Cats

The regular, irritating clatter of wheels on steel rails ceased, and the Warszawa Centralna – Gdynia Główna express rolled its massive mass into Sopot Główny station. I slowly stepped onto the platform and gazed at the milky blue sky above the city. The Sopot sky.

A quick glance at the station clock and a stifled cry of joy: I still had plenty of time. I should have sat down somewhere, had a coffee to wake me up, reviewed my notes, critically assessed my naive questions. Instead, I decided to walk around the city. Time moves so slowly here, calming, soothing. I hoped it would soothe me too.

I crossed the station and tentatively stepped onto the pedestrian zone. Warsaw, trains, and telephones. The rush, stress, and noise—all of it left somewhere behind me, on the platform. Everything I know, everything I can understand, vanished. I was left alone, in the middle of a quiet, incomprehensible city, a place where the world rests. And yet, I came here to work.

Monciak (ul. Bohaterów Monte Cassino, if memory serves me correctly, but that's how everyone calls this one street) greeted me with a fresh morning breeze and a sea breeze. I headed toward it to fully enjoy my non-vacation. The street, the entire city, was still sleepy, just waking up, like a beautiful woman on a sunny morning in the forest wilderness, alone and happy. It slowly opened its eyes (blinds, shutters, shop windows), stretched to the rhythm of the rolling sea (you couldn't see or hear it, but you could feel its presence), smiled (coffee in small cafes with wicker chairs and colorful tablecloths, lazy melodies played by the first street musicians), came alive (people slowly emerged onto the streets and leisurely went to work, quite unlike on Nowy Świat).

I, too, took a deep breath, slowly made my way down the street, curiously observing the old, colorful tenement houses, the narrow streets branching off into the side, the colorful shops and pubs, so different from those I knew so well. I know, I looked like a tourist, a small, tiny backpack on my shoulder and a brand-name camera hanging from my belt (I hoped I'd brought back at least a little of the sea with me). And that curious look. The locals don't look like that, they no longer see the charm that had brought me, the intruder, to my knees. No one looks at me either; a stranger is a common sight here.

I passed the Garrison Church, and artists were already lining the street, taking out their paintings and easels. A portable street gallery. I glanced briefly at their work: from the varnished realism of wild beaches, through nondescript abstractions, to naive, contemporary portraits. Landscapes, still lifes (sometimes too literal), poor portraits. A young artist in colorful Indian clothes and fiery red hair; an old guy, an academic, with a closely trimmed beard and a navy blue corduroy jacket; a middle-aged woman in a tasteful suit (for naive portraits) had laid out paints and white canvases. And she waited. They stood side by side, spreading out their works, together attracting German tourists and Sopot's nouveau riche eager to show off their local contemporary art. The red-haired girl smiled, pleased with the result; she arranged her small abstractions by color: blue, green, orange.

I smiled too, how nice it was that people only had such problems.

I continued my descent. In the garden of a snobbish restaurant, waiters were setting up chairs and tables, spreading impeccably ironed tablecloths, cleverly pinned to prevent them from being blown away by the Sopot wind. A little further on, a small café, long open, was serving morning coffee and pastries (the chocolate croissants were unfortunately sold out, but the doughnuts were left, and I'm not a doughnut fan). I'd lost my chance for coffee, peace, and reflection. Laughing girls were walking late to school. A forty-year-old woman was opening a souvenir kiosk. The blue, awful bells pleasantly interrupted the silence of the city (they were terrifying, with their plastic dolphins and seashells, the brightly painted wood and glass, the few pretty ones lost in the hustle and bustle of the market).

A bit further on, a clarinetist (if that strange, silver-and-black wind instrument was a clarinet) tried to drown out the bells with a gentle, jazzy melody. He was the first musician I'd seen. He wore an old-fashioned suit and a red shirt. I tossed him a few pennies, and he commented with a cheerful passage. Slowly, everything came to life. I descended further, saw the fountain, saw the dreadful entrance to the pier. I was delving deeper into this magical world, and I was getting closer and closer to an unwanted reality.

I went into a bookstore to buy a map of Sopot; I'd prudently left mine at home, on the table. At night, I surveyed the city once again, searching for the street I'd come for. I looked for it on a brand-new map, sitting on a bench on the pier. The target of my polar expedition lived there. Her name was Magdalena Wójcicka.

I quickly found the street, and even the house, because the map was so precise. I'd searched for that address countless times, devised routes to get there, imagined the house, the entire neighborhood, what I'd say, what I'd ask... I even saw a beautifully crafted article, maybe not on the front page, but intelligent and interesting (I hadn't dreamed of winning the Pulitzer Prize, but come to think of it...).

But instead of fulfilling those fantastic visions with a joyful smile, I sat on a bench, gazing out at the sea, unable to move. My stomach and heart were failing. My mouth was dry, my sweaty hands were shaking. I simply hate it. Interviews, getting to know people I'll never see again, fake smiles—in short, a whole host of things that are boring and thankless, yet essential to this job (and here you have to ask why I do it, but I don't know the answer myself yet). THIS job also requires courage, and I'm terribly shy. And now, a strange city (charming but intimidating), strange people, and an old woman I had to contend with.

I took a deep breath (the sea breathed too, calm, gray-brown, and cool), counted to ten (I don't like it; I counted the shrieking seagulls flying over the pier, searching for the elderly people feeding them), stood up, and slowly made my way to the exit.

*

Magdalena Wójcicka.

A few weeks ago, I hadn't realized such a person existed. Then a quick call from the overzealous editor to gather information about activists, social workers, and other such ambitious women. Actually, I was supposed to immediately start gathering information about Wójcicka: where she lived, what she did, whether she was still alive and active. Of course, I procrastinated, looked for more interesting topics, asked for a transfer, but the editor, with a smile, tossed an old folder from the archives containing clippings about Ms. Wójcicka onto my desk. I started looking through them and from then on this crazy biography took up every free moment.

Magdalena Wójcicka was born in Sopot in 1950, the only daughter of an antiques dealer and a French teacher. From childhood, she cared for abandoned animals: dogs, cats, birds, probably even ants driven from an anthill. In 1970, she began medical studies and simultaneously became involved in a campaign to help single mothers. From 1975, she ran a counseling center for teenagers, and from 1977, she organized foster families for children from orphanages. She herself took in one child (a 3-year-old girl born in 1980), but raising a child didn't work out, as collecting donations for the interned proved more important. A few years later, she led the "Clean Rivers, Clean Life" campaign, or something similar (for a while, she, too, caught the whiff of environmentalism from overseas, but it passed as quickly as her fascination with vegetarianism and Hindu culture). While she was running an animal shelter, her father fell ill and spent almost several months in hospital, in dire conditions. While she was organizing the arrival of Poles from Kazakhstan and Russia, her foster daughter was arrested for theft and sent to a juvenile detention center (MW faced no consequences for failing to supervise her child). While her mother was dying (alone, as her father no longer left the house), she was busy with her local government campaign. Then she suddenly disappeared from the world. There were no more press releases, media interviews, or spectacular campaigns during which this thin, tall woman with a playful bun of gray hair would deliver passionate speeches in defense of something or someone. For almost 10 years, no one had heard from her. (This, of course, is untrue; her foundations and shelters continued to operate, and, if my interlocutors were well-informed, she herself continued to engage in social activities, only on a local scale, providing advice, advising on court cases, and publishing modest articles in Pomeranian right-wing bulletins.)

A fascinating life. But why devote an entire article to it in our magazine? I understand: a magazine for women, feminists, their stories, lives, activism, etc., Ochojska, Kwaśniewska, but why lump a Sopot fighter for the rights of all (especially strangers, distant and non-humans) into this trinity? Unfortunately, my arguments are irrelevant, and the gray reality is irrelevant, and my wonderful magazine wants to launch philanthropic activities and, in the "What am I doing now" section, or some similar column, restore old, ambitious women to oblivion.

I had already managed to cross under the train tracks, and along Podjazd Street, I was approaching the through-street of Niepodległości; I had to decide which path to take. Instead, I conjured up images of the editor, Wójcicka, stupid ideas, the entire world, ungrateful people, and nonsense topics, and I went straight ahead.

My backpack was filled with notes, hypothetical questions, a dictaphone (with spare cassettes; apparently, MW loves to talk), and the most wonderful thing: a return ticket, which I immediately wanted to use.

I chickened out (I can't even run away). I found myself against the wall of a bright, autumn forest. Unfortunately, it was the wrong street. I had to turn around, pull out a map, find my way back to the street I was looking for, backtrack a few blocks towards Gdańsk, and then head back uphill. To the forest. To my destination. I walked slower and slower. Not because the road led uphill. Not because I was collapsing from exhaustion because I hadn't eaten breakfast. I was afraid.

It's like this: your stomach is in your throat, your heart is beating louder than an air raid siren, your legs refuse to move and are shaking like jelly, your saliva tastes like vinegar, and a fog obscures everything, your head is spinning...

Damn, this is just a stupid interview.

*

It was the last house on the right side of the street, set back from the others, set deep into the property. It disappeared against the backdrop of the beech and pine forest. Built in the early 20th century, in the neo-Gothic style (brick, with a round tower, pointed windows with wooden shutters, overgrown with ivy, surrounded by an neglected garden littered with leaves, needles, and...). I

really don't like cats. I'm not allergic to them, they've never bitten me. But I can't stand their knowing stare (which I have), their self-confidence (which I lack), their ignoring of the world (which I do very willingly), their snorting and clawing (which I don't have, won't do, and which I abhor). Their repulsive, colorful fur, their delicate paws, their flirtatious gait, their lingering gazes. It's their scheming about how to get the best bite, how to do nothing and get the most out of it, how to escape safely. How to bite and not be bitten. Those eyes, green as grass, like olives, like leaves in the sun, like my sweater. Eyes: hazel, olive, yellow, greenish, burnt sienna. Those well-groomed and guarded whiskers, sharpened claws, a bulging belly. Those watchful ears. Those squeaks, those clever openings of doors and windows. The noise, the mess, the prying.

I don't like cats.

I had to walk through that garden, over dead leaves, among the cats (I counted seven, but maybe they were repeats, sneaking behind the trees, watching me from a distance, spying. Only when I reached the door did a brown, large cat lazily perch on the stair railing, as if to forbid me from entering, and wait, watching my nervous steps).

I pressed the old, round black bell. It jingled somewhere deep inside the house. For a moment, I heard no response, wondering if the esteemed activist was home. We'd agreed on 12:00. I wasn't even half a minute late. She couldn't leave. I waited, trying not to look at the cats. The door. The door was very interesting: large, wooden, green, though the paint had already peeled off in a few places, surrounded by a small portal – several archivolts of glazed brick. It had an old brass doorknob, decorated with floral motifs, and a matching knocker with a large rose and thorns. I guess that's why the bell had been installed. I wanted to touch it, even use it, but when I reached out, the door opened.

"Day..." I started to say, but I didn't see Wójcicka behind the door. I didn't

see anyone, only a large, black cat with a gray tie, clearly eager to get outside. I let it pass and stood uncertainly on the threshold for a moment. I wasn't invited in, but that open door... I turned around uncertainly, searching for a wiser solution. I was met only by the waiting gaze of the cat on the railing (it had yellow, hazel eyes, very large and framed by red eyelashes, quite incongruous). I opened the door wider. As if expecting this, the cat, bored, headed out into the garden.

The hallway was dark, the light that streamed in through the door illuminated the cluttered interior, filled with boxes, cardboard, and old furniture (I had just noticed a nightstand and a Biedermeier chest of drawers when a bright-colored cat, I thought, emerged from one of its drawers and ran into the house).

"Hello! Excuse me!" I shouted. "Is there anyone here?" I thought. I didn't

want to go into the house uninvited. I also didn't want to stand here, among these cats. Suddenly, the front door closed with a squeak of unoiled hinges, and the hallway was plunged into pitch darkness. For a split second, I imagined hundreds of cats tangling at my feet, rubbing my calves, scratching my knees... A shiver of fear ran down my spine, but it quickly gave way to curiosity; I wanted to know what else was in this house.

The first door was directly opposite the entrance. I pushed aside a box with my foot and tried the doorknob. A box. It was the bathroom. Large, high, tiled in white and burgundy, with an old bathtub on tall legs, a small sink, and several wardrobes stacked with clothes. And a few cats (two small ones in a cookie box on the windowsill; a large, fat cat in a bathtub lined with old newspapers; three gray, young, and playful kittens scampered around the linen closet, paying no attention to me at all). I closed the door and, carefully walking down the hall, opened another door. It led to a spacious, bright dining room. The walls were covered in light cream wallpaper with an unidentifiable pattern, torn in several places (could it be the cats?). In the center of the room stood a large, black table for sixteen. A lace tablecloth would have been appropriate, but instead, there were old newspapers, soaked in urine, on the tabletop. Beside them were literally strewn bits of cookies, bread, and something resembling cat food. There were also several cups of half-finished tea, unwashed plates from a few days ago, and an overturned vase of wilted chrysanthemums. In this mess, the cat, which was washing itself between the mug and the butter dish, no longer impressed me. Why, if cats are such clean creatures, is there such a mess everywhere? The repulsive smell of cat urine hung in the air, unbearable, pungent, enveloping my hair, gnawing at every stitch of my sweater, clinging to my shoes and clogging my pores. I almost threw up when I realized it. And I almost turned back. But the thought of the editor mocking my lack of reporting, of his condescending gaze as he relegated me to the name-day and anniversary section, of the unpayable mortgage, pushed me further. I bypassed the cat crates lying everywhere on the floor and opened the door to the next room.

My mistake. The kitchen. I quickly closed the door. I never, ever wanted to see anything so disgusting again. The kitchen! The temple of food, cooking, and the preparation of feasts both for the palate and for soothing wounded souls, looked like a repository of feline delicacies, and simultaneously like a cat bathroom, bedroom, and nursery all rolled into one. Blind kittens in pots, dirty bowls in the sink, opened and rotting canned food, and wet newspapers on the floor weren't as repulsive as the supermarket bag of fresh bread, cottage cheese, and tea, lying as if nothing had happened on the table next to the litter box. By the way, the cute ginger kitten relieved himself perfectly between the litter box and the shopping. The air in the dining room was so clean!

I passed through the last room on the ground floor of the house (something like a library, except old newspapers, books, and unwanted papers serve as cat toilets) and found myself back in the dark hallway, in front of the spiral, wooden staircase leading to the first floor. On the lowest step sat another cat. I think I've seen it before, but I wasn't sure. To me, they all looked the same, vicious and disgusting. Angry at myself, the editor, and above all, at Wójcicka, I passed the cat and quickly, skipping every other step, climbed to the first and last floor.

*

I don't remember how I found myself back on the front steps. Something simply pushed me out of this house, away from this woman, from this sick, cat-like world. There was only one spacious room on the first floor. The floor plan had once been similar to the ground floor, but someone ("I wonder" who?) had carelessly and hastily demolished the walls (their remains littered the floor, and where they had previously stood, there was no carpet or parquet flooring). On the right, lines stretched between the walls, and laundry hung on them: yellowed sheets, rumpled dresses. Some of it had long been lying on the floor, thoroughly soaked by cats. In the center, a large double bed, on which, on a beautiful woolen bedspread, among the books, lay several cats, indifferent to the intruder. To the left, several wardrobes and bookshelves pretended (unconvincingly) to be a real home. Unconvincingly, because a black cat peered lazily from an open underwear drawer. There was also a desk, with one leg broken off (replaced by old encyclopedias), cluttered with papers and newspaper clippings. I went over to look through my notes, to see what Wójcicka was doing, how she couldn't meet me, but I didn't make it. The phone rang. The ring tone rang for a moment, and then the answering machine came on. The pretentious, raspy voice of Magdalena Wójcicka emerged from the phone. Loud, authoritative, and mocking: "This is Magdalena Wójcicka's house. What? Get out of my line, my house, my life. I have more important things to worry about than you. Go ahead, record yourself and get out."

It wasn't that voice that had chased me away. It was a huge, white tomcat. Huge, terribly white, and definitely a tomcat. He stood next to the phone on the desk, erect, bristling, baring his sharp teeth and looking at me as if I were... Like... I couldn't move, and then he, confident as a predator hypnotizing its prey, snorted and jumped. Instinctively—I now know what instinctive defense means—I stepped aside and, without a second thought, dashed for the door. I ran down the stairs and literally flew outside, gasping for fresh air, thanking God I didn't kill myself falling down the stairs, that I wasn't eaten by that polar tiger, that the stench didn't cause some kind of respiratory necrosis.

I'm alive.