Wacław and Me

: You must know that I'm a great nonconformist. Therefore, when another Christmas arrived, I faced a considerable dilemma: whether to celebrate it according to tradition, or perhaps in my own way, or perhaps not at all. The uncertainty was all the greater because I didn't feel the joy, excitement, or, as they say, omnipresent magic typical of this season. Supposedly, according to the doctrines of my worldview, I should have taken a stand against idyllic and sugar-coated rituals. Yet something kept nudging me in the ribs, reminding me that denying everything that's already created and established is just as mindless as absorbing reality as it's been handed to us.

I had to define myself for this Christmas; I needed a form. Moreover, I needed it quite urgently, because it was the day before Christmas Eve.

And to choose a form, signposts are extremely useful. So I thought: where to look for signposts if not among authorities? And my greatest influence was Wacław Moligsztajn, the writer. I was fortunate that Mr. Wacław had published his "Diaries," and it was there that I was sure I'd find some clue. I rushed to the library.

I reached a familiar shelf and pulled out a thick volume. I opened it to the back, to the subject-matter index. I found the entry "Holidays." The first of the listed pages—page 125. I searched, figured out where the book I was interested in began, and read the opening sentence: "Holidays are coming soon—excellent..." Oh, this is good, this is good, I thought. It's starting! The dissertation was long, so, knowing Moligsztajn's writing style, I went straight to the summary to make sure the first words weren't ironic or a thesis that Mr. Wacław was refuting. I read: "It's been a long time since I enjoyed Christmas so much. An escape into normality, let me allow myself that."

Oh, thank you, prophet, thank you! That way, everything was clearly planned out – I could indulge in caroling, overindulging, gift-giving, etc.

I ran out to get the Christmas tree, bought baubles, garlands, bells, and fish fillets (not carp, because you always have to keep a minimum reserve).

I was standing on a ladder – because I'd bought a ceiling-high Christmas tree – wearing a red hat and thick woolen socks. I was placing the point on the top of the tree when some delighted guy on the TV roared, "Exactly, exactly!" I frowned. Exactly? Ugh, some idiot.

Exactly! Exactly!

I turned on the lights. Green. Delicious!

Exactly! Exactly!

Something started to bother me again. It wasn't pleasant. What was that...

Exactly! Exactly!

Oh, I know – one bauble was hung incorrectly. It was almost at the top, so I climbed the ladder. As I took the silver shape in my hands, a thought struck me. The ladder wobbled, I fell.

I rushed to the library. I bumped into the librarian in the aisle. I didn't even apologize, just rushed on—straight to the shelf with Moligsztajn. With trembling hands, I pulled out "Diaries" again.

Page 125—I read the entire essay. I looked up from the book and froze. Damn it!

Well, it was all about Christmas—of course! Only Easter. Horrified, I checked the index again. The next mention was supposed to be on page 236. It was. I read it—this time precisely, oh so precisely. Moligsztajn spoke vaguely and rather unenthusiastically about Christmas. At the end, he even wrote quite clearly that he didn't need it.

I left devastated, rumpled, and battered. Absolute sadness overwhelmed me. So, after all? So, there won't be Christmas after all?

I entered the apartment, the Christmas tree flew over the balcony, the cat got the fish. There won't be Christmas, and that's good. Mr. Wacław, I don't need them either, that's how it is!

You can't betray your own form, so I bought myself some peanuts and beer, rented a movie – a shooter for the evening. No Christmas, that's how it's supposed to be. That's how it will be! This time tomorrow, I'll also watch a crime thriller and have a beer, and when the first star appears, I'll draw the blinds. I won't think about Christmas, which Wacław and I don't need. We're simply over it.

The movie ended, I turned on the TV.

At first, I thought it was a hallucination brought on by the beer, but it turned out not to be. There it was, Wacław Moligsztajn himself, trotting into the studio on a reindeer with a clown's nose attached to his muzzle. He carried his "Diaries" under his arm. He smiled broadly, warmly, and said: "Give your loved ones a wonderful Christmas present. Give them some good literature." My name is Wacław Moligsztajn, and these are my "Diaries" – the greatest gift for this most magical of all holidays. May they be anything but ordinary!

The most magical of holidays... may they be anything but ordinary...

What was I supposed to do? I put on my coat and wellies and went downstairs to get the Christmas tree I'd thrown away earlier. It was a bit beat up, but it would do. I lugged it upstairs and set it up in the living room. The spike got broken, but that didn't matter. I hung a cat by its tail on top for eating my Christmas fish. How could he! Some people have no understanding of metaphysical matters at all. Not like me and Wacław.