My life had once again been reduced to a school-home routine. Days were filled with routines – get up, wash, eat breakfast, bus, lesson, break, lesson, return home, dinner, homework, studying, TV, radio… I longed for a change. No, actually, I dreamed of a radical change, a complete revolution, turning everything upside down. I tried to find or create my own style. I was disgusted by the people around me, all the same, inhabitants of the concrete jungle, escaping the night to their tiny cells, to their televisions, microwaves, crying children, and dogs. Marti lent me some of his punk and alternative music CDs. I'd never heard these bands before, but I immediately liked them. They were the ones who made me start to rebel. Yes, but my rebellion was limited to my own room. One day, I tacked a sign to his door with an artistically crafted inscription: "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here." I literally fought a battle with my mom over the floral curtains that had previously hung on my windows. I didn't want them. They seemed trivial. Now, nothing blocked the light streaming in. I removed pictures from the walls and souvenir trinkets from the shelves. They ended up in my sister's room. My cousin received a collection of matchboxes, comics, and computer games as gifts. These were just relics of the past. I didn't regret anything. To the sounds of Radiohead's "Creep," whose chorus repeats the words "I'm hopeless, I'm a weirdo," I created an extraordinary collage on one of the walls. Next to the band photos, I hung copied pages with my favorite passages from books and poems. I also wrote a sort of personal manifesto – a whole bunch of resolutions and slogans that I intended to put into practice. Admittedly, this one wasn't as successful.
Every day I promised myself I would walk boldly with my head held high, be honest, open, and true to my convictions. However, when I found myself among people, I seemed more like an oddball than someone with a strong personality. One day I'd walk down the street, confidently measuring my steps to the rhythm of the music filtering through my headphones, looking people in the eye as they glanced back at me as I hummed. Another time, I'd sneak past the walls of houses, my gaze fixed on the sidewalk, crouched with a dark hood over my head, as if trying to blend in. Adversities tossed me around. Whether admired or despised, I wanted, above all, to be different. I knew many people my age experienced similar dilemmas, but observing my peers, I got the impression that most were only interested in good grades, socializing, and having fun.
Certain divisions became evident in our class. After a year of acquaintance, after a certain amount of reshuffling, people began to form small groups of four or six, like our own group. They were united by common interests, or by the fact that they lived close together, could meet more often, prepare reports and assignments together, and help each other with their studies. Besides these small "self-help circles," there was a larger group in our class. Its core consisted of Jeż, Kostek, and their peers who looked up to them, along with the trendiest and most adventurous girls – Aśka, Marta, Ewka, and Mariola. None of them stood out academically, but they were the leaders socially. They organized parties every week, although for some time now they hadn't invited anyone outside their own circle. They brought a tape recorder to school and played music during breaks. They adopted the principle that anyone not in their group was inferior. Unfortunately, they increasingly expressed this by mocking and teasing people outside their group. I hated them. Whenever I was around them, all my rebellion, all my rules and resolutions, went to pieces. I'd shrink into myself, hide in a corner, and try to become invisible, just to avoid being picked on. Then, when the danger passed, I'd call myself a coward, but the truth was, I was simply afraid of them. Robi called them the mafia. They teased him most often. And Tatiana. The excuse for mocking Robi was his weight, and Tatiana's—her name. Surely if a girl like Aśka—a shapely, fashionably dressed blonde—had that name, everyone would have said Tatiana sounded incredibly original and cool. But Tania was a shy, reserved girl, completely aloof, not socializing with anyone. She was an easy target. She didn't defend herself against teasing, and there was no one to defend her. Many times I felt sorry for her. In those moments, I imagined myself jumping into the front of the classroom and screaming in everyone's faces: "You're hopeless assholes, sucking up to Hedgehog and his gang! You keep your mouths shut and pretend nothing's happening, while those fascists can do whatever they want! Why doesn't any of you stand up? They're destroying our class, turning us against each other!" I did nothing. I wanted to be different, but I was just like everyone else.
Things had gotten really bad in our class these days. We hadn't managed to get along last year, but even loosely, we'd somehow stuck together. Now, any contact between the groups ended in arguments, disagreements, and grudges. I suspected Kostek was largely to blame. He was the one who started the conflicts. Teasing others must have given him incredible pleasure. He had an uncanny knack for instantly recognizing people who were good to get along with. He also wasn't wrong about potential victims. He ideally chose shy people, those with complexes, insecure about their own worth, those who wouldn't stand up to him. He was wrong only in one case – Robi. Robi's cheerful, optimistic nature allowed him to fight his insecurities. He didn't give up. Besides, he had us.
One day, the Polish teacher was late for class, even though the bell had long since rung. We were killing time chatting. The "mafia" at the back of the room was exceptionally loud. Kostek entertained his friends with a senseless story, swarming with the most vile curses. It was these curses that stirred up enthusiasm. Where did this boy know such terms? When another filthy remark escaped his lips, Robi looked around, sighing ostentatiously. Perhaps this was what Kostek had been waiting for.
"What are you staring at, fat boy?" he shouted from his seat. "Don't like it, huh?"
Robi merely shrugged. Before we knew it, Kostek had grabbed a piece of his unscrewed pen and fired several paper projectiles at us. More lay ready on the edge of the bench. Kostek's friends rewarded this feat with thunderous applause. One of the bullets hit Robcio squarely in the eye, causing him to cringe in pain.
"You're insane!" was all I could muster.
In response, Kostek made a few obscene gestures. Then Konrad rose from his seat. He walked through the entire classroom, straight to Kostek's desk, unceremoniously grabbed him by the ear, lifted him up, and led him out of the room. Just outside the door, he kicked him in the butt.
"Do you miss elementary school? Here you go!" he shouted.
For a moment, everyone in the class was completely stunned. When Konrad returned, applause erupted from the row by the window.
"Ooooh, great!" Maryla and Baśka shouted over each other. "He should have been slapped! Or had his hands
slapped with a ruler!" After a moment, Marti and Czaki started clapping, followed by Robcio and I. A timid applause broke out from somewhere off to the side. Konrad signaled us to be quiet with a gesture that could have meant, "Okay, okay, I was just doing my job." Before he could sit back down, Hedgehog blocked his path to the desk. Silence fell for a moment. The boys exchanged glances.
"Do you have a problem?" – Konrad asked. He pretended to be relaxed, but I could clearly see he was tense, as if he were getting ready to jump.
"You're dead!" Hedgehog growled through gritted teeth
. "I don't know anything about that.
" Hedgehog shoved Konrad. The metal legs of the chair Konrad had bumped into scraped across the floor. The boy didn't lose his balance, though.
"Move one of my friends again!" Hedgehog threatened.
"And you guys, pick on one of mine again!" Konrad threw back.
Then Hedgehog swung, Konrad deftly dodged and punched Hedgehog square in the stomach. The boy staggered, disoriented, but tried again. And this time, his hook only pierced air. This time, Konrad easily hit him in the jaw. Konrad's next punch knocked Hedgehog to the floor. As he fell, he knocked chairs and two desks apart, causing a huge uproar. At that moment, the teacher entered the classroom.
"What's going on here?!" she exclaimed. "She wasn't our Polish teacher. I only knew the woman standing in the doorway by sight." She must have come as a substitute.
Everything happened so quickly. We sat in our seats, looking at the wreckage, then at the teacher, then at each other. Hedgehog was still lying on the floor, trying to wipe the blood from his cut lip. Konrad stood over him with his head bowed.
"What's this supposed to mean?!" the woman exclaimed, "Can someone explain it to me?
" "A little misunderstanding," Konrad muttered
. "Little misunderstanding?!" The teacher slammed her notebook on the table. "I'm only five minutes late, and you're already causing trouble! This is a serious school, gentlemen! There's no room for hooligans here! We're going to the principal to sort this out!
" "Professor, it's just a quarrel..." Konrad tried
. "No arguing! I don't tolerate hooliganism. And you," she said to the other students, "are to sit quietly like mice during this time. Otherwise, I'll give you a test.
" Hedgehog got up from the floor. He didn't say a word. As they followed the teacher out of the room, he walked with a hunched posture and lowered head. Perhaps he was ashamed of being hit by someone smaller than him?
After they left, no one dared to comment aloud. The silence was broken only by sporadic whispers. Marti rose from his seat and began to rearrange the overturned chairs and desks. Only then did we notice Kostek standing in the doorway. He pursed his lips in his usual way. He detached himself from the doorframe and nonchalantly walked past our desk. Only when he was a little distance away did he blurt out,
"It's all your fault, fat boy!
I realized he's afraid of us now.
" "Will you leave him alone, you lousy bastard?" came Maryla's booming voice. "I'll hear 'fat boy' again and I'll beat you so hard they'll have to pick you up off the floor with a mop!"
Kostek's eyes widened. He cursed under his breath, but sat down and began nervously scribbling on his notebook. He gave up!
- Marylko! - it was Czaki
- What?
"I love you! "
She cackled in a rather ungirlish way.
"I love you too, honey!"
The teacher returned from the principal's office alone. She'd conducted the lesson without a word about the brawl. Only during the break, in the hallway, did we have a chance to talk to Konrad. He was completely calm, perhaps even pleased with himself. We formed a tight circle around him, waiting for a report on his visit to the principal. Kondi took his time with explanations.
"So?" Marti asked, concerned. "Tell me, finally!
" "A warning for bad behavior," he announced. "My first at this school.
" "Congratulations," Czaki muttered. "And that idiot?
" "Same thing." Dyrcia didn't bother to ask what the fuss was about. She gave us both warnings and a hello.
"Was it worth it?" Czaki questioned.
"Oh yes...
" "Sure," Maryla said. "It's pure pleasure to punch that little rascal in the face. I'd gladly punch that little ringleader."
"Next time, Marcia," Kondi laughed . " That was a
beautiful move," Basia said . " Trr ... " We laughed like a bunch of lunatics. Kostek, Jeż, and the rest of the "mafia" walked past, looking our way and making silly faces. Jeż's split lip swelled up like a balloon. "Well, now they'll give you a wide berth," I said to Konrad . "Or they'll attack me in a gang in some dark alley," he replied. "Do you think they can?" I got worried . "I don't know. Probably... But who cares? I've been hit in the head more than once. I'll survive. " "These are the consequences of physical violence," Robi announced. "Gee, Rob!" Konrad groaned. "One more golden sentence like that and I'll demonstrate the consequences of physical violence on you!"
I looked at Konrad. He was about my height, but broader in the shoulders, with a sincere face, recently dotted with a few freckles that gave him the air of a mischievous rascal; dreadlocks cascading down his back and shoulders… He stood tall, head held high. He looked as if he was ready to take on the world. He certainly didn't betray his beliefs, wasn't afraid to stick to his guns, even though it risked ridicule. He didn't try to please anyone. I wanted to be like Konrad.
***
When we arrived, the doors were still closed. A large crowd was already gathered in front of the entrance. I was surprised. I hadn't expected a little-known Polish band to attract so many people to their concert. They seemed loyal fans. Some wore T-shirts with the band's name. Today's trip to the Stodoła club was Marti's idea. He said he got the tickets for free, and it would be a shame to waste such an opportunity. He assured us that Melodramatiz was a really good band. I'd only heard one of their songs before; I didn't really know what kind of music they played. Looking at the fans, dressed in heavy combat boots, dark leather jackets, and metal jewelry with skull motifs, I concluded it definitely wasn't going to be Disco Polo.
We stood a little to the side, near the barriers. Marti pushed his way into the crowd. He had copies of his fanzine with him and seemed intent on selling a few copies. The band's fans cast suspicious glances our way. In our jeans and sports jackets, we looked as if we'd just happened to be there. In fact, we had.
"I hope there won't be any trouble here," Konrad muttered. Marti claimed that Melodramatiz fans were very peaceful. They looked like Hell's Angels to me, but maybe they were just pretending to be.
"Theoretically, Stodoła is a student club," Robi said. "But I wonder what these people here could be studying." Occultism? Black magic?
"Does..." Czak reprimanded him. "I didn't expect you to judge people by their appearance.
" "Oh, I'm just kidding. Most of them look like Conan the Barbarian, but they're definitely nice guys." A hint of sarcasm filled Robcio's voice.
"By dressing like that, they're demonstrating their belonging to a certain group," Czaki sighed. "They need something like that to let off steam, to let off steam. They probably feel just as alienated and lonely as anyone else.
" "Do you feel lonely?" I asked, surprised. Czaki glanced at me briefly. He didn't reply.
"Konrad! Konrad!" a girl's voice sounded from somewhere off to the side.
We glanced in that direction. Baśka and Maryla were running across the street. Both were dressed in black, Maryla in a long skirt with fringe at the hem and a long sweater, and Basia in tight pants and a leather jacket. Both had black-painted nails and lips. They looked like vampires.
"Wow, what an image!" Konrad exclaimed.
"Melodramatiz combines elements of heavy metal and gothic in their music," Basia recited. "We simply adapted to their style. I hope Bruno, the singer, will notice me from the stage.
" "Bruno?" Kondi laughed. "What kind of name is that?
" "A pseudonym
." "'Get moving, Bruno, we're going for a beer, we're definitely missing out there. Standing still has killed many, many a flower has perished." Czaki hummed softly.
"Is that yours?" I asked.
"No," he smiled. "Stachura's.
" "I hear you write poetry too?" "
I see rumors are circulating." Czak looked at us reproachfully.
"Why are you making a secret of it?" Maryla probed. "I bet your poems are very interesting."
Czak's face flushed pink. He lowered his gaze. I remembered the lyrics he'd let me read last summer, by the seaside. They were really good, though the sadness and resignation in each piece worried me.
"Hey, I think they're opening the doors!" Robi announced.
Indeed, something was happening at the entrance. The crowd swayed and began pressing against the barriers. Several portly men dressed in jackets with "security" written on the back emerged from inside the club. They began giving instructions to the young people, checking tickets, searching backpacks. In the crush, we moved forward step by step.
"Where's Marti?" Czaki looked around.
"He's lost," I muttered. "Maybe we'll find him inside."
Czaki shook his head skeptically. He seemed a little nervous. We passed through security without any problems. We found ourselves in a spacious hall with a cloakroom off to the side and a staircase leading upstairs. Straight ahead was another wide door, and since everyone was rushing that way, we headed there too. The room we entered wasn't very large. The stage was illuminated by colored spotlights.
"Quick, come on!" Marti stood just below the stage, waving his arms at us.
We ran up to him. He moved over, making room for us at the barrier separating the stage.
"Hold on to the barrier if you want to be in the front row," he advised. "Headbangers can jump and surf, if you don't hold on, the wave will push you to the back, or worse, into the mosh pit.
" "Sorry, Marti," Robi said. "I didn't quite understand what you said.
" Marti laughed.
"I mean, people go a little crazy at concerts," he explained. "Many people headbange to the kind of music Melodramatiz plays, especially if they have long hair. They're called 'headbangars.' Some people like to surf the surface of the crowd. They float on other people's shoulders. Others are proponents of what's called 'crowd diving,' diving into the crowd. It's best to keep your eyes peeled and be careful not to get kicked or trampled to death. People push each other, creating a wave that takes everything in its path, pushing those at the front to the back. That's why I advise you to hold on tight to the barrier.
" "Marti, where have you taken us?!" Robi groaned.
"I see you know your stuff," Maryla added. "You must be a regular at these events, right?
" "Well, you peek into different places...
" "I remember Reading!
" "Do you think Bruno, the singer, will spot me in this crowd?" "Basia asked
. "What are you, you're such a weakling! You're barely visible!" Konrad laughed.
"Hold on to me, and maybe we can sneak backstage," Marti said
. "Ooo! I'd love to hold on to you!" The girl wrapped her arms around Marti's neck.
He was completely surprised by the gesture. He covered his embarrassment with another incredible smile. Baśka released him, then playfully nudged him in the side.
"Hey, don't shake like that, I'm just joking!
" "I'm not shaking at all," he protested.
"Really? I had the impression I'd scared the young master pretty bad by hanging on to his neck.
" "I was just surprised," he explained. "Girls don't throw themselves at me very often.
" "No? It's hard to believe..."
Marti blinked, as if he was having trouble understanding what they were saying, or searching for hidden meaning. Baśka nodded in disbelief.
"Little boy, don't act so innocent," she nudged him again. "Half the girls at school are crazy about you, and you're making faces like you have no idea what's going on."
Completely confused, Marti looked at our faces, searching for confirmation or some other reaction to the girl's words. Unable to hold back our stupid smiles, we nodded. Only Czak lowered his gaze. He must have been in a bad mood today.
"Leave him alone," Konrad slapped Marti on the back. "What good is he supposed to do if he's handsome? It's not his fault. He hasn't developed enough yet to know what to do with the crowds of women crowding around him, but under the watchful eye of a good teacher, mine, he'll quickly catch up.
" "Konrad!" we all scolded him at once.
Music poured from the speakers. People began to push toward the stage. We couldn't talk any longer. After a few minutes, amidst the smoke and flashing spotlights, the musicians took the stage. When the drummer struck, I felt a tremor in my chest. The sound of guitars pierced the air. The crowd screamed and pressed directly toward us. At first, I couldn't see anything until I found myself pressed against someone's back. Between the heads, I spotted the singer—a not-so-tall, slender guy with long, light hair. He seemed to be wearing makeup. I didn't know the songs, so I couldn't sing along with everyone. I jumped around a bit. However, unaccustomed to the crowd, the stuffiness, and the heads, elbows, and feet in heavy boots attacking me from all sides, I soon retreated from the stage. The further I went, the more relaxed it became. I noticed that some people were tipsy, while others seemed... high. I'd never seen anyone so visibly wasted. I was clearly hiding under a cloud.
I had the impression the concert was exceptionally short. I'd just found a good seat, among quieter people, where I could see a good portion of the stage between heads. Meanwhile, the lights dimmed, and the musicians disappeared backstage. The crowd clapped, stomped, and whistled. The band came out for a few more minutes to play three songs as an encore. After that, the stage lights went out for good, but the entire venue brightened. The audience began to drift away from the stage toward the exit. I moved to the wall, looking for my friends. Robi and Czaki were standing in the middle, jostled by people passing by. They looked a bit like two orphans, hot, with damp hair on their faces. I pushed my way over to them.
"How did you like it?" I asked.
"What?" Robi's eyes widened at me. "I'm completely deaf."
"Good thing they didn't trample us," I said
. Czaki smiled in his usual way. I don't know why, for some time now, the sight of that smile had been tugging at my heartstrings. When Czaki's lips twisted into that peculiar grimace, sadness still lingered in his eyes.
"Hey, come quickly!" we heard Konrad call.
He was standing near the stage, by the side door, waving in our direction. As we approached, he wordlessly pushed us behind the door, slamming it shut as soon as we were inside.
"This way, this way," he led us through the dark corridor.
After a moment, we found ourselves in front of another door and realized it was the musicians' dressing room. We peered inside. The room was quite dingy. It probably served as an office, as a desk stood against the wall and a tall wardrobe to the side. The members of Melodramatiz were sitting on chairs, sipping beer. The vocalist was talking to Baśka and Maryla, who were gazing at him with admiring eyes. Marti, with a piece of paper and pen in hand, crouched down in front of the guitarist. He was probably conducting an interview for a fanzine. He glanced toward the entrance, noticed us, smiled, and motioned for us to come in. I felt a bit awkward. I wasn't a fan of the band, I wasn't really familiar with their music, and at the very first concert, I had the opportunity to meet the musicians in person. For a moment, I succumbed to a sudden panic attack. What could I tell these artists? Lie that I was their fan? And if they asked which song I liked best, what would I answer? I don't even know any of the titles. I looked at Robi. He wasn't worried at all. He treated everything like an adventure. Why did I always look for potential problems in every situation?
Marti rose from his knees. The Melodramatiz guitarist also stood.
"These are my friends," Marti introduced us. "This is Czak, Robi, and Piti.
" "Hi, I'm Deraz," the guitarist said. "What, Marti, do you have any more questions for me?
" "Just fill out this questionnaire. I'll pick it up at our next meeting. You can draw or scribble something, as long as it's not too vulgar. I'll scan it onto the computer later and make it an integral part of the fanzine.
" "Integral, huh?" Deraz laughed. "Okay, we'll open our souls to you. Like your brother's studio?
" "It works.
" "Good, too. You probably know," Deraz turned to us, "that our band recorded its first demo at Toksyczne Nagrania. This studio will soon be legendary," he cackled. "So, Mart, are you coming to the party with us?"
"No, thanks, too many attractions at once.
" "Attractions?! Man, you haven't seen the real attractions yet!" Deraz slapped Marti on the back. "It's a shame you didn't bring more friends. It's just that we sometimes have trouble with this stuff." He cackled again.
"I'm sure you'll find some company for the party," Marti said. "Thanks for letting us in, and thanks for taking care of the questionnaire.
" "Man, we'll do anything for you, well, almost anything!
" "Just play your music and it'll be great," Marti assured. "We'll be leaving now, you must be tired.
" "What are you talking about, the evening's just getting started! Hey," Deraz lowered his voice to a whisper, "will you leave us your friends?"
Marti smiled wryly.
"Sorry, we have plans for the evening too," he explained.
"Ugh, you said there were too many attractions..." Deraz sneered. He nudged Marti in the ribs, but to me it didn't look like friendly jostling, more like malice.
Marti grimaced, shooting us a pleading look. Konrad immediately took the initiative.
"It was great meeting you," he declared. "But we really have to get going. Girls!" he shouted at the three of them, who were engaged in conversation. "Let's go! Give the guys a break.
" "No problem," Bruno replied.
Baśka and Maryla seemed eager to stay longer in the company of the beautiful Bruno. However, reluctantly, they joined us.
"Thanks, great concert, it was awesome!" We waved goodbye.
From the dressing room, we walked down a dark corridor to the back entrance of the building. Darkness and the evening chill enveloped us.
"You know what," Marti said, "I'd love to be a journalist writing about pop music, but after meeting people like Deraz, I have serious doubts about my suitability.
" "You did great," I said. "Completely relaxed.
" "Yes, but I felt like punching him!
" "Really?" Basia said, surprised. "Bruno was wonderful!
" "Yes, they all charm girls wonderfully," Konrad said.
"Hey, you gentlemen aren't jealous, are you?" Maryla laughed.
"Not at all!" Kondi snorted, looking very offended.
Maryla jumped up to him, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him on the cheek. I've never seen Konrad look so foolish.
"Are you a little flustered, Master?" Marti sneered
. We giggled like a bunch of lunatics. This was now our regular routine. I glanced back at Czaki and spotted him walking alone a few steps behind us, completely lost in thought.
***
"Why do you so rarely join in on the fun?" I asked.
"Excuse me?" Czaki was completely taken aback by my question
. We were sitting on the windowsill at the far end of the corridor. On the other side of the glass, the first snowflakes were swirling in the air. They fell slowly from the dark, cloud-covered sky and instantly melted upon contact.
"You're always on the sidelines," I finally decided to broach the subject. "Even when we're going somewhere as a group, you're always at the back, alone, lost in thought. Don't you like our antics? Sometimes I feel like we're too childish for you.
" "No, I'm just not the joking type." He lowered his eyes
. "I understand, but sometimes I get the feeling you're hiding something from us. If something's bothering you, you can always tell us. We're friends, after all."
"There are some things you don't tell even your closest friends," he whispered.
"Why not? Maybe we could help you?"
He just shook his head. It was so hard to get through to him. I felt like he'd reveal himself to me if only I could find a way to approach him. Maybe I should be the first to confess something?
"You know, you intrigue me," I began. "You're completely different from most boys our age. So intelligent, capable, independent, original...
" "Oh, don't be so quick!" he interrupted. "I don't feel like talking about my problems, so don't suck up to me.
" "I'm not sucking up to you!" I protested, a little weakly.
"Look!" he nudged me, pointing to a dark silhouette at the end of the corridor.
I watched the figure approaching us. In the dim hall, I couldn't quite make her out. Only when she was quite close did I recognize her as Tatiana. Simple jeans and a navy blue sweater, hair pulled back in a ponytail, delicate silver hoops in her ears. She couldn't pass for a beauty queen, but she was full of natural charm and freshness. I don't think she realized it herself. She walked with her shoulders hunched, her gaze fixed on the floor, clutching her books tightly to her chest. I remembered all the teasing the people in Hedgehog's group had given her, and I felt sorry for the girl.
She quickened her pace as she passed us. Perhaps she was afraid we would tease her too.
"Tatiana!" Czaki called
. She glanced around uncertainly.
"Great report." I don't think Czaki was entirely sincere. Maybe he just wanted to say something nice to the girl.
She stopped, looking at us suspiciously.
"Is that your book of Shelley's poems?" Czaki pointed to one of the books she was holding.
"Yes," Tatiana finally said.
"Would you lend it to me? I can't get it at any library. "
She hesitated for a few moments.
"I don't damage books," Czaki assured her
. "Okay," she said.
She approached us to hand the book to Czaki. The fear that our conversation might turn into an attack on her was still lingering in her eyes. I smiled as warmly as I could. This startled her. Czaki took the book and examined it with interest.
"Thanks, I'll try to return it as soon as possible," he said to the girl
. "Do you like poetry?" "Y-yes," she stammered
. "Me too. Very much." He looked Tatiana straight in the eye as he spoke.
The girl stood before us, confused, unsure of what to say or do. She looked away.
"I have to go now," she muttered.
"Okay, we're not stopping you. Bye!
" "Bye!"
She disappeared up the stairs. Czaki was flipping through the pages of the book. I was thinking about what I'd just witnessed. Had my friend spoken to the girl out of pity, because no one else seemed to be hanging out with her? Somehow, I didn't buy the excuse about Shelley's poetry.
"What was that about Tatiana?" I asked simply
. He looked at me, surprised.
"I don't understand...
" "Why did you bother her?
" "What?" He waved the thick volume in front of me.
"I'm not going to do that," I said
. Czak jumped down from the windowsill. I think I'd hit a nerve. He threw the book into his backpack and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes from deep within.
"I need a smoke," he said.
"You're running away again!" I called after him.
He stopped halfway to the bathroom. He turned on his heel, walked over to me, and stood there, looking me in the eye defiantly.
"What's your problem, Piotr?" he asked bitterly. "You don't like me?
" "On the contrary. I really, really like you," I assured him .
"So why do you keep picking on me?"
"That's not true. I'd just like to get to know you better. You're a mystery to me.
" "I'm not going to do that," he said maliciously.
"But that's just how it is." I decided to be honest with him. "You've intrigued me ever since I met you." You look like a freak, a junkie, or a punk, except you're really quiet, shy, and reserved. Plus, you're the best student. Sometimes you do something that makes me love you for it, and other times you go off on a tangent like the one with Tatiana. Are you hitting on her out of pity, or what? You write brilliant poetry, but you don't read it to anyone. I don't know, maybe you only want to confide in Marti. You're constantly hiding behind masks. Maybe if I knew why, I wouldn't be surprised by that hellish sadness in your eyes.
Silence fell. I felt myself blush. I think I'd said too much. Czak was looking at me like I was some kind of ghost. I noticed his breathing quicken, concerned. He lowered his head in resignation. He slowly approached his backpack, pulled out a crumpled notebook, and handed it to me.
"You can read it," he muttered. "I can't say it. Don't force me. If you don't understand me like that... all the better."
He slung his backpack over his shoulder and walked briskly away. I didn't stop him. He needed a moment to himself. I looked at the notebook in my hands. Czak's latest poems. Not the ones with descriptions of nature, critiques of consumerism, or typical teenage dilemmas, pondering the meaning of life, glorifying tragic death, and so on. This was what I'd been reading by the sea. Now, perhaps, I was facing my most personal confessions. The answers to my questions lay there. I was tempted to hide in a corner and read it all at once. I decided to put it aside for later. Another lesson was starting in a few minutes. I didn't want to leaf through the notebook under my desk. I longed to take it home, where I could count on the peace and privacy of my room. Czak avoided me for the rest of the day. He didn't even look my way. This time, it suited me. I didn't want to resume our conversation until I'd read his poems.
I practically ran home. I devoured my lunch in minutes. I told my mom I had a test and needed to study. Finally, I could sit down on my couch, my worn notebook on my lap. I opened it like a treasured, ancient book. Czaki's small, slightly crooked handwriting mingled with drawings—floral ornaments, fantastical dragons, and monsters. There were no titles, only dates. My suspicions that Czaki had terrible insecurities were confirmed. He wrote:
I would like to be a tree,
a tall tree with beautiful, thick bark
and leaves the color of lush green
, and not this flesh clinging to my bones,
with a mass of tissue quivering beneath my skin
and blue veins as long as highways.
In another poem, he claimed he was a coward, or that he lied constantly, and once even called himself a pervert. I couldn't fathom why he lacked self-confidence. He couldn't accept himself. Who or what made him think this way?
To my great surprise, I discovered that Czaki's recent poems were mostly declarations of love. I hadn't expected that at all. Now everything made sense. Czaki was simply unhappily in love. But why wouldn't he admit it? And who was his chosen one?
I long to fall asleep sweetly
wrapped in the warmth of your body,
bury my face in your hair,
fair and fragrant as ears of grain.
I searched for a clue, but Czaki didn't mention a single name. I tried to match the descriptions to classmates or schoolmates, but the texts contained no distinctive details about the characters. The descriptions fit too many people. Besides, I might not have known Czaki's chosen one at all. But something was missing from these poems. They were a touch... impersonal. Blue eyes, fair hair, a beautiful smile—that's all I could pick out. He never once mentioned clothing, any adornments, any details that might point to a specific person. For a moment, I even wondered if these verses were dedicated to someone of flesh and blood. Then I came across this fragment:
Every day, in the crowd, I see only your face
, and my lips, like butterflies, take flight,
wanting to just brush their wings against
one of my delicately sculpted cheekbones
, and you unconsciously hurt me every time, when you generously spread your velvet smile
to everyone around you , which, like you, should belong only to me . Is it possible? No, it was too improbable. And yet…
I read all the love poems again, very carefully. Blue eyes, light hair... no name, no pronouns, only "you," "you," "you," instead of "she," "her," "her." I understood why he hadn't confided in anyone and why he hadn't been able to tell me. Marti... it was his portrait painted in these poems.
What I had once imagined under the influence of alcohol and marijuana turned out to be true. Everything began to make sense. I recalled various situations, fragments of conversations, antics, scuffles, furtive glances. I saw them in a different light now. Every time Marti paid more attention to his friend, Czak would revive, and he would sink into sadness when his friend momentarily forgot about him. I could now explain Czak's strange behavior. He was jealous. He wanted Marti all to himself.
This discovery shocked me deeply, but I didn't feel disgusted by Czak. I felt sorry for him. Any unrequited love is tragic, but this one was especially tragic because it had to be kept a secret, as it was universally condemned. It was hard for me to imagine what Czaki went through when he realized his true nature. What must he have felt now, when he spent almost every day with his friend, yet had to watch every word and gesture? Terrible anguish. And how exactly was I supposed to respond to this?
I closed my notebook and stared out at the dark city beyond the windows. Snow was still falling. By evening, the temperature had dropped, so the lawns and streets were already white. Winter had arrived so early this year.
Now everything would be different, I thought.
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