MRO – ŻEK

Yer and I once went on a tour of second-hand bookstores. The main reason was that he was looking for Francoise Sagan's "Witaj smutku" (Hello Sorrow). I wasn't looking for anything, so, predictably, I bought a book for myself. "Amor" by Mrożek. I picked up an old volume and winced because the author's name was written on the cover in huge letters, so it couldn't fit on a single line. So it read: MRO – ŻEK. I don't know... I wouldn't particularly appreciate being subjected to such scrutiny.

Nevertheless, I bought "Amor." It was quite nice. Besides the title screenplay, there was also "The Tailor," "The Hunchback," and something else – irrelevant.

Back in the second-hand bookstore, I'd spotted some scribbles on the title page, but I didn't pay any attention to them. Only when Yer and I were already sitting in the bar, forcing down bites of monstrous hamburgers, did I read what was written there. A dedication. It was written in ballpoint pen, rather hastily, with no trace of calligraphy, but the first thought (quite uncontrolled) that popped into my head when I saw it was that there was—forgive me—a heart in it. So it read: To Andrzej – Gen anno 79. Exactly.

From the start, it caused some uneasiness, but only later, on the bus and back home, did I begin a more thorough analysis.

Let's start with Andrzej and Gen. Who were they, or rather—who could they have been? Three hypotheses clearly suggest themselves: friends, brothers, or partners—gay. Why so? It's clear—the lack of a lofty or polite dedication indicated a strong intimacy between the men. Otherwise, it would have been familiarity, or even a faux pas. The absence of any title like "Dr." or "Prof." Or perhaps simply "Mr." after either name suggested that the men were of the same age, so the intimacy couldn't have been a student-master relationship. A certain carelessness in the handwriting suggests that there was a non-verbal understanding between them, thanks to which this carelessness couldn't be interpreted as ignorance or anything of the sort.

The second issue—much more compelling: why did Andrzej sell the book he received from Gen? Such things aren't done in normal situations. I once received a book from Yer. Maybe I'll lose it someday, but I'll definitely never sell it.

Hypotheses? Hard, oh so hard. A seemingly simple thought comes to mind: a major quarrel between Andrzej and Gen, the end of their friendship, the beginning of dislike, or even hatred; the book no longer has any value for Andrzej—he's going to sell it. Wrong. Impossible. In such a case, the book would acquire a different value—it would become disgusting and irritating, which wouldn't lead to its sale, but rather to its destruction.

Let's keep trying. Andrzej died. His family was idiotic; they don't know who Mrożek is—they're selling it. Wrong. The stupidest person would have realized that a book the deceased received from a dear friend (brother, lover) is a doubly valuable keepsake.

Let's continue. Andrzej inadvertently left Mrożek somewhere. Someone else found it and went to consign it. Yes, it's possible, but I'd have to end the story there, and I happen to be having a great time, so let's quickly abandon this feeble hypothesis.

What else comes to mind? Hmm... Or maybe this: Andrzej and Gene are brain-fucking-it. Or rather, they've already debunked him, but they're definitely not fed up. Gene to Andrzej:

"We'll fucking sell that bespectacled guy, he'll be on 'Commandos'."

Funny and cheerful, because they're supposedly sacrificing a symbol of friendship, but in the name of what? In the name of nurturing it! Beautiful! My dears, no matter how you look at it, my heart swells! Just another zonk. As far as I know, you get your money in a second-hand bookstore once the books are sold. I doubt they'd want to wait that long. Another loophole I can't for the life of me find a way to fill.

I couldn't sleep that night, or the next.

I know from American movies that everyone has to fall on their backside, meaning sooner or later, everyone is destined for some great deed. You know – liberating a building taken over by terrorists, landing a plane with the help of a gray-haired man with a microphone in the air traffic control tower, rescuing a friend in extreme conditions, making it to the airport despite everything to say goodbye to a loved one at the last minute, beating an armed fugitive, proving someone's innocence with the brilliance of Hercule Poirot, despite all the evidence. Or intervening in someone's life and helping them right wrongs.

Yes, this was the moment, this was the calling. I understood I had to find Andrzej and ask. Ask him why he had sold Gen.

Yer was a smarter guy than me, so I went to him for advice. I outlined the situation. He pondered deeply, then said,

"Remember Nabokov? Humbert was willing to sacrifice a lot of time to be closer to Lolita. You remember—he became intimate with her mother. The intimacy turned into love on her part, and that was it—he was her husband. That way he had complete access to Lolita."

"Yes, yes I remember," I agreed eagerly. "

You have to do that too. You have to go to a used bookstore and buy some damn clever book and make some comment about it. Next time you go there, the woman will recognize you. That's how you have to start," I agreed. "Then, after a few visits, you'll make an appointment with her...

" "Ugh, ugh!" I nodded fervently.

"And you'll get closer and closer..." I was beginning to fall into rapture, for intrigue hung in the air, and that excited me no small amount. "Like a snake. You'll wrap yourself around her neck..." "Yes, yes—tell me more!" Oh, thank you for expressing it so graphically! "And when you're sure you've won her heart"—he paused—"you'll bite!" He made a sudden gesture with his hand.

I couldn't help but admire it.

"Ehe, ehe..." Now I was lost in thought. "So what?"

"Oh, so you'll ask her about the book, and she'll dig into the computer and give you the address and all the guest's details. Eventually, she'll trust you implicitly.

" "Yes, yes! That's what I'll do!" I jumped up. "No other way—exactly!"

I was feverish and eager to act. I looked around wildly, as if searching for some final sign or inspiration. My gaze flickered to Yer, then returned to him, lingering for a moment. What did he want again? He stared at me with a radical expression—he didn't move. An ironic smile flickered across his lips. What? I thought. What?

I asked. He continued to stare. Still the same, only the smile was becoming more and more pronounced. Finally, without taking his eyes off me, he said,

"You idiot. A sheep! A real clown! A donkey above the donkeys!" I couldn't wrap my head around it. A second ago he told me to be a snake, wriggling and biting. Now he's putting me between sheep and donkeys. "Man," he finally changed his expression. Unfortunately, doubt now crept over her. "You'll go, smile nicely, try the straightest line. Oh, you can tell her about your thoughts. The woman will be moved and will spill the beans.

I didn't understand much of it. One moment he tells me one thing, the next another. Yer, Yer... a thick head, no need. I resigned myself to the fact that I wouldn't be able to understand him. So I simply followed his last instructions, because the most current always prevails.

I went. The woman looked at me with a strange pity. But not as if I were a madman, but as if I were... a convict. Hmm, but I didn't feel like bothering with her whims. I told her the whole story, as Yer had instructed. She sighed, and then burst into tears. Oh my, he'd met a madman. When she'd calmed down a bit, she looked at me... hmm—intensely. Yes, if one can look intensely—she did. And, damn it, she gave me Andrzej's full address. Nothing made sense anymore... No, no... enough, enough of this! I went to him immediately to explain everything and not give myself time for further investigation. Al. Korfantego 13a / 9. It wasn't far, so I set off on foot.

The building was a typical socialist block. I went upstairs and found number 9. The door stood out clearly in the staircase. Solid, mahogany. I rang the bell.

"Come in!" I heard from inside almost immediately. The voice seemed calm and decisive. I was astonished. Who would just order a stranger in?

I opened the door. There was no hallway. A spacious and bright room immediately appeared before my eyes. To the left was a door to another room. The wide window had no curtains or drapes. The walls were white. The floor and ceiling were the same. Cool.

In the center stood a desk, without a chair in front of it for the guest. On the desk were two of those clever business cards that big shots always have in front of them at various meetings. One read: ANDRZEJ. The other read: GEN. Besides that, there was only a blank white sheet of paper, two pens, and a telephone. Two men sat behind the desk. If the business cards were to be believed: Andrzej and Gen. Their gazes were emotionless and stern. Worse still, they were staring straight at me. They said nothing. I, too, remained silent. If there had been a clock, it would have ticked unbearably and steadily.

I don't know how long we stood there. And then something inside me snapped.

I fell to my knees, sobbing, my forehead hitting the floor. I let out the most pathetic moan I could muster. I cried like a baby, I must admit.

When I ran out of tears, I lifted my face. They sat still – unmoved. Their gazes deepened even more.

"Andrzej, why did you sell Gen?" I roared, one might say. I tried to keep my expression as pleading as possible, but it clearly didn't impress them. I remained frozen on my knees, my face lifted, and my hope that they would speak was fading.

Then Andrzej slowly raised his hand over the counter, moved it with a firm but phlegmatic movement over the phone, and pressed a button. Of course, throughout this entire time, he had been watching me closely.

"He came himself," he said.

At that same moment, through the door on the left, an armed team in balaclavas burst into the room. They grabbed my arms, shouting loudly, "I don't know why." They lifted me from my knees and pinned me face down against the desk.

While two of them restrained me, a third put the handcuffs on my wrists, and Andrzej and Gen... Andrzej and Gen tenderly stroked my hair.

Then I felt a strong tug – I was being brought back to an upright position. Their hands gripped my arms tightly. I could have sworn they were enjoying this (the team – not the arms).

They waved some sort of ID card in my face. The Ministry for Those Who Have Nothing to Think About at the Supreme Chamber for Donkey Catching.

"Let's go!" they roared in my ear, and I was pushed forward.