PL+50

That evening, I was assembling a tape recorder. I was very excited. The screwdriver was shaking a bit in my hands, but the work went quite smoothly. Antek, whom I'd been asking for over a month, delivered the missing parts, though it must be said he'd charged a pretty penny. But now it didn't matter. I could imagine the sensation my new acquisition would cause in Lej. Especially that arrogant Romuald. He flaunted his record player as if it were nothing. And he only had half a vinyl record. He'd spent three months rummaging through Zachodni Spada looking for something to play, and all he found was that dusty record. He'd sometimes insert it when more people gathered at his Unit and play it. The device would play for a few seconds, then stop when the needle slipped off the record. Well, I'll admit, it wasn't bad. Such pleasant, tinny sounds, to which two guys were singing something about love. Old Tomasz claimed it was a "guitar." Maybe a guitar, but for me it could have been a "corkscrew" and it would have sounded the same. Besides, the stories told by Old Thomas before the Annihilation had to be divided by two. And some of them were even divided by five, as my mother claimed.

It didn't matter. What mattered was that on the desk next to the half-assembled tape recorder lay—yes!—an intact cassette. I'd dug it up two years ago in the South Slope. No one knew about it yet. I kept it in the crack between the bed and the wall, stuffed into some empty metal pipe. For the first time, those damn pipes I kept banging my head against were actually useful. Now, one of the ones under the ceiling was leaking too. The orange rust-tinted drops were driving me crazy, dripping onto the transistor circuit boards. All that

was left was the cover. I'd been sanding it for a few days. It must have been a toolbox once. I chipped and glued it where necessary and covered the cut rectangular hole with a piece of cloth. That was where my speaker was supposed to be. The last screw went into place. The head separated from the thread while screwing it in. I cursed, it would be fun to open it if everything didn't work. I inserted the battery. I carefully slid the cassette into the slot cut in the lid. Now all I had to do was connect the two wires sticking out from under the lid, and everything should work. I examined my work again and wiped the sweat from my forehead. It looked quite good... I smiled to myself.

I took the wires in my hand, a spark jumped, and the first sounds emerged from the speaker. Some high-pitched tones played. Rhythmic, good. And then those voices. It was probably a chorus: "The Bolska hasn't died yet, while we're still alive..." Pointless. Then there was talk of the Bolska and something Dombrowski-esque, I think. To me, the lyrics were completely useless. It must have been from before the Annihilation. I heard a dull pounding on the door. I tossed the tape recorder aside. I slid back the latch, and the door swung open with a piercing creak. My mother flew in.

"What are you doing again?" she looked at the table and the spread-out tools. "You're assembling those synthesizers of yours again! You have no mercy on Father. You know how he is when there are no drugs. You'll drive him crazy!

" "I'm almost done," I replied with calm resignation...

Mother calmed down a bit. She looked around the room again.

"Okay, okay," she sighed. She reached into her pocket and rummaged for a moment. She handed me two coins

. "Here are six Euros. Go get some drugs for Father, down there, you know, to Tomasz's. Just hurry up, this looks like another crisis to me."

I pocketed the money. I looked ruefully at the tape recorder. "He couldn't have found a better time for this crisis of his," I growled angrily under my breath.

Father started using drugs when he was still digging at Spad. He'd trade half his scrap for those little pink capsules Tomasz sold. I didn't really know what those pills felt like. I only swallowed once and puked for half a day. It was different with my father. He always lay down after taking it, and the benevolent smile on his face seemed to indicate that the tremors racking his body didn't bother him at all. It was worse when we didn't report the filth in time. My mother still had her eyebrow stitched after one such "crisis." That's why, ever since I took over the mine business from my father, a lot of our earnings had been eaten up by his addiction. Officially, drugs were banned. But ever since the Mayor's wife was seen rolling around at the bottom of the Hole, no one doubted the social acceptance of this practice.

I had an idea. I wrapped the tape recorder in a piece of grease-stained rag. I put on my coat, tucked the package under my arm, and left the room. Leaning forward, I skillfully avoided the lines of pipes protruding from the ceiling. My father slept in a side recess of the tunnel corridor. A trickle of saliva ran down his unshaven, plump cheek, staining his shirt. Disgusting. I finally reached the door. I struggled a bit with the riveted bar that served as our lock. I felt a breath of fresh air. Heavy gray clouds hung over the Lej. It seemed the first snow of the year was in the offing.

The Lej's layout wasn't the work of architects, but of a small nuclear missile that had strayed and landed here some forty years ago. This had its advantages and disadvantages. There wasn't much wind, but during downpours, large, putrid puddles would gather at the bottom, which the pumps couldn't always cope with. Walks around the Lej were pleasant as long as they ran along one of the circular streets. However, walking along one of the cross streets always meant climbing thousands of steps. We lived in Unit 34 at 78 Okrężna Street, which meant we were quite close to the top. Tomasz, like most retirees, lived on the outskirts of town. That's why I wasn't exactly looking forward to today's trip.

I adjusted the collar of my coat; it must have been frost, because I sensed the metal grates on the street were slippery. Through more footbridges, I reached the fifth cross street and began descending. There wasn't much traffic today, obviously – it was Saturday evening. Some kids were throwing a rag ball. One missed, and the ball rolled down the steps toward the ground. The other, clearly the owner, lunged at him with his fists. At Okrężna 68, a man dressed in rags, wallowing in his vomit, was just reaching the final stages of drug ecstasy.

I finally reached Okrężna 3. I turned left and soon found myself at a semicircular door with the word "Old Tomasz" scratched into it. A kid had scrawled "Madman" below it in uneven handwriting. I knocked. I heard the sounds of metal being knocked over from inside. After a moment, the door swung open, and a dark circle under his eye peered at me suspiciously.

"Ah, so you... come in," Tomasz invited me in.

The old man's apartment reflected his appearance. Uncombed, dirty hair and irregular, youthfully disfigured features blended perfectly with the overwhelming chaos. Despite this, I liked this place. It possessed perhaps the largest collection of curiosities in all of Lej. Stacks of unique books covered some antique devices. The best part, however, was the large lamp. It had a large, rectangular burner. When you turned it on, black and white dots flickered on the burner, filling the entire room with a pale light. Even the dust smelled different here, I'd even say pleasant. However, Tomasz always quickly destroyed this special atmosphere with a routine question:

"How much?

" "Two units of G-123," I replied with equal boredom

. "That'll be six Euras," he extended a wiry hand. I handed him the money, and he handed me two bulging bags of shimmering pills. I pocketed them. He stood up, clearly wanting to see me out.

"Mr. Tomasz, just a moment," I stopped him, "I have something here. Perhaps you could tell me something about it?"

He turned around, curious. He didn't need to be asked twice. I unrolled the tape recorder. I could clearly see the twinkle in his eye.

"See, I built this thing to play tapes—I found one."

He listened intently.

"What tapes, boy?" he asked with a slight, perhaps even ironic, smile.

"Just like these." I took out the plastic cassette.

He swallowed.

"And does it work?" He was clearly nervous.

"It works," I replied, and connected the two wires.

The music started. He listened intently, breathing faster. I don't know if he wiped the sweat from his forehead or if it was a tear. The music flowed from the speaker for several minutes and finally stopped.

He sat there for a few more moments, lost in thought. Finally, he spoke:

"So, what would you like to ask, boy?

" "Hmm, I thought maybe you could tell me what this Bolska thing and this Dombrowski thing is all about..."

"Why do you want to know?" he asked another question.

"I don't know... I'm just curious... "

He fell silent again for a dozen or so seconds, then spoke:

"You see, it's old news, and I have a bad memory. But despite that, I think I know what it's about. But why should I tell you about it? You wouldn't understand, and even if you did, you might want to know more, and no one will tell you anything more... These are words, words of old people, and they no longer mean anything to you. For them, this Lej, our life, was just as impossible to imagine as what this music is about for us." Here he stopped for a moment, looking around as if searching his memory:

"Let me ask you another question, do you know how you were born..."

Of course I knew.

"Just like with my parents." After the Annihilation, the Corporation collected reproductive cells and put them in test tubes, and then we were in these bags—Antek even showed me one once—and we grew there until we were big enough to come out.

Tomasz kept looking at me:

"And how is it that your parents are your parents...?"

Another stupid question. I didn't know why he bothered me with all this, but I guess it was out of sympathy for him, and this time I answered:

"Well, the Corporation sent them this document—I think it's called an allocation, and they had to take care of me. That document is even hanging in our hallway.

" "And how do you feel about your parents?" the old man continued. This was really starting to annoy me. But the whole conversation somehow captivated me, so I continued explaining...

"I don't know... I live with them..." I answered honestly.

Tomasz scratched his forehead. He got up and went to one of the shelves, buckling under the weight of garbage. He rummaged around for a few minutes, then returned. He sat down and coughed. Then he said,

"See, boy, I'm sorry for the questions. They were just for me; I wanted to make sure. Now I know. Forgive me, but I won't tell you what's on that cassette. I can only assure you that it means nothing to you. Treat it like the ramblings of lunatics like me. I don't want us to part in anger. Take it from me."

He handed me a small wooden box. When I opened the lid, I almost jumped with surprise. Inside were five shiny cassettes. I looked questioningly at Tomasz, and he added,

"They're yours. You should like them better than what you have. I just have a request: come over sometime with your machine. I'd like to listen. And bring your cassette."

I closed the lid with excited fingers and said, "You're welcome."

"Thank you... I don't know if I can..."

He replied,

"No thanks, I don't need them anyway. You'd better run to your father before he shoots something off again," he sighed, smiling weakly.

I quickly left.

***

Tomasz's cassettes are indeed better. Great drums and those cool twangs - Tomasz says they're electric guitars, but no one believes him anyway.