hands

It wasn't an evening like any other. The first spring morning and the first spring night. It hadn't been this beautiful in a year. And sometimes a bird sang, sometimes a memory saddened. For who had loved, and who had been abandoned? Who had been given tears, and who had been forgotten? Why wouldn't she want to forget?

Darkness outside, lights burning in the windows. Night. Silence. Every sound evokes a dream. Every whisper embraces you with a gaze so warm that you want to stay like this forever, without a moment's breath. Quiet... only quiet, so as not to lose anything of this moment.

A candle shrouded in a delicate veil of darkness.

A whisper of delicate tenderness.

It was a beautiful day, she had waited so long for a beautiful evening. Dreams loomed beneath her eyelids. Cradled by the melody of sensations. She feels the silence, her eyes never lift from sleep, her heart flowing toward them. Warm hands embrace her face, the taste of heaven on her face. A whisper. It's still a quiet whisper. Greeted by a caress, she reveals her smile, greets them with a look. And they slowly cling to the sky, coming to their senses, but how can one come to their senses with this joy...

She returns, smiles, and whispers. They caress her shoulders and neck. The afterglow of the kiss listens to her words. She feels the joy being brought to her. Touches... Whispers... She wants, but she doesn't go, she waits, conquering the entire world in this one, unique kingdom.

She waits. Waits for a word, for words. She longs for a whisper and assurances. Is she beautiful? Is she treasure? Is she love? Is she desire? She waits... She falls silent, catching her breath each time. She says nothing, only her eyes narrowed. Again and again, he touches those that bring pleasure. She is not afraid. She is beautiful...

He wanted to conquer her, to caress her tenderly. So slowly, touching every moment of their existence. He desires so much. He loves so much. He waits. He waits.

Lips beckoning, hands bowing, eyes reading aloud the precious invitation. He waited. He waited beautifully. He waited...

Warmth reached her chest so unexpectedly, so tenderly. Peacefully. She saw his smile. Peace. He walked on, beautiful, happy. He embraced every sigh. He cherished every beautiful moment. She still felt his warmth, his strength. She longed to be like that. And the kisses, and the joy-filled, colorful glances. And they still kissed, still journeyed like seekers of purpose.

And then he knew the goal was there, and they pursued it together. He became a wonderful guide. He nursed every weariness and every dim glance, nourishing every kiss with his touch. And so they arrived and arrived endlessly, dancing with joy. And in joy they drifted away, alone, unafraid, saved. And they, too, saved every desire. She longed for nothing. They gave every petal of joy, every caressing touch. Sometimes they fled, she longed. She searched. She trembled impatiently. Alone and in fear, but they returned. Every moment they returned, and she loved them even more, more tenderly, and she tore each moment with delight. And so they walked together from stone to stone. Covered in the shadow of magnificent shapes, enveloped in a breath of cool air. An oasis of joy. And it lasted a lifetime...

Each day became spring in the desert oasis.

And they were gone for a long time, not returning! Terror seeped ever more readily into her eyelids! They were gone! They're gone! He has to look for them!

He opens his eyelids, closed by bliss, and...

The beautiful sun illuminates another spring day.

The voice of youthful loneliness.

Phoenix

I didn't understand it myself. It was strange, even unethical, until I saw for myself what it was all about, what it was.

I was twenty-five years old. It was the last day of my life. The last and also the first, because when something ends, something else, something new begins. Later... I just knew.

That day, the sun was shining, there was a cloudless blue sky. It was a Saturday in August, around three o'clock. I was walking home from the city center, to the outskirts where I'd always lived.

I was walking along the roadside. I still had about two miles to go home. The sun was mercilessly strong, and I had no way to hide from it. The road was empty. A bad sign. I was hoping for someone to give me a ride home. I'd had enough of this sun.

After a while, I heard that sound, the sound of an approaching car. I felt waves of hope wash over me from head to toe. Driven by my faith in human kindness, I stepped onto the road and began waving my arms desperately to be noticed.

The sound approached, and with it the barely visible silhouette of a red car. A Ferrari sports car. An old model, it was a wonder anyone still drove one.

The ever-faster shape of the red car unsettled me. I felt a slight sting, as if someone were warning me. But I stood there, waving my arms more and more desperately. But it kept rushing. It was getting closer… closer…

My heart leaped into my throat, I could almost feel it cutting off my airflow. The thought of my doomed fate had already blossomed in my mind… not yet…

And so I stood, unable to move my limbs, any part of my terrified body. My eyes widened to their limits, my voice caught in my throat. I felt paralyzing terror and helplessness, a terrible, overwhelming helplessness. I closed my eyes.

And then… I felt the heat of the asphalt and a searing pain throughout my entire body. The left side of my face was drowning in blood, my head was splitting with pain. Afterward, I couldn't feel my legs at all. My eyelids felt heavy. I was tired. My head was buzzing. I could almost feel my thoughts slowly disappearing into the pleasant coolness of the darkness. Into the abyss of nothingness. I closed my eyes.

A blinding brightness burst into my mind. I felt like a raped virgin. A brutal light entered my head unbidden, touching all my thoughts, all my memories. I felt empty. Naked.

When I opened my eyes, I felt light. As if this mental rape had stripped me of all my worries, all my problems; I felt beyond all pain and sin. I was free, so pleasantly free.

The first thing I saw were the clouds. A thick blue-and-white fog enveloping absolutely everything. I looked around, fascinated, until I saw HIM.

He sat on a rich throne, on a high proscenium, surrounded by throngs of others like HIM, standing behind wooden lecterns. I felt like I was at an interrogation. I stood before him. Naked, with an open mind. Oh, Lord, deliver me!

And he looked at me with his wise eyes, as deep as a thousand oceans, made a concerned face, stroking his long white beard, and spoke as if to a child:

"Did it hurt so much? Forgive me for being so brutal, but I warned you. You didn't listen. I don't blame you, son. I needed you here anyway.

" "Me? For what...?

" "For a mission, son. You are a great man. And you certainly will be, unless all this goes to your head. If you don't agree... you stay here, and I'll look for someone else.

" "But... I'm no one special... what could I do for you?

" "Pray to your creator." I will teach you a prayer that will be both your salvation and your curse. Pray!

His voice echoed everywhere. I knelt down. I looked at him and repeated the words of the prayer after him. My great God…

I will never forget that day, and it would be difficult. I was standing before God Himself. I felt His closeness, I was looking at Him. It's impossible to forget.

I woke up. Just like that. I opened my eyes and saw darkness surrounding me. I was in my home, in my room, in my own bed. The words of the prayer kept resonating in my head. Prayers to HIM, for life.

Since then, I have meticulously fulfilled my mission. I did it because He asked me to, but above all, out of gratitude for the life He gave me. I believe in the nobility of my actions. I am not God, I am His messenger.

I am currently thirty-three years old with eight years of service behind me. But that is still not enough. Thanks to HIM, I believed, and that gave me strength. A lot of strength.

What am I like today? I am like all 26th-century youth. I live in a time when it's impossible to attract attention. And certainly not me. I ride a black motorcycle, wear black leather, long hair, and a large cross on my chest. I leave no trace behind me; only memories remain.

I remember my first time very clearly. Want to know? I'll tell you.

It was a week after my encounter with God. A week after my rebirth. After my resurrection. Those seven days were a learning experience, but in a different, more adult way. I was young, but I had to understand the world completely differently than before.

My first step was moving to the very center of the eternal city – Helsinki. I lived in one of those dingy skyscrapers; at the time, that was becoming quite fashionable. Later, those skyscrapers flooded the entire world like a great flood.

I lived on the 8th floor, which had three other apartments besides mine. In three years, my best friend and companion, my confidante—my only confidante—would move into one of them. For now, however, I shared all my worries within the walls of my small apartment.

That evening, I strolled the streets of Helsinki. It was late; the sun had dipped below the horizon a few hours earlier, and it was my time. Phoenix time.

I didn't really know what to do with myself. I simply wandered around, passing the time, as an observer. I preferred not to get too involved in the city life. I lit a cigarette—to relieve stress. God told me it wasn't a sin, but a human weakness, just like adultery or premarital sex.

I inhaled deeply and slowly exhaled the smoke, savoring every particle of the deadly smoke. It was a wonderful feeling. From the alley around the corner, I could hear the sound of human anger. Out of curiosity and decency, I decided to observe the entire incident without getting involved.

A drunk man was shouting at his 8- or 9-year-old son. When the boy didn't respond to his father's insults, he was punched in the head. Blow after blow. The boy looked at his father with tearful eyes (at that moment, I felt the smoldering cigarette fall from between my fingers), forcing himself to whisper something that infuriated the man beyond measure. He poured his rage on the boy, punching him, not stopping even after he fell, finishing with powerful kicks to the stomach and face. A few minutes later, the staggering executioner simply moved in a direction known only to him.

I stood and watched him disappear into the darkness of the street. As the darkness of night swallowed him, I emerged from my hiding place and approached the boy. He lay dead in a pool of blood, his face mangled and his limbs broken. I closed my eyes in a surge of anger and pain.

I knelt beside him. I placed his head on my thighs; my pants were instantly soaked with blood. Tears welled up in my eyes. I remembered God's words: "Remember, only those for whom the Grim Reaper wasn't waiting around the corner. Those whose lives were taken. Don't fail me..."

I turned my gaze to the dark sky. "Now?" I whispered to the stars. "Now..." I heard in my head.

And so it began. The Phoenix steps onto the path of justice.

I placed my left hand on his head, almost feeling the shattered skull and blood beneath my fingers, so much red, sticky blood. I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath, and from my lips, like a well-known hymn, the words of my own prayer began to pour out.

My Great God,

Protector of lost souls,

Shepherd...

From dust you arose. From dust

you became.

My Great God...

My right hand impulsively began to trace the sign of the cross on the little boy's chest. And I continued to pray.

You, whose son triumphed over death,

You who raised Lazarus

, resurrect your son...

Resurrect the destroyed body...

My God,

Amen.

My right hand rested on the boy's chest. I opened my eyes.

And then God descended to Earth.

The boy's body sucked in the blood it had shed. The bones were healing before my eyes, his skull whole again! The mangled face was once again the face of a small, defenseless boy. More than that! He was smiling at me!

I felt relief. Immense relief, as if someone had lifted a huge boulder from my heart, hindering my life. It was God. I knew. I simply knew.

The memories of that day are yet another that will always accompany me. With each passing day, I am enriched by another memory, another experience. These are my private lessons in life.

Today I am 33 years old. The year is 2501. My eternal city – Helsinki, with all its secrets and sins. With all the secrets hidden in the darkness of night. And me. A phoenix. Sent by God.

Friday. Academic holy day. My neighbor and friend, like every Friday, will be honoring this day with bottles of beer, or maybe something stronger like eternal vodka. He will be celebrating with his friends.

I met him as he was leaving for the mail. It was evening; surely more Friday worshippers would be arriving any moment.

"Hello Stu!" he called out when he saw me.

We shook hands.

"What's up, friend? Are you sure you won't be coming to the party?" he asked

. "Not really, but thanks for the invitation. I'm always happy to be there.

" "But you never come.

" "Sorry. You know how it is...

" "Sure, you don't have to explain. Work tonight too?

" "Like every night. You know that's when the busiest time is.

" "Yes, I know. So, good luck, friend, and take care."

"Thanks. I'll definitely be there."

We were both going back to our separate ways when Ashley, with a hint of concern in his voice, spoke again:

"Stu…?

" "Yes, Ash?

" "Have you heard of that girl? You know… the one from Espoo?

" "No, what?

" "They wrote about her in the papers this morning. I left one for you in the kitchen. Read it, you'll be interested.

" "Thanks…" I replied, not quite understanding what was going on.

We said goodbye, and, driven by irresistible curiosity, I quickly ran to my small kitchen to grab the newspaper.

It lay in the very center of the wooden table. The colorful cover drew the viewer's eyes like a magnet, but this time there was something… different about it. I picked it up and began reading as if in some hypnotic trance:

Suicide of a Sixteen-Year-Old Girl.

A young resident of Espoo, Natalie S., was found last night by a group of teenagers in the forest near the "Trans" disco. The teenager was hanging from a tree, a piece of paper pinned to her chest with the words: "No one is responsible for their own thoughts. I was responsible. Goodbye." Her parents are distraught. No one knows why...

I stood at the table and read each line of text with growing interest. Suicidal... At some point, I felt worthless. Why? Because I thought of this poor girl as my next task. Nay! As a challenge. I shouldn't have.

I sat down. I put down the newspaper and stared at the photo of the girl's mother wiping her eyes with a black handkerchief. Why had she killed herself? Why?

I ran out of the apartment and burst into Ashley's. The guests weren't there yet.

"Ash?

" "Hello, Stu! You dropped by..." He stopped mid-sentence, probably seeing the expression on my face. What was it? Concern, anger? I couldn't quite put my finger on it.

"Are you going?" he asked with a little more concern

. "And you think I shouldn't…?

" "It's your mission, brother.

" "I know… but I'm not sure what I should do. She's suicidal…

" "The decision is yours, brother. Whatever you do will be fine, you know that.

" "I'm confused… you'll take care of…

" "Yes. I'll watch your apartment. Go now.

" "Thanks, Ash.

" "You're welcome. Just… be careful, brother.

" "Thanks, man."

I stormed out of Ashley's apartment, stormed back to my place, grabbed my documents, some cash, and ran to my motorcycle. I decided to go. I don't know what I'll do yet, but I want to go. Espoo is about 20 kilometers away, no more than a half-hour ride.

Just like that, with just a few euros in my pocket, I got on my motorcycle and rode. To Espoo, to her.

I reached the city at about a quarter past 10 p.m. A patrolling policeman stopped me on the access road. He waved at me to stop.

"Where are you going?" he asked, approaching me.

"To Natalie. The suicide victim." I replied dispassionately.

The policeman froze for a moment, looking at me with a somewhat dull look, clearly filled with surprise.

"To that young woman who hanged herself near the "Trans"? There was a viewing at noon today, you're late, buddy.

" "I understand there's a funeral tomorrow. Besides, I wanted to talk to her parents.

" "Yeah...? About what? Do you know anything about her death?

" "I know more about her death than you think. I don't know any more about her death than what was written in the newspapers. Will you tell me which direction her house is?"

The man laughed.

"I'm really sorry, but I don't give out that kind of information. First of all, I'm not allowed to, and besides, I don't like you, man.

You don't like me either, and I can stand you," I thought. "Don't you want to tell me? I'll get it from you myself. After all, I'm a Phoenix."

The policeman stared at me for a moment longer. Then he asked for my documents, and after checking them, he gave me another dirty look. I thanked him, perhaps a little ironically, but I was trying to be nice. I shook his hand.

Yes... exactly. That one mind was a mental rape he didn't even feel, or felt but didn't let on. I know everything about you, my friend, I know you have a 5-year-old daughter and you're sleeping with your wife's friend. Not nice, oh no, not nice. I know everything... I know where Natalie lived..."

A shy smile appeared on his face. And yet, he did. He said goodbye and said a few words to me as he left, telling me to be careful because Natalie's father was terribly jealous of his daughter. Thanks for the advice, buddy. Wouldn't you be jealous of your daughter? I thanked her with a touch of irony and headed towards Natalie's house.

It wasn't hard to find. I once saved a local teenager beaten by his friends, then I stayed in Espoo for a while and managed to get to know the area a bit. A few minutes later, I was standing in front of a small white house. It was a wonder it still stood there; they don't build houses like that anymore; it must have been very old.

I could almost feel my thoughts battling each other in my head. What would I tell her parents when I got there? Good evening, I've come to resurrect your daughter. Please don't worry, she'll look as if she were alive. It makes no sense...

And yet. I came here. Drawn by an impulse, perhaps another one given to me by the Creator himself, or perhaps by remorse because at first I thought of this teenager as my challenge? After all, she would be my first suicide. But I was there. I was standing in front of her house and surely in a moment I would see her in eternal sleep. What would I see in her face? What would I feel when I touched her head? Now I felt a hundred thousand emotions, and what would happen next?

Is the Grim Reaper waiting for suicides? Do they deserve another chance? I wanted to know so much... I felt an inner conflict. As if I were in two parts, one telling me to give this poor teenager back her life, the other that it wouldn't make sense anyway, because since she killed herself, she would try again. My efforts would be in vain. And I so desperately wanted to contact God...

Her mother opened the door. She was wearing a black dress and had swollen eyes. She held a crumpled black handkerchief in her hand. I recognized her; she looked almost exactly like the newspaper photo.

"Excuse me... what's your matter...?" she asked in a hoarse voice.

"I wanted to..." I began, "I knew your daughter once. I liked her very much. I'm so sorry about what happened to you..." Actually, only the "I'm sorry" part was true; I'd never laid eyes on that girl in my life.

"Your honor..."

"Stuard Norton. You probably don't remember me. It doesn't matter, please don't bother with such nonsense. Your daughter was a truly wonderful girl... could I...? Just for a moment..."

The woman's gaze swept over me. I smiled, to which she responded with an equally hesitant and gentle smile, then invited me in.

The house wasn't large. You entered a not-so-spacious living room with stairs to the second floor, a doorway to the dining room, and a guest room, where a group of people were sitting, probably talking about young Natalie. In the corner of the room I'd been invited to, stood a coffin. Black, upholstered in silk. "And they could afford such an expense...? A coffin upholstered in silk... they must have loved her very much..." I thought, approaching.

SHE lay on the silk pillows. So young... with a still rosy complexion, with a childlike expression. Her fair hair, neatly styled, fell to her shoulders, her lips slightly pink, a touch of powder on her face. Her face seemed peaceful. Was she dying like this? Was she dying knowing she would be better off with HIM?

She was dressed in a black dress, a sin—it covered little more than her panties. It was because of her shapely legs that I looked at her like a man. A true, one-hundred-percent male. Almost every evening, I look at waitresses in bars just so they can spend those few intimate moments with me in the cramped backroom.

And she... was so innocent... her breasts were small, though the dress clung to the slight bulges that seemed so firm... so delicate... Her waist was narrow. Overall, she was quite slim and certainly beautiful. A full mouth, large eyes—though closed, with an extraordinary gleam. Shapely breasts, slim figure, magnificent hips... long legs...

I looked away. Just for a moment. Then I looked at her again, this time differently. With more compassion, with a certain distance, it seemed. No longer like another waitress in some seedy bar, but like a dead teenager.

I took a deep breath. I looked around to make sure no one was looking at me, they weren't. They were too absorbed in their own pain. With my fingertips, I touched her arm... her memories...

Another mental rape. This time, I was the attacker, and she was the victim. She let me into her mind, not defending herself. She showed me all her memories, thoughts, desires.

I saw her as a little girl dancing in her garden with her friends, I saw her laughter, I saw her deep, joyful eyes. I saw her growing up, the candles being blown out on cakes, family holidays, even ordinary days like school… she was a beautiful girl, so innocent…

I saw her friends. And then her tears. Her pain – so deep I could almost feel it in my heart. I saw the words, I saw the thoughts, I saw the emptiness. The emptiness filled with loneliness and suffering. And yet, the emptiness. That's how she considered her life – empty. But it was those words that hurt her the most. The pain in her heart was too great. She couldn't bear it.

Another chance? For whom? For her or her tormentors? For me? No… Good friend Death, what must I do? Will you give her back to me? Will you give her back her stained dreams, her trampled dreams, her broken desires? Will you give her back her tears? You won't give back her joy… I know you too well. Good friend Death…

My great God…

What must I do, Father? What advice would you give your son? Father, I've lost my way...

I looked at her lifeless body.

I placed my hand on her head.

Our minds melded. I found myself inside her head, surrounded by everything she had left—memories, desires. I wandered through her mind, thousands of images flashing past me, only to disappear a moment later into the depths of the blue mist. Hundreds of forgotten words surrounded me, lost in that terrifying silence. Was I in her, or with the Creator?

A voice. A call. The delicate notes of her sweet voice. First, a captivating laugh, and then... a scream. A pained scream accompanied by moans of agony. Her death. This is how she died every night, every day, every time no one was watching, when no one was listening. Her own personal hell was contained within the confines of her narrow mind, slowly strangling all that was good.

I will give you a second chance! You will be born again! You will live as you wish, far from all this! – I screamed.

No… I've already reached the shore of my island… I don't want to go back… I don't want to…

You'll be as you want. You'll be new, perfect. I'll give you all this!

No… please… I won't endure this pain a second time. No… no…

There will be no more pain. I give you my word. I will give you back your dreams… you will come back.

No! NO!

She screamed. Her scream echoed in my head again. She didn't want to. But I was the Phoenix. That was my task. To resurrect. "Don't disappoint me," God told me as he left. I promised. I promised. And she screamed.

I felt her pain. I felt her anger, her hatred. I felt her joy at meeting the Creator. I felt. I dreamed her dreams, dreams of a better life, dreams of eternity, of freedom. Thousands of smiles and thousands of tears. Thousands of gestures and thousands of words. The depths of silence and the infinity of speech. I felt her. How powerful is my prayer…?

My great God…

Guardian of lost souls,

Shepherd…

4

The engaged couple returned to Warsaw without a smile, and they held hands in a different way; everyone could see with the naked eye that they were no longer engaged. They aroused no interest among their fellow passengers, nor were they rejoiced in their misfortune, nor pitied. Unhappy and depressed people blend into the crowd so perfectly that they slowly cease to exist, a phenomenon best seen in the compartments of long-distance trains, when all the seats are occupied by strangers. When Marian, radiant with happiness, traveled with Dunia to eastern Poland to his cruel and staunchly conservative family, people couldn't take their eyes off them! It was easy to see them fixating on a book or a newspaper with all their willpower, but a moment later their eyes would wander to the lovers, casting a glance, whether hateful or admiring. No one was looking at them now. People's eyes blissfully moved over the lines of text, distracted only by the monotonous clatter of the train wheels. At a certain point, unhappy people simply cease to exist.

In the apartment, they no longer spoke to each other. Dunia cried in the corner whenever she looked at Marian, while he, with a glass of whiskey without ice, wandered between the kitchen and the living room. He couldn't be ashamed of his family once he felt their call; yet he failed to gain either their trust or even a shred of approval. He was a Wlazło, but not truly one. He was a Wlazło only in Warsaw. A Master of Science in Wlazło, a specialist in fungi and bacteria; a Wlazło, the alpha and omega of protozoa at occasional banquets. In a quiet village in eastern Poland, he was a nobody, a gray stranger in torn underwear, even if he showed up in an Armani suit. And that can hurt a lot.

After a dozen or so quiet and sad days, both in the apartment and in the laboratory, Dunia dared to briefly wipe the tears from her flushed face, stand in the doorway of the studio apartment with her ever-growing, rounder belly, and remind Marian that he'd asked her to marry him some time ago. She even pointed suggestively at her gold ring, which she hadn't taken off since it arrived. Marian didn't know what to say. He sat silently in a small leather armchair with a sagging seat, almost lying down. He was puffing on a cigarillo, though since college he'd only smoked in company. He didn't look at Dunia, so he couldn't see her piercing, tear-filled eyes. The lamp on the bedside table illuminated his profile picturesquely: his slim, hooked nose, still reminiscent of Sylvia Z.'s hard pubic bone, and his prominent chin, hiding his deep-set eyes in shadow. He seemed to stare into the floor, as if trying to penetrate it and spy on the neighbors downstairs. He ignored his fiancée's soft sobs.

He sat there the entire time, staring blankly ahead, as Dunya, weeping, repeated the question several times: "Marian, my love, what about our wedding? What about the child? What about me?" But Marian no longer wanted a wedding, no longer wanted a child, and no longer wanted Dunya. Perhaps any other man in his place would have forgotten the whole distasteful incident with the cow meat, married the beautiful, rosy-cheeked, warm-hearted woman with the sweet breasts, and lived happily ever after. But Marian was different, and that should never be forgotten.

Dunya's hands wrung in her sad habit when Marian quietly and hesitantly told her what he felt, or rather what he didn't feel, because Marian didn't love her. At the same time, all the eloquence with which he had only recently been able to describe how magnificent the wedding would be, how many guests he would invite, and how the vodka would flow freely, suddenly vanished from him. A moment later, with an enthusiasm miraculous in its artistry, he could recount his wild misfortune, his family excommunication, and how his entire world had crumbled, and misfortunes had piled on his head in a heap. Now Marian was just Marian again. When Dunya left his apartment in tears, never to return, he poured the entire glass of whiskey down the sink and made himself a sandwich with luncheon meat.

In the laboratory, each day he simply did his duty, the one thing to which he was to remain faithful forever. He observed bacteria and jotted down observations, once again assuming a foolish expression; his notes constantly disappeared from his drawer, and he constantly failed to notice. Similarly, he was unable to notice Dunya sobbing in the corner, swallowing tears. However, she would remain a single woman for some time yet. Her belly grew and grew and grew, just like her love for Marian. The more she suffered because of him, the more she loved him and the more she longed for him. Marian seemed to ignore her; he had forgotten that this woman was carrying his child beneath her sensitive heart, his ring on her finger, and he had no idea of ​​the date, the course, or even the actual birth. He was only surprised when he saw Dunya back in the laboratory, as thin as ever, with even more ample and rounded breasts.

But this did not move Marian. He didn't feel like a father; the call vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. Miss Dunia, on the other hand, was unable to ask him to acknowledge paternity or pay child support. She couldn't talk to him at all, couldn't function in his presence, reacting to him like someone who had once had three toes or even a whole foot severed by a lawnmower might to the sound of a lawnmower. That's why his parents stepped in. They came together, as usual (they were one of that very few people who remain close to each other until death—out of love, of course, and Dunia had the dubious luck, in this situation, to inherit this trait from both of them—if she loved, it was to the death) from their small house in a small town, straight to the Warsaw laboratory to take their daughter and scold Marian.

A scolded Marian was no different from an unscolded Marian. The Kowalskis, greatly astonished by this sudden transformation of their would-be son-in-law, only negotiated an acknowledgment of paternity and financial support for their daughter (which, incidentally, wasn't difficult at all; Marian agreed to anything; who knows, if asked to give her his apartment and jump off a bridge for what he'd done to her, he wouldn't have agreed either). Afterwards, the elderly couple (exceptionally lively for elderly people!) left the laboratory, taking their only daughter with them forever. From then on, the woman was to live quietly in a small town near Warsaw, tending her garden and her son, who, of course, took her surname, and in the somewhat distant future, meet a wonderful man, throw her engagement ring into the river, and categorically forget about the ungrateful Marian—"he's just a moron from the Warsaw laboratory," she would later say of him to her husband. Meanwhile, his husband wondered, though he didn't ponder it aloud, how it was possible that his wonderful and beautiful wife could have gotten pregnant by some "moron from a Warsaw laboratory"...

Marian lived from hand to mouth, meaning everything returned to normal. Spam sandwiches and beer cans returned to his overflowing wastebasket. No one would ever find a drop of whiskey in his house again; he even began refusing it at parties. No one would ever clean his tiny hallway and tiny bathroom as neatly as Dunia had once done, and the laundry basket soon became just another ordinary, rude wastebasket, saving Marian the hassle of throwing out the trash. Perhaps he had simply forgotten what this invention was for and had found the only use for it he could afford. Marian wasn't a creative man.

He worked as before, lived as before, had sex with various women, though he never had a real orgasm again—everything was as before. Marian generally stopped thinking, at least not about anything remotely related to existential philosophy. The only things that could occupy his thoughts were bacteria, their food, notes about them, and birthday cards. He was ashamed of peasant Maciej again, and he shuddered every time he remembered his own enormous forehead lump, which had thankfully long since melted away, passing into the pages of the meaningless and boring story of his sexless life. Sexless, yes, that's the right word.

3

Meanwhile, Marian was running frantically through the city. He ran out of Chmielna Street and turned onto Marszałkowska Street. People and animals (if any had gotten tangled there, they would surely have fled in panic as well) dodged out of his way as he crashed from one side of the sidewalk to the other in front of the Galeria Centrum shopping mall, in front of the Empik store, and beyond... Marian felt the call of family, Marian had to immerse himself in the drunken march of peasant Maciej and pursue his goal despite everything, as the master once wrote, "drunk not with vodka, but with a girl." History had to serve its purpose, and at some point, Marian collapsed face-first onto the sidewalk. People who had previously thought that slipping on a banana peel was just a movie trick were now seeing for themselves that it actually happens to some people. Perhaps it simply takes talent; Marian's talent in this kind of category was unparalleled, perhaps even rivaling his talent for batteries and mushrooms. With an equally large purple plum on his forehead, he continued through the capital, with a purpose known only to him…

The Dane continued to sob in the kitchen over the checkered oilcloth. She sobbed and sobbed for two whole hours, when Marian still hadn't returned. She sobbed and sobbed until she was hoarse and unable to utter a single word. Her eyes grew hot with tears and swollen slightly from rubbing them uncontrollably with the back of her hand. She looked sadly at the tiny hallway, swept clean by her own hands. (In moments of breakdown, she undoubtedly became one of those people whose gaze makes you involuntarily lisp and shorten your speech.) She stared with unseeing eyes, as if trying to penetrate the walls and see Marian somewhere in the city, returning to her with a large bouquet of flowers. Marian with a huge, heartfelt smile, gasping for air, panting from running, for he was rushing so fast, for he was rushing so fast towards her, towards their great, eternal love!

Imagine Dunya's astonishment when the door suddenly flew open, almost falling off its hinges! Marian stood there, and everything was as it should be, except for the huge, blue lump Dunya couldn't have predicted. Marian stood there, panting, his face gleeful. His lips were smiling, his eyes were smiling, and the purple plum on his forehead was smiling most of all. Dunya's astonished eyes stopped shedding tears for a moment, observing the unusual situation intently. After all, it wasn't every day that Dunya was asked to marry him! A moment later, Marian was kneeling at her knees with a beautiful gold ring in one hand and a bouquet of violets in the other, still panting, still breathing incredibly hard, as he spat out those beautiful words: "Marry me, marry me, marry me!" Oh, how could she not!

Dunya's lips quivered, and her eyes filled to the brim again. She wept with joy, he panted with happiness, and they both laughed heartily. Soon, a wedding the likes of which the world had never seen before, and certainly not in Warsaw! Marian was already planning everything. On his knees, nestled against his Dunya's ample and firm breasts, he was planning a white, joyful wedding, with hundreds of guests! He could already picture all his colleagues from the lab in tailcoats and tuxedos at Wlazł's wedding! He suddenly burst into tears and sobbed loudly when he thought of returning to the good graces of his great, beautiful family with its traditions! He longed to confide in his beloved about the history of his surname at that moment. He told Dunya (or rather, to her breasts) everything, one by one, and when he reached the moment of peasant Maciej's great drunken march, he was so moved that, having barely reached the end of the story, he could no longer speak. Dunia didn't say anything either, as her hoarse voice refused to subside. But nothing needed to be said, because love, being a highly creative creature, invents millions of other, more beautiful and effective means of expression. They wept together with joy over the checkered kitchen table.

After tenderly and lovingly tending Marian's plum tree, Dunia decided that they would first visit her parents, who lived in a small town near Warsaw. A beautiful couple in the autumn of their lives, people full of peace and tranquility, happy with the happiness of someone who had already put all the ups and downs behind them. They enjoyed walks in the nearby forests of Podkowa Leśna and Międzyborów, drawing joy and vitality from the nature around them. They had a small family cottage with a beautifully kept garden and an old, lazy Rottweiler, whom they had long ago named Obrońca. The dog was never aggressive, nor did it even bark very loudly; it was enough that it simply existed, that it was large, and that it was a Rottweiler. People were generally afraid of it, and therefore no one dared to approach the two elderly couple on their morning or evening walks. Because who would have thought that if it weren't for these mandatory walks, the dog would likely have spent the rest of its life lying flat on the elderly couple's balcony, too lazy to scratch the fleas off itself? Out of necessity, the Defender learned to ignore the itching, which was easier than waving his paw. Everything pointed to the dog having already passed the autumn of its life and was entering the winter hibernation phase of the righteous, which didn't stop Dunya's parents from loving it most deeply, right after their only daughter.

Marian and Dunia didn't find the Kowalskis (oh, what luck with a surname like that! Marian would have probably thought just two months ago) in their family home with its beautiful garden. It was clear, then, that the old couple had gone for a walk. The young engaged couple, their faces beaming with laughter and holding hands, decided to go for a stroll as well. They walked the quiet, peaceful streets of this beautiful town, gazing at the colorful, family-run houses with red-tiled roofs. They listened to the laughter of children and the whir of cake mixers. They felt the small-town atmosphere.

As they walked through the entire town and returned to the street gracefully named Ogrodowa Street, number eighteen, Dunia smiled brightly, her heart beat with joy, and she sighed, feeling a surge of nervousness creeping up on her. A black and tan dog's paw dangled from between the wooden rails of the balcony. The defender returned to his seat, his parents returning from their walk. Marian rang the bell at the gate.

The interior of the Dunia family cottage was even more beautifully manicured than the garden, and even more cozy. The hallway, entirely paneled, gave a feeling of warmth that one would hardly find in modern interiors. The Kowalskis' cottage had nothing in common with modernity, except that less than a month before the happy daughter and her fiancée's arrival, they had purchased a new cistern with a flush valve built into the wall. Apart from this small touch of contemporary décor, everything here was a dream come true for any non-native Varsovian. Marian, after all, was a country man, and now he felt more of one than ever. Euphoric, he absorbed the clean air and the incredible aura of blissful peace that enveloped him in this small house, a full (suddenly, it seemed like a lot) thirty kilometers from the capital.

The Kowalskis welcomed their only daughter with love, and they shook Marian's hand with appreciation. Their future son-in-law was immediately accepted ("He has kind, cheerful eyes," Dunya's mother said to him, as they, in the womanly fashion, went to the kitchen, leaving the men to their manly conversations) and treated to delicious raspberry tea with hibiscus flowers.

How different the conversations with these people were from the empty banquet dialogues about Marynia's fourth-year ass, who, if she passed the subject, would certainly pass the professor! At Warsaw parties, Marian had learned to smile foolishly and sense the right moment to laugh. At the same time, he had practiced his own empty laughter, so that it didn't draw attention but was politely noticeable. Now, hearing Dunya's parents' casual conversation, hearing Dunya herself talk heartily about everything and nothing, the things that are usually most pleasant to talk about in a family circle: "What's going on in the capital?" "How are the flowers growing?" "Why do you come so rarely?"… Marian just sat there with a stupid smile, but slowly got used to the new situation. He was learning all over again, this time—to speak, and to speak honestly, at that. In the small, cozy house in the quiet little town, Marian was slowly learning sincerity and a relaxed manner. It was a pity he wasn't meant to learn, after all.

The guests stayed up late into the night, discussing the strangest things, avoiding political and religious topics entirely. Marian's religion meant nothing to the Duni parents, who considered unlimited hedonism the only true way of life. They had no knowledge of politics at all since their otherwise well-deserved television broke down. They hadn't bought a new one, and thanks to this wise and wise decision, they had lived for over ten years free from the manipulative influence of all mass media, including radio and newspapers. They lived for walks and for each other, with the small help of their perfectly adequate pensions. Marian sipped raspberry tea with hibiscus flowers and wondered why people feared old age.

Time passed so quickly and so lavishly that soon the old wooden cuckoo clock above the exquisitely decorated Art Nouveau sideboard announced midnight. Dunya was worried that the last train to the capital had surely left long ago, and she didn't know what to do. Poor, sensitive Dunya, always ready to find reasons to worry. Her parents only laughed at her worries. Gladly accepting their hosts' invitation, the engaged couple spent that night blissfully in the beautiful Dunya's maiden bed, making love very carefully, not wanting to disturb the peace of Dunya's parents or the little offspring growing in her belly.

Marian laughed heartily at the thought of meeting his own family. He and Dunya boarded the train eastward. They rode smiling, holding hands. Fellow passengers watched with delight, admiration, and then with disgust and obsessive jealousy. It's just how it is that not everyone is blessed with happiness and a foolishly joyful smile, and that these are the most common reasons for envy.

Upon reaching his home village, Marian burst into tears. The call, the constant call, the call of family resonated even more strongly in his heart the closer he got to the fields and the farmyard. As they walked toward the Wlazło family home, wheat lay on their right, rye on their left, and farther ahead stretched beautiful, sun-yellow rapeseed fields. Everything around them swayed with the caressing gusts of the summer wind, gilded by the beautiful, warm morning light. The air was filled with the unmistakable scent of summer and the village pond. Marian walked and cried, tightly clutching the small hand of his beloved, and when they reached their destination, he threw himself on one of his brothers' necks, sobbing so loudly that he drew the rest of the family from the house to the porch. Dunia, always sensitive to all kinds of emotion, also cried.They were greeted hospitably, though not overly effusive. A strange distance was maintained towards them. The Wlazłos were always reserved with strangers (and Marian was a stranger), but the newcomers weren't about to be put off by such a trivial matter. They had come to announce their happiness! With smiles on their faces, they ate a hearty dinner with Marian's family and explored the entire estate. The family had accepted Dunia, and everyone seemed pleased with Marian's conversion to the right path in life, but they still weren't entirely convinced of his change; they were still wary of Marian's idea of ​​starting a family and continuing the family (though they were getting closer with each passing minute). However, any fears that the young couple would want to stay in Warsaw and continue their unscrupulous pursuit of knowledge and education were quickly dispelled. Marian longed to return to the village he had abandoned years ago, and Dunia was eager to support him in this idea (as in every other). Who knows how his family would have reacted if he had made a groundbreaking discovery in biology and, willy-nilly, been forced to stay in the capital? What a cunning fellow, Marian! What providence watched over his fate when he flushed the mysterious phenomenon down the toilet! As they say, fortune favors fools, and as it turns out, even larks have no influence on that.

It turned out that the Wlazło family no longer focused solely on wheat, rye, and rapeseed. Due to EU subsidies, the eldest member of the family decided to invest in modern barns and the best English breed of beef cows. He refused to listen to anyone's advice that American cows might be better for breeding and that they were, in fact, one of the leading beef breeds in the world. Albert didn't want to hear about American cows; Albert hated Americans. The family ultimately expressed understanding and accepted the idea of ​​breeding English beef cows, of which five hundred were purchased. A large, modern barn was built, complete with tiles, waterers, a waste disposal system, and humidifiers with the scent of a sea breeze and a gentle breeze of zephyr. Staff were hired to knock down the ever-growing swallow nests. In short, all European Union requirements were met and the subsidy received. With this donation, the women of the great Wlazło family could buy new dresses and pearl earrings, because the income from the previous wheat, rye, and rapeseed crops, which had allowed for the construction of a gigantic, state-of-the-art barn, also easily covered its decent upkeep, with plenty left over.

Marian was filled with admiration and wept in the state-of-the-art barn until his sobs were answered by the lowing of all the English cows. Dunia hugged Marian to her chest and rejoiced greatly. What a wonderful life awaited her in this family! The smell of the barn (a sea breeze with a gentle breeze of zephyr) symbolized a beautifully prosperous life in the bosom of Mother Nature, and what else had she dreamed of but the life of a country lady on an estate?! Dunia was certain she had found her place on Earth and that now nothing would disturb her blissful happiness and peace. That there would be no more backroom romances in the lab with the University of Warsaw biology students, that the visits to the boss's desk were over, that all bosses were over! That now there was only Marian and his love, his fields, and his magnificent English cows. Now only peace! Oh, what beautiful dreams they had, how sorry for poor Dunya that her fate had to change so dramatically...

In the evening, the whole family sat down at the table, and almost everyone, almost completely, had warmed up to their once-hated brother. They were even smiling, looking into his eyes with appreciation. What a shame that when a person grows wise, a whole heap of misfortune immediately descends on their head, swollen with wisdom, and happiness and bliss prove only momentary. They were eating dinner quietly in the guest room of the large Wlazło house, chatting heartily and laughing from time to time, when suddenly one of the younger brothers of the eldest son of Marian's third-born brother burst into the room and yelled, "The cows are dead!" All conversation ceased, and the brat stood on the threshold of the room and bleated, "The cows are dead, the cows are dead!"

The cows had indeed died. Several had fallen, and then all the others followed. They bellowed shrilly, kicked their stalls, and darted their frantic eyes across the ceiling of the state-of-the-art barn, with its tiled floors and water troughs, frantically scented with the sea breeze. The roaring in the barn was incredible, and when the entire Wlazł family rushed in like one giant man, it intensified considerably. It was all the Wlazł women and children who were bleating. They lamented the cruel misfortune, because not only were all five hundred beef cows apparently going to hell one by one, but their ultra-modern barn was also going to hell, as the animals, whether in panic or in frenzy, thrashed blindly with their hooves, smashing the beautiful, panty-pink tiles, ripping the waterers off the walls, and shitting nonstop, clogging the purification system, as if deliberately killing the beautiful sea breeze with its zephyr, relegating EU perfection to the pages of history.

Tragedy. The plague lasted the rest of the day, all night, and then some. The veterinarian called in to the disaster, without a shadow of a doubt or a moment's hesitation, made a diagnosis that none of Wlazło, except Marian, fully understood: BSE. Albert hated the English on sight. However, since they were too far away to blame them for the misfortune, at least until the trial (because the Wlazło family had no intention of letting anyone get away with such a wrong, oh no!), Wlazło's mentality, shaped in this direction for centuries, compelled him to look for a scapegoat. This was another characteristic feature of this family, which had not yet had a chance to surface in the story. The Wlazłos always looked for the guilty. The Wlazłos always found them.

Marian arrived in the village that day with his city bride (no one wanted to hear that Dunia, God forbid, wasn't from Warsaw!) and disturbed the peace that had previously reigned in the village. Marian was guilty of the tragedy, Marian the disgrace of the Wlazło family, Marian the traitor of the Wlazło family, Marian the failure of life, the bearer of a life curse, who infected the English cows with it, and the cows died in madness. Marian – the leper and his chosen one – the plague! One angry glance from Albert at his unlucky brother was enough for the entire family to turn against him again. The oldest women were already burning the tablecloths on which they had shared dinner in a large furnace and were about to chop up the chairs on which Marian and Dunia were sitting, until one of the brothers pointed out how much the chairs cost and that the set had been custom-carved. "We'll disinfect them," he whispered in the women's ears, trying to keep his lips still and appear as unsuspicious as possible. The engaged couple was unanimously expelled from the small, now desperate village in the east of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, with a categorical ban on returning. Never!

Grief and bitterness greater than ever filled Marian's eyes. Despite pleas and explanations—BSE, illness, the English!—his family would never again acknowledge him as one of their own. Marian's heart was beating wildly; for the first time in his life, he yearned to belong, and for the first time in his life, he was ruthlessly rejected. Even the dounia breasts couldn't soothe his sadness anymore. She explained that it didn't matter, that she loved him and that they would always be together, that her parents accepted their union, and that they could live in endless happiness in their family home in a small town near Warsaw, and that everything would be as beautiful as it was meant to be! But Marian wouldn't listen. Despite exile, the call in his heart didn't immediately cease, and with a fresh wound, it tore at his heart with incredible force.

2

He lived from day to day, subsisting on bread rolls and beer. He worked in a laboratory, where he assisted on numerous experiments for a pittance. It wasn't that he couldn't afford more, because he could! He possessed more knowledge than many a God-forsaken Warsaw scientist, especially in that second-rate God-forsaken laboratory. However, Marian, with the exception of a period when, motivated by a village teacher, he decided to pursue higher education, had never been ambitious. The positive side of this coin was that everyone liked Marian. Because who wouldn't, when he didn't get in the way, didn't try to be smart, and was significantly, significantly helpful in the work for which you, not he, would receive all the proper compensation? Everyone liked Marian.

The fact that he was so fiercely popular resulted in his being invited to many distinguished societies, to many distinguished banquets and receptions celebrating the completion of research projects and similar trivialities. His lab colleagues always enjoyed having him around on such occasions. While Marian never had a clue about the current happenings in local or national politics, let alone global ones, he was always on the cutting edge when it came to bacteria and fungi. This, in turn, was a frequent problem for the average Warsaw biologist. Who in their right mind would think about tomato fungus when they found themselves on the grand stage of local politics in the Warsaw scientific world? It's undeniable that sitting in a leather swivel chair at a desk often polished by the velvet skirts of secretaries earns incomparably more than sitting on a cold, metal stool at a microscope, and the skirts here take on more attractive shapes and more pleasant textures. There was much to fight for in the political rat race, and the more astute scientists knew this perfectly well. Marian was, one might say, a man of bacteria and fungi. Marian saved Warsaw bacteriology from embarrassment by providing more than comprehensive answers when a piercing silence fell over the words "streptococcus faecalis," and it's clear that this was the situation in which he had the most to say.

Marian knew everything about bacteria and fungi, and perhaps even a little fascinated by them (if anything could be said to fascinate Marian). Therefore, whenever one of the more professionally competent foreign guests at the banquet wanted to consult their research, he was invariably referred to "my assistant, the guy's young, let him demonstrate his knowledge, let the kid show off," and at such moments Marian would deliver endless monologues (and this is no exaggeration: if at any point a colleague hadn't interrupted Marian, he might have continued talking for the rest of the evening, or perhaps even never). The greatest advantage of having such an assistant on hand was that it carried no risk. Even if someone had accidentally offered him a cushy position at the very front of the line for a director's chair, he would most likely have declined in utter astonishment with words like, "An office? What about the lab? Bacteria need me more than a secretary."

So he socialized, drank champagne, and ate his fill, treating banquets as the perfect opportunity to stuff himself with "high-class" food, as he himself called them. The contrast between a glass of champagne and a slice of smoked salmon and a glass of beer and a can of luncheon meat was immense, so Marian loved parties, and as he claimed, they constantly surprised him. It was enough for the salmon to be placed flat on a plate with half a lemon slice, and then rolled into a cork and pierced with a toothpick, to surprise and amaze Marian. Luncheon meat was simply luncheon meat…

However, aside from such occasional visits to parties and banquets, Marian's life moved along as calmly and lazily as a steamroller. Whatever happened, it happened outside. In Marian's inner world, eternal order and harmony reigned. Nothing could disturb his physical and mental equilibrium, not even something as exciting as a world-class biological discovery! One might assume that some supernatural forces ruling Marian's inner world pushed this improbable possibility away from him.

One rather inconspicuous day, when he'd been enjoying a luncheon sandwich as usual, Marian went to the lab as usual. But the skylarks already knew something was about to happen. The skylarks sang exceptionally beautifully that day, and in the center of the capital! Where they came from—no one knows why they sang—God knows, and whether they sang at all—the average Varsovian wouldn't be able to tell either, because the average person's mind always ignores such irrational signs. And wrongly! Because if even one person had heard the birdsong that morning, they would have already known to be extremely vigilant and cautious—because this could be a breakthrough day. It is enough that birds are always relegated to the gutters of urban life (of which pigeons themselves are undoubtedly the best example) and that the biological revolution did not bother anyone in Warsaw.

Marian entered the lab and, as usual, sat at his workspace. He had his microscope and his organic samples, his notes, and his birthday cards. He loved birthday cards, and since he never received them from anyone, he bought them and wrote them out himself. To make matters even more amusing, he wrote them out not only for his own birthday. He wished himself health and prosperity on the birthdays of his grandmother, aunt, cousin, boss, and every lab collaborator. Marian's postcards took up three times the space in his drawer as his research notes. The folders with his notes, while certainly large and admirable, also took up an enormous amount of space, but this space was distributed relatively evenly among his colleagues' drawers. They borrowed them, never returned them, but Marian was characterized not only by a kind heart but also by an embarrassing ignorance and a vague trust in his lab colleagues. As mentioned, everyone liked Marian.

It started prosaically: Marian was looking for his notes. He wanted to refresh his memory on an older study of some particularly uninteresting bacteria that caused some even more uninteresting and particularly disgusting disease in grasshoppers. Marian searched but couldn't find it, so he assumed someone had borrowed it. It happens—human memory is fallible—that they forget to return it. Marian reached this conclusion only after emptying the drawer's contents, when it was already in disarray on his desk next to a microscope and a container of various strange organic samples (if asked what samples he had examined that morning, he could have elaborated on the length of a two-year university lecture series, so it would be better for all of us if they simply remained organic samples). While trying to stuff the papers back into the drawer, Marian knocked over a bottle of horribly contaminated liquid full of a white suspension, which, in turn, knocked over the container containing the samples, and fell to the floor. In his fright, our hero dropped all the postcards he had been holding, which also landed on the floor, in a pool of spilled liquid among the broken glass and organic samples.

Something strange began to happen. Marian—a born scientist—froze momentarily, observing the situation intently. Bacterial cells from the white suspension were multiplying at an astonishing rate on a nutrient medium of postcard cellulose, ink, and organic substances. Marian—a born idiot—quickly grabbed the entire mess, and before his more intelligent brain cells could intervene, he flushed it all down the toilet. He was doubly stupid, for not only did he erase what was perhaps the greatest discovery made by Warsaw scientists in biology to date, but he also contributed to the complete clogging of his laboratory's entire sewage system. Soon, in other research rooms, beakers flushed down toilets and sinks, gurgling beautifully, pink, green, and purple, were faithfully returning to the scientists trying to liquefy them. Marian—a born unlucky man—was immediately exposed as the perpetrator of the disaster and forced to fork out two of his next salaries to unclog the laboratory's sewage system. And the skylarks warned – this wouldn't be an ordinary day. Because much still had to happen.

It was only twelve noon when Marian sat despondently at his microscope, observing the ecoli bacteria multiplying in a lactose medium. He stared at them blankly, resting his head lazily on his hand so that the skin of his cheek wrinkled sadly beneath his eye, which he closed three-quarters of the way. It was an incredibly sad and pathetic sight, especially since Marian wasn't one to give in to any emotion, even in the most difficult situations. Take Sylwia Z., who tragically died before his eyes after a tempestuous relationship with him. He hadn't even considered how the accident had happened, nor had he bothered to ask, and his first words after the police arrived were: "Excuse me, could you please turn off that horn? It's not particularly bothering me, but it's nighttime, and people live here. My nose hurts." And even if the police psychologist dismissed Marian's statement as post-accident shock, it's safe to call him simply an insensitive beast. After that day, he never bothered to find out where the beautiful and sexy Sylwia Z. had gone.

Now, however, gazing mournfully at the delightfully multiplying bacteria, Marian allowed himself to be captivated by existential philosophy and felt an undeniable sadness. In an instant, he longed to become a bacteria. Overcome by a sudden, uncontrollable melancholy, he gazed at the tiny creatures and pondered himself, his life, his family, and his name. The fact is, such sentiments come to us all at the most unexpected moments, and then we are completely alone, unprepared to battle the wisdom of the universe. "If it hadn't gotten in, everything would be different!" thought the unhappy Marian, barely holding back tears. "What kind of life is this?! Who am I, what am I anyway?!" A moment later, he was sobbing like a child, his tears streaming down onto the microscope, the tabletop, and the innocent ecoli bacteria. Marian broke down for the first time in his life, for the first time in his life, he felt that everything was wrong and that life should be something more, whatever that meant. The first blues in Marian's life, at the age of twenty-seven, proved profound and irrational. He sat at a microscope in a low-class Warsaw laboratory and wept.

This blues proved simultaneously profoundly significant, not only for his own bizarre life but also for the heart and soul of another innocent and sweet creature. The moment was, after all, a remarkable one for Miss Dunya's grand and unique entrance! Miss Dunya, a wise woman, though not entirely beautiful, quite ordinary even, and one of the many local lab technicians, was secretly in love with Marian. She swallowed her tears when he passed her in the hallway without reacting, when he remained silent as she brought her coffee (only loose powder, two and a half teaspoons of sugar, always cream, heaven forbid! She would recite those instructions if woken in the middle of the night!). She sighed quietly in her small room, by the large gray microscope. Miss Dunya was a tiny woman, and all the laboratory equipment was immense compared to her. She remained unnoticed and ignored by the entire laboratory staff, but this did not in any way diminish her sad, unrequited love for Marian Wlazło.

In Duni's eyes, Marian had become the ideal from the moment he arrived. Dunia had joined the laboratory six months earlier and was generally familiar with the rules that governed it. She knew where to make coffee, where to pick up laundered aprons, where to wash cups, and even where the senior lab technicians conducting internships at the Biology Department with the most beautiful University of Warsaw students went to "sign off" their grades. She often bade them farewell with a contemptuous snort and, with a furious look, led them to the tiny cubicle of the old, senile lab technician, who always had Mondays off. It should be added that Dunia had passed all her classes honestly, and openly despised girls working for grades using lower body parts than their heads. Something far more sublime, of course, was supposed to be trysts with students for pure pleasure and visits to the boss's office, since, after all, she was his employee... but Dunia didn't like to talk about it.

In any case, Marian's momentary breakdown was now a defining moment, and Miss Dunya ran into the room, alerted by his broken sobs. Her heart quivered with anxiety. What had caused the man in her life such despair?! She ran in, stopped dead in her tracks, and placed her tiny hands on the frightened face. She summoned the courage to do what had to be done to complete her studies, only occasionally opening her textbooks. A moment later, she was cradling Marian, which temporarily soothed his crying. Marian, being Marian, only after a moment, as the resentment slowly left his mind, realized that someone was cradling him. He looked up to see Miss Dunya's sharp, brown eyes. He gave her a half-smile, a goofy half-smile, which was supposed to be enough of a thank you, because he immediately pushed her away without a word and returned to his microscope. However, the idiotic half-smile lingered on his face, and Miss Dunya considered her spontaneous "save her beloved" operation a success and returned to her work, satisfied. She was smart, so she knew that the eccentric Marian would belong to her from that moment on.

Marian, however, thanks to the quick and efficient intervention of Dunya's breasts on his cheeks, was able to work normally for the rest of the day, and the idiotic smile soon transformed into the goofy expression that always followed Marian, announcing to the world that he didn't know why he was working, but knew it was the right thing to do. Chandra, however, continued to linger for some time, and despite his generally improved mood, there was something strange and unsettling about the boy.

In such a situation, Marian didn't return home that evening. Miss Dunia wouldn't have dared miss such an opportunity for an all-night communion with the love of her life! Miss Dunia, perhaps the only one who heard the echo of the larks that morning and was prepared. Incidentally, Miss Dunia had always been ready to intervene in Marian's case, perhaps even from her previous incarnation, and she knew exactly what had to be done. A man in distress needs nothing more than a piece of a warm woman's breast and a glass of whiskey on ice! Miss Dunia knew men. At least men like Marian Wlazł.

Finding himself in Dunia's apartment, or rather, having been led there by her hand (with absolutely no protest, Marian never did), he, in all his resignation, guzzled half a bottle of the whiskey she offered, which instantly lifted his spirits again, almost as much as the affectionate embrace in the laboratory. He no longer cried or sobbed; even dark thoughts slowly left his mind. And when he made love to Miss Dunya on her generously sized, flowered couch, which was, of course, inevitable, he also felt somehow more at ease than before in matters of men and women. At one point, he even felt like he was the man in the bed… and he even liked it. He fucked Miss Dunya several times that night, to her immense joy, and the positions they both improvised would have been worthy of the oldest editions of the Kama Sutra. In all his rapture, he couldn't think of anything—life, the future, his shameful surname, and his equally shameful family history, completely devoid of anything as mundane as protection. They made love long and hard, Dunya screaming, and Marian screaming, something he had never done before. That intoxicating night, something snapped inside Marian. He seemed to understand sex. He seemed to like women.

A few months after that unforgettable night, Marian's life had undergone a dramatic transformation. Those two neat little words, joined by the humble "w," were to usher in a new era in Marian Wlazło's life. Whereas until then he had been a mere social outcast, never finding his so-called place, now it seemed he would gradually begin to sprout roots and slowly settle into the soil of life.

Dunia once came to the laboratory with a broad smile on her chubby face, unceremoniously entered Marian's room, and exclaimed, "I'm pregnant!" A long silence followed. Dunia remained silent because she had already announced everything she wanted to. Marian remained silent because, with his irritating habit, he hadn't grasped what she meant. So she repeated her announcement three more times, but he still wasn't sure he'd gotten it. Had the rebellious and cursed Wlazło fathered his first offspring?

Yes, yes. Due to this unexpected twist in the story of his life, Marian now spent his days at work at his microscope, but he no longer thought about bacteria. He spent his evenings over a glass of treacherous whisky, but he didn't think about the ice cubes slowly dissolving into it, nor about its golden-brown color, which had once reminded him of Marian's urine. Marian wasn't thinking; Marian was brooding, staring into the void. He was immersed in a deep reverie unlike any he'd ever experienced in his life. He hadn't pondered anyone's death so much, but he was pondering future births. After all, not just anyone was about to be born; a new Vlazło was about to be born!

Dunia bustled around the apartment with a slightly enlarged belly. Not in her own apartment, but in Marian's studio apartment. She was cleaning his tiny room, his tiny bathroom, and his kitchen. With innate grace, she tossed his dirty panties and socks into the laundry basket (she'd bought it for Marian; he himself probably didn't even know such a thing existed). Dunia beamed with unmistakable happiness, while Marian felt closer and closer, stronger and stronger... Marian sensed the call of family, of golden wheat fields swaying in the wind somewhere in eastern Poland, far from the hustle and bustle of the capital. Over a glass of whisky, watered down with melted ice, he pondered the rapeseed oil he'd been fixated on for a while. Dunia had brought it with her and fried beautiful, brown, freckled pancakes in it. "Rapeseed," Marian thought, dinner and Dunia pointedly ignoring him. "Rapeseed."

Then he made his decision. He slammed the glass of alcohol down on the table, grabbed his wallet, and ran out of the apartment. Dunya stopped cleaning in horror and, in her shock, even dropped Marian's toothbrush cup, which she had just been cleaning off an ugly yellow stone. The blue plastic cup clattered hollowly against the bathroom tile, and tears glistened in Dunya's large eyes—dark and deep as a well—. Was he leaving? Leaving her like this? Poor and lonely, in her own apartment? A million strange thoughts swirled in Dunya's black mane. She couldn't clean anymore, couldn't do anything else but sit on the chair Marian had just abandoned, wring her hands, and cry. Dunya was such a cruelly sensitive little girl that she would wring her hands many, many more times in her life in the most inappropriate situations, for even the most trivial reasons.

Marian

Marian Wlazło, being exceptionally sensitive about his surname, was very reluctant to discuss the circumstances in which it was bestowed upon the forerunners of his family. To be precise, he never spoke of it. He also never revealed that he even knew it, so all his acquaintances lived in the belief that the history of the Wlazło surname, like the histories of the vast majority of surnames, graced a group of those minor elements of world history that no one bothers with; in short, that such a name did not actually exist. But nothing could be further from the truth!

For generations, the Wlazłos were a family that exemplarily cultivated tradition. Children were told the story of the nickname bestowed upon a poor but well-married peasant, Maciej, from the cradle. It might seem highly inappropriate for such a story to be heard by swaddled toddlers, but another distinguishing characteristic of the Wlazło family was that they always knew better. There was no Wlazło who would compromise even once in their life; they never gave in to a discussion, even if they were at odds with the entire world. It was rare for anyone in this family to speak to the same person twice. The Wlazłos had their honor, their pride, and—often erroneous, but always their own and unquestionable—convictions.

Members of Marian's family were generally very cheerful people, but only within their own circle. They didn't joke, laugh, or become familiar with strangers, unless the stranger was a very attractive member of the opposite sex and a potential future Wlazło. In such a case, every Wlazło became a delightful, incredibly intelligent person, bursting with eloquence in every direction, so that observers of such a scene unconsciously wiped their faces, expecting to be drenched in his beautiful words. There was no young woman Wlazło had ever met who didn't later become his happy wife. Because, undoubtedly, becoming Wlazło's wife was an enviable blessing. The women in this family were highly regarded, never working, always beautiful and well-groomed; they joyfully raised their numerous children (there was never a childless Wlazło over thirty) and with no less enthusiasm maintained the order and overall beauty of the household.

It should be noted that Marian Wlazło was different. As for his surname, surely no one doubts that he would prefer not to dig up its roots? But who would ask him for his opinion?

The story dates back to the times of Polish nobility, when a poor peasant named Maciej roamed the land. He drank copious amounts of mead and didn't shy away from Russian vodka. He wore his long beard, perpetually stained by alcohol and food, proudly puffing out his chest, seemingly in competition with another poor peasant called Jontek. Jontek was brazenly handsome, and his entire brazenness boiled down to the fact that, with a seemingly extraordinary arrogance, he unconsciously concealed all his handsomeness! Not only did he sport a waist-long beard, even more spit-covered and filthy than Maciej's, but his baggy, torn, dirty, and stinking clothes made him look like a handsome man—God forbid, a raggedy man!

There were two of them in the village, and they disliked each other like two magpies who fight over a bone. They gave each other a wide berth as they wandered along the country lane. And when the two of them happened to peek into the only pub in a run-down town three Hail Marys from the village, everyone knew the tables and chairs would be packed. It usually started after the fifth or sixth mug of brewed beer. The innkeeper would prudently hide the glasses under the counter, then crawl underneath, shaking his butt in the air and burying his head in his arms. It might seem logical to ban both drunks from the pub, but there were two significant obstacles: there were no tough guys in the town capable of standing up to the thugs, and when they did show up at the inn, unchallenged, they spared no expense. They drank themselves to death, falling asleep under a bench, and at dawn they set off on their journey back to their home village. Throwing tables is incredibly tiring, and since the tables were made of solid wood and had been used without fatalities for some time, the drunken acts were tolerated, not without coercion.

"So, my child, there came a day..." one of the grandmothers recounted to one of the Wlazło family's grandchildren, brimming with pride, puffing out her chest in a practiced gesture common to all Wlazłos, "...when two little scoundrels had to court!" That's how Maciej, a poor peasant, was always referred to in this family; he was a "scoundrel." And he did indeed have to court one beautiful, sunny morning, as he stumbled out of a bar that was empty at that hour, dirty, and covered in puke. Lifting his eyes, red from drink and rimmed with a livid swelling, he saw a woman he didn't yet know would radically change his life. At first, he was simply enchanted by her girlish beauty, the way she moved with a grace unheard of among women in that area. It should be noted that the women of this village, forgotten by God and the Devil, were courageous women. They were close to sporting mustaches and guzzling honey without restraint. Their bodies were plump and soft, but their character was as hard as rock. The women of this small village in eastern Poland, working in the harvest and in the town guilds, definitely lacked femininity.

This made the peasant Maciej all the more captivated by her long, silky hair, the golden color of the best tavern beer (a connection Maciej certainly had no small significance in), her slender, rosy face, adorned with crimson, heart-shaped lips, and her innocent eyes like two gleaming almonds. He moved slowly forward, his gaze fixed on her enormous, pert breasts, barely concealed by her low-cut bodice. She danced along the slippery city cobblestones, a tub full of laundry under her arm. "A drunkard's paradise," Maciej probably thought, his gaze persistently following the passing beauty and her extraordinary breasts. "This is a drunkard's angel; it's so good to be a drunkard!" When the girl disappeared from his sight, he turned his head after her, momentarily forgetting the rest of his body, still moving forward. Such gymnastics could only end in a fall. Maciej fell flat on his face to the ground, his head hitting the damp cobblestones. Only a strangled "ugh" escaped from deep within his chest.

It took him a moment to recover enough to lift his large, bloated frame from the ground and take stock of the situation. Anesthetized by the alcohol still roaring in his head, he didn't feel a lump the size of his fist growing on his temple. Nor could he see the color of the lump, which was slowly beginning to resemble a plum. A Hungarian plum, ripening at a rate that was, for a plum, alarming. He looked around, searching for something he thought he had lost, but he couldn't remember what it was?!

He seemed even drunker than he actually was. Even if it might seem that someone who never really sobers up couldn't appear "more" drunk, that was precisely the case. He walked unsteadily, his unseeing gaze fixed somewhere in the distance, his mouth open comically. People and animals moved out of his way as he sped along the country road from bank to bank. He hurried somewhere in his drunken trance, knowing neither where nor why he was going. All the grandmothers of the Wlazło family described this moment in great detail. This march was the prelude to the most important event in his life, to the most important event in the existence of the entire family, to the moment when the family unofficially came into being.

Peasant Maciej's drunken march was also—Marian would shudder at the memory—the prelude to what, in his opinion, was the most shameful part of this story. Peasant Maciej had seen the purpose of his journey. He saw his target, with gray eyes and a heart-shaped mouth, accompanied by the drunkard Jontek. Jontek was courting the girl, not at all rejected. The girl was hanging laundry on the line, smiling from ear to ear, revealing a row of white, even teeth. Jontek gazed hungrily at her cleavage, a churlish smile on his face and a trail of saliva sticking disgustingly to his thick beard.

Maciej initially wanted to burst into tears at the sight, but after a moment, anger and lust took over! He adopted the most menacing expression he could muster, and he was capable of much in that regard, and then he strode briskly forward, rolling up the sleeves of his worn gray shirt. Jontek had no chance of noticing his approaching rival, who approached aggressively, not hiding his fury, best visible in his watery, swollen, and now deeply wrinkled, pig-like eyes. He grabbed his rival by the so-called louse and brutally tore him away from the delightful sight of a girl's breasts. Jontek fell to the ground no less spectacularly than Maciej had just moments before. "What the hell is he eating?!" Jontek supposedly cursed, according to grandmotherly tales. He didn't have time to elaborate on his question, because an enraged peasant was already sitting on his chest, eagerly punching his bearded face. The hazel-haired girl turned with the ease of a butterfly and watched with unspeakable horror the brawl in which Maciej's victory was certain. She placed her slim, tiny hands on her inflamed cheeks, shaping her crimson lips even more expressively into a full, plump heart.

After less than two Hail Marys (according to the family wives), Jontek was already lying breathless, and Maciej and the girl were heading to the village, to Maciek's barn. Leaving her white, washed dresses and pantaloons in a wooden tub, she willingly went in her lover's arms. The people they passed along the way shook their heads in pity. "With that drunkard, such a pretty girl!" they probably thought with distaste. "What a bunch of balloons she has!" the peasants must have thought too, setting aside their scythes, sickles, or whatever they happened to be holding. And she toddled joyfully at Maciej's side, laughing heartily, with a subtle note of madness in her voice.

In the hayloft of the barn, they could only initially enjoy the moment themselves. Immediately, half the village came running, having heard the girl's cries and moans. They grabbed pitchforks, scythes, and rushed to the aid of the murdered man or beast. However, upon reaching the scene, they stopped dead in their tracks at the wide-open, rotting doors of Maćkowa's barn. They stood and watched in disbelief at the deeds of the hideous, bearded drunkard. It was undeniable that they watched with envy—whether women or men, they envied such vigor and strength as one.

After a while, the spectacle had to end, for a handsome gentleman appeared on a black steed, and his face, though not young, was filled with terror. "He's raping my daughter!" the chatelaine supposedly shouted in hysterics, while in the background his little daughter sobbed with unmistakable delight. "Get that pig off my daughter before it's too late!" But at that very moment, the spasmodic tremors in Maciej's back betrayed that it was already too late. "Just now, sir, too late, it's gone, it's a bloody mess!" one of the peasants is said to have shouted, and this sentence was repeated by the grandmothers each time, unchanged. This is how the Wlazło family came into being, and this is also how the peasant Maciej stopped being a spitting drunk (which, of course, doesn't mean he stopped drinking).

The handsome castellan proved to be a man worth admiring. In the face of the greatest tragedy of his life, he maintained composure and sobriety. They pulled their daughter, still laughing delightfully, beautiful and rosy from recent delights, onto their black steed, and galloping away from Maćko's barn, they managed to say: "Tomorrow, peasant, they will bring you in a horse-drawn carriage to the manor, and you will forget forever that you were ever a peasant and a drunkard, and if not, I will have your filthy mug removed!" The peasant did not protest.

So, a poor peasant named Maciej unexpectedly became Master Maciek in the manor of the then-respected castellan, all thanks to the desire of a deranged lord's daughter. From then on, whenever he rode through the village in a beautiful, ebony, ornately carved carriage with crimson-trimmed seats, he was called "Wlazło Maciej, Wlazło Maciej!" And Maciek was so proud of his achievement that he never abandoned the nickname. At the same time, despite all appearances to the contrary, he was a man of extraordinary cunning, so that soon the entire manor house and its outbuildings belonged to him, and these peculiarities in his craft were not enough! He fathered eight sons and one beautiful, rosy-cheeked, fair-haired daughter, just like his mother. He began a family with extraordinary traditions, a wealthy and prosperous family, full of gigolos and clever, resourceful (in every sense of the word) young ladies. So there was much to boast about.

However, Marian Wlazło also happened to be in this family. The 21st century, of course, is neither the time nor the place for family reminiscences from the days of noble Poland, nor the time to boast about them; at least that was his assumption, unlike the rest of his family. He certainly had a large family. Three brothers and three sisters, each with at least two children, and it's certain they wouldn't stop there. Six siblings plus two parents, and all eight of them (not to mention aunts and uncles...) hated Marian wholeheartedly, blaming Warsaw for his depravity.

Even at thirteen, Marian displayed above-average academic abilities and displayed exceptional intelligence in the field of science. His entire family lived in the countryside, of course without the shame of labor. Although the estate no longer included fourteen villages, as had been the case in the past, they managed to defend over two thousand hectares of land from wartime dismantling, from which they continued to derive considerable income, cultivating wheat, rye, and rapeseed. They employed a vast number of people and owned a plethora of top-caliber agricultural machinery. They were unrivaled farmers, and what allowed them, as the saying goes, to rise to such heights was not only their business acumen but also the absolute solidarity of the Wlazło family, which Marian alone dared to break.

He graduated from the village school (as is tradition, none of the Wlazłos had ever sullied their studies or contact with the so-called "intelligentsia") a year early, and the teacher declared, "The boy must go to university, the boy has talent!" Marian, on the other hand, was deeply moved by this talent and said to himself, "Yes! I must go to university! I have talent!" His family's reaction, however, was incomparably different: "What is university?! You've got to be kidding!" But Marian wasn't kidding. At eighteen, he was accepted to the University of Warsaw, where he studied biology, and received a social scholarship. In subsequent years, he continued to receive scholarships for his outstanding academic performance. His family never truly forgave him for this disgrace, but perhaps their attitude toward Marian would not have been so hostile had Marian married and fathered seven sons. Marian, on the other hand, neither fathered nor married.

With increasing certainty, one could assume that he was cursed. Of the entire four-hundred-year-old line of gigolos and Casanovas, he was the one born a shy and timid boy. He was handsome, for a change, and plenty of girls quietly fell in love with Marian, both at the village school and in college. He had several less-than-successful relationships with beautiful and intelligent, if dissolute, girls, but Marian never fell in love, and the girls didn't stay with him for more than a year. Most of their trysts were initiated by the girls themselves or by Marian's well-wishers. Nothing ever came of such a date, at least not in the way Marian's family expected.

One encounter in particular, however, was noteworthy, more for the mystery of the event itself than for its impact on his unwieldy psyche. Aside from his ability to quickly learn about bacteria and fungi, Marian displayed no other significant talents, such as driving. The meeting with Sylwia was not, in truth, his first physical contact with a woman, but it was the first meeting during which so much happened, and Marian met again with each of his previous partners many times.

Until now, Marian's encounters with girls had been limited to rather unsatisfying sex. He'd first been hit on by a girl in high school, two years older than him, when he was seventeen. After one incredibly tedious school party, she took him to her house, led him to his room, and told him to take off his pants. Completely unaware of these matters, Marian did as he was told and lay down on the bed. He waited through the entire ritual with a straight face, like an inevitable cataclysm. The girl told him to go home, and that was the end of Marian's first sexual adventure. Subsequent encounters weren't any better; he'd made love in the beds of numerous beauties, in several city restrooms, and in meadows outside the city. Nothing surprising happened until he met Sylwia in the car (which was also the place where he hadn't met a girl for the first time).

The girl didn't turn off the engine; it was an exceptionally cold winter outside, so she turned the heater on high. They both climbed into the backseat without further ado; Marian already knew what they expected of him. The girl, in amorous ecstasy, arched her naked, slender body, aiming the top of her head, thrown back, straight at the windshield. Her shoulders were hidden from Marian somewhere behind the backs of the front seats, yet he could freely observe with peculiar curiosity (that's the right word) her small, pert breasts, bouncing in all directions. They were making love in such a way that it couldn't be called calm, though, given the girl's increasingly wild cries, when suddenly Marian felt something moving beneath him. He tore his gaze from the luxuriating breasts and discreetly glanced down, careful not to disturb the girl straddling him, but saw nothing, though undoubtedly something very large was still moving beneath him, accelerating with the rhythmically bouncing girl. He concentrated for a long moment, and when he heard Sylwina's final cry of pleasure, he had a revelation. They were rolling, along with the car, over the bumpy slope of a forest ravine. Delighted with his discovery, he wanted to share it immediately with his partner, but then he felt a tremendous force throw him forward, his nose hitting the girl's parted crotch. Then he lost consciousness.

When he awoke, he heard the irritating sound of a horn and felt the smell and taste of semen mixed with blood on his face. He opened his eyes wider, but it was dark all around him, and he couldn't see anything until he opened the car door. However, he felt an incredible pain in his nose. A feeble ceiling light, covered in blue plush and red bloodstains, flickered on. The light seemed so feeble and ominous, for the lamp itself was covered in a large stain of congealing blood. Marian didn't realize what was happening, remaining in a state of severe shock for about an hour. He didn't even recover enough to remove his former lover's limp thigh, fading with each passing moment, from the horn. The piercing sound initially pierced his brain like a drill bit, but after a moment, he was able to ignore it. Curiously, he gingerly touched his nose, yet in shock, he didn't yet feel the true pain that was yet to come.

When the police arrived, likely notified by a nearby resident, Marian was still sitting in the backseat, gazing wildly around, while Sylwia remained compromisingly posed, thrown through the car's shattered windshield, half inside the car and half on its mercilessly crumpled accordion-like hood. A large red stain still remained on the tree: a mixture of blood and brains from the previously beautiful Sylwia Z., undoubtedly the main culprit in this entire tragedy. From what the police determined, there was no doubt that the two children (though both were twenty-two at the time, to the police they were unofficially children, like all young people who get into terrible trouble through carelessness and youthful stupidity) had been having sex in the backseat of the car, and that the girl must have accidentally released the parking brake, but the car wasn't in gear, and as a result, it rolled down the hillside, hitting the tree. To this day, Marian doesn't know for sure what happened that evening, nor does he particularly care. His broken nose has healed quite well, though it leaves a slight hump at the bridge. Admittedly, the shock of the accident wasn't new to him. As one might suspect, Marian's entire life has been one of unending shock, with a perpetual look of surprise on his face and a perpetual unawareness of what was actually happening around him.

Marian was not a sentimental man. He was unmoved by the death of Sylwia Z. (he likely wasn't fully aware of it), just as he was unmoved by the death of his own parents. Less tragic, it was a completely natural death from old age, in his own large marital bed, in his own family home in the middle of his own ancestral village, for the core of the Wlazło family never left that glorious, eerily forgotten village in the east of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. Informed of his parents' deaths, Marian returned to his hometown, abandoned years ago, kissed and hugged his entire large family, one by one, leaving no one out (as everyone, without exception, attended the funeral and wake). He ate and drank his fill, and then the day after the wake, as joyful as a wedding, he returned to his small, favorite studio apartment in the center of the capital.