Fly

When Mucha was seven, he started vandalizing road signs and bus stops. He had no particular reason. He enjoyed destroying things, and no one could convince him it was wrong. Demolition made him look older in the eyes of his older friends. It was an attempt to attract attention—as a psychologist specializing in juvenile delinquency would say: it was the desperate cry of a "street kid."

Mucha was destined to be a criminal, he wanted it, and most importantly, he wanted to be good at it. The best. He never messed up. He ripped off the plastic covers of timetables completely, breaking and kicking them, slowly, almost methodically. He destroyed road signs precisely and finally. He had a knack for destruction, a genetic knack. Just look at his restless hands, his pupils, which constantly flickered with dangerous sparks. Everything pointed to him growing into a completely good, evil person.

While his peers in white T-shirts and creased trousers were pledging their allegiance to school, Mucha became the leader of a backyard gang. They were busy with cars. They hadn't even considered stealing them yet; for now, they just smashed windows, slashed tires, and sometimes took a gadget from a Mercedes or a company radio. Cars got on their nerves. They were a pain in the ass. What they hated most were the preppy guys in suits who ostentatiously beeped with their remotes, checking to make sure the alarm was on. They waited until the patient disappeared around the corner, then got to work. With nails, they wrote the standard words: cunt, ass, dick, or rather dick with an h, because it hadn't occurred to them that dick was actually dick. They slashed tires, spat on windows, and finally, pissed on the door handles and walked away.

An old, deserted tenement house on Prusa Street was their lair. There, coughing, they smoked their first cigarettes. First, butts, then whole packs, usually Malboras, arranged in various ways. There, they shared beers from supermarkets, leafing through the pages with feverish amusement and the juicy comments of the girls from Hustlers and Vamps. It was there, one afternoon, that Mucha came up with the whole idea.

Prusa, Żytnia, and Żeromskiego Streets were their territory. A territory for slashing passersby, shops, and little shops. A place for snatching gold chains, cell phones, and handbags. Mucha was the boss, and he had the right to do whatever he wanted. He decided who, when, for what, and for how much. Zygi and Alek, three years older than him, didn't dare oppose him; they knew Mucha and knew he had a head for a bargain. Besides, he had friends as big as a bus and as strong as a tractor. The youngest, the oldest in the gang, was fourteen, with gold-dyed bangs and a nose ring, and was Mucha's girlfriend. They called her "my stuff," or "my seal." She was two heads taller than him, but that didn't bother them. Mucha knew his way around women, though he'd only been out of diapers a few years ago. He'd learned the ropes of love from his own parents. At first, he didn't understand much of it. My father would lie on top of my mother and pant. Let her pant, he thought, fuck him. Then he looked at my mother. Her eyes were clouded and she looked like she'd inhaled glue. Something didn't feel right. He asked around and understood everything. That was what everyone was talking about all the time. Sex. Besides fucking, Mucha's parents also liked to give him a hard time. It was something on the other side. My father would give my mother whatever he could find, with his hand, his foot, a bottle. She would give him back the same, sometimes throwing a pot full of soup or a poker. One time, a flying pot landed on the head of Mucha's brother, who was sleeping in his crib. My brother didn't survive, and my mother went to jail. Mucha was left alone with his father, but only for a day, because his father had left. Mucha was left alone, and he was perfectly happy with that.

Ever since Mucha started ruling Prusa Street, peace had reigned there. The cops stopped showing up in the area, even during the day. Everyone knew their place and what might happen to them. It had become terribly boring; foreign cars weren't parked, passersby rarely appeared, and old ladies had long since had empty purses. Mucha was nine years old and decided to go to school out of boredom. People often told him, "Mucha, why aren't you studying?" You have to finish school, because they won't even hire you to be a cesspool cleaner. You can't even touch shit without school these days. He didn't listen to them, saying he didn't give a damn about school and basically gave it a thumbs up because he was smart enough to read, didn't need to read because it didn't interest him, and had been counting money since birth. But he went. He wanted to learn a trade so he wouldn't have to steal his whole life. They told him to start with elementary school. He did. They stuck with him until the long break. The police arrived, along with a young woman, a psychologist, who stared at him for a long time, as if wanting him to disappear. Through the open door, he heard her talking about him to the principal, whose teeth he tried to knock out. "He's a 'street kid', probably from a dysfunctional family. Everyone definitely drinks... He needs to be sent to a care center." Mucha didn't listen any further. He jumped out the window, right in the middle of the classroom where they'd locked him, leaving a steaming brown mess. A statue from Mucha for the school. As a token of gratitude.

Mucha returned to Prusa and focused on what he knew best. Month by month, he grew stronger and became famous. Zygi and Alek were caught trying to set up a jewelry store. They were too stupid for the job, but Mucha didn't feel sorry for them; they didn't ask for his permission or advice; they had to be caught. Soon after, he found other friends. A few youngsters from Żeromski, who sold counterfeit cars and sold amphetamine, took Mucha under their wing. He became their mascot, a child in whom they invested all their knowledge, skills, cynicism, and disrespect. Mucha now stole cars, under the watchful eye of the old thieves. He received a hundred złoty for his work, sometimes two. Mucha didn't need much money; if he wanted something, he took it; money was good for losers who couldn't steal. The money went on clothes for Młoda, pipes, beer, and glue. Glue was Mucha's favorite pastime. Better than marijuana, dope, and fruit compote combined. A few deep breaths were enough to lift you up. Everyone flew like that on Prus. Like Harry Potters, they had their broomsticks, their super-fast flying machines. They were wizard children, they could transform into anyone they wanted, they could transform others. Haunted grandmothers, who, upon seeing them, said goodbye, would turn into toads, then shove straws up their asses and blow for a long time. They transformed policemen into blue urinals, naive people parking Western cars on their street into spittoons or garbage cans. The enchanting smell of glue wafted through attics, basements, and stairwells; it was like an invitation to the Land of Oz, like a better, fairytale world lurking around the corner, a world other children knew from Grandma's stories. Glue was everything to Mucha. Thanks to it, he could transform into a fly and do what he loved most: shit on everything.

There was something in Mucha's gestures, in his eyes. A certainty born of fear and uncertainty. A fierceness and anger that didn't allow for any resistance. How else could he have handled two six-foot-tall men? And yet he approached them and politely asked for their phones. The men didn't even argue. Before they knew it, he was safe two streets away. In unfamiliar territory, he could be even more brazen than at home. He'd come in, take what he pleased, and leave. Once, before Christmas, a whole 5,500 złoty. The cashier hid the money at the register. Mucha leaned over, grabbed the bundle, and left. Prus had been the center of the fun for the entire holiday season.

Mucha knew they could "joke" him. He knew that under the laws they themselves had invented, a twelve-year-old was still a child and not responsible for anything. He had quite a few years of peace ahead of him. They couldn't even put him in a juvenile detention center.

Years passed. Mucha slowly emerged into the open. He began appearing on Piłsudskiego Street, near Plac Unii, even in the shopping arcade in the city center. This was Siekiera's territory. The biggest thug since the city's founding. Siekiera didn't tolerate any "tricks" in his neighborhood, none without his knowledge. Mucha knew this, but he had no intention of subordinating himself. He wanted to show that he wasn't afraid of anyone, not even Siekiera.

One day, Siekiera deliberately sent a message. He wanted to meet him. That evening, they were sitting in Siekiera's pub. It was empty. Siekiera, overweight, slightly balding, with scruffy stubble and a scar from a power struggle. Mucha, fifteen, looked much older, with a haughty gaze and thick, raven-black hair falling into his eyes. Siekiera downed half a beer in one gulp, belched, and, looking toward the bar, shouted.

"Bartender, get me a fucking slob, this piss hurts my ass."

Mucha silently watched the bartender, who, with hands shaking with fear, poured alcohol.

"Is it for the guest, too?

" "Am I being unclear, or maybe I have a fucking lisp? I may be a thug, but I don't spoil kids, bring him milk.

" Mucha felt his fingers tremble, swallowed, and looked out the window. Three two-meter-tall chubby guys stood by the exit; even if he wanted to, he couldn't handle them all.

"Why are you scowling, you son of a dog, maybe you don't like something?"

"On the contrary. Everything's correct. My father was a pissed-on dog.

" "Do you know why I'm wasting my precious time on you?

" "I don't know.

" "Then find out for yourself. I like you.

" "Yes."

"What?"

"I like you.

" "What kind of fucking man, have you gone mad? I'm a complete idiot." When I say I like you, it doesn't mean I want to fuck you in the ass like some punk, it just means I like you as a thief.

"I understand.

" "You don't understand shit! Shut up. I'm talking now. I like you, I've heard a lot about you. You've been prancing around town for a while now, jumping around like a young colt, do you think you're fucking good? Fly, that's what they call you, so listen, Fly. In my town, you can prance, but only for a while. I set that time, you get it? Your time is up. You work for me or you disappear.

" "Sure.

" "That's bullshit. You think just because you robbed a few old ladies, just because you did a few shops, you're somebody? You're nobody. You're a little shitty fly that any scoundrel can take out with a swatter. Do you hear me?

" "Yes, I do.

" "You can change that. You can be somebody, you just have to do what I tell you." Now get the fuck out of here, there's no fucking time, come back tomorrow, you know where I live, come on down!

Mucha left the pub with a stately gait, which turned into a run after he left. He didn't know why he ran, out of fear, out of happiness. He stopped only at Prusa. He looked around at the old walls, from beneath which skeletons of bricks protruded. He sat on a bench and blissfully lit a cigarette. Młoda emerged from the stairwell. She looked like a luxurious whore. Fragments of garters were visible under her miniskirt, and tight white boots were on her feet. She was spinning the wheels with her leather handbag and looking around as if waiting for someone. Mucha ignored her.

"I haven't seen you in ages, I thought you were sitting down.

" Mucha took a deep drag and blew directly into her face.

"Do you like being blown? That's from me.

" "Stop it. You don't give a damn. My ass is my business. Do I ask what you're doing with your dick? I don't care!

" "Actually, you're right."

"You mean, what...

" "What? What are you staring at? Fuck off! " "You've changed

. " "I've changed? Look at you. You look like a walking motherfucker." "Stupid prick." Mucha jumped up and slapped her across the face. With all her might. The young woman clutched her cheek, laughing unnaturally loudly. "Never again, you hear me, you'll never hit me again, you're a stupid son of a bitch." Mucha threw his cigarette butt at her, spurted saliva, and walked away without looking back. The sound of stilettos clicking on concrete echoed through the yard. The next day, Mucha showed up at Siekiera's villa with a massive hangover. He had a headache and wasn't in the mood for this meeting. He drank a beer on the way, feeling a little better. Siekiera was sitting by the grill, picking his nose. Without looking at Mucha, he said, " Hello, son. Eat something fucking when you're done; there's an envelope on the table." Mucha didn't move, he didn't feel like eating. "Aren't you hungry? " "No. " "Then take it. There's a photo inside. You'll like it. She's your age. Her name is Maja. Like a bee." Mucha looked at the photo with interest. The girl was truly beautiful. Long-haired blonde, with the face of an angel, large blue eyes that looked trusting, perhaps flirtatious. "Do you like her? " "Nice ass." "That 's right. Can you pass me the fucking mustard? " "What am I supposed to do?" "Pass me the fucking mustard. " "But with her..." "What do you mean, what? You're going to fucking kill her. " Mucha returned to Prus, having bought a bottle of vodka on the way. He had a whim. To feel like an asshole for a moment. To walk into a store and say in a quiet, polite voice, "Half a liter of neat, please." He looked friendly into the saleswoman's eyes; she knew him, she knew he wasn't in the habit of paying. She held a hundred-zloty bill up to the light and sighed. -It looks real.

"And what should it be like?"

The saleswoman shrugged and started to put the money in the register. Mucha glanced at her, tapped his forehead, and left. He couldn't get drunk that evening. He stared at the empty bottle, momentarily hesitating about going out, to get some meth. He lost the will. Normally, after half a liter, he'd be pretty tipsy, wanting to accost someone, go with some girl. He pulled a crumpled photo from his pants pocket. He'd underestimated Siekiera. He was better than he'd thought. He knew more, and he was cunning. Damn cunning. It seemed he knew all the scams, the deals, the heists he'd planned in the strictest secrecy. Maybe he also knew the most important thing: that he'd never killed. And that he feared that most. More than his own death.

He saw Majka in front of the school. She was prettier than in the picture. He followed her across the street. At one point, she crossed the street, turned, and started walking straight at him. He broke out in a sweat. As if he'd shoveled a couple of tons of coal. For a second, their eyes met. A moment later, the girl entered a shop whose window read: "Spring Sale! Up to 50% off." Mucha, without thinking, followed her. Chattering saleswomen in identical outfits were persistently pushing rags. Mucha didn't notice him stop in front of one. "

Come on in. Great spring sale, up to 50% off. Maybe something for a girl? What size? Maybe some trousers for a gentleman?"

He was about to tell her to piss off when he noticed Majka walking toward them.

"Excuse me, don't you have smaller sizes of these blouses?

" "Unfortunately, they're out of stock. Or maybe something else? There are some different ones hanging nearby; maybe I'll show you."

After two hours, Majka left without anything. Or so he thought. He followed her, keeping a good distance. At one point, she sat down at an empty bus stop and started taking something off from under her skirt. Her other skirt. Then she pulled several pairs of thongs out of her purse, folded into cubes. Mucha started laughing.

That same day, Mucha found out where she lived. He watched her house for a few hours. At one point, he saw a uniformed policeman. He didn't know him. Some low-ranking officer. Those shitty sidewalk dogs had nothing on him. The officer entered the girl's house. For a moment, Mucha thought she'd been busted, that they'd caught her doing some dirty tricks at the store, and now they'd sent a thug after her. Nothing happened. The thug turned out to be the girl's father. That evening, they went out together. He was in civilian clothes, in a cunty sweater, she in a short dress revealing her bare legs. He followed them all the way to the cinema. During the film, he managed to drink three beers and smoke half a frame of cigarettes. He thought about Majka. She intrigued him. A dog's daughter, stealing rags. Can't she afford them, even the discounted ones? He couldn't understand why she did it. He knew one thing: after what he'd seen, it would be very difficult for him to carry out Siekiera's order. He felt something for her he couldn't name. Sympathy. Kinship. If he'd read even one book, it would have been easier. Books often wrote about such things. About men and women. About love that wasn't just fucking, about something you felt with your heart, your soul, not your dick. Mucha finally thought, after all, before he killed her, it would be worth it to fuck her, just as a friend. That night, he had a nightmare. He married Majka. He saw himself going to church, with her, with their children; the priest turned out to be his father-in-law. In a police uniform, behind the altar, he preached, looking him straight in the eye. Everyone knew it was about him. They stared at each other, pointing at each other like some kind of freak. It was him, it was him, the murderer, the murderer, their whispers turned into screams. He woke up drenched in sweat. He decided to kill her as quickly as possible. He felt that if he waited any longer, he wouldn't get it. He decided to slit her throat as she left the house. With that in mind, he left, but hesitated, thinking it would be better to have a drink first, to loosen up. At a piss-smelling bar on Prusa Street, whose name no one remembered, he ordered a hundred. The vodka was warm and sweet. He ignored his friends' teasing, didn't answer questions, and with a gentle movement of his jaw, ordered more vodkas. He couldn't get drunk again. He emerged after an hour, completely sober, straight to her house. He didn't hide, whistling, occasionally taking out a switchblade and playing with it. Suddenly, he felt someone cover his eyes, heard a giggle, and went numb. It was her.

"Hi. Are you watching me again? Are you shy? Afraid to approach? I'm Majka, and you know what, I like you. Do you have money? Maybe we could go out for pizza? Because, you know, my old man doesn't let me see anyone; he's a bit of a cop."

She didn't stop talking, Mucha managed to catch his breath and regain a normal, impassive expression.

"What do you want? I'm just walking around...

" "I'm just walking around, so modest. Yesterday, two hours in the store, in the city, all the way to the house, today again, I'm just walking around... don't you like me?"

"Uh, no, that's not it, actually, I like you.

" "Which kennel do you go to? I haven't seen you before.

" "We just moved here, I don't know anyone..."

"Great, I'll be your guide, what's your name?"

"Mucha, they call me Mucha.

" "Nice. So what are we going to do? The old man's on duty today, smack dab, we have until tonight."

Everything wasn't going as planned. Instead of killing her, he went with her to explore the city he knew better than himself. Instead of completing his mission with a quick slash to the throat, he walked with her, arm in arm like a puppy, like a stupid, lovesick mutt. And she said,

"It's really beautiful now. So green. We could go to the park. Do you like trees? I love it. Sometimes, when we're in the countryside, I escape to the forest for the whole day. I get lost and then I find my way. I'd like to get really lost someday, so everyone would look for me, so no one would know where I was, not even me. Maybe you'd like to go with me someday?" What if we got lost together, huh? Although I don't know, maybe it's impossible to get lost together. Someone always finds a solution. Besides, when you're with someone, it doesn't matter where you are. I'd like to fall in love, wouldn't you? Because I've never... heard that when love begins, an angel flies, unseen by anyone except those in love. Do you believe in angels?

The night was exceptionally warm, scorching hot for early May. Mucha jumped the fence and quickly reached the wall of the house. He felt that no one would stand in his way. A nightingale squawked fiercely in the thicket surrounding the house; the metallic sound of a knife being opened seemed to silence it for a moment, then all he could hear was the bird. Mucha threw the rope to the balcony and climbed the wall. He broke the glass with his elbow and unlocked the lock. No one heard him; he knew there would be no one in that wing at this hour. He opened one door after another, quickly, not caring about the noise. Siekiera opened his eyes and managed to say, "What are you doing?" Mucha stabbed him in the heart and sat down next to him, watching him wheeze. From downstairs, the approaching cries of the aroused security guards could be heard, and outside the window, the nightingale continued to sing of love.