COLLECTOR

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The professor sat behind a mahogany desk, in the center of which stood a bottle of tea-colored liquid. The concern with which he gazed at the bottle only deepened the furrows on his forehead, simultaneously adding to his charm. Behind his elegantly trimmed gray beard, which he propped up with his hand, protecting his pursed lips, he occasionally glanced hopefully into the shifting eyes of a student with an undone button on her white shirt.

"The packaging, yes, yes, but inside...emptiness."

The student lowered her head and blushed, and the professor realized he had made a blunder.

"No, I'm not talking about you, I'm talking about the bottle. I mean the whisky. Could you tell me something about 1934? "

"1934?

" "Yes.

" "Well. 1934. In Germany, the "Night of the Long Knives." A bloody purge of the SA leadership. In China, the communists began the "Long March," and the Nazis murdered Austrian Chancellor Dollfuss.

He glanced at the unbuttoned button of his white shirt, looked out the window as if checking the weather, and then returned to the student's face, aflame with emotion.

"I'll interrupt, Madam, I'm talking about 1934. Answer me one question..."

The professor's eyes were filled with discouragement and hopelessness.

"Why was that year so disastrous?

" "Disastrous?" "So I say, the Nazis murdered the Chancellor, Mao's Long March.

" "No, no, no."

He blushed. He stood abruptly, pulled two glasses from under his desk, and poured whiskey into them.

"The year was disastrous. First a short winter, then a wet, drizzly spring, and then a summer, oh well, it's not worth talking about. Please, try it."

The student, without hesitation, tipped her glass. "

So? Do you understand now..."

He looked into the girl's somewhat calmer eyes.

"Not quite.

" "Not quite?" Can't you smell the year? This whiskey is steeped in that fateful '34. It's disgusting. Didn't you notice what year it was? '34,' precisely. Seventy-year-old whiskey, and it tastes like a week's worth of moonshine. You failed. F's. As a future historian, you should pay attention to dates... oh, and one more thing: can you fasten that button? I'm seventy too.

Professor Jan Wysoczyński, a specialist in the history of the interwar period, a tireless researcher of the past, an irreplaceable erudite, and an educator, simply lied. Despite his seventy years (he turned seventy a few weeks ago), the unbuttoned buttons of beautiful students interested him no less than Nazis and Maoists. They interested him more, but in the face of what was to happen next Saturday, they lost their significance.

Students considered him one of the elite group of professors remembered long after exams, regardless of grades. "An eccentric and a weirdo," those whose transcripts had flown out the window would say. "A Renaissance man, a commoner, a homebody," others said. Once, a first-year student got into an argument about Piłsudski during an exam period. He left, or rather stormed out, after five hours, led by an equally intoxicated professor, shouting, "Long live the Marshal! Long live our leader!" And then again, "To Kaunas!" and "Beat the Bolshevik!"

Stories about the professor and his unconventional behavior became ingrained in the walls of the venerable university, becoming an indispensable part of it. Over time, they became legends, and "Professor Jaś" (as he was affectionately called) himself became a living, tangible legend, a university star of the highest magnitude. However, this stardom only extended to his interactions with students. For them, he was someone special, an original, almost an idol. On the other hand, the academic staff treated the professor with a pinch of salt, a bit like a harmless lunatic. His scientific achievements and publications were noted but not lamented. To his colleagues, and above all, to the dean and His Magnificence, Wysoczński was unpredictable. Especially by them. Women.

The professor had been very lucky in his life. When he started working, you could easily pinch a secretary without risking accusations of harassment. That word hadn't been invented yet. No one paid attention, because what difference did it make that a young assistant just starting his academic career dealt a juicy slap to a secretary several years his senior? Maybe it only hurt her, but in reality, she was pleased. She felt he liked her. She was right. His affair with Bożenka was the libretto for an entire opera, whose title could have been "The Amorous Adventures of Jaś W." Bożenka was married, and he was going through his first divorce. They fell in love with a love that was pure and true, but brief. The secretary's husband turned out to be a nasty, shady character who knew nothing about such matters. Bożenka left with her husband for another city, and poor Jaś found solace in the arms of his colleague in Auxiliary Sciences of History. His friend's name was Hania, and she was simply ugly. Thin, with unhealthy skin and small breasts. She talked constantly, even in bed. Between each new friend, more wives appeared. Even then, he used to say that he didn't mix work and home. Work was work, and home was home. Each of these places had its own rules and responsibilities. The most important thing was to be able to navigate it all. Satisfy the women at work and those at home, and on top of that, constantly develop, push forward, and advance. Women could be detrimental to a scientific career, but they could also be helpful; you had to know who to talk to, whom to invite to dinner, and whom to sleep with. They wrote their doctoral dissertations together under Professor Danuta Trzciniecka, in her large four-poster bed. How many sleepless nights did it cost them, how many hours spent in heated discussions, and more. Then, their habilitation under Mariańska. It was tough, but they got there. And so on and so forth. One could multiply further stories, but it's not worth it. Professor Wysoczyński decided to write an autobiography. He spread the word, striking fear into quite a few women. Quite unnecessarily, after all, Professor Jaś is a gentleman. In every way. He even has a title for his memoirs: "The Collector." A perfect reflection of the anticipated content. The professor's life is a constant, manic hunt. An endless search. A search for unique objects that no one else has. Collecting and cataloging. On shelves and drawers, by name, beauty, intelligence, character, taste, and scent. With each passing day, new objects, new faces, breasts, and noses. He could spot something he was looking for in a crowd, some extraordinary feature, sometimes a visible imperfection, which he needed for his collection. For example, Aneta, whom he met in the early 1980s. A red-haired student, with a hooked nose and freckles. Quite extraordinary. She was unlike any other lady in the magazines. He saw something extraordinary in her. Her laughter. She laughed like no other. For that laugh, he could have followed her to the ends of the earth. He didn't, because he'd spotted her teeth during a walk.Teeth whose owner he met while walking the dog. One day, she spoke. He saw them. Teeth of unique value, the likes of which no one but God could have made. Divine fangs. For a moment, he regretted not becoming a dentist. How delightful it would be to touch them with impunity, to embrace them, to caress them, like the most precious treasure.

A collector can be ruthless. When he finds a new rarity, to make room for it, he'll destroy the old one, throw it in the trash. Sometimes this caused minor problems. Dorota, the librarian whose house he'd found the old ears, resorted to blackmail. The ears took a backseat; their owner threatened to set herself on fire, and in an act of desperation, the entire library was about to be burned. In such situations, the professor would explode. He never let anyone decide for him. He'd turn red and start talking like an unbecoming gentleman (which he'd always considered himself). He'd utter the most vile curses, threaten, and shout. Usually, it worked. Women were afraid of him; after all, what is an exhibit to its owner? An object. And he shouldn't forget that; it's so easy to break something.

On Saturday, it rained from early morning. As if someone up there was taking a shower and forgot to turn off the water. The professor was in a wonderful mood. For breakfast, his favorite whiskey, his favorite twenty-second vintage, light coffee, and he felt like a young Greek hero who, if he wanted, could run a marathon without getting out of breath.

"Father, what are you thinking about this hotel? You don't have much room at home, you filthy brats!" Anna, the eldest daughter from his first marriage, an obese and bawdy girl, liked to joke. She and her father were on the same wavelength. They communicated with gestures and half-words; now a bawdy wink was enough for her answer.

"Knowing you, you didn't make it to the wedding...

" "Daughter!

" "Father! I'm just curious.

" "Then stick your nose in the coffee.

" "It doesn't rhyme at all.

" "You know I don't keep any secrets from you, not even those. Yes, I did make it to the wedding. And do you know why?

" "No idea.

" "Because I want to see what it's like. To have a wife for the first time, only after the wedding.

" "What, you don't know?"

"Unfortunately, I haven't managed to do it so far." Despite my best intentions. With Zosia, your mom, right away, right. On a first date, as they say. It was summer, sort of, not awkward, we drank, danced, and so on. Then with Marysia, it didn't work out either, but I swear, it's not my fault, she insisted, and what can a poor man do when a woman wants to?

"An old scoundrel.

" "Not old. Excuse me, not old. I'll finish. With Jadzia, I thought I could handle it. She was so pious, even God-fearing. She kept talking about sin. And do you know where she sinned? In Częstochowa, on a trip, and on top of that, no remorse, none at all!"

"Oh, the bell. Miss Natalia, I guess?"

Natalia arranged everything. The venue. The gypsy band. The guests, and even the hotel. The latter was a wedding gift for Jaś. The most expensive hotel in town. The presidential suite, though no president had ever stayed there. A twenty-three-year-old blonde, strikingly beautiful, full of vigor, enthusiasm, and a smile. From a young age, she had imagined her wedding like most girls, envisioning a handsome brunette, a man endowed with muscular strength and character. Just like Jaś forty years earlier, if he hadn't been idle in his books, dusty archives, and libraries, if he had exercised regularly and gone to a tanning salon. He didn't have to ask for her hand in marriage for long; he simply whispered one word in her ear. A short one, just three letters long. D for Dorota. O for Olga. M for Monika. HOME. Someone might have thought he'd bought her. They might have, if they had known. The transaction was conducted with complete discretion. The professor didn't want to spoil the children's mood. What would it look like, such a celebration, and they'd be sulking, angry. It wasn't fair to them. He decided to tell them a little later. Some time later, when everyone had calmed down. The house, actually a villa located on the outskirts of the city, in an elegant district, had belonged to the Wysoczyński family for years. It was kept in perfect condition, and it wasn't hard to guess it was worth a fortune. Exactly as much as Natalia's single "yes."

Natalia was to be the crowning glory of the collection. A diadem whose brilliance would outshine all the previous exhibits. A model's figure, phenomenal beauty—everything a woman should possess at her best—she was three orders of magnitude better. Among these wonders, they were. It was they who had made the professor decide to enroll the house. What was this building if not a mere pile of rubble, held together by mortar and cement? A collection of windows, doors, doorknobs, and floors. A piece of air enclosed between the walls. And they were a phenomenon, a creation in themselves. Like twins adorned with identical shoes, the tights moved in a fluid motion. Natalia's legs possessed the gift of persuasion; they spoke better and wiser than their owner, capable of even more, but this required sacrifice. The house on Słowackiego Street became their victim.

The wedding ceremony proceeded peacefully, following the familiar, well-worn path for such events. The newlyweds entertained their guests, inviting them to a lavishly laid table, vodka, and dancing. Sweaty gypsy musicians gave neither themselves nor the guests a break. From time to time, they would strengthen themselves with a glass and play with even greater vigour, making my thick, black manes tremble.

The professor didn't drink. He wanted to be sober. Maybe that's why the evening dragged on, or maybe it just seemed that way. Natalia was everywhere. Laughing, laughing from ear to ear, she was partying like a teenager. He watched her furtively when someone suddenly grabbed her onto the dance floor, blissfully thinking that in a few hours she would be his alone. No one would be able to look at her, let alone touch her. In the afternoon, he went to the hotel to view the suite again. He reminded the staff about the roses, champagne, and whiskey. Natalia had been at the hairdresser's for several hours; he had time to get ready. As usual, before going to bed for the first time, his imagination was working at full speed. He tried to stop, but images kept appearing. Natalia taking off her dress. Natalia letting her hair down and asking him to unclasp her chain. Then the sound of water in the shower and the greatest experience. The entrance. He was in bed with a cigar and a glass; she was unbuttoning her silk robe and standing before him in her underwear. He chose the right model himself from the catalog. He didn't like surprises in that department. It had to be red, with lace inserts and a garter belt.

"Jasieńka, why aren't you playing?" Natalia, her face flushed, approached with her hand outstretched. He kissed her cheek, gently, like a child.

"I like watching. Watching you happy.

" "Come jump around a bit, you're not eighty yet.

" "I have to save my energy for tonight. You'll see I'm really not eighty.

" "Oh, my little tiger, you're always thinking about one thing. You probably can't wait...

" "And you?

" "Me too. Maybe we'll escape them, they'll play on their own. We'll take a taxi and be back in an hour without anyone noticing.

" "Excellent idea. You're brilliant, my little mouse. Let them look for us."

He leaned back comfortably. He smoothed his hand over the fabric of the pillow. It was perfectly smooth. Besides, everything seemed close to perfect that evening. Even the weather. The rain had stopped, and the stars peeked through the open window, partly out of envy, partly out of curiosity. The sound of water in the bathroom was like music dearest to his heart, an aria of anticipation, a prelude to fulfillment. He imagined himself one of those drops now joyfully flowing over her body. He was soap, smoothing her skin. Shampoo. Anything, just to be with her, in her, on her.

Suddenly, the metallic sound of the shower stall being put on announced the end. She left. In the glow of the night lamp, in the faint moonlight, heels clacked. The professor felt the blood rush to his head in a broad, powerful wave. Hosts of black ants raced before his eyes, millions, billions of them. Somewhere in the distance loomed the red dot of Natalia's tights, concealing her divine legs.

"Natal, Nat..." he wheezed, and with an inhuman howl, he collapsed onto the carpet.

Natalia, without looking at the man lying on the ground, went to the cabinet. She poured herself a whiskey. With a firm but calm gesture, she pulled out a long cigarette. She lit it.

"Too much excitement, old man. The pump couldn't hold it. You can't even breathe, you stupid prick. Hey, are you still alive? You think I should call an ambulance? Ugh, you'll be fine. It's just your heart. You didn't have a heart, you bastard."

Natalia leaned over the professor and listened for a moment.

"Still breathing? Not for long. You took some Viagra to get you going. About ten of them. Here, sip."

She tipped the bottle and, without removing the cigarette from her mouth, poured it in until the bottom appeared. After a few initial contractions, the professor stopped moving.

"You remember Basia. Of course you don't. She was your student, a long, long time ago. She had such beautiful pigtails. She waited her whole life for you, for a letter, but you didn't have time." You had more important things to worry about. You didn't care about some silly little girl who fell in love with you. Didn't you know that people fall in love? I know, it probably didn't happen to you. You plucked women like plants. You thought that was the right thing to do, that's how they liked it. Pull them out and throw them away, let them die. I'm so sorry, Daddy. I had to do it, I had to kill you. Mom would have been happy. You have no idea how much she hated you. And I, you know, I think I even like you. You were a very nice, elderly gentleman. And that little house. A nice gesture on your part, Jasiu. I think I have to go now; they're definitely looking for us. Oh, Jasiu, Jasiu, the women have lost you.