November Night

It happened one November night. Andrzej and I were sitting in deep armchairs in my cozy apartment in an old pre-war tenement building in a large city, gazing into the flickering flame of a candle, its flame leaving a delicate shadow on the matte living room wall. Andrzej was a friend from my first job at a bank. We'd known each other for over a decade. Together, we experienced the triumphs and bitterness of failed projects, shared our delight in new music we'd heard on the radio, and discussed freedom, the meaning of existence, God, truths, and the goals we intended to achieve in the shade of trees by the pond in the park next to our work. Absorbed in memories of bygone years, constantly discussing our favorite existential topics, we slowly sipped Jack Daniel's, savoring the wonderful aroma of this exquisite beverage and smoking tons of cigarettes in the process.

Andrzej never spoke of his family; he kept his private life to himself, preoccupied with simple, sometimes trivial, things. He discussed the lives of deep-sea fishermen passionately, often dwelt on the problems of the homeless, rarely read newspapers, while simultaneously devouring dozens of books. In them, he found inspiration for ever-new discussions, topics I would discuss with him during the long autumn and winter nights. Night always fostered reflection and contemplation. We often wandered into the discussions until the first rays of the sun, when, exhausted by alcohol and surrounded by cigarette smoke, we collapsed into bed exhausted.

That November night, Andrzej arrived visibly despondent. I knew that as the hours passed and the alcohol consumed, he would reveal the reason for his condition, so I avoided unnecessary questions.

I was in a truly excellent mood. Business was going well, and over the past few months, I had managed to save a considerable sum of money, allowing me to optimistically look forward to the coming months without fear for my family's well-being. My wife and I bought a small cottage outside the city in a charming village surrounded by forests and fields, and importantly, far from major thoroughfares. I didn't worry about tomorrow. I eagerly awaited the next day, which would bring new challenges, interesting situations, new contacts, and business connections.

Andrzej had a good job in one of those boring corporations where only the days until an indefinite retirement counted, each day performing routine tasks that offered little development, and their only advantage was a monthly transfer to an account from which we could live for another month with relative dignity. We were already adults, and each of us knew our place in the pecking order, had experienced many stories worth writing books about. Neither of us expected much from life, each making our way through it in our own way, for better or worse, more or less easily catching the wind in our sails or drifting through the wilderness of our existence.

It was well after noon when I asked Andrzej about his last visit to the cinema. He couldn't remember, so he asked,

"Does it even matter when or what I watched last time?"

"As usual, your answer... I ask because last week Beata and I went to see Lynch's "The Straight Story." They were playing it in some reruns on the Atlantic. Do you remember that movie? One brother drives hundreds of kilometers to another on an old lawnmower to reunite with him after years of separation..."

At that moment, Andrzej paled, and beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. He nervously finished his whiskey and reached for another cigarette. He lit it and inhaled deeply. An awkward silence fell. A downpour raged outside, the last of the November rain, lashing the windows with raindrops. The room became sepulchral, ​​and suddenly the flickering candle flame went out. Darkness fell.

"Don't light the candle, please," said Andrzej.

I waited in darkness and silence for what would come next.

After a long moment, a story unfolded that I remember to this day. It was like a dream, like silence, like a picture that never ends.

... It happened a long time ago in one of those towns that dotted Poland like poppies in fields of ripening grain. There were two brothers, as alike as two peas in a pod. They lived together in one of those dingy tenement buildings on the outskirts of a small town. Both worked in different places. The older brother worked at one of the banks in that town. His job was tedious and routine, though, as he himself said, it brought him great joy because of the constant contact with people. He worked in the credit department, often observing the ups and downs of people trying to transcend the mediocrity of their humdrum lives, fighting for a better tomorrow for themselves and their families. He verified their data, asked about their goals, gathered information, and submitted applications, which his superiors reviewed. The second brother worked as an assistant director at a local branch of a transportation company. They lived harmoniously, each with their own life, interests, acquaintances, and friends. They helped each other, leading ordinary lives similar to theirs. Daily shopping, Saturday cleaning, Sunday visits to friends, and summer trips out of town.

One day, in May, the older brother met a girl. She was beautiful, with a slender body and a deep, bright gaze that betrayed sensitivity and empathy as he told her about his work, his observations, and his dreams. She had a soothing tone to her voice as she answered his questions, as they discussed the intimacy of her small attic. Their relationship progressed slowly, as days, months, and years passed. From friendship, a deep love blossomed, based on boundless trust. Trust is the most precious thing that arises between two people and the fundamental pillar of a relationship, without which, as the older brother used to say, nothing in life can be achieved. He believed in the selflessness of feelings, acceptance, and freedom of choice. He believed in God, in his own Lucky Star. For him, that Lucky Star was Dorota. They shared walks, endless conversations, shared holidays, dinners accompanied by music, candles lit in the evenings while discussing books, films, and art. They planned their lives and expenses together, wrote cards to friends and acquaintances, opened windows during storms, breathing in the crisp air, and inhaling it deeply.

Seeing their happiness, the younger brother seemed equally joyful. He often went out on Saturday nights to friends' houses for games of bridge or bachelor parties, giving them a moment of solitude. The days flowed by carefree, with flowery springs, scorching summers, and frosty winters. In autumn, the trees shed their leaves, creating carpets that enveloped the park near their home.

In November of one strange year, the older brother received an offer to join a newly opened bank branch in the big city. He received a good job, a company apartment, and prospects for the future. Dorota couldn't go with him. She had a sick, bedridden mother whom she had to care for constantly. She promised to wait for him. It was only supposed to be a year, until the branch had developed enough for him to return to his hometown. He was truly good at what he did – he had the lowest loan failure rate, possessed a knack for reasoning and observing people, and could read between the lines of their applications, the strings of numbers and information they provided when applying for loans. He thought – one year. It's probably worth it. I'll save up the necessary sum to build a life together with Dorota. They'd get their own apartment and leave the one he lived in to his brother, who was the closest thing he had left after his parents' death.

The younger brother accepted his older brother's offer without enthusiasm. He believed he was making a mistake, leaving him and his girlfriend for so long, at a time when life was as predictable as the next morning in their shared apartment.

The departure took place in early December. A last dinner together with a few friends and Dorota, conversations about the future and about time that doesn't exist. Time, as his older brother used to say, doesn't exist; it's just a fiction composed of segments measured by events, plant growth, and the phases of the moon. Saying goodbye to Dorota was painful. Tears, the scattered red tulips he handed Dorota with trembling hands before departure, the queue of people waiting for the train, the sleepy stationmaster, the snow falling on the tracks, and the sadness in his brother's eyes—that's all he remembered from that day.

Days in the big city passed monotonously. A whirlwind of responsibilities, business talks, loans extended to large corporations. Everything was different, new here. Even the women smelled and dressed differently. The lines of cars and the bustle of the streets were a complete contrast to his beloved small town, which he had left far behind. He sent his brother money, often called Dorota to inquire about her mother's health, and always asked the same question at the end of the conversation: "Are you still waiting for me?" Each time, he received the same assurances and fervent words that rang in his ears for hours after the conversation. He tried to avoid the company of people from work. He rarely dropped in on parties, but often went to the cinema, always alone, and bought books, which he later mailed to Dorota. Months passed...

Spring came, and then a hot summer. The smiles of the couples in love, which he surreptitiously observed from the window, reminded him of the girl he had left behind in his city. He missed his brother and their conversations, missed Dorota's laughter and those blue eyes that lit up his soul immediately after waking on Sunday mornings, when they would wake up together, face to face, in her small attic apartment.

Things were going well; summer ended, and a beautiful autumn began. His contract was nearing its end. His boss offered him a promotion and a raise as a reward for his diligent and exemplary work. He refused. He invented some insignificant, yet compelling, reason for having to leave the bank branch. He had achieved his goal. He had saved a decent sum of money and was proud of his perseverance. He hadn't given up, he had taken a risk. In just a month, he would be back in his town, where his wife was waiting for him, where his brother was, where he had grown up, and where he had left his heart, his dreams, his beloved little world.

Hibernating with anticipation, he counted the days and hours until his contract expired. He handed over his duties to his successor and began the laborious task of packing his belongings. He carefully wrapped gifts for his brother – an expensive camera and a sculpture of an angel for Dorota, bargained for with his monthly salary at a second-hand bookstore. He wanted to surprise them both by arriving a day early. He also bought the most beautiful roses from a smiling old florist on the corner of a busy street in front of the Main Station in the city he hoped to leave for good. The train ride seemed to drag on forever. He listened to the monotonous sound of the wheels clattering over the gaps between the tracks. To shorten the journey, he began reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez's new book, "One Hundred Years of Solitude," which he had purchased while waiting for the train at the station bookstore. "A beautiful book," he thought, after reading the first few dozen pages, "Dorota will surely like it."

It was November again, and the rain drummed against the train windows as if to shout out all the thoughts swirling in his head. He got off in the pouring rain at his station. There were three platforms. Long-distance trains departed from the first, local trains from the other two. He clumsily clambered onto the first platform with two bags and a basket of red roses, which the rain mercilessly lashed. On the second platform, a train stood, almost empty. A couple stood on the platform. A woman and a man, embracing each other tenderly. He stroked and kissed her hair, she snuggled against his chest. They stood there silently in the pouring rain. The wind picked up. Passengers from his train passed him silently, hurrying to their homes, families, and loved ones. He still stood, staring blankly. The roses fell into a puddle of rain, scattering everywhere; he was unable to move. He still stood and watched. He felt his heart breaking, his world ending, everything he believed in melting away in the November rain. He only saw the roses rolling across the platform, driven by the violent gusts of wind that had sprung up with incredible force. It creased the lapels of his coat, seeping into the collar with the icy water, deeper and deeper… He watched the couple. The man had boarded the train, which was just departing, the woman holding her hand to her heart. He recognized this woman. He recognized that man. They were no strangers to him. He stood there in the rain for a long time, slowly turning into a water-soaked sponge. Finally, he hefted his bags and climbed the steps leading to the station exit. On the way, he tossed one of the bags into the nearest bin and headed for the taxi rank.

"Good evening, where should I take you?" asked the taxi driver

. "Hotel Zacisze."

"You're soaking wet! You must have been standing in that rain for a long time!

" The man didn't answer. He never returned to that city. In the morning, he took the next train back to where he had come from the previous day…

Dawn began to break. A new, gray day was dawning, and the rain had stopped completely. I couldn't move, I sat rooted to the spot in my chair. On the table sat an empty bottle of Jack Daniel's and an ashtray brimming with cigarette butts. I saw tears in the corners of Andrzej's eyes. It would be unkind to ask how he knew this story so well.