first story

The car loan repayment deadline is inexorably approaching. A yellow, new, foreign car that we bought with the bank's help last winter, right during the holidays, a real bargain and a great relief, because car buying in our family has been a long, arduous process. We have to pay it off by the end of February; most of the debt is already in my father's account, already saved, plucked from our yogurts, vacations, and our parents' arguments. No, they're not arguing, they simply can't establish the proper exchange of messages so that their content reaches the intended recipient. They don't speak at all, or barely at all, and when they do, I break away from my usual activities and listen, stealing all their words and seeing their twenty-year history, beginning even earlier than Marcin's birthday, that winter when the windows had to be covered with blankets because the frost seeped through the glass and cracks in the wood, persistently breaking into the apartment. The father usually begins the exchange, looking up from the television, which has become his friend because it can converse in one-way channels, because you can change channels, and if necessary, mute the volume, turn on teletext, turn it off completely, unplug it, turn a corner, throw it out the window. The father has become, and already is, a companion in the sadness of middle age, late childhood, and adulthood, who listens and talks like a man, not rambles on like a woman. Having picked up on a sentence spoken by his mother moments earlier, the father is subjected to the force of his deepest problems, frustration, the eternal desire for male domination over the opposite sex, and the force of all the psychological complications developed within him, conditioned by unspecified matters and life experiences. So he opens his mouth and says,

"So, are you finally my wife or not?! I'm asking!"

The mother already knows that the day has come again when everything will be torn apart, that once again he has snatched away that relative peace. The peace she created for herself, so she could somehow function normally. He's questioning her again, subjecting her life to his own manipulation, and pointing out what you don't like. Yes, when I hear the beginning of this exchange, I'm already calling my father a lord, a master, and a master.

"And who is a wife to you, eh? Someone to whom you give orders and who gets fucked on command, right? Well, who is a wife?

" "Bullshit!"

My father lives an illusion. He imagines himself and her on Sunday afternoons walking in the park, holding hands, smiling like lovers the day before yesterday, and there's no need to pay rent or worry about the car payment. He sees their marriage, their shared bed, pecking, kissing, and everything at his beck and call, without a word of protest, because everything is always as it should be, just as he imagined. He's trapped in his mythology of eternal love, unchanging, of there being a husband and then a wife, and she with her husband, or she in the kitchen. If he earned more, he wouldn't want her to work. Let her rest. Because what is laundry, cleaning, cooking? You were made for this. Made for pleasure and relaxation, under observation, of course. Then he descends into relationship. Fifty years on the run, Sunday afternoon, TV and an armchair, dinner eaten. He knows that in the evening they will sleep separately. Ever since she went crazy and moved to the couch, he's been sleeping alone every night. And it's all because of those friends, those colleagues, and his mom. Those meetings, those teas, those books, those newspapers, those perfumes, those trifles. A chaos unfolds before his eyes, where he has no place of his own, nowhere to go or anyone to talk to, so he sits and talks to the TV. And he knows he wants to change, he wants it to be different. He wants to see Sunday afternoons and the loving glances, and the "yes, teddy bear," and the "oh, of course, donut." And he wants to get out of this damn apartment that's eating up half his pension, and out of this city where nothing is the same anymore.

"You just want to order everyone to live the way you want. Don't you see that others also have their own ideas, their own desires, their own minds, their own feelings. You don't even realize when you offend someone, that your words, which you then forget, linger and hurt. You think you're the only one who's wronged." Oh, poor me, unhappy me...

"Yes? I think so? That's what you think! And why did you leave without a word?! Twenty years and what?! Suddenly enough? Suddenly wrong? I know... I did you wrong, that I was born, that we met! Because I'm a boor, an ordinary rye, and you're a big lady, a city lady, a lady!"

Her mother's eyes are already shining, she tries to speak calmly, tries to talk to him, tries again, and again knows nothing will work, again she sees his absurdity, bordering on mental illness. She's afraid of this incommunicability, this lack of normal

conversation, the volcano that's inside her husband's head. She already knows the pattern and knows that it will be about money again, about paying off the mortgage, about the expensive apartment, about friends, concerts, exhibitions, books, and she knows that then her father will start to blame her for moving to this apartment, that the other one was cheap, and that it was the same number of meters, and he will refer to her family, to our grandmother, he will start swearing, he will start saying "fuck" and "and fuck" and calling her words bullshit and calling her friends whores.And she will try to speak to him, once again.

"And do you see how you're talking to me now? Don't you hear that? And you're talking about respect?

" "Okay, okay... I already know what I know, I already know what I know..."

And somewhere in between these arguments, Marcin and I are there. We sit in our rooms and listen, not wanting to hear. We don't interfere anymore, but we're ready to intervene, so to speak, if things get too bad. This resentment arises that they could talk calmly, that my father wouldn't have to use the words we use on the pitch when we lose a match. The thought comes to mind that he might finally grow up, to the age of marriage and to his own life. The urge to hug my mother resurfaces, even though he's coping quite well and holding his own. For a moment, I lose track of everything, both the minor and major, and I reassemble myself, from the pieces after the storm, waiting for my mother to speak up, wanting to talk about my father, waiting for my father to start nagging me about school and the future, while I just wander around who-knows-where. And I feel like we're living in a book, where the chapters are repeated from time to time, and we have little influence over the characters' creations. Then I go to the bathroom and look in the mirror. I see my reflection. A face almost grown out of childhood, with unkempt skin and a light stubble on my chin and cheeks. Skinny arms under a dark T-shirt with the logo of some British company, I think. I remember movies about drug smugglers, American heroes, and gamblers, all the cartoon characters, and one funny joke I remember. I recall childhood fantasies of myself in a few years, and I can't find any memories of myself at this age. I have a face like Nicolas Cage or Edward Norton and I'm in my thirties. Two days ago, I visited my parents for Christmas. I arrived alone, having been given less than a week's leave from work, so my return ticket was booked for Thursday. There's a real Christmas tree, modestly and tastefully decorated, similar to the pine tree we had that Christmas just before I left. Marcin should be arriving any minute now; he was supposed to stop by the store to pick up some presents for his kids, who are already in my old room, waiting for their dad. His wife is also there. I have to admit, if it weren't for Marcin, who knows... quite a lot, I won't say. Everything is already prepared: the carp killed by his father this morning, the cake baked, the pierogi made. Mom, smiling as always, is reading a new book next to Marcin's little ones, which doesn't look like it was borrowed from the library, so I assume she got it for herself as a Christmas present, following her age-old custom. My father and I are at the kitchen table discussing the results of the latest volleyball matches. He looks good, although he's aged noticeably lately. It's been a while since we've had a holiday like this; it's been nothing but rain all day.