CARCASS

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It was quiet. She heard the steady, monotonous sounds of the alarm clock from the next room. They seemed malicious, mocking, as if nothing had happened, as if the tick, tick, tick, were the most important thing. At times, she couldn't bear it; she covered her ears or buried her head under the pillow. It didn't help; the alarm clock sounded even louder, even clearer, more painful. Each movement of the tiny spring struck her eardrums with a sharp sting, each second jump of the hand chimed like the largest of bells.

A bright mark remained on the wall above the mirror. A place where heads had been pressed together, faces smiling unnaturally at the photographer's shout, frozen, faded gazes. She couldn't look at the photo because she couldn't believe it was over, it was all over. She preferred to close her eyes and think that this was just one bad moment. Andrzej would wake up and say, "Make me something to eat." Then he would stretch, yawn, and start looking for his slippers. He could never find them, convincing her that he always placed them by the bed, and at night, someone maliciously hid them from him. He would later find them in the bathroom or under the kitchen table, and carrying them like a hunting trophy, he would convince her that he couldn't have left them there.

From that day on, she began wearing white. She received white panties, socks, bras, and shirts immediately. She bought several white blouses and sweaters without any problems. It took her several days to assemble the rest: white shoes, trousers, a jacket, and something to cover her head. The first time she went out like that, her neighbor didn't recognize her, and passersby could barely contain their mocking smiles.

At night, she wore black only for him.

Before, tears had flowed from her constantly, for a month. No sobbing, no spasms, they simply fell. Drop by drop, onto the floor, the ground, the grass, the sidewalk. She had to hide, avoid people. When she could no longer bear the loneliness, she put on tinted glasses and spent hours wandering through self-service shops where she didn't have to look anyone in the eye. She'd brush against things, someone would bump into her, apologize, someone else would ask a question she didn't understand. She understood less and less of what was happening around her. Who were all these people, where were they rushing to, and why did they need all this? For backup? For the future? After all, things could break down, anything could break down at any moment. Suddenly, they could start to stink and become repulsive. The future could turn into carrion.

She dreamed of sleep, deep, deep. A journey into complete oblivion, and for everything to be as it was when she woke up. If such trips were sold in travel agencies, she wouldn't hesitate; she would give all her money. She spent hours reading the offers posted on windows: diving in Egypt, diving courses, diving school, diving in Sharm el Sheikh, Dahab, diving travel agency, last minute, diving holidays, scuba diver, flight, peninsula, pilot, guide, tour, exotic, ticket, world, map, Rome, Colosseum, Pope, pizza, pasta, basil, wine, vacation, holiday, vacation, summer, trip, trips, sun, plane, coach, tourist, tourism, sea, ocean, relaxation, beach, sun, hotels, room. Those strange words calmed her, she imagined his voice and felt he was there. They had been preparing their whole lives to go somewhere. They had stopped at just that. Home was their whole world; nowhere else would they feel the way they did there, sipping their cups of tea, in their slippers, in the armchair whose sounds they knew by heart, in front of the television they'd put out for shifts on a frosty December night in the early 1980s. They were as happy there as children when, without leaving their beds, they could watch the Central Committee plenary session the next day—they imagined it could be like this in paradise. Outside, it was the ghastly winter of a century, maybe a millennium, and they, under a blanket as big as a barn, full of feathers, drank hot milk. Cocoa was missing; they could do without it; they managed without so many things, without oranges, real chocolate, ham, even without condoms. It was better this way. More pleasant. Just them and the talking bubek with glasses that concealed his eyes. Just their steaming, blood-thumping bodies and the gray head of the apparatchik, his throat dry from his drivel. She even remembered fragments of speeches:

"It would also be a profound injustice for all party members to be self-flagellated today for sins they didn't commit. It wasn't the party that failed and was at fault, but certain members, identified by name and surname, those whom the party trusted, placing them in leadership positions."

They made love while the speakers drank water, or the applause rang out. As if they were beating them. One more, one more, comrades, one more socialist child, for Poland, for the country, come on, comrade, open yourselves wider to comrade, with life, once, once, we are building a new home, creating a new citizen, a socialist person. What's the matter, comrade? You can't, you can't cope, you don't rise to the challenges set for you? The broadcast from the plenum lasted seven hours. Like seven interrupted intercourses. Relations applauded by delegates from mining Silesia and steel-making Krakow, from steel Stalowa Wola, textile Łódź and fucked-up Warsaw.

More and more often, she found herself in the past instead of the present. She saw it, felt it, and heard it. She was with him. In bed, on walks, with friends, at the cinema, back in bed. She relived all the days that had already passed, all the nights they had slept through. She didn't know why, she didn't want it, but everything was happening outside of her. Sometimes she returned for a moment, woke up, looking around as if in an unfamiliar city for the first time. The returns became increasingly rare and brief.

Her memory went far back, sometimes all the way to childhood. To the time before him. When she was in the process of imagining him. When she waited for the day he would appear, when he would take her hand and they would walk together. She stopped recognizing people and places. She didn't respond to greetings or acquaintances, walking slowly as if she were on a walk, sometimes quickly, as if in a hurry. She felt no chill. Sometimes she'd leave early in the morning in a thin blouse, a short skirt, and flip-flops. Icicles hung from the eaves of the brick houses and the gutters, and she walked squinting against the sun, which seemed closer and hotter to her.

She woke up in a store; she was sure she was with Andrzej at the allotment. She went to a stand selling discounted air fresheners. She took two each: forest, sea, rose, and lemon. The cashier looked at her kindly, as if she were an unfortunate child who'd dropped a lollipop in the mud.

"Eighteen zlotys. Why do you need so many air fresheners?

" "I like nice smells."

She nervously pulled out a twenty-zloty bill and, without waiting for change, left.

"Hello, ma'am, I still have the change! What people! Oh my God!"

She entered the apartment, closed the door, and pulled out the forest one. Andrzej loved the forest. He only wandered around familiar places, didn't care about mushrooms, loved trees, touched them, sometimes kissed them. She laughed at him, saying he was mentally challenged, that they were just dead plants, that they didn't feel or think. Now she understood him better. She entered the room, a stench assaulted her nostrils, and pressed the spray bottle. With a loud hiss, the sweet, slightly suffocating scent of pine spread throughout the room. She moved closer, to the bed. She sprayed his face, shirt, and legs. She heard someone knocking. She pressed the spray bottle again and left, locking the door. "

Good morning, Mrs. Maryla? It's me, Kazimierczakowa." The neighbor entered without waiting for an invitation, looking around the apartment. "Isn't her husband home?" "Isn't he?

" "Isn't he?"

"He's gone?

" "He's gone.

" "When will he be back?

" "Who knows?"

"I thought he'd returned." He wasn't there last week, he's gone now, and my sink is leaking so much. Mrs. Pawłowska, where's your husband gone? For a long time.

"A friend of his in Warsaw got him a job, he could use some money."

"In Warsaw? I don't know, people say different things. One went to Warsaw and arrived in a black bag, it's a wilderness there now, people are afraid to go out on the street, they attack in broad daylight, there's banditry and that's it. But will it be there next week?

" "I don't know. Maybe it will be there, maybe it won't be there. Call a plumber, who will wait so long.

" "That's easy to say, a specialist will come, ask for money, and Mr. Andrzejek would do it for me for free, you can't find another handyman like that. I'll go now. Goodbye, Mrs. Maryla, you look bad, is your liver okay?" "

Yes, your liver."

"There's yellow under your eyes, and you don't happen to have

any stones?" "What stones?

" "In your gallbladder.

" "I don't know, I don't think so. My head hurts. I can't sleep."

"Drink some lemon balm before bed, or a thimbleful of something stronger, but no more." And open the windows more often, it's stuffy here and it feels strange."

"Windows? You can't open the windows." Andrzej, allergic to pollen, would have broken out in a heartbeat.

"But he's not here now.

" "He's not here, but when he gets here, he'll get sick. That pollen settles on the carpet and furniture." "

Oh, yes, you're right, I read something about it, probably in Tina. I'll go now."

She watched her neighbor through the window. She walked, dragging her ailing legs behind her, stopping, looking back, and at one point it seemed she twitched her nose as if sniffing something. Disgusting, nosy woman, she decided not to let her in anymore. She undressed and walked naked into the bathroom. She turned on the water. She stood in front of the large mirror, thinking she didn't look her age. She was slim, still had full breasts, buttocks without stretch marks, legs like a teenager's. She looked at herself, touched herself, her neck, her hair. She couldn't understand how it was possible. She stood there, warm, alive, feeling the blood flowing through her, the pounding of her heart, as if it would be wonderful to give him half of herself, half of her heart, blood, brain. She stepped into the bathtub, submerging herself for a moment. Andrzej had always liked her. They had made love a week before. Andrzej wasn't feeling well. The stabbing pain in his left side was bothering him more and more, and when he finished, he was breathing louder than usual, as if he were choking. She asked him to go to the doctor, and he agreed, but she knew even then that he was only saying it for peace of mind; he had never been to a doctor in his life, and he hated the very thought of being sick. He didn't want to know if anything was wrong with him; he didn't care about tests, cholesterol, proteins, blood cells, bone marrow, and such nonsense.

The phone rang in the hallway. She dove underwater to block out the sound. It didn't help. Someone was being exceptionally stubborn. She hissed with anger and answered without dressing.

"Hello."

"Marylka?

" "Yes."

"Jacek, this is it. Listen, I need to contact Andrzej." Urgent matter.

-I told you he went to the sanatorium.

"I know, but which one do you have contact information for, a phone number, or at least an address, a name, something...

" "Call me later, I'm taking a bath."

She hung up the phone. She glanced at the scissors lying under the mirror. She quickly cut the cord and returned to the bathtub. She lay there for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts. She couldn't. She got out of the bathtub again, took a bottle from the fridge, gulped down a few sips, then a few more. She looked at the bottle. She sighed and drank it down in one gulp. She returned to the bathtub and began humming his favorite, "Insomnia for Two."

"Insomnia for Two, wonderful insomnia.

How easy it is to slip into everyday life in the morning.

When we both believe in one thing, we know

that soon we won't be sleeping anymore."

She submerged under the water and, only her lips above the surface, continued singing, louder and more gibberish.

"As always, the two of us, a wonderful insomnia.

When open eyes want to penetrate the darkness,

To understand the meaning of your pupils ,

To believe that nothing will change."

She parted the curtains. The moon filled the room with a calm, pale yellow light. He settled on the carpet, flattened himself on the wardrobe, crawled under the table and chairs. She stood by the window, dragging on her cigarette, and said. "

I know I shouldn't, that it's unhealthy, that I'll get cancer or something worse. You always told me that. Stop stinkin', you'll see, you'll exhaust yourself. I didn't listen to you. I was right. It's a pity you didn't let me persuade you. We could be together. Imagine how wonderful it would be. We'd borrow from each other, steal. In the morning, over coffee, we'd smoke instead of sandwiches. For lunch, after lunch, on a walk, after dinner, before bed. We'd smoke after love." Or during—I've heard it's a blast—I'd inhale and blow it straight into your lungs. Do you hear me? Cigarettes don't harm me at all, they work for me, I have beautiful skin, white teeth, I chain-smoke one after another, and nothing's wrong with me. I feel better and better, each time better. Why didn't you want to smoke with me?

She finished smoking. She pulled back the covers and lay back down in her spot away from the wall. After a moment of lying on her back, she reached for the lamp.

"I'll read to you. I'm sure you'll like it." Choromański. "Jealousy and Medicine."

"At seven o'clock in the evening, the lights went out all over the city."

At seven in the morning, dragging her ailing legs behind her, old Kazimierczak set off with a firm resolve to take care of a certain matter. She was afraid like never before in her life; not even during the occupation had she felt such fear. The street was completely gray, the sun reluctantly breaking through a thick layer of clouds and fog. She had taken with her a rosary brought from the Holy Land by her daughter-in-law. It smelled of roses. She threaded the beads, randomly repeating the words of prayers that came to mind. She arrived before eight. She glanced at the neglected building. A hot cramp gripped her stomach. She reached the door, which suddenly opened, and the man left without acknowledging her. She turned back. After the third time, she felt a cold sweat break out on her, glanced at the red sign, and resolutely walked in the other direction. With shaking hands, she opened the door and picked up the receiver.

"Police Headquarters, Senior Officer Wiesław Sowula. I'm listening."

"I don't know how to say this, I wanted to...I wanted to say I know something terrible."

"Perhaps we should start by introducing ourselves. As you've noticed, I've already done that.

" "Murder, I wanted to report a murder, I smell a corpse, from a distance, the man has been gone for several months."

"Okay. Who murdered whom? One by one."

"Ulica Wschodnia 12.

" Kazimierczakowa turned tensely and walked away. The voice of the increasingly impatient policeman could be heard in the receiver for a moment longer.

Despite reading all night, Maryla didn't feel tired. She didn't really know what the book was about, who the characters were, what their names were, or even what this jealousy thing was about. She didn't know such a word. True love knows no jealousy. Neither she nor Andrzej ever did; jealousy seemed idiotic, stupid to them. Jealousy was good for teenagers, for people who didn't trust each other. She read Choromański, imagining the day that was just beginning. Surprises await us at every moment of our lives, she thought, and for the first time in days, she fell asleep.

"Mrs. Maryla, Mrs. Maryla! Please open up, please open up, I have something to tell you."

Kazimierczakowa put her ear to the door and listened. She counted to ten and, with the hand still clutching the rosary, struck the door, repeating it like a spell: "Mrs. Maryla, Mrs. Maryla!

" "What do you want? Leave me alone!" Maryla finally said, unable to bear the old woman's screams.

"Please open up, I beg you.

" "Andrzej isn't here.

" "Mrs. Maryla, I know everything..."

At that moment, Maryla's sleepy face appeared from behind the half-open door.

"What do you mean, I know everything?"

"I know. I saw it through the window last night. I saw your husband. Mrs. Maryla, I...I...I don't know how to tell you this, because I...because I feel so sorry for you. And I came to warn you to run, the police will be here soon.

" "Police? "

"I told them about the murder...

" "Murder?"

The policemen took their time. They strolled along Wschodnia Street. They had a dozen anonymous reports of murders a month. They had never had one before. At the same leisurely pace, they entered the apartment's open door. At that moment, they caught a whiff. They looked at each other and instinctively touched their leather holsters. Protecting themselves, they moved like anti-terrorists. Finally, the more experienced senior officer, Wiesław Sowula, kicked the door open with a powerful kick. He stood with his weapon drawn, a cry that caught in his throat. Maryla, dressed in white, lay beside her husband. Stroking his head, she spoke in a low voice.

"They want to take you away from me, Andrzej. They want to break your legs to squeeze you into my best suit. But you never liked suits; you always said they were too tight, even if they were too big. They want to put you in patent leather shoes, those funny ones with the crests; you didn't even want to wear them to your wedding. They want to burn candles for you, sing Hail Marys, as if there was no point, they want to wail over you like old hags, they want to put you between pine boards, nail you to death. They want to bury you in the ground. You'll have no one to talk to, no one to bring you a glass of tea. They want to take you away from me, Andrzej."