Graveyard of Hopes

"

She lived in a four-story tenement building across the street. On the third floor, she had a nice, three-room apartment. Compared to his attic attic, it was practically a palace. She usually returned home late at night. She would shed her jacket and trousers and parade around the apartment in just her underwear. With her face glued to the window, he watched her move around the apartment, turn on the electric kettle, take out a porcelain mug, slice lemon slices for her tea.

Usually, after making tea, she would sit at the computer in the bedroom, which adjoined the living room.

He lived two floors above, in the tenement building across the street. Her apartment was subtly lit. She didn't use curtains or drapes on the windows. She was a modern woman, seemingly without any inhibitions. However, the apartment's decor was rather old-fashioned. Through the lenses of his binoculars, he could make out the outlines of canvases framed in tasteful, gilded frames. Hunting scenes, or mountain landscapes. He wasn't particularly interested in any of that. On the wall opposite the windows was a fireplace lined with sandstone slabs. As you could tell, it was a gas fireplace, electrically operated, giving the illusion of a real wood-burning fireplace. The first thing she did upon arriving home was turn on the fireplace. He always knew she was home from that moment. She

must have been around thirty, thirty-two at most. Perfectly defined hips and strong shoulders complemented her fair complexion. Her blond hair, seemingly naturally curly, fell just below her shoulders. From the dozen or so meters between their windows, it was difficult to appreciate the individual details of her beauty. Her perfectly sculpted body certainly drew his attention like a magnet whenever she came into view.

He compensated for the monotonous work by spying on her life. He didn't always use binoculars, however. Sometimes it was enough to simply turn off the lights and observe her windows.

She sometimes returned very late, just before midnight, accompanied by an older man. He might have been around fifty. This man, as one could deduce from observation, was someone important in her life. Elegantly dressed, with slow, seemingly deliberate movements. Always in a suit, a light coat, bareheaded, and wearing small glasses with thin silver frames. She usually offered him a small glass of cognac or brandy, which she pulled from the richly stocked mobile bar near the fireplace. They chatted for a while, sitting in leather armchairs in the living room. Then she turned off most of the lamps in the apartment, leaving only a discreet lamp in the bedroom, and went to the bathroom. He, meanwhile, would go into the bedroom and close the blinds. You could guess the rest… It didn't take long. Two-quarters of an hour at most, and the man would leave. She, having poured herself a whiskey, would sit in the empty apartment in front of the fireplace and hang her head below her shoulders. She seemed to be crying.

***

Paweł lived alone. Shortly after graduating, his aunt died, leaving him with a small, one-room attic apartment in the Old Town. He worked in the administration of one of the larger department stores in the city center. The job was monotonous, but it gave him independence. Besides his parents and his only childhood friend, he had no one. He wasn't particularly sociable. He preferred spending his free time alone. Sometimes he met up with his only companion, and they wandered aimlessly around the city, went to the cinema, or visited old friends from college.

The only real entertainment he looked forward to almost every evening were those windows and that woman with her strange lifestyle. From eight o'clock, he turned on the radio and turned off the lights, except for a small desk lamp that discreetly illuminated the interior of his room. He waited for the light in her apartment to come on. She fascinated him. Sometimes, on a lonely Saturday evening, she would open a bottle of champagne. First, she would pour ice into a special cylinder in the kitchen, then place the bottle inside, covering it with a cotton napkin. Dressed only in a light, short tunic, she chopped spices and cheese, then added olives and mushrooms, skewered them on toothpicks, and placed them on a plate. Later, she probably listened to music, sometimes dancing to the rhythm of the music in the living room, a glass of champagne in one hand and swallowing the filling from a toothpick held in the other. She didn't seem to have any close friends. No one, except this mature man, ever visited her. Sometimes she would disappear for three or four days. Her windows were haunted by a dead silence, and Paweł fell into depression

.

Seemingly, nothing changed. The sun rose, illuminating two apartments on the quiet street as it did every day. One apartment was struck directly, its rays touching old paintings, tasteful chests of drawers, and antique candlesticks, while the other received rays reflected from opposite windows. Day dawned, followed by a quiet night. He rose in the morning. He showered, made toast, ate breakfast, and then went straight from the shower to the nearby bus stop. She usually rose after eight. Within two hours of waking, she managed to get herself roughly ready and leave the apartment. She would walk to a nearby parking lot, get into her silver sports Mercedes, and, smoking a cigarette, drive off toward the city center. He didn't even know she owned a car. They had never met on the street or in a nearby shop before, even though they had lived next door to each other for nearly three years

.

On a foggy November Saturday, he woke up rather late. As usual, he had nothing to do. He tuned in to the radio. The monotonous music and empty news were reverberating through his mind. He longed to pop into the downtown bookstore and pick up an interesting book for the afternoon. He also decided to pop into a nearby shop for a few small purchases. He quickly showered, wolfed down two pieces of toast with garlic cheese, threw on a corduroy jacket, and left the house. In the bookstore's classics section, a small book called "The Gambler" by Dostoyevsky caught his eye. He glanced through it briefly and decided it would be a good choice for the afternoon. On his way back, he stopped at a small shop on his street. He tossed the book in its plastic bag into his basket. A moment later, a package of toast, a few beers, and a semi-dry red wine appeared, which he planned to drink that evening while observing her apartment. He joined the checkout line. He was lost in thought, unaware that the woman across the street had joined the queue just behind him. The first thing he smelled was the scent of her perfume. Intense, warm, overwhelming. He turned. It was her. He almost dropped his basket in surprise. She didn't even look at him. She was studying magazines in the rack by the checkout. He felt a slight paralysis. He tried in vain to calm himself. So they finally met! In a banal reality, place, time. He glanced into her basket. It contained a package of toast, the same kind he'd chosen, some condiments, and what particularly pleased him: two bottles of red wine. He squinted at her face. In the daylight, much closer than he could see with binoculars. She had gorgeous eyes. Large, brown, accentuated by subtle makeup. She was as tall as he was, but she wore short black leather boots with low heels. Her curly hair was tied back. She wore a light, straight-cut black leather jacket over a burgundy mock turtleneck. Silk trousers, slightly flared at the hem, completed the look. Out of the corner of his eye, he studied the details of her beauty and attire. She was a well-groomed woman, though her face, despite her beautiful features, betrayed a penchant for alcohol and a nocturnal lifestyle. It was his turn. He clumsily began removing the purchases from the basket. Lastly, he pulled out a book wrapped in a plastic bag. As he placed the basket under the counter, the book slipped out of the mesh netting and fell right at the woman's feet. She glanced at the book's title and then at him. He quickly picked it up, giving the stranger an awkward smile. She smiled at him! He turned away, embarrassed, quickly paid, and almost ran out of the store.

He couldn't read anything that day. He waited for dusk. She didn't return home until after eight. She undressed and put on water for tea. He watched her late into the night. She drank wine and danced in the glow of the candles lit in the living room. In the darkness, he studied her fluid movements, like cats dancing. He put on some music and opened a bottle of red wine. He lit a candle and placed it in his aunt's old candlestick on the windowsill. It seemed to him that the candles' flames were connected by a symmetrical line, divided by the street. The melodic sounds of music, she, the wine, and the night. This was his little world.

That night, he dreamed that he and the woman across the street were rummaging through stacks of old books in a large secondhand bookstore. She put only classics in his basket, he put romance novels he knew in hers. They smiled at each other, and she happily shook her curly blond hair…

The next few days passed as if in a kaleidoscope. Rain, a biting wind, and darkness lingered outside. He quickly returned from work and immersed himself in his reading. He waited for evening.

Thursday, St. Andrew's Eve, arrived. He had been offered a place to spend it with his colleagues, but he declined. They were boring. Their only entertainment was alcohol or gossip about the office. After several years of work, he had had enough of all the meetings and inane conversations.

That day, he wandered aimlessly around the city. He returned home after nine. Her windows were dark. He ate dinner, tuned the radio to his favorite station, and gazed into his neighbor's windows. Hour after hour passed. His wall clock finally struck twelve.

About fifteen minutes later, a taxi pulled up to the house opposite. It stood at the gate for a moment, and then she got out. She was clearly drunk. She was staggering, her hands clutching the gateway walls. A moment later, the light on the stairs came on. She walked slowly, every few moments fumbling with her purse. She was a pathetic sight. When she was between the second and third floors, the light went out. He waited a minute, two, three… The light didn't come on. He decided to do something. He quickly threw on his jacket and ran down the stairs. He ran across the street and ran through the gate opposite. Luckily, the staircase door was ajar because the doormat was in the way. He turned on the light and ran up the stairs. On the landing between the second and third floors, she was kneeling. She was messily rummaging through the items spilled from her purse.

"Excuse me, miss, maybe I can help you…"

She looked at him with alcohol-dimmed eyes

. "I'm looking for my keys," she stammered

. "Here they are, I'll help you," he said through gritted teeth and picked up the bunch of keys from the floor.

"Okay, I live in apartment number 10." The words barely escaped her lips.

He offered her his right arm and lifted her off the floor. He almost fell. Emotions reached a peak. He caught the strong scent of her perfume, mixed with the scent of alcohol. She hung her head limply and touched his arm.

He quickly opened the apartment door. He let her in first, felt for the light switch, and when it came on, he glanced around the interior. He slowly closed the door behind him. Her head bobbed slightly left and right, slurred words flowing from her lips:

"Sorry, I'm drunk... thank you for helping..."

Her eyes were half-closed. He guessed her grip on reality had ended at least an hour earlier.

He took off her gray wool coat, tossed it on the floor, and led her into the living room. He turned on the light and laid her down on the leather sofa. She lay there, panting heavily.

He looked around the apartment. It was truly impressive. Spacious, well-maintained, and the furniture was perfectly arranged. He retreated to the hallway. He picked up her coat, hung it on a standing wooden coat rack, and returned to the living room. He removed her shoes, her dark jacket, her light cream blouse, and her trousers. He felt his heart leap into his throat. Here he was in the apartment he'd been watching for months, and the subject of his observation was lying limply on the couch in only her underwear. For a moment, he stared at her breasts, covered by a burgundy, lace bra. They rippled slightly with her breathing. After a moment, he covered her with a blanket draped over the armchair and sat down next to her in the armchair. He had no experience in such situations. He saw an address book on the dresser by the window. He walked over, tore out a piece of paper, and looked around for something to write with. He opened the first drawer he found and found a pencil. He sat down at the table opposite the couch where the woman lay and scribbled a few sentences. "

I'm your neighbor across the street. I live at number 13, in the attic. I helped you into the apartment and put you on the sofa. I hope you don't mind. My phone number: 8542413." Paweł

***

She didn't say anything. Not the next day, not for another week.

It was early December. He was returning from work in a taxi. It was late, after 8 p.m. He saw her at the taxi rank, outside a hotel in the city center. He asked the driver to pull into the lay-by. He opened the door and invited her in.

He thought she recognized him.

"Will you take me?" he asked

. She got in without a word. The snowflakes in her hair were turning into pearly droplets of water. Her rosy cheeks and that captivating scent. All of this intimidated him even more. He tried to strike up a conversation:

"I helped you that day..."

She looked at him slowly and lowered her gaze

. "I know. I didn't thank you. I couldn't accept that fact. You understand... Guilt, shame... I still can't..."

They quickly reached home. She got out first. Paweł paid the fare and got out next to her. The taxi drove away. They stood there on the empty street, except for a few snow-covered cars parked along the curb.

"I should invite you over, thank you...

" "No, absolutely not!" he exclaimed. It's just... such a coincidence. I was looking out the window..."

She smiled.

"Do you live in the attic, on the fifth floor?

" "Yes, that's right...

" "So your glasses sometimes reflect off the streetlights at night," she added, still smiling.

He blushed, lowered his gaze, and barely managed to stutter:

"It's true, I often watch you. Almost every day, for over two years... That's why I helped that day...

" "Why are you doing this?" she asked more seriously. "Do you like me? You?" She suddenly changed to "you." Or maybe you masturbate while watching me take off my underwear, huh?

When she fixed him with her beautiful eyes, he felt the ground slip from under his feet. Out of nowhere, panting, he fell into the attic, into his apartment. For a long time he lay motionless on the couch, her words still ringing in his ears. Yes, it had happened to him a few times when his emotions had carried him away, but that wasn't why he'd been watching her. He liked her. Maybe even more than he liked her. She fascinated him. Her fluid movements as she danced, her lightness, the mysterious aura she exuded from afar. She was like a little princess lighting candles in the evening or pouring red wine into a glass. Even when she climbed the stairs to the third floor, calmly, without rushing. She was someone special, he felt it. She was certainly sensitive; she must have harbored many secrets. Or perhaps just one secret? The most important one, the one every person keeps. Why does there always have to be this damned suspicion of sex? he thought. He tossed and turned in bed late into the night, breaking down their brief conversation into small pieces to make it easier to understand what she really wanted to tell him. Why had she changed her mind, why had she asked if she was doing it while watching her undress? Yes, she certainly treated him like a brat. What normal guy watches one woman for months or years and in his dreams composes entire stories, carefully pasting into them images captured in the darkness of the evening or the gloom of the night, discreetly illuminated by openwork lamps?

She was certainly right. Paweł had a girlfriend in college. They studied together. They slept together and were a happy couple by their own definition of happiness. No unnecessary emotions, no particular arguments. Just ordinary student love. They lived in dorms across from each other. Vis a vis. From his window, he could watch hers. He always knew when she returned to the room she shared with a friend. It was his fourth year. He had bronchitis. Chest pain, antibiotics, weakness. It was January. A Saturday. There were usually parties going on in the dorms among those who hadn't gone home. It was after eleven p.m. Thirst woke him. A bottle of water was on the windowsill. He went over and twisted the cap. As he drank, he looked at the windows across the street, where his girlfriend lived with her friend.

The bottle slipped and fell, spilling its contents. There were no curtains in the room across the street. Anka, Paweł's girlfriend, stood in the kitchen with her back to the window. The taller boy kissed her lips, her neck. Paweł picked up the bottle and, with trembling hands, placed it on the windowsill. He continued to stare, unable to tear his gaze away from the couple. After a moment, he pulled her by the hand into the room. The light went out…

They broke up a month later, when he asked about that evening. She didn't have much to say to him. She never seemed to have much to say about anything.

Maybe that's why, since then, he'd often looked out at windows: in student dorms, at his parents', and finally in the tenement house opposite his. Maybe what he did was out of habit? There was always something in those windows. A life, other people's lives, little secrets, peculiar characters, the slow discovery of people's habits, the observation of movements and gestures.

She was special. She deserved more than that guy in the expensive suit. No, she was definitely not a prostitute. She couldn't be a call girl, no luxurious kept woman. After all, she'd only had one man. For two or three years. The worst part was that he didn't even know her name.

***

Snow was falling, strewing the windows and windowsills with white flakes. Opposite, on the fifth floor, the lights weren't on. I must have embarrassed him terribly. A nice guy, if a bit nervous, she thought. She poured herself a whiskey into a wide, thick-bottomed glass. She drank it in small sips, putting on a record. She shed her blouse and pants, remaining in her underwear as usual. She settled comfortably in the armchair. Her hand, holding the glass, twirled rhythmically to the music. She propped her leg on the armrest. She was missing something. Something special, new, fresh. Still only supervising investments, meetings with investors, the madness of late-night meetings, banquets. Expensive gifts from him. But really, it was another starting point in her life. A rest stop. For a long time, she had longed for a change. A breath of fresh air, a new fascination, a sharp turn. Time was ticking by. She noticed this during her morning routine, spreading powder across her face with a brush, highlighting her eyes with black pencil, and applying another coat of mascara. Even her well-groomed hands, with their long nails, always coated with tastefully and provocatively chosen nail polish, depending on the time and place, were no longer what they used to be. Tiny veins were protruding beneath the skin, becoming more visible, and the skin on her hands had lost the elasticity, the velvety softness it had had just a few years ago. "I'm getting old," she thought. "Time for a change," she said aloud.

***

Two weeks passed. Christmas was approaching. After that incident with the neighbor, Paweł decided to do something about himself. He had spent almost two weeks chafing against himself. Wasn't it time to change something about himself? To move forward? Instead of clinging to his habits, sick delusions, and dreams of beautiful love. He had wasted too much time observing life "from behind the curtain." Christmas was coming, time to meet with family, dust off old acquaintances. Maybe he'll enroll in college or take an English course? He came to the conclusion that the world he'd observed over the past few years existed only in his imagination. What he called truth was merely a reflection of his dreams, and the truth of his world, seen through the prism of magnifying glasses, simply didn't exist. That day, he decided to spend all his savings and buy his parents a Christmas present.

***

During her lunch break, she popped into the Empik store downtown. She thought she'd try to erase the incident. The boy wasn't worth the words she'd uttered. It's always good to have someone close, someone you can call at two in the morning and cry into. Someone who thinks differently than the throng of people surrounding you every day. Someone who cares not only about making a good impression, but also about having an honest conversation, and she needed honest conversations more than anything else. Lost in her thoughts, she searched for a small gift to give to the boy next door. He was the first person in her life who had behaved differently, unconventionally, who had shown interest without any subtext. At least, that's how she told herself. She came across the new U2 album, released a few days earlier. She actually wanted to buy it for herself, but she thought she'd give it to her boyfriend. It's a good excuse to maintain this "acquaintance," perhaps for an interesting conversation, or maybe... She pondered, turning the CD over in her fingers. At one point, the thought crossed her mind: she'd buy two CDs. One for him, one for herself, and listen to it that evening, then call him and invite him over. However, she dismissed the thought. She decided to give him a gift dedicated just to him.

***

That evening, she was returning from work in a taxi. She was in a great mood. She'd signed one of the most important contracts for the next year. It was a truly excellent project. She was the main author of the assumptions and calculations presented to the board members. She got out of the taxi at her gate. Then she spotted him, walking on the other side of the sidewalk, lost in thought. He was probably heading to his attic apartment. She quickly paid the fare and crossed the street, approaching him.

"Good evening," she said, smiling in greeting.

He looked surprised, as if he hadn't suspected she might approach him on the street.

"Good evening, neighbor," he smiled back. She

noticed he was wearing a gray suit, brown suede shoes, and a light beige turtleneck sweater. He looked as if he were returning from the theater or the cinema.

"Christmas is coming, so I thought..." She paused, looked at him, and continued. "I thought we could meet and talk, if you'd like, Paweł," she added. Actually, that incident and my aggressiveness were completely unnecessary, especially since I owe you...

"You don't owe me anything," he said seriously.

"Well, not exactly..."

She pulled a wrapped CD from her purse.

"It's just a little something for you, as a thank you for helping me the other night, and I also wanted to invite you over to my place before Christmas to talk..."

He interrupted her mid-sentence.

"Madam, forgive me, but I can't accept any gifts. Let's treat that incident as a neighborly favor," he smiled. "I'm done with that," he pointed to his windows. "I don't even have those binoculars anymore. I gave them to my father; they were practically his. He liked to birdwatch sometimes during the holidays. Besides, you have to grow up sometime, right?"

He gave her a cheerful, warm smile in farewell and disappeared through the gate.

She stood there for a moment, her arms slumped, tiny snowflakes falling on her golden hair.