he had the camera. He was the one making the decisions. I thought he would go back to taking photos. But he still stood there, holding a scrap of fabric. I turned my head towards him. He looked into my eyes with a serious expression. He tried to smile for a moment, but instead, a funny grimace appeared on his lips. His pale cheeks were turning increasingly red. I examined his lips. A terribly delicate, pale pink. His upper lip had a distinct indentation. My lower lip quivered like a child about to cry. He brought his face closer to mine, as if to kiss me. But he stopped two inches from me. I felt my breath slowly grow warmer. I raised my hand and touched my fingers to his lips. I began to play with his hair. Finally, I closed the few centimeters that separated us. I gently touched his lips with mine. For a split second. Then I looked back into his eyes. I realized I'd never seen eyes like those before. A beautiful, azure blue. They peered deep into me. His gaze didn't stop at my pupils. It traveled deeper, deeper into my skull, diverging to every other corner of my body along the way. But he didn't let me savor the feeling for long. I felt his tongue on mine. Even though the kiss was passionate, there was something incredibly tender about it. I wanted it to last forever, to last as long as possible. With trembling hands, he removed my robe. He kissed every exposed inch of my body. He did it so gently, as if I were a porcelain doll that might shatter at any moment. He slowly moved lower and lower. He caressed my breasts with his mouth. When I felt his tongue on my nipple, I felt dizzy. I held on to the table where I was sitting. He kissed my lower abdomen. He moved his tongue around my navel. Lower and lower. I thought I couldn't stand how gently he did it. I wanted him inside me. Now. But he avoided my crotch. Now he caressed my thighs. From my knees up, along the inside. Was he playing with me? Was he afraid? Was he ashamed? Finally, he cupped my buttocks and touched his tongue to my clit. I moaned softly. I tangled my fingers in his hair, and he didn't stop. I pulled him up and sank into his mouth. I could smell the salty taste of vagina. He began to undress. As he pulled off his shirt, I unzipped his jeans. I slid them, along with his boxers, down his hips. His cock was already hard. Despite this, I took it into my mouth. He gripped my shoulders tightly. It felt good.I couldn't help but smile. He placed his hand on my cheek and lifted my head. He lifted me into his arms and carried me to the four-poster bed beside me. Part of the decorations from the previous shoot. With another model. I wonder if he put her on it too? I wondered. He lay down next to me. His tongue tickled my ear. Then he searched along my face for his mouth. His hand found the entrance to my vagina. His fingers found the entrance to my vagina. His penis followed close behind. I felt him enter me, still carefully. We made love on the bed like something out of a fairytale. I still had rose petals in my hair. Everything around me seemed magical. Old, long-unused decorations. I felt good. Finally, I felt a wave of heat and shivers run through my body. I moaned. So did he. He snuggled closer to me. We lay there for a moment, motionless. I kissed his hair. He looked up. And those eyes again. So beautiful, it hurt to look at them. He nestled his head in my chest and fell asleep.

While he was still asleep, I quietly got up and got dressed. I left the studio, closing the door behind me.

A month later, as I was walking to the store, I saw a billboard on the way. The picture showed a woman in a silk robe with rose petals in her hair and on her shoulders, encouraging people to buy a new perfume. I smiled to myself, and a single tear rolled down my cheek, smearing my carefully applied makeup.

3

They

parked their bikes in the racks in front of the church and headed toward the rectory. In the rectory's garden, daffodils and crocuses were blooming. Tulip buds peeked out from between the wide leaves. Fornol stopped for a moment by the fence and admired the flowers.

"My daffodils are just opening, and look at the whole garden, yellow."

Skowronek stood in front of the rectory door and waited for Fornol.

The rectory priest received them in his office. They told him, one by one, what had happened to them yesterday and today at the cemetery. They didn't withhold any details. Skowronek even mentioned yesterday's conversation with the ołma.

"It was very unwise of you not to come to me yesterday right after you dug it up." Fornol, you noticed right away when you said it wasn't a normal grave; such things need to be reported. Are you sure those weren't really young bones, let's say, only a few years old? You know, it could be about covering up traces of even a murder.

They both vehemently denied it. "Father, you know what old trees grow on the other side of the fence, and we had to chop down just such roots to get to the sand. These roots are as old as those trees. Believe us, we're not mistaken."

The firmness of Fornol's words and the certainty with which he spoke convinced the priest.

"Okay, I believe you. But what happened to those bones? Who took them? Maybe they were dogs? There are so many strays everywhere now.

" "Impossible, no dog could have gotten out of that hole." We hid the ladder in the chapel for the night as usual – Skowronek was sure of what he was saying – and the dogs would not have broken that stone.

"Yes, that stone," the priest said, studying the page with the text from the unearthed slab again.

He read the German original and Fornol's translation. "Don't forget to show me those photos you're talking about. And you say, Skowronek, that your grandmother knows that poem?

" "Yes," she repeated it just as it's written here. I was surprised myself. And then she told me that story about that hex, that it was supposedly for her, or about her.

" "You know, I remember right when I took over this parish, over forty years ago, someone—I don't remember who—told me a similar, or maybe the same, story about that witch and being buried alive. Back then, I was interested in everything connected to this land. I wanted to learn about its history, the people I would be blessed to live and work with, their affairs, and all the legends and traditions of this area. I was asking older people about such things, and someone told me about that hex." Apparently, she hurt people so much, brought illness to children and cattle, even killed them, that they couldn't bear it any longer, and one moonless night they dragged her into the forest and buried her alive. It was supposed to have happened somewhere in our neighborhood.

"But they didn't bury her in the cemetery and crush her with a stone slab!" Fornol couldn't resist.

"No, no, it was supposed to be somewhere in the forest. There were six men who did it, and none of them ever said where. They took this secret to their graves." The priest didn't let go of the note. He read the text again. "And this witch would hang a red ribbon on the door of the house at night where the misfortune was supposed to happen. I remember thinking about this once, and it occurred to me that she wasn't necessarily the cause of the misfortune, but rather that she somehow sensed danger and used that ribbon to warn people. But they saw her as the angel of death and killed her." Well, yes, assuming, of course, that it's all true and not a figment of human imagination. Although I'll tell you, gentlemen, that even in the most fantastic legends there's always some, even the smallest, element of truth.

As for this text here, I really can't say anything. It looks like a common nursery rhyme. But it must mean something, because I wouldn't see the point in putting such an inscription in a grave.

There was a long pause, and the guests understood that the priest had nothing more to say

. They shook hands and allowed themselves to be escorted to the door. As they were descending the stairs to the street, the rectory door opened again, and the priest called, "Gentlemen, let us go inside again; I've remembered something important."

When they sat down at the table again, the priest said,

"Gentlemen, if this date corresponds to the date the grave was created, then I must tell you that this grave was not initially located within the cemetery.

" "What do you mean?" – Fornol couldn't stand it.

Skowronek shifted uncomfortably in his chair and swallowed.

"This part, a six-meter-wide strip, on the forest side, was donated to the parish to expand the cemetery by a wealthy peasant named Zyla in 1823. That's what the records show. So what you dug up—I still assume the year 1798 is accurate—was beyond the reach of consecrated land. Zyla donated part of his forest to the parish for the miraculous saving of his daughter. The child became seriously ill, and there was virtually no hope of recovery. Zyla swore on Saint Anne's Hill that if Saint Anne miraculously restored his daughter to health, he would donate this very area to the parish. When our cemetery was being established, his great-grandfather refused to give this strip of forest to the parish. Zyla swore to repair it in exchange for the health of his beloved daughter. The child recovered, and we have a larger cemetery.

That's what the parish records show." I hadn't thought about it, but now that we've started looking for an explanation for your discovery, I remember.

"I heard something about it once, but I didn't know it was in this area," Fornol drawled.

"So we dug up a hex." Skowronek stared at the priest, waiting for confirmation.

"It's highly probable that you've stumbled upon the site of a terrible crime two hundred years ago."

Fornol took a deep breath and began rubbing his forehead. "Now it's all clear. They were digging near the cemetery because they used grave digger's tools, they didn't have to go far, perhaps the grave digger himself also participated in this crime. God, it's unbelievable! I can't imagine they buried that poor woman alive."

Silence fell. Skowronek broke it: "But what about those stolen bones? And that inscription? It all has some significance."

The priest picked up the piece of paper in front of him again and read aloud:

"The sun spreads its wings there, and death continues its misfortune." The sun, if it can

cast anything, would rather cast rays, not wings. Perhaps it really was the sun's rays?

Fornol also began to think feverishly about the text. Now he was influenced by the priest's remark and felt that this was the right path. Suddenly, he had an epiphany. "Paweł, when we were taking out those bones, remember, was the sun shining then?"

"I think so. I know that when the rain stopped, the sun came out, at first a blurry one, but when the humidity subsided, it even shone brightly.

" "But remember if the rays fell directly on the bones?"

"No. The bones were lying down, and the rays didn't reach them. We didn't carry anything up."

The priest glanced first at Fornol, then back at Skowronek, not quite understanding what the old man was getting at with these questions.

Fornol suddenly rose from his chair and practically shouted, "But I looked at some of them carefully and lifted them up to get a better look!" I remember now.

The priest and Skowronek looked at each other in surprise.

"Karlik, what's the matter? So what, you watched them? I watched them too.

" "But not in the sun, but I did!

" "So what?

" "Don't you understand? The sun fell on the bones and they came to life! They climbed out of the grave on their own and will continue doing what they did years ago! That's why they covered them with a slab and warned us with a sign.

"Mr. Fornol, have you been drinking new wine? What nonsense are you spouting?" The priest also rose from his chair. "It's not proper for a Christian to say such things, even in jest, because I understand you were joking. No one can rise from the grave except our Savior. What you just said is sacrilege. I forgive you because I know what was on your mind yesterday and today regarding those bones you dug up. Mr. Skowronek, please take Mr. Fornol home." And don't come to my pub, you know what happens to him! That's what always happens when you read and watch too many crime novels and horror movies. Anyone, but a grave digger, must be immune to such things.

If you'd informed me immediately, things certainly wouldn't have gotten this far.

"She's back among us," Fornol whispered again.

"Karlik, let's go!" Skowronek snapped, seeing that the old man was really starting to believe this nonsense. "We apologize to the parish priest for our intrusion, but we simply wanted to know what you think about all this.

" "It's very good of you to come, a little late, but as they say, better late than never. Don't forget to show me those photos when you pick them up from the photographer. And Mr.

Fornol, you'd best lie down and come see me tomorrow morning, okay?

" "Okay, I'll be there after morning mass."

"God bless you, gentlemen," the parish priest escorted them this time to the street.

When they had driven quite a distance from the rectory, Skowronek practically shouted at the old man, "Karlik, are you crazy? How could you say such stupid things to a priest? If I didn't know you, I'd think you were completely crazy too. Fuck, man!

" "I don't know what came over me, Paweł. I'm angry with myself now. Fuck, something like this had to happen to us too. We'll go to a pub for a beer, it'll do us good.

" "No, not a pub! I promised the priest you were going home. We'll grab a few cans from the store and go to your place, right?

" "Okay," the old man agreed.

Grayness was settling in, and the lights were already on in the apartments. They stopped in front of a shop. There were no people. Skowronek held Fornol's bike while he went to buy beer. They were lucky; after Fornol stepped out onto the street, the saleswoman started closing the shop.

"How much did you take?" Skowronek pointed to the overstuffed plastic bag. It seemed the bag would soon burst open and the contents would land on the sidewalk.

"Ten Tyskie. Put a few cans in your pocket, because I can't deliver this like this."

They got back on their bikes. They rode one behind the other on the very edge of the road, without lights, and dismounted before every approaching car. As they passed the cemetery, they glanced involuntarily at a new grave. They didn't notice anything unusual. The ribbons from the wreaths glowed faintly in the streetlights that barely reached this part of the cemetery. Fornol lived nearby. Teddy Bear greeted them at the gate. He was happy and jumped on each other's legs until the old man finally shouted, "That's enough! Teddy Bear to the kennel!"

Fornol wheeled his bike into the shed, and Skowronek leaned his against the wall of the house. As Fornol opened the front door, he noticed a piece of string hanging from the doorknob. He took it off and hid it in his hand. They entered the room. By the light of the lamp next to the armchair, he showed what he had found on the doorknob.

A crumpled red ribbon slid from Fornol's open hand to the floor.

Altena, April 2003

*Oma – German for grandmother, Opa – German for grandfather

*Hexe – German for witch, hag

*Spass muss sein – German for jokes

2

2

Fornol sat comfortably in his deep armchair. A powerful lamp beside him illuminated the room. A fire was crackling in the stove, and the scent of herbal tea, brewed just a moment ago, filled the air. On a table pulled up to the armchair were several open books and Fornol's notebook, which he always carried with him.

Fornol quickly solved the inscription on the tombstone found in the grave. He found several yellowed, old German novels printed in Gothic script on a bookshelf. He wasn't familiar with these letters, so he never picked them up. He'd often considered giving them away or simply moving them to the attic. But now they were useful. They helped him quickly decipher the few cemetery words he'd jotted down in his notebook. He searched the books for short words he had no trouble reading, containing unfamiliar letters from the tombstone. To be sure, he selected a few words whose meaning he was absolutely certain of. This way, he found and deciphered each letter, and then each word, from the tombstone. Of course, the letters on the tombstone were uneven and only roughly matched the shape of the letters in the books, but Fornol had no problem with that. He was certain the inscription read:

"The Sonne wirft

die Flügel dort

und Tote setzt

das Unheil fort.

" "Some innocent children's rhyme, if not for the fact where we found it," he said to himself. Fornol enjoyed all sorts of puzzles, rebuses, and crosswords. "The gray cells can't grow old, or we're finished then," he used to say. Despite his age, he was probably the best chess player in the village, when sober, of course. He solved chess problems from newspapers as adeptly as crosswords. People respected him for his unusual knowledge, often seeking his advice on various matters, confiding their own problems to him. And there were those, more superstitious, who—because of his activities at the cemetery—feared him and steered clear of him. Unfortunately, his other great love was beer, and there were weeks when he devoted most of his free time to this fascination. Even when working at the cemetery, he always quenched his thirst with beer. "Water is for fish"—that was one of his own sayings, one he had for every occasion.

In the yard, Fornol's dog, Miś, barked briefly and casually, a sign that he recognized the visitor. Fornol got up from his armchair and went to the window. In the light of the street lamp standing right next to his gate, he recognized Skowronek's silhouette. The old man went to open the door. Skowronek staggered into the room and began rubbing his frozen hands over the stove.

"I couldn't sit still in the pub," he began to explain, "and Krzysiek took the film to the photographer in Ozimek right after dinner; it won't be ready until the day after tomorrow. We shot the rest at home because I said I wanted it developed right away. And I did. Damn, I'm still thinking about it, that record and the one downstairs." He pulled two cans of beer from his pocket and placed them on the edge of the baking sheet. "Let them warm up, I'm kind of cold."

"Sit down, don't worry about it. You know, I think I read that, I mean, I definitely read that."

"That inscription? Really? I thought we had to wait for the photos, that's why I wanted to get them developed as quickly as possible."

Skowronek got up from his chair and went to the table where the books were. "I knew this wouldn't leave you alone either," he smiled. "Show me something he deduced. "

The old man handed him a piece of paper.

"Translate it to me, it's in German, I'll read it. I understand a few words, but I don't know what it's about." He handed the paper back to Fornoł.

"It looks like a regular nursery rhyme to me, you know, when children play hide-and-seek or hopscotch. Wait, in Polish it would sound something like this:

The sun spreads its wings there and death continues its misfortune. "

They were silent for a moment.

Skowronek snorted lightly under his breath. "It's strange, it's hard to fully grasp

what's going on. The words seem understandable, but the meaning is nonsensical. Would you mind explaining it to me?"

Fornol smiled faintly and bowed his head slightly. "I translated it as best I could. But what does it mean? I can't imagine someone placing a stone with that inscription in a grave, a very strange grave, just for fun."

Skowronek placed a heated can of beer in front of Fornol.

They rearranged the words, changed them to words with related meanings, analyzed each word individually, but they couldn't come up with anything that would help them understand the rhyme.

"This is some nonsense or a joke," the guest finally said. The heat in the apartment had completely dismantled him. He'd had a few beers at the inn beforehand, and these, along with the last one from the heated can, clearly limited his deductions. "Okay, I'll go home now because we won't come up with anything anyway. Write the rhyme on a piece of paper for me, in German and Polish, I'll think about it at home. The funeral is tomorrow at eleven, right?" I'll be at the cemetery a few minutes before eleven. It'll be twelve by the time they get home from church.

He said goodbye and staggered his bike out onto the street. It started raining again. Fornol locked the gate, let the cat in, closed the front door, and sat back down in the armchair. "Yeah, we're not going to figure anything out here; there's simply not enough information," he muttered under his breath. He didn't want to think about it anymore; after a mulled beer, he felt drowsy, and after a quick wash, he went to bed.

He fell asleep instantly. Images from the day blended together, shifted, and overlapped like a kaleidoscope. He picked up the bones; some crumbled into dust, others, as if alive, refused to be touched, fleeing from him across the grave. He tried to stamp on them but couldn't. The grave walls were lined with stone slabs, each with an inscription in a different language. The skylark above urged him with the words: "Read, read, because we don't have time, the funeral procession is already entering the cemetery." And he couldn't read a single sign.

He woke up several times during the night, sweaty and hot. He rolled over and fell asleep immediately. Other images took the place of the previous ones, but everything revolved around yesterday's discovery. Only towards dawn did he fall into a deep sleep and sleep like that until the sun illuminated the room.

The

old man rode his bike to the cemetery gate and from the street he spotted Skowronek among the graves. But not where they had been digging yesterday, but on the opposite side. "He's at his donkey's, his grave has caved in on one side," Fornol thought. "We'll have to fill in about three wheelbarrows full of earth."

He parked his bike far enough away from the dug grave so as not to get in the way and walked over to Skowronek.

"I saw it last week, the coffin's down, we have to fill it in." He patted Skowronek on the shoulder in greeting—she had held out for a long time.

"Hi, I was just looking at it. We'll do it after Sunday, right?

" "No problem, Paweł." So, how was our little hole yesterday?

"I don't know, I haven't looked there yet, I just arrived." Skowronek glanced back at his ancestor's grave and followed Fornol toward the cemetery chapel.

"We still have beer from yesterday, I'm thirsty like a dog," he said quietly to the old man. "Karol, I read that little poem of ours to my old lady yesterday, she knows it!"

"What? Don't tell me." Fornol stood between two tombstones and turned around.

"Really. She knew it," Skowronek repeated. "They used to play with poems like that as children.

" "How old is your old lady, exactly? Ninety? Maybe she only knows a similar rhyme, and you think it's the same thing.

" "She'll be ninety-one this year." No! She repeated it to me, exactly as you wrote it, in German. I wanted to know how she knew this, so she told me this story about a hex*, who supposedly abused people a long time ago, or even murdered them. People got furious and buried the hex in the forest. Alive.

"Is that what the hex told you? How much beer did you drink yesterday? Admit it. Maybe you and the hex had something else too?

" "Leave me alone, you'll learn shit from me next time." Skowronek walked around Fornol and quickly headed toward the chapel.

The old man suddenly realized he'd gone too far. "Wait, Paweł, I was joking, what have you become so thin-skinned? Spass muss sein."

Skowronek opened the chapel and a moment later emerged with two shovels in his hands. His jacket pockets were hanging from the weight of beer cans. He handed one to Fornol. They drank almost simultaneously. "I'll see more," the man muttered, belching like a bull in a pasture.

"There were only these two, that's all.

" "I have four more in my bag," Fornol reassured him.

Everyone grabbed their shovels and headed for today's burial site.

They stood on the planks of the platform and looked down almost simultaneously. Disbelief and terror replaced the smug smiles on their faces, which had been there moments before.

"A bolt from the blue" was probably the right word for something as unexpected as what they now saw.

The grave floor was dug up, the slab halves smashed into fine rubble, and the hole where the bones lay was empty.

"That's impossible! What the fuck is this? Who was here? Did you tell someone in the pub yesterday about what we found?" Fornol exploded toward Skowronek.

He moved away from the hole a little. "Are you crazy? Who do you think I am? I only read a poem, but I didn't tell her where I got it. Maybe you said something to someone along the way."

They looked at each other suspiciously, mentally blaming each other. Finally, Fornol calmed down enough to think clearly. He began examining the tracks in the sand around the grave, but found nothing out of the ordinary. The rain washed everything away.

"I don't understand, Paweł. It was all beautifully covered with sand at the bottom of the hole. No one could have guessed, looking from above, that something was lying there. We were alone here the whole time. Only the two of us knew about the whole thing. I'm sure of myself, Paweł, I don't know how to put it, but it seems to me that you told someone something.

Just don't get upset." Fornol saw his companion's reaction. He threw the shovel into the sand, walked over to the cemetery fence, and, leaning his arms against it, looked into the forest. The old man continued to examine the bottom of the grave.

But why did they smash that slab? Only it could possibly constitute some historical attraction worthy of the whole operation for the thief. But then why did he smash it? And to pieces at that. Nothing in his calculations added up; everything was illogical.

He fetched a ladder from the chapel and climbed it into the grave. He buried stones in the hole where the bones had been, leveled the bottom of the grave, and emerged.

"Paweł, it could have been those Satanists, you know, the kind who perform black masses on graves."

Fornol tried to smooth things over, began to believe Skowronek that it wasn't his fault, and quickly searched for some theory to placate his companion. "They're always interested in human bones.

The priest warned me once that they like to wander around cemeteries looking for human remains." He walked up to Skowronek and handed him a beer. He clinked his can against his, and they began to drink. He suddenly began to believe in the theory about Satanists, which he had just spontaneously conceived; it seemed to him at that moment the only decent and somewhat logical explanation for the whole situation.

The funeral took place at the scheduled time. They quickly filled and formed the grave. Then they quietly drank two beers each and, taking their time, discussed the events again. They didn't come up with anything new, but they concluded that now they could, or even should, go to the parish priest and tell him exactly what they had experienced over the past two days. The priest, a learned man, would look at the matter from a higher vantage point and always come up with something new. It didn't escape their notice that he would most likely scold them for not informing him earlier, but they were essentially indifferent to this.

The danger of being ordered to dig a new grave, or of someone coming to see their discovery, receded almost indefinitely. Firstly, someone else was already buried at the site of the discovery, and that was sacred; no one had the right to disturb the deceased without official permission. Secondly, the reason for their concern no longer existed; the bones were likely gone forever, and the slab was reduced to dust.

"We'll meet in front of the rectory at four. He has Mass at five, so he'll probably be home," Fornol agreed.

RED RIBBON1

A fine, piercingly cold cabbage soup was lashing the ground from the north. It was breaking free from the clouds, heavy as tar, drifting so low it seemed they might catch the church tower visible from here. Old Fornol only needed a few powerful shovel strokes to reach the required depth. Then all he had to do was scoop out the loosened sand with a shovel, throw it high above his head, and the hardest work would be over. He roughly divided the work into hard, unpleasant and tiring, requiring a lot of energy, and "fun," meaning mostly finishing touches that didn't require much energy. Filling the grave after a funeral was no longer considered hard work.

He was no longer the youngest; he often thought about giving it all up, spending cold mornings in bed or in an armchair, covered with a blanket, with a book or a crossword puzzle in hand.

But he couldn't quite cope with the prospect of physical inactivity. And besides, it was as if he were betraying all the recently deceased and those who would soon join them by refusing them his final service. After all, he, like a parish priest rushing to the dying with oils and holy water, was one of those with whom the deceased conducts his final business on earth. No, despite rheumatism, gout, and a few other physical ailments, he couldn't hand over his shovel to other, younger hands. It's true that for quite some time now, he had always found someone to help, but if the grave digger was ever discussed in any circle, it was only by his name. "I guess I'll keep digging until one day I can't climb out, and then you'll just bury me in my own grave," he often prophesied at the inn after a few pints.

This morning, the damp and cold were particularly bothersome. His arms and back ached, he felt water seeping into his wellies, and his feet were starting to go numb. He cursed sharply, but quickly regained his composure and made the sign of the cross twice. He thanked God that his cemetery was nothing but yellow sand covered with a thin layer of black earth. He rarely touched a round stone with his shovel. He visited his son in Westphalia, Germany, and often stopped during walks at the cemetery fence in the town where he lived and observed the gravediggers at work. They rarely used shovels; a small, maneuverable excavator always weaved between the graves. They worked in very difficult and rocky terrain. He couldn't imagine how graves were dug there before the invention of the excavator.

But he, too, had exhausted himself mercilessly yesterday with the grave he was currently working on. They had dug it right up to the fence, on the side of the grove; thick pine roots entwined the chosen spot, and they had—he couldn't remember the last time he'd done this—had had to use an axe to dig the top layer.

The two of them started yesterday. Skowronek, much younger than him, strong as a horse and with an even stronger head, a companion for a mug, did the hard work for him. He promised to come today to help set up the platform around the grave, and in fact, he should be here already. Fornol was just "playing in the sand," as he said. He wasn't in a hurry—the funeral wasn't until tomorrow; he liked to have plenty of time.

He took a packet of "popular" cigarettes from the side pocket of his denim jacket, lit one, and

inhaled the blue smoke with great delight. He didn't have to worry about any remnants of previous burials—according to the cemetery records and plans, no one had ever been buried here before. He often found the remains of human skeletons, rotten boards, and rusty coffin fittings while digging in—again, as he put it—the "populated" part of the cemetery. He always collected them very carefully and placed them in a hole dug at the bottom of the grave, covering them with sand.

This time, he wasn't expecting any—as he called it—"archaeology."

The last shovelfuls of sand were outside, and Fornol began leveling the lower walls of the grave with a spade, stamping the loose sand on the bottom. The right side was ready; the left only required a few adjustments at the very bottom. The old man was leveling the bottom of the wall with his spade when suddenly an oblong stone emerged, like a raisin from a cake. He was about to stomp it into the ground, but its unusual shape intrigued him. He bent down and, before even picking it up, noticed that it wasn't stone, but human bone. "But no one's been buried here before," he thought immediately.

In his time, as far back as he could remember, there had never been

any graves in this stretch of cemetery by the fence. There had been no need for such a thing. The cemetery was large, and although it served

three villages, no one had ever been buried this far. Only now had the number

of graves increased enough that it was time for this section to be explored. Fornol pulled the shovel again and immediately encountered resistance. Human bones were nothing special to him, but now a slight shiver ran through him: they shouldn't be here! He put down the shovel and climbed up the ladder. In the tool bag next to the bicycle leaning against the fence, he found a mason's trowel and a large, rusty screwdriver; with these tools he always searched for human remains when he suspected they would be found while digging at the prescribed depth. He hated breaking preserved bones with a shovel or spade. "No one deserved to have their neck broken with a shovel again after so many years of death," he would say when asked about the purpose of these tools.

The rain had stopped, but a thick dampness settled over the ground. Fornol took off his waterproof jacket and hung it on his bike. He felt hot, but he couldn't tell if it was from throwing sand or from his discovery. Back in the grave, he began to use his trowel to scrape sand from above the spot where the spade had clanged earlier. After just a few movements, he recognized that the area was covered by a 5-cm-thick stone slab, placed almost parallel to the wall of the grave he was digging. Fornol rose from his knees and glanced around the sandy walls, but finding no details explaining the origin of his discovery, he leaned over the slab again, scraping away the sand. The deeper he dug his trowel into the grave wall, the greater the danger of the sandy overhang collapsing. He stood up again and began chipping away at the wall with his shovel.

The sounds of activity could be heard above. A metallic sound told him someone was leaning their bicycle against one of the gravestones in the next row.

Skowronek stopped above the hole.

"Good," he said, "I couldn't get any sooner because the old lady told me to clean the rabbit hutches. They hadn't been cleaned all winter and..."

Fornol interrupted him, pointing with his other hand toward the bottom of the grave.

"What's wrong?

" "Get in and see for yourself."

After a moment, Skowronek was carefully examining the slab.

"So, how did you find it?

" "What about you? Do you think I dragged it in here? There are bones under the slab; I've already dug one out, right here." He handed him a damp, sandy object.

"Well, a bone.

" "Bone, bone! I'm telling you! But look where I found it!" the old man pointed with his boot at the spot under the slab.

"You said they'd never buried anyone here before.

" "I thought so until today. Besides, the priest says so too," the old man said, clearly agitated.

For a few moments, they both stood there, helpless and astonished, unable to find even the most fantastic—yet somehow acceptable—explanation for what they were seeing.

"And what do we do?" Skowronek finally interrupted. He lit a cigarette and put his foot on the ladder rung, resting his elbow on his knee.

"Nothing," Fornol replied. "We'll just fall asleep and be done with it. No one will notice there's anything in the wall."

Another moment of silence, when suddenly Skowronek began to quickly run his hand across his chin, which was almost always a sign that he disagreed with something or had something figured out.

"Well, yes, but if we ever dig next door, we'll step on it again. Wouldn't it be better to pull it out now, put the bones in a hole, bury them in this grave and be done with it? The funeral isn't until tomorrow, we have time."

He was right. Fornol admitted to himself that Skowronek, when sober, thought logically. However, he didn't immediately agree with his assessment. He didn't want to question his own authority as an experienced grave digger. He wore various expressions to convince his friend that he was considering other possibilities. But there were none. Skowronek was simply right.

"Okay," he finally agreed, "we'll pull the slab out of the wall and place it on the bottom of the grave. It will be covered with sand; nothing will be visible."

It turned out that the slab was cracked diagonally in about half. This made it easier to lift it and slide it out of the exposed niche without dragging it across the ground, which would inevitably have destroyed any objects lying beneath it. After moving both halves, the grave diggers were presented with a surprising sight: a curled-up human skeleton, well-preserved, lying on its side, with its arms twisted back and its head pointing downwards. The old man had placed the shinbone he had found earlier in its anatomically proper place and leaned against the opposite wall of the grave.

"It looks like it's been in the ground for a while, almost all the bones are in place, in good condition." Fornol leaned over the find.

"But how long?" Skowronek spread his arms. "What, blind? Roots thicker than arms, and the earth never touched with a shovel." He waved his right hand in a circle. "But no! Stop!" He stood next to Fornol and began to examine the wall very carefully. "No, no. Here and here, see?" He traced a zigzag pattern with his finger along the wall, following lines only visible to him. "Someone's already been digging here! Surely it must have been dug, because how would these bones have ended up here?"

Now Fornol, too, noticed differences in the color of the sand in the indicated places, barely perceptible to his old eye.

Because in reality, even if it seems, as here, that the sand is structurally uniform and the same color, a trained eye will always detect layers of varying thickness and, even very slight, discoloration. If you dig a hole in the ground and then fill it back in, a trace will remain forever. You can never recreate the layers as they were before. For a grave digger, that's commonplace. Fornol didn't notice this because he assumed it was virgin ground, untrodden by a shovel, and that suggestion meant he wasn't looking closely enough at the ground. And he didn't put on his glasses. He was ashamed that it had escaped his notice.

"I'm going to the priest; mass is ending soon. We have to show him this; maybe he'll understand what I mean." Fornol emerged from the surface. "Oh, and don't run off for a beer, I'll be back soon.

" "But slowly, wait," Skowronek seemed to remember something and also emerged from the hole. "You'll go to the priest, and what?" Will you tell him we found a skeleton? That's normal. Bones will always be dug up in cemeteries.

"But not like these! I'm telling you, there shouldn't be a skeleton here, and certainly not one lying like this! I've dug up all sorts of things before, but I've never seen anything like this. Look again at how this poor man is lying! And on top of that, that damn slab! No, Paweł, we can't leave it like this." Fornol began shifting from foot to foot, spinning around, putting his hands in and out of his pockets.

"Calm down, Karlik," Skowronek took the initiative. "Let's think it over. You call the priest, he'll look at all this, and what do you think he'll do? I'll tell you: he'll call the police. If he sees that guy down here with his hands twisted behind his back, he won't hesitate for a second, I guarantee it. Some scumbags will be here soon. There'll be a fuss, people will flock to him, a sensation throughout the county." Those pricks from the newspaper will surely show up soon, take our pictures, talk nonsense, and that's it for our peace of mind. They'll drag us around to the offices and God knows where else. Do you want that? Because I don't! And the first thing they'll tell us to do is dig a new grave, because of course they'll seal this one off. We'll be digging until midnight tonight! I can't even dream of it! If you want, go ahead, but don't tell anyone I was here.

Fornol hadn't considered that this might unfold the way Skowronek saw it. But he had to admit he was right again: it could happen. Then there really would be the end of the peace he loved so much, no more beer at work. They'll be looking at them as if they personally had something to do with it.

"Fucking hell," he pulled two cans of Tyskie from his bag and handed one to Skowronek, "you're right, if this blows up, it's over. It doesn't matter to the guy downstairs. We'll only hurt ourselves."

Skowronek took small sips with obvious delight. He rarely managed to convince

Fornol of his point of view. The old man could be stubborn, but besides, he knew a lot, read a lot, did crossword puzzles, and had traveled the world quite a bit in recent years. Every year he went away for a few weeks to visit his son in Germany, and together they had seen a bit of Europe. Today, Skowronek had managed to show the old man for the second time that he too could think, that he had imagination, and that his opinion should always be respected. He was enjoying Tyskie like never before.

"Karol, you see those roots thicker than your arm. No one can tell me those trees have only been here ten years.

" "No, those pines are much older than me," the old man agreed.

"Exactly, so that poor guy down there has been lying here for at least seventy years.

" "At least.

" "What good will the police, the priest, and all that activity do him? He's been lying here for so many years, so let him lie there. I'd like to know how he got here, too, but we can't help him now."

Fornol nodded and took a long swig from his can. He took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to his companion. A pale sun appeared in the sky, barely visible through the clouds.

"We'll gather the bones and bury them under the slab in this grave, like we always do, right?" Skowronek made the final decision, even though he wasn't in charge. "Nobody cares what we dug up."

Fornol didn't answer immediately, as if he was still pondering something.

"Okay," he finally nodded, "but then we'll have to plug up this hole in the wall somehow; we can't leave it like this.

" "We'll do it. You know, Karol, what's stuck in my head the most is that slab. Why would it be there? I've never heard of anything like it?" Skowronek searched his memory for any points that would help him deal with this problem. He found nothing. "I have an idea, what would you say if we photographed it, just in case?"

"But why?

" "Well, you never know. And at least as a souvenir of

unearthing something like this. We won't show it to anyone, God forbid, but just for us. What do you think?"

"Uh, I don't care. Take pictures, but hurry up, or someone might trip over us. The weather's improving; someone might be here any minute.

" "Just a moment, I'll be back soon."

Skowronek quickly steered his bike to the main porch. A moment later, he was racing down the main street toward the village.

Fornol approached the dug hole. The slab halves lying at the bottom were beginning to dry. He examined them closely. He also couldn't fathom the purpose of that stone.

It seems Skowronek was right: the stone had been placed directly on the corpse. There's no indication that it had ever been in a coffin. With the skeletal arrangement at the bottom, the coffin would have to be square rather than classical. He'd never encountered such a practice. And the strangest thing was that after so many years since the burial—assuming the tree roots had truly been as old as they were—the bones were in such good condition. That's not to say it was impossible; he had occasionally unearthed well-preserved human remains, even in very old burial sites, but it had been a long time since he'd seen a skeleton in such good condition. He felt that a possible explanation lay in that stone slab. He descended into the grave again, put on his glasses, and began examining both halves very carefully. He found nothing unusual. He was about to return to the surface because he thought he heard sounds; Skowronek had probably returned when it occurred to him to turn the slab over. After pulling it out of the niche, they laid it on top of the bones. He now turned both halves over, brushing away the remaining sand that had clung to the surface with his hand. He noticed a few faint, rounded lines; it was difficult to immediately tell whether they were natural scratches or the work of human hands. The stone on that side was only hewn, unpolished. At that moment, Skowronek also descended.

"I have it," he said, "I just had to change the batteries because the flashlight wouldn't work anymore." He showed the old man a cheap camera. "Just a regular one, but it takes good pictures," he added.

He uncovered the lens, pointed it at the fallen skeleton, and fired the flash.

"Paweł, look at this plate. I turned it over, and it looks like there's something on it. Or maybe I'm just imagining it. You have better eyes." Fornol rose from his knees and made way for Skowronek. "I'll get a broom and a rag, I have it in my bag, I need to wipe it dry, it'll be easier to see. "

He emerged from the grave and after a moment tossed the items to Skowronek.

"Indeed, there's something written here," the man replied after a moment. "We'll wait a moment for it to dry. Oh, I bought four beers, they're in the bag on my bike, open two, I'll be right out."

He took two more photos from different angles and then emerged.

"You're right, there's something scratched into it, like letters or numbers, we'll wait, it'll be easier to see soon."

They took a few healthy swigs from their cans, lit cigarettes, and watched the main gate. A few women were already milling among the graves.

"We have to hurry, people are arriving, someone will still think to look in here."

Fornol glanced around.

"Okay, let's go down."

The symbols carved into the stone were arranged in four horizontal rows. Beneath them, they could immediately decipher the number 1798. The surface of the slab had dried enough to become noticeably lighter than all the dents and scratches that still retained some moisture. They had chosen the perfect moment to try to read the letters scratched with a sharp object. They examined the inscription from all sides but couldn't make out the symbols.

"I don't recognize these letters, I don't know what's written here. It's like something in Russian or something, I recognize the 'i' easily, here, here, and here"—Fornol pointed to the symbols on the slab with his finger—"e" and a capital 'U', but I can't do the rest." This looks like an "a" to me, but they're all so ornate and curled." Fornol was disappointed and impatient. "Take a picture of the inscription, but up close. That number is probably the year, but the rest is black magic.

" "Uh, I don't think it's Russian. I still remember the letters from school, but I don't know these ones." Skowronek moved the camera close enough that he could clearly see the inscription in the viewfinder. After each snap of the shutter, he slightly changed the distance from the plate, trying to find the perfect distance. He took five pictures.

The old man suddenly laughed loudly and slapped his forehead. "And I was stupid, I saw Russian letters in those. They're Gothic letters! Of course, that's how they wrote in Prussia back then." The old man pulled a worn notebook from his pocket, leafed through it for a while until he found a blank page, and with a short pencil began copying the inscription.

"In Prussia?

" "Who do you think had a say in this two hundred years ago? Silesia was in Prussian hands."

"Prussian or German?

" "Sure. It's in German. I know German, but I can't fucking read it!" Fornol couldn't stand still anymore.

"We'll show this to my mom*, she went to a German school long before the war, maybe she can handle it." Skowronek was also starting to get excited.

"How are you going to show her? What, will you bring her here?" Fornol smiled to himself.

"Ah! I'll show her the photo. But now we're going to cover it up or someone will fucking lick it. And right away! We have the photos, no need to hesitate."

He picked up a spade and, after leaning the half with the inscription against the grave wall, began digging a small hole.

"What, collecting bones?"

Fornol nodded and helped him carry the bones to the hole. He gathered a few in his hand, occasionally lifting them to eye level, examining them carefully, and then gently placing them on the bottom. Once they had moved all the remains to the chosen spot, they covered them with sand and a slab.

"I'll go up and dump some sand, and you fill the gap as best you can," Fornol quickly climbed to the surface. The sun, now fully clear of the clouds, had managed to slightly dry the thin layer on top of the mounds.

Skowronek threw pach into the niche until it finally began to spill back into the grave.

"Enough," he shouted to the man above, "no more will come in, it's all good now."

They paved the wall so that no one would suspect they'd recovered anything.

Then they quickly assembled a platform around the grave.

They stored their tools in the cemetery chapel and left the cemetery, walking their bicycles side by side. They stopped briefly at the gate.

"What time will you be at the pub?" Skowronek asked as they left.

"I don't know if I'll go at all, something's been weighing on my nerves. I'll have a mulled beer with honey and lemon at home and watch a movie. I don't really feel like doing anything today."

They said goodbye and went their separate ways.

3

Aha, exactly! You're trying to justify your disgusting laziness!" said Arkadiusz, the component, to the other Arkadiusz, also part of Arkadiusz Proper, after which they both fell silent.

Arkadiusz didn't have time to consider this further, because the girl who had earlier given him a tissue approached him.

"Hi!" she said politely.

"Hi..." he replied with little enthusiasm.

"I saw you sitting there so sadly, totally alienated in your reverie, and it occurred to me that maybe you wanted to talk about something?

" "No, I don't!" he replied curtly.

"Aha. Well, bye." Ania walked away, clearly confused. "What a strange guest!" He sits alone all evening, someone approaches him, wishing well, wanting to talk to him, and instead of gratefully accepting it as an opportunity to meet someone new, or even just as a pleasant pastime, he simply replies rudely, "No, I don't!" A jerk! A fucking wise guy! A stupid hermit!

Ania was visibly upset. She returned to her table and recounted the entire incident to her companions.

Arkadiusz didn't have time to reflect on his recent situation, because two seats away to his left, he saw a beautiful girl. Without much thought, he fell in love.

She was tall, slim, and quiet, so quiet, delicate, oh, delicate, unassumingly beautiful, a woman with medium-length auburn hair

and hazel eyes. Or maybe green? It didn't matter.

"Ah… how beautiful she is! And people, what irony! She's sitting alone too, like me! Two lonely creatures just a few meters apart… Ah… what if I were to approach her? No, no, no! It would turn out she's not as wonderful as I imagine now! Why destroy such a beautiful image? I don't love her, after all, but my image of the perfect woman, my amine! Ah… ah… besides… I don't know… if she were to approach… but me?… ah… it's not that easy…

Arek sighed incessantly in her direction. He looked at her lips, which were slowly sipping wine, at her hands, which were slowly tapping out a rhythm on the bar counter, watched her legs swing, her rhythmically rising and falling breasts (ah! – and what wonderful breasts she had!). He was in seventh heaven, delighted, fascinated, full of joy, filled with her beauty, the beauty of the entire universe! And at the same time, he suffered terribly because he desired her with his entire male nature, needed her psychologically, desired her utterly, wanted her completely, and knew none of it would come true. Moreover, he knew he wouldn't touch her, cuddle her, vent to her, or spend many wonderful moments with her, entirely because of him. His shyness and terrible, incomprehensible wildness, his fear of what she might be like in reality, and his fear of rejection prevented him from doing so. He felt he loved her, and yet he knew he didn't love her, only wanted to love her because he needed someone to love him! It tormented him terribly. He felt unfair to her! Because what mattered to him wasn't what she really was, only what she should be, what she was in his dreams!

"Ah...ah...AH!" he sighed softly, and that sigh expressed both love and

suffering, sadness and joy, self-hatred and adoration for her.

Besides, he didn't know for sure if he truly loved her, with absolute love, or if he was simply infatuated with her, yearning for her youthfully, loving her imperfectly? He was gripped by a constant fear. He wanted her, but he didn't want to commit to her because he didn't know what his desire meant! Was it the great, sublime, poetic love he needed? Or the simple influence of hormones, the male desire for a woman, the physical attraction, the mutilated love that—let's be honest—he also lacked. And he was terribly afraid, oh… how terribly afraid he was! He was terrified by the possibility that after committing to her, it would turn out to be only an infatuation, an enchantment, some terribly incomprehensible magic, and when she was gone, the love of his life would cease to be the one, the mythical Aphrodite, the Trojan Helen, the embodiment of the ideal, which would inevitably cause him to abandon his would-be girlfriend.

And he would handicap her in this way! He would do her terrible harm with his monstrosity, his macabre behavior, his vile deed, his nightmarish character! But was that really what worried him? Or did he perhaps not want to be brutally rejected, ruthlessly dismissed? Perhaps he was selfishly afraid of falling into even greater alienation? Perhaps he feared the immense disappointment he might experience? And isn't it better to remain in cruel loneliness than to return to it? Isn't it better to love unsuccessfully, clumsily, awkwardly, than not to love at all, than to be devoid of feeling, deprived of these wonderful experiences, than to constitute one great, vast emptiness?

"Ah...ah...AH!" he sighed quietly, and his sigh expressed both love

and suffering, sadness and joy, self-hatred and adoration for her.

Suddenly, quite unexpectedly, a slow, melodic ballad began to play from the loudspeaker. Several couples boldly stepped onto the dance floor and began to dance! Arkadiusz sat and sadly sipped his beer, carefully observing her hands, her legs, and finally her whole self. As the music continued, he felt the silent but incredibly powerful accusation from the crowd growing in the air: "Why aren't you dancing with her? Look at her! She's sitting there, lonely, sad! Dance with her!"

Arek felt as if everyone was staring at him, and she was just waiting for him to ask her to dance (and at the same time, and perhaps even more terrifyingly, it seemed to him that she knew nothing of his love for her, that she wasn't paying him any attention, that she might not even know he existed!). This feeling was terribly oppressive. Even though he didn't like dancing,

and he considered most of the people in the pub idiots, he felt he should approach her. Although he felt proud that he, unlike this plebeian, didn't dance because it wasn't

in keeping with his nature, didn't have fun because he was himself and didn't feel the need to have fun that way, he still cursed himself for not inviting her, and worse, for not inviting her to join in the fun.

"Ah…ah…AH!" he sighed quietly, his sigh expressing both love

and suffering, sadness and joy, self-hatred and adoration for her.

Arek looked at her sadly. He looked at her rhythmically heaving breasts for a moment

(ah! – and what wonderful breasts she had!), then moved his gaze to her fingers tapping out a rhythm on the bar counter. The girl's hands clearly caught his attention:

"Wait a minute, what's that? Is that possible? Oh yuck! Ugh, yuck! She clearly has a deformed finger! Bleh!"

Indeed, the ring finger of this lovely girl's right hand was definitely too long (by generally accepted standards for the length of ring fingers).

"Ah! And what am I to do now, poor me? To love her, or not to love her? I love her all the time, because I want to love her, I have to love her, but that little finger... How can I love her with a finger like that? Everything seems fine, it seems like such a detail, such a small thing, shouldn't matter much, but that little finger terrifies me... I don't like it! Who knows what he's capable of, what he can do, what he can do! I can't fall in love with someone who's so big-fingered! Or maybe love someone else? With a prettier little finger? Yes, yes, that's the thought!"

Arkadiusz looked around desperately, searching for someone to share his great, wonderful feelings with. He fixed his gaze on the girl dancing not far from him. He decided he would fall in love with her.

"Ah... what a beautiful girl, what a wonderful woman! I love her! She is definitely the love of my life!" Oh… what am I saying! A lie! A lie! I still love that other one! I adore her, despite her finger! I'm aware of the ugliness of her long toe and all the possible unpleasant consequences of this deformed being's existence, and yet I love her! Oh… oh… I shouldn't love her, I'm afraid to love her, and finally I don't love her at all, and yet paradoxically I love her anyway, and I desire her so! Oh… oh… and at the same time I feel that I also, in a way, adore that other one, I also desire her! Could I love them both? No! Yes! Yes, I could bestow my great and powerful affection on her too! Oh! And that one in the corner too! And that one at that table too! Yes, yes, I could fall in love with many girls! Let one of them just come up and show me even the slightest interest, even ask what time it is, let out a tiny, subtle fart in my direction, and I'll be completely enchanted, absolutely smitten! The only question is, will any of them be capable of loving me? Because I'm not picky! Well, I am, and that's the problem! I love them all, and yet I can only love a perfect, wonderful woman, untainted by sin, devoid of every flaw! Oh... I'm a failure! Doomed from the very beginning!

"Ah...ah...AH!" he sighed quietly, and his sigh expressed both love

and suffering, sadness and joy, hatred for himself and adoration for both her and the other girls he was capable of loving.

He was impressed by their beauty:

"Yes, yes, a woman is definitely the most beautiful creature on earth, the most magnificent element of our world!" - admiring them in this way, he wondered if anyone else was able to see their exquisite beauty, their subtle facial features, their fantastic shapes, their sensual silhouette?

"Can anyone else appreciate their full splendor? Ah…ah…probably no one! No one! Sometimes I feel like I can't stand it, can't endure the enormity of the beauty I experience, feel, witness! There are moments in my life when I feel like I'll melt under the influence of so many subtle, barely noticeable, exquisite phenomena, things, actions, words, situations, that I'll burst, exposed to such an immense amount of beauty!

" "Ah…ah…AH!" he sighed quietly, and his sigh expressed both love

and suffering, sadness and joy, self-hatred and adoration for her and for the other girls he was capable of loving.

Arek was about to leave when, completely unexpectedly, completely out of the blue,

like Philip from hemp, a boy who looked like him approached him.

"Hi!" he said, a little angrily.

"Huh?"

"Listen, a moment ago my friend was talking to you, she wanted to invite you to our table, and you treated her very, very badly.

" "That's not out of the question.

" "Exactly. That's why I demand satisfaction from you!!!

" "Excuse me?" Arek was clearly confused.

"I challenge you to a duel! We'll fight with our fingers!

" "With our fingers? So be it!" he replied arrogantly.

What a duel it was! The boys slowly walked to the center of the room and, after officially informing the large audience of the reasons for the fight, stood opposite each other and were about to begin when Arkadiusz shouted,

"Wait! And the seconds?

" "That's right, I completely forgot! Stupid Aruś, stupid, oh so stupid," the boy apologized. "Ania, yes, Ania will be my second! Do you agree, Ania?" he asked preemptively, knowing perfectly well that his friend wouldn't refuse. And indeed, seeing her serious yet amused nod, he turned to Arkadiusz:

"And yours? Who will be your second? Huh?" he asked, not without malice.

"My sec-ond?" he spelled out, buying time. He looked around the room helplessly, his hands had long since burned, he looked and looked, he had managed to sweat profusely, and he would have continued looking for a long time if he hadn't caught sight of the girl he loved. First, his eyes met hers, then he looked at her intently, though shyly, only furtively, then he looked deeply, more boldly, and began to stare—oh, he became more and more bold, oh yes, more bold, until he was afraid of his own audacity! He was frightened, but there was no turning back now, he couldn't escape, oh, he couldn't! So, to justify his peeking, his looking, he had to, oh, he had to ask her:

"Excuse me...yes, you...you...will you...be...my...second?" Arkadiusz mumbled clumsily.

"Ugh... me? Yes, I'll stay, actually, why wouldn't I?!" she replied quietly, softly, delicately.

"So, the seconds are out of the way, yes, we've got them sorted out,

we don't have to worry about them anymore, we just need a friend, a judge! We need a judge like no other! I know! I know! I know! The bartender will be the judge!

" "Bartender! Bartender!" the enthusiastic audience began chanting.

A moment later, everything was ready, down to the last detail. The opponents stood facing each other

with their outstretched, properly warmed-up thumbs, the seconds bravely seconded, and the judge prepared to judge. And so, Ania gave her colleague the final instructions, and the auburn-haired girl applied ointment to Arkadiusz's thumb. And it was, without a doubt, a magical moment. She did it, because she did it with her long, deformed finger! She traced his thumb with that handicapped finger, as if trying to convey something of its supernatural length! And everyone knows perfectly well that the longer the thumb, the easier it is to win a fight!

The fight began. Arek versus Arek. The entire room fell silent. Silence. Tension. Emotions. But they seemed oblivious to anything but their thumbs. The duel dragged on and on. The fight dragged on and on. Seconds passed, minutes passed, and there was no decisive outcome! While one attacked brilliantly, the other defended brilliantly! Attack, defense, counterattack, defense, and then back to the attack! And so on!

Because a decisive moment was long, long in coming, the referee decided to stop the fight, ordered both fighters to wear black blindfolds, and when his order was obeyed, he resumed the fight. From that moment on, the drama of the spectacle intensified significantly! After all, the opponents were blindfolded! They couldn't see each other! They were constantly fighting each other, though they couldn't see each other! Oh...what a fight it was! It wasn't a fight anymore, it was a battle! So fierce, so evenly matched, so brutal! Yet, strangely, it also unfolded silently, almost inaudibly, even subtly! Strange, undoubtedly strange, this was a duel! And the competitors circled each other like wild animals, like predator and its prey, except that no one knew who was who! They would leap at each other, make a few quick thumb movements, and flee, then the other would attack, perform a few thumb maneuvers, and then leap away! Yet, there was still no decision! Of course, the scales of victory tipped first one way, then the other! How many times had the trembling audience been absolutely convinced that one of the competitors had won, only to discover, a moment later, that their opponent, with some magical, unearthly, finger-like trick, had managed to defend himself!

Only after many minutes of terrible yet delicate, bloody yet subtle struggles did Arek win the fight! This sadder Arek! He won because he had to win! His thumb was more thumb-shaped than his rival's! His strength was stronger! His movements were more decisive, his commitment greater, more sincere, more genuine!Besides, he was supported, the entire time, by that girlish, supernatural finger! And he knew it perfectly well! In such a situation, with such awareness, he couldn't lose, he simply couldn't!

It turned out that Arkadiusz had broken his opponent's thumb during the fight! The loser, however, refused to give up. Despite his defeat, he decided to stick his broken, disabled thumb up the butt, that beautiful butt, of Arek, who had just turned around and bowed to the audience. So, the moment was perfect! And just as he was about to carry out his terrible plan, he felt a terrible, almost terrifying, impossibility! He realized he couldn't accomplish what he'd planned! He understood he'd never defeat Arkadiusz! He sobbed quietly, only to burst into loud, piercing sobs a moment later…

Arkadiusz ignored him, his face twisted into a joyful grimace

and his triumphant gaze swept across the room until he caught sight of the girl he loved. She smiled mysteriously, neither joyful nor grim. She dismounted from her chair and began walking toward Arkadiusz. After a short moment, she stood before him. So softly, so tenderly. She didn't say a word. It was unclear whether she wanted to say something to him or was waiting for his words. And so, she just looked at Arkadiusz with her magnificent eyes, those exquisite little eyes! What delight it was for him! What inexpressible pleasure, immeasurable happiness! And at the same time, what terrible suffering, such terrible torment! What joyful pain! What martyr's joy!

The young man's heart beat faster. He longed to whisper in her ear that she was beautiful, magnificent, and finally, against all odds, declare his love! Yes! To declare to her this feeling, both hellish and fabulous! He wanted to embrace her and hold her tight, terribly tight, and himself close to her, to fall into her arms, to fall to his knees and beg for a little tenderness, a pinch of affection, a speck of love!

That was probably why he hurried toward the exit. At the door, he paused, cursed himself, and, driven by some unspecified force, looked at her.

"Hmm...perhaps with that long toe of hers, she's even more beautiful?" he wondered. Certainly much more real, more authentic, but was she prettier? Yes! More wonderful because she was more natural, concealing nothing!

Even though she was among the crowd, she stood completely alone, clearly lost, disoriented, and rather sadly (and yet beautifully so in its sadness!) sipping her wine. There was something terribly poignant in her loneliness. Arkadiusz's heart sank. So deeply that he shifted his gaze to the television:

"Today we have an expert in our studio – Professor Dorota Pieczyńska

from the University! Professor! Please tell our viewers how to live to be happy?

" "Ah… it's very simple. You shouldn't eat after 6 p.m., sleep less than eight hours, or smoke cigarettes. You should avoid stress, not think too much, but meet

with friends. I suggest being spontaneous, not planning too much, laughing, enjoying life, and not dwelling on abstract concepts. You should "seize the day," enjoy every moment, and be sociable. And that's probably all. Oh – one more thing – I almost forgot: You should "be yourself."

Arkadiusz looked around the room. He wanted to see her once more. To see her delicate face, her auburn hair, her lovely legs, or her sensually heaving breasts (oh! –

and what wonderful breasts she had!). But, unfortunately, he couldn't see the girl he loved anywhere.

"Ah! Ah!" he sighed horribly, terribly, poignantly. "What have I done? What have I done best? Who am I? Am I capable of love at all? I have a boulder of reason instead of a heart! I am a monster! I am a soulless male, breathing with disgusting, masculine excitement, some twisted, disgusting eroticism! There is no feeling in me, no love, only lust for the flesh!" he howled furiously! In a fit of anger, he overturned the nearest table and several chairs and left.

He stopped in front of the pub, took a few deep breaths, and when he had calmed down a bit, he began to wonder:

"Which way to go?" Should I turn left or right? I'll get

home this way and that way. Which way should I choose? Which direction should I take? But which way will be better? Safer, more convenient, shorter, or maybe longer? And do I really want to get where I want to go? Oh… and I have to choose again! Oh… if I go left, I won't be able to find out what would have happened if I had gone right! And vice versa! Eternal uncertainty! The constant need to decide! Oh… this is terrible… this is awful!

After a few minutes of deliberation, he turned left. He hadn't even made it five steps when a local bum accosted him. He wasn't drunk, though the smell of alcohol was emanating from him. Arek asked,

"Mr. Manager! Would you mind helping us with two złoty? My friend got beaten up by some thugs, and now I have to buy a few band-aids, and I have no money!" – he said and pointed to the yard, at the back of which, on the right side, sat another bum

with a clearly broken head.

Arek, however, wasn't bothered by this:

"I don't have one," he replied curtly, and clutching his camera bag tighter, he walked slowly away towards his house. "For band-aids – sure, I can see that! For cheap wine, I bet! I know them! And even if it was for band-aids, I'm betting that bum got hit while drunk, or just fell over! Stop drinking and get to work, you stinking slackers! And you're probably still collecting benefits, which you're immediately drinking away, right?

On the other hand, the government should provide you with jobs, but that won't happen anytime soon... Oh... what a sad world..." Arkadiusz didn't dwell on the issue any further, as during his journey he had to think about many other, more important matters and absolutely drag modern civilization through the mud.

Unfortunately, he didn't have time to do so, because suddenly, completely unexpectedly, a bison emerged from the gate right in front of him. He was wearing a straw hat and holding a red, heart-shaped balloon in his teeth. With a slow, lazy gait, he crossed the street. It's worth mentioning that as he passed, he stopped for a moment, looked at Arek, snorted, twisting his bison-like face into a strange, undefined grimace

, and continued on his way. A moment later, he disappeared into the yard directly opposite.

Arkadiusz was speechless. After a moment, once he regained the ability to think logically, various questions began to rush to his lips:

"What? How? Where? When? Was that a bison? But why a bison? At this time? And why

in a straw hat? And why here, now, in this place, at this time? How did this happen? What force caused this turn of events and not another? And did he snort at me? At me? Or perhaps to me? Did he snort at all? And what did that grimace mean? Was he trying to convey something to me? A bison? To convey something? I'm completely lost, completely lost!" And that balloon… Was it the same balloon as before? Why was the bison holding a balloon in his teeth? That balloon! A red,

heart-shaped balloon that had fallen from the hands of a little girl a few hours earlier! Oh… who can explain this to me? It was completely illogical and irrational, and yet it happened, it did! And yet it shouldn't have! It shouldn't have, I say! Oh… or maybe in this absurd world, it was a completely natural event?

He thought for a moment until he grew sad:

"Oh… and what's a bison doing in the city? A bison should live in the forest! And for God's sake, what did he look like with that balloon and hat! A dignified, noble animal! A symbol of strength

and courage! Phew! A travesty! A complete moral collapse! A complete ethical decay!"

Because Arkadiusz was nervous, he went to his apartment. On the way, the bison reminded him of a pigeon. For a moment, he felt he had accomplished something wonderful, that he had connected two completely unrelated situations, that he had come closer to understanding the force that governs the universe, that he had found the key to understanding the reality around him! The joy was short-lived, as Arek realized it was impossible, unrealistic. True, both the pigeon and the bison are animals, but so what? What next? No, this cannot be resolved; it is impossible to grasp with the human mind! How does the pigeon relate to the bison? Why these two existences? Why in these places and not others? Why did I see them? Ah...ah...it's impossible to answer! Ah...how tiny, limited, and powerless I feel! How terrible it all is...how terrifying...

Meanwhile, Sylwia went outside. She was neither drunk nor sober. She was having a wonderful time. She gossiped with Weronika, danced with Zygmunt and other guys, and had wonderful, absolutely wonderful moments in the bathroom with a young man she didn't know. For that one evening, she could escape the reality around her. She could forget

about her boring, monotonous life. Sylwia wasn't intelligent, and she knew it perfectly well, but was it her fault? What could she do about not understanding many things? But she knew she was a good person and had never intentionally hurt anyone. That was enough for her; she prided herself on it.

As she stood texting her friend, wanting to share her bathroom experiences, the same bum who had recently accosted Arek approached her.

"My respect to the beautiful young lady," he asked politely. "Would you mind helping us out with two złoty?" My friend was beaten up by some nasty thugs

and we need to buy some plasters, and we're really short on funds!" he said, baring his yellow teeth and pointing a dirty finger at his injured friend.

"Okay... I'll just find some... I don't have any change, but I'll give you ten zlotys.

Here you go!

" "Our benefactor! That's more than enough! Hmm... maybe the lady will let you come with me?

I'll show you something! I'm sure you'll like it!"

Sylwia hesitated for a moment, feeling an instinctive fear of the stranger, but finally, under the influence of the tramp's kind eyes, she was convinced.

Together with Sławek—that was the man's name—they went to an all-night pharmacy and bought a box of plasters. Then they went to a liquor store and bought a bottle of cheap, absolutely cheap wine. They went to see Sławek's beaten friend and bandaged him up properly. After this, Mirek—the injured man—vanished, only to reappear ten minutes later, this time holding a wooden, slightly damaged violin. First, the three of them drank some wine, and then Mirek, with the mastery of a true virtuoso, began playing, coaxing beautiful, wondrous sounds from the half-ruined instrument. Sylwia and Sławek began dancing to the music. Suddenly, Sylwia stumbled. All three of them began laughing. Their joyful laughter perfectly accompanied this wonderful, magical music. And in this cheerful giggling, they danced the night away. They didn't worry about anything, paid no attention to anything, thought about nothing—they were having fun. They rejoiced

and celebrated for hours, and meanwhile, a dead pigeon lay nearby…

Arkadiusz entered the house, took off his shoes, closed the door, and without washing or changing, went to bed. Before falling asleep, he thought about the vague girl of his dreams, longing for the being he had never had and never would have. He felt lonely. He sobbed quietly. He remembered all the things he had to do today. He sighed heavily. He realized that once again he hadn't said what he wanted to say, hadn't confessed what he longed to confess. He cried. He remembered what he wanted to achieve today. He sobbed. He realized that once again he hadn't changed anything about himself, hadn't gotten any closer to finding the meaning of life, hadn't made any friends, hadn't found his soulmate, hadn't bonded with a special girl, the love of his life! Of course, he'd deal with all of that tomorrow. He groaned quietly. But the question was, did he really want to change? Wasn't it true that Arkadiusz accepted himself as he was, even though the essence of his being was a permanent inability to feel happiness? Wasn't the problem that Arek prided himself on his individuality, that he boasted about his uniqueness, that he was the proud possessor of a one-of-a-kind character, and finally, that he was a unique individual, different from all other people, unlike anything else—but what good was that if his otherness, his individuality, prevented him from experiencing the simple, childlike joy of life? He sobbed again, but soundly. He thought of the dove again. He cried again, but this time soundly, an almost absolute cry. After a long while, he fell asleep...

2

Arkadiusz, meanwhile, continued to ponder:

"Recently, I was returning from the mountains and felt unreal, nonexistent. How could that be? I was in Rabka-Zdrój, and suddenly, crack of dawn, and I'm in Krakow, completely unbelievable, from a different world, from some distant world, like a brutal, cosmic invader disturbing the peaceful lives of the inhabitants of a small, agricultural planet!

And I'm standing in this train corridor and looking out at the world through the window. I see children playing on the tracks, nervous travelers waiting impatiently for their small train, people assigned to their place, home, land, drawn by some mysterious, magical force to their wooden cottage, drinking, working, hanging out laundry!" They're just hanging out in the sun, the sun, the sun,

and I'm there unexpectedly! And even though they don't see me, don't know me,

and I'm so modest and insignificant, I still feel unfair to them! I'm spying on them! And what's more, by my appearance, I'm interfering with their lives! What's more: I'm thinking about them! I'm thinking! I'm caring! I'm worried! I'm wondering why I've met them, what they're doing, what they're doing, where they're going? Where are they going? What do they like, what are they like? Will something bad happen to them? Will that child get hit by a car tomorrow? Has that man paid all his bills? Are they happy? Will my fate intersect with that of one of them? Will their fates somehow intersect? Will they collide like gas particles? Why them, here, in this place, at this time? Can any of this be explained logically? How can it give itself if it cannot?

Arkadiusz paused in his reflections for a moment, having to focus

on his sphincter. After a moment, a quiet, subtle, and sensual splash was heard. Much more relaxed, he returned to his thoughts.

"Coincidence! Coincidence… ah… it's beautiful and terrifying at the same time, that it's a coincidence!

Because chance is obvious and beyond any question! How else can one explain this chaotic movement of people, the complete illogicality of events, the unreality of our existence, and the very randomness of human life? It's all so terribly improbable that in its improbability, solely and exclusively through chance, it becomes entirely possible to exist; only in its illogicality does this randomness begin to be absolutely logical! Yes, yes, yes, chance! Everything is possible! And nothing makes sense! That is, it makes sense because it's part of the randomness that governs our world, but it has no sense in the ordinary, everyday understanding of the concept!"

Suddenly, completely unexpectedly, by some terrible coincidence, out of the blue, uninvited, and without knocking, a thought entered Arek's mind. He laughed:

"Ha, ha, ha! Delicious! Ha, ha, ha! I'm pondering on the toilet! I'm philosophizing while shitting! Ha, ha, ha Delicious! A horse would laugh! But really, what's so strange about that? The fact that pooping in our warped culture is considered something worse, we're ashamed of it, and the mere mention of shit makes us walk away disgusted! How ridiculous, how childish! Didn't Einstein or Miłosz poop? It's a natural thing, common to everyone, one of the conditions that must be met for us to function properly! But we're ashamed of it! It's all because of our strange value system! Why should I eat with a knife and fork when it's more convenient for me to eat with just a fork? Because that's the right thing!? Ha, ha, ha! Great argument!" This is all a matter of social contract! Why should I be bound by something I didn't sign? In Asia, burping is considered normal, or even a compliment to a meal; the ancient Spartans killed sick or disabled infants as unfit for future military service, and long ago, the Malagasy people took the lives of children born on so-called "unfortunate days"—does that mean they were evil? No, no, no! They believed in different moral values, that's all! Everything is relative! Because it can't be absolute, because there is no universal point of reference, no limiting value, no moral speed of light, no worldview absolute zero!

"But doesn't a situation where everything is permitted lead to a lack of any ethical norms, the atrophy of deeper feelings, the burying of all principles, to moral anarchy in the name of human freedom?" he asked himself. "And even if it were, so what? Isn't the individual the most important? Am I not the most important to myself? What do I care about others?" What interest do I have in the whole world if I can't even grasp the essence of my own being? he continued. In such a situation, shouldn't I place myself

at the center of the universe and constantly, without a moment's respite, revolve around my own "self"?

"Perhaps there is some moral imperative that we should be guided by! But what could it be? Religion? Phew! It's too primitive, too childish! I wish it were so, but I can't believe it, no, it's too simple, it's all too fairytale! So what? The struggle for existence? Mhm... it sounds better, it's more scientific, but isn't that too cruel? But how can it be cruel if it's a natural law? And aren't we part of nature? Yes, yes, and yet no, no! And again, even though I recognize the validity of this theory, I can't agree with it; subconsciously I long for something different, something more merciful! Ah...

And again, some abstract concepts! At least in the struggle for existence, everything is clear, simple: my genes must survive, my family and I, I, I, I must survive, and that's it! Is it really that bad? Ah...ah...I don't know...I don't know...

Meanwhile, the man Arek had met on the street continued running. He passed old tenement houses, modern skyscrapers, passed children, passed old people, leaving the entire human world behind. He ran tirelessly for a long time until he reached the forest on the outskirts of the city. He stopped for a moment. He looked around, making sure no one was nearby. When he was satisfied with his observations, he began to undress. He took off his shirt, carefully folded it, and put it in his yellow shopping bag. He did the same with his pants. He did the same with the rest of his clothing. And completely naked, absolutely nude, with only his yellow shopping bag in his hand, he joyfully trotted up a nearby hill. He was terribly happy with his nakedness. With a youthful energy very rare at his age, he ran up that small rise. He smiled. He gazed at the view before him with a somewhat mysterious expression. He was proud

and happy! Suddenly, with a decisive movement, he threw his yellow shopping bag full of clothes into the distance as hard as he could! He was free! He had rid himself of the binding fabrics that obscured his true identity! By announcing his nakedness to the world, he felt truly

and undeniably free! In that moment, he was aware of his moral superiority, his intellectual superiority over almost the entire world! After all, it was he—no one else—standing naked on that forest hill! No one else! Yes, he felt wonderful! He was absolutely joyful! He intoned the ancient song of the Apache Indian warriors and with wild joy performed ritual, unbridled dances. Oh! How wonderfully he did it! As if it were not he, but joy itself, who had arrived and danced! Unfortunately, it didn't last long. Nagus began to feel a terrible sadness. He had no idea where it had come from, only that it had completely overwhelmed him. Sobbing quietly, he walked down the hill with slow, mournful steps, stumbling every now and then, hunched over, clearly tired, obviously old, he began to search for his yellow shopping bag...

Arkadiusz, tirelessly and with obvious pleasure, continued to ponder

on extremely important matters:

"So there are no moral principles? Then why do I despise other people? Because subconsciously I long for some norms of behavior, some force that would bring order."

And she clearly said that this is good and this is bad! But again, isn't this an attack on our freedom? Why should I be guided by externally imposed rules?! I'll create my own rules! Yes, yes, yes, everyone should be like me! Yes, yes, it's obvious! After all, they're the idiots, and I'm this incomparable, noble, and wise man! I, by definition, do good!

Oh...and here I am again! Oh...ah...will I ever be strong enough not to consider myself the best of people?

Funny—I consider myself a wonderful being, and at the same time, I claim to be small and insignificant! And how often do I feel completely powerless! Oh...that's terrible! So, even though subconsciously something's not right, until I find some measure of human value (Holy Mother! How terrible that sounds! Maybe it's goodness, but what is it really?—it's a relative concept, after all!), I have to admit that morality is relative! Unless it's not relative! Ah...ah...I don't know...I don't know anything... Or maybe I should accept that I can't and shouldn't judge many human behaviors! It all depends on the point of reference and on what a given person is guided by in life, in individual moments! Does this mean that everything is a matter of the form in which we are wrapped, packaged, embedded! Ah...ah...that's terrible...that's terrifying...that's awful! Does this mean that we are never truly free? What does it mean to be free anyway? Can one ever be a free person? Ah...ah...how on earth am I supposed to know? I don't know, I don't know, I don't know, and yet I feel I must know! That only such knowledge will bring me happiness! Ah...ah...and at the same time, I'm aware that all this is beyond me and that I will never know the answers to this and other questions! Ah...ah...that's terrible...that's terrifying!

Arek stopped his thoughts as he felt the toilet seat he was sitting on painfully digging into his bottom, a sure sign that he needed to end his bowel movement.

He reached for the toilet paper. Unfortunately, this action was unsuccessful, for the simple reason that there was no toilet paper in the bathroom. Arek was sweating. He looked into his camera bag – nothing to wipe himself with. He began a frantic visual search. However, it yielded no result, except that Arkadiusz perspired even more. He panicked.

"Oh… why? Why is this happening to me? Why are you punishing me so terribly, cruel fate? I don't want to! I don't want to die!"

After a moment, he calmed down. He sighed, as only old people who have come to terms with death, a few moments before it, can sigh. He even smiled slightly. The situation was amusing. Here he is – in his opinion a spiritual intellectual searching for the meaning of existence and dealing with the metaphysics of being – stuck in a toilet without toilet paper

And with no prospects of even getting a semblance of it! What a mundane situation, Arkadiusz thought, and how human, how real! If I tell Michał, he'll laugh! But... how can I tell him this when I can't leave?

Arkadiusz was gripped by fear again. How could he? Should he sit here forever, or maybe not dry himself? Oh yuck! Yuck, yuck! Ask someone for toilet paper? But... that would be an embarrassment! Oh... I'm so delicious! Not long ago I mentioned something about shame, that it's a normal thing and all that, and now I'm afraid to ask for support in an ordinary, human situation! There's no way around it—I have to call out!

And just as he was about to carry out his plan, a thought suddenly, unexpectedly and randomly came to his mind:

"A handkerchief! That girl gave me a handkerchief! I'm saved! Hurray! Victoria! Ah... life is beautiful! Hurray!" He began to wave his arms, legs, and basically everything at his disposal. After the initial euphoria, a reflection came:

"Ah...ah...what a wonderful, lucky coincidence! What would have happened if I hadn't gone to them? It's scary to think! What luck, it's hard to believe!" Arkadiusz put his hand in his pocket, where he expected to find a tissue. There it was! With a triumphant smile, he solemnly pulled it out. And a strange thing happened: instead of rejoicing, Arek began to worry:

"Ah...what a pity I didn't take the whole package! Why didn't I! Now I have to sit here like an idiot in a huge pile of poop, terrifying in its poopiness, with only one tissue! This is ridiculous! Will I manage to dry my beautiful bottom? Ah...ah...and that fear again! It's a constant worry! Oh well, I have to try." Arkadiusz spread the tissue as wide as possible. He looked at it for a moment, but decided the layer might be a bit too thin. He folded it in half, but now he feared the surface area wouldn't be sufficient. After a moment's hesitation, he decided to take a chance. He closed his eyes and, with a deft stroke, wiped his bottom. He felt quite good about the wipe, but just in case, as a precaution, to banish the fear

from his heart, he repeated the action. Yes, that was it! Satisfied with the results, he tossed the tissue into the toilet, stood up, and put on his pants. He was just about to flush when he felt something strange, something new and so terrifying that he was terrified.

Arkadiusz wanted to touch his own shit.

At first, the idea seemed absurd, or at least repulsive, but as time passed, he came to the conclusion that touching his own excrement would be a step towards freedom, an act against established patterns of behavior, an attempt to defy convention and all the limitations imposed on him by European civilization. Arek would be doing violence to all those mannered people who do things because it's the right thing to do, or who don't do things because they shouldn't. Besides, it would be a new thing in his boring, gray life. Perhaps this step would bring him closer to understanding the world around him! Because how can you understand everything that exists, everything that happens around you, if you don't know your own excrement? Yes, yes, yes, shit – the condition of freedom! Excrement is the key to understanding life! Arkadiusz wanted it, desired it with all his heart, but he was terribly afraid. What if he got his fingers dirty? Would he get sick from it? Or worse, would it do no good? Finally, after heated debate among many Ark members, he decided to do it.

Carefully, yet with considerable fear and disgust, he approached his right index finger to his feces. He touched it and immediately withdrew his hand. Hmm…that wasn't so bad, he thought. He repeated the action, but this time, his hand remained on the pile.

After a moment, he added his other hand. He began to feel the shit. He felt wonderful. A smile spread across his face. He had the feeling that no one had ever done this before, and the awareness that he was liberating himself, defying terrible limitations, that he was destroying conventions and all rules, that he was destroying the entire European civilization! Touching the shit gave him a sense of power

and assured him of his uniqueness. After all, it was he—no one else—who was doing what he was doing!

He felt his own feces for a while, but with less and less energy, until he stopped altogether. He cried.

"Ah…ah…what am I doing? Examining the shit? But how?" Why don't I just smear it on myself, smell it? I do everything half-heartedly, without total commitment, yet I feel like I should give myself completely to something, dedicate myself absolutely! I'm so blurred among the multitude of concepts, thousands of issues, millions of impressions, billions of aspects of reality! Sometimes I even feel like I'm only half-living! It seems to me that I'm missing out on something wonderful, beautiful, and unique, that I'm missing out on something fantastic

and incomparable, that I'm only living a little, just a little apart, only pretending to, as if in some disgusting lethargy, in a coma devoid of all scruples, just for fun, casually, out of necessity, because life must be lived! I exist miserably alongside this real life, full of diverse experiences! Oh... I'm just vegetating!

"I'm studying shit? Ha, ha, ha! Ridiculous! There are so many types of feces, so many different research methods, so many special measuring devices, and I've only learned about one type of poop! And in such a flawed way? With my fingers! Oh…oh…and I want to create beauty? I, who can't recognize ugliness? I long to find the meaning of existence, but I can't understand the nature of feces? Oh…oh…I'll never be able to understand the essence of shit! Oh…oh…never! And yet I feel like I should! The thought of not familiarizing myself

with the subject of poop makes me feel so small, so limited, so powerless! I'm ashamed of my ignorance, my incompetence! Oh…how I suffer! Oh…oh…I'm too flawed, I can try, wonder, investigate, toil, agonize, and suffer, but what's the point? If I'll never find the answer anyway? How can one find the answer, given the limited cognitive methods at their disposal, and the issue is so complex? Is it worth wasting one's life exploring this fragment of reality, feeling that one will never fully understand it? On the other hand, is it even possible to give up? Give up at the very beginning? Accept a less affluent life? Oh… I don't know… I don't know again… oh… oh… this is terrible… this is terrifying…

Arkadiusz flushed, exited the toilet, and headed for the sinks, where he thoroughly, carefully scrubbed with soap. Then he emerged from the bathroom. He thought for a moment, then headed for the bar. He sat down on one of the stools

and ordered a vodka. He glanced at the television. He came across a political report. The members of parliament were debating the establishment of a national holiday in honor of the Big Banana. The proceedings were accompanied by various shouts: "Shame!", "Scandal!", "Homeland!", "Traitors!", "He must go!", "Shovel!", "Bumpampambleee!".

Arkadiusz, with a look of sad habit, drank the contents of his glass and ordered a beer for a change. He fell into thought. He remembered why he didn't watch TV. How is it that politicians are a bunch of morons and thieves? He wondered. And how is it that, on the one hand, politics has such a profound impact on everyone's lives, yet at the same time, it has none? He remembered the children playing happily on the tracks. What do they care about the government's actions? What does the recently signed law mean to them? They live happily, completely separated, separated by an invisible barrier from the country's political situation! Ah...ah...that's wonderful! Does this prove that we need to think less and live more? Not think about what surrounds us, but focus on ourselves and our loved ones? The world has always been full of evil and stupidity, and yet people somehow managed to survive! So, to be happy? But I really would like to! But I can't...I can't! Ugh... Above all, stay calm and take your time, that's what you need! Don't force anything! I don't have to! Something will happen when it's done! If something's meant to happen, it will! And even if it doesn't, the world won't collapse! It'll work out somehow! It'll never be like this without somehow!