The river outside

my window is frozen. Damn it! Listen – eight in the morning, the middle of the night, and I can't help but hear: "swoosh, swish, swish, swish, swish!" I pull the covers over my head, a little better, but no sleep. I roll over, press my face into the pillow, and there's still "swoosh, swish." I think to myself that maybe it's cleaning up before the Great (As If It Normally Swelled Up) City Festival. But I soon realize it's something else entirely. Ha! The same old story!

I jumped up immediately and ran to the window – yes! Like every year at this time – the reptiles are driving around – whole families. I don't know if it's some kind of epidemic – some mass stupidity. Does the freezing of the river mean that everyone feels an irresistible urge to put on their skates and run to the rink? Pavlov's dogs, I swear!

But I'll deal with them with the old method, which my late grandfather, Alglat, taught me when I was first roused from sleep by those scoundrels, and I was helpless and lost before this attack.

How could I not take the slingshot, how could I not aim, how could I not pay the first culprit in the head! And then the little Zonk: he rode on, unmoved and joyful, even though he'd been hit accurately and solidly. Hmm, some kind of mutant. Never mind. I still have another slingshot.

A larger group was skimming right under my window—oh, how I'd given them a fair shot! But—consternation: here they were, laughing, donkeys, and gliding smoothly forward, though I hadn't missed at all—I'm sure!

Suddenly, though it was perhaps half-past eight, my clock struck twelve. I was quite surprised and was about to go adjust the mechanism when the unfathomable specter stood proudly and motionless before me. Grandpa Alglat himself, as I remember him!

"Oh..." I greeted him with a trembling voice. "

You greet Grandpa nicely, you rascal! Straighten up! Take off your nightcap!" He paused for a moment, and then, in a gentler tone, asked: "Well, how are things going?"

"Grandpa, they—the ones who slip—have returned again, and I just...

" "I know, I know—you treated them like a slacker—that's why I'm here. Listen, son, it was good, it worked. I greatly appreciate the tradition... that my grandson is just like me... yes, yes..." he mused. "But: that's a thing of the past. Yes—they got a symbolic thrashing—oh, it's wonderful that you remembered that. But you can't drive them away like that. Even a gun won't do you any good here." Do you remember when you were ten years old and there was this guy in the red cap, and he kept coming back—your father and I—to get a gun from the storeroom and... oh, I'm just chatting away, but in the meantime, we have to act. So what's the point? Well, son, the methods have changed. Now you don't throw things around, you take notes.

"Notes? "

"Yes, notes."

"Notes?"

"Yes, notes. Notes. You see, you write a note on a criminal, and he's screwed. Now only notes matter. And you know why?

" "Uh, no..."

"Because a note like that might end up in the file! And once it does end up in the file, then ugh! Or someone who can read it, someone who can twist and turn, and then it's fine too. Do you understand?

" "Uh..."

"Write a note on that company—I'm telling you! Ha! They'll be surprised!"

The clock started striking again. He claimed it was one o'clock, though I knew it wasn't true. But the apparition had vanished.

Grandpa always knew everything. He knew how to saddle a horse, how to clean a gun, how to cure diarrhea, how to remove warts. He knew how to fight off troublemakers. And now he had to be right.

I didn't know how to write notes. So I grabbed the first index card I found and scribbled "NOTE" across the top in large letters. I underlined it with two lines, and then, in smaller letters, wrote the following:

I hereby note that those who are slipping under my house are filthy bastards and mangy pigs, and it's not right for them to slip under my house.

I think that will be fine...

What now? I have the note, and...?

I thought maybe inspiration would come later; for now, I'd take care of other matters. I put the note aside and turned to my unfinished column. Suddenly, a whistling sound, a chill, a slight turbulence in the room. Of course – I'd left the window ajar when I was throwing at the skaters. I went to close it, and saw – something flying out of my room. I couldn't see what it was, but some premonition told me to look at the desk. The note card was gone. Oh well: my confidential note was flying somewhere far away, to the mercy of who knows what snakes. The shape continued to loom in the sunlight and slowly descended in a—let me imagine something—sliding, pendulum-like motion, like this...

Finally, it landed gracefully on the ice. I told myself, "I'll see what happens." One by one, he passed by without noticing. Until finally, a clumsy fellow, whom I'd already spotted from a distance, skimming the ground every five meters, skidded up. He did the same across from my house. As luck would have it, he fell flat, nose first, right on my note. I watched him carefully: at first, he seemed to be trying to understand, as he does after every fall, where he was and what he was doing. Then, he showed himself to be a brave man, because he opened his eyes, then reread what lay before them about a dozen times, stiffened, and began to shiver—not from the cold at all. Suddenly he jumped to his feet, staggered, fell on his back, got up on his knees, put his hands to his mouth and shouted,

"Jeckus, there's a note on us! They've made a note on us! Jesusicku!"

And then there was widespread panic on the rink: everyone turned back, someone hurriedly took off their skates, threw them into the bushes, and ran barefoot through the snow. Someone else began coughing and wheezing: "Unfortunately, I'm ill, I can't say much about it, these skates aren't exactly skates..." Two brave souls even took pity on the unfortunate man – they took him under the bars and helped evacuate him.

Within a minute, the frozen river was deserted, as was the entire area. You almost wished the wind would kick up dust, shutters would bang against the walls, and a harmonica and banjo would play. And a blissful smile spread across my face. It worked!

"Grandpa, it works!" I shouted to the entire room.

Excellent. I pulled out another note.

Soon I was weaving through the crowds at the city market. I held another note in my hand – for that old bastard, the hawker who'd sold me eight kilos of rotten potatoes the day before.

"Sir, here's a note against you, buddy!" I rushed up to the old man and waved the note in his face.

"What?

" "There's a note against you!" I repeated with satisfaction. "10 złoty. I want it back, because if not, I'll get a photocopy, and I'll go to a friend's – the friend has a plane – and we'll fly off to dump hundreds of notes against you over the potato fields! You want that? Ha!" I was just waiting for him to beg me.

"Madman! Ugh!" he spat on my shoe. An undesirable reaction.

"Oh, you scoundrel!" Anger welled up inside me. I was about to punch him in the face, but then I remembered what my grandfather had said. Pocket, note, pen – we have the note. I started swinging two of my hands at him now, shouting that everyone would soon read it. And then it went dark.

Then, from witnesses' accounts, I learned that it was all because of the sickle the merchant had given me. Would you have thought? Phew! Simpleton! I get it – I wrote a note to him, he wrote a note to me – modern, progressive, like civilized people do. But a common punch in the nose? Oh, some people should still be stuck in caves!

Meanwhile, I was hospitalized. Just moments after I regained consciousness, the postman visited me.

"There's a telegram for you. Urgent," he handed me a piece of paper.

We saw what happened. STOP. We wrote a note. STOP. This old man will get screwed, as Alglat is lecturing us here. STOP.

I read it several times, a bit confused. The postman continued to stand, waiting for my reaction. I glanced from the telegram to him. Finally, I asked,

"Who sent it?

" "Sir!" The devil continues!