The fog

drifted down the hallway with a thud. When it subsided, the doorbell rang, and I knew my afternoon nap was over. I scrambled out of bed, swallowed some toothpaste along the way to freshen my breath (the devil knows who it's carrying!), and opened the door. The hope for new, sparkling, and alluring things proved illusory again. However—as a consolation—a considerable hilarity promised, for there stood Filip G. at my door, his smile utterly stupid and his eyes gleaming as if in a fever. Oh, and his arms (and they were a bit crooked) were raised in a triumphant gesture.

His appearance was altogether bizarre. He was as thin as Jesus on the cross, yet he carried himself like a strange cross between a hippie, a Turk, and a bum. He never seemed to cut his hair and was always a complete mess, yet I couldn't shake the impression that it was always exactly the same length, as if it hadn't grown for years. "

Gloria in excelsis Deo, in whom, thank God, I don't believe!"—oh, yes—whatever you might accuse him of, for me he was the undisputed master of paradox.

"Come in...

" "Oh no! You're the one leaving!" he pulled me out of the apartment. I stood barefoot on the cold stairwell floor.

"Filip, let me put on my shoes!"

"We'll buy shoes on the way. Come on!"

We went outside, and the day was fine, though a bit chilly. If I'd been allowed to put on my coat and shoes, I would have been incredibly excited about the walk, but under the circumstances, I wasn't convinced. And I was already burning with the cold that would inevitably follow such an outing. What is a cold compared to eyes? To the gawking and contemptuous eyes of passersby. And—worse—to the gawking, contemptuous, and above all, righteous eyes! Because it's impossible to deny that I was making a complete fool of myself. And to think that Filip G. was subjecting me to such shame. Oh, if only Filip G.! It wasn't even him, but his whims, and if whims, then thoughts, and if thoughts, then illusion, and if illusion, then—God forbid—maybe even some idea!

And so I stood, a mockery of dignity, in a faded undershirt and shoeless because of an idea. I thought I deserved some explanation:

"I think I deserved some explanation."

"Oh, just a minute," he replied, looking around absently.

So I rummaged through my repertoire of expressions and ostentatiously adopted the most appropriate one for the occasion—that of an offended princess. I crossed my arms over my chest and turned sideways to Filip G.

I had time to at least examine my bare feet. Well, the flat feet themselves weren't exactly appetizing, but at least something had tempted me the day before to trim my nails. For that reason, amidst the absurdity of the situation, I felt a certain faint (but still!) psychological comfort. While I was pondering this, Filip G. finally spoke up.

"Dobrosłowia!"—his voice quivering with a kind of ridiculous excitement. "Dobrosłowia!"

I decided to help him get to the point with some brilliant questions:

"What?"

"Dobrosłowia! Dobrosłowia! They're here! " "What

?

" "They're here, finally! Dobrosłowia! They're close!

" "What?

" "Dobrosłowia!" he repeated like a man possessed, his eyes twinkling naively and joyfully all the while, and he nodded, as if he were informing himself, not me, and confirming his own words to himself, not me. "Dobrosłowia!"

—G. – I tried to speak slowly and clearly, so he could regain his composure for a second – what are "good words"?

– Good words! They regale us with good words! They regale us! Good words! We've been waiting for them all our lives, always waiting, and now they're here, close! I feel, I feel they're not far away! Good words! Hey, good words! I know, I know – he grabbed me by the shoulders and shouted in my face, his breath reeking of liver – – now all we have to do is stretch out my hand. They're already here! A whole life! A whole life of toil! Rolling – here he threw himself on the ground – in the barren, dry dust. Burning lips, salt in wounds, salt in eyes! And now they're for us – good words. Whole lives, whole lives – he sobbed, and I had an overwhelming urge to give him – on his knees – a good slap for this wistful spectacle. Ha! And that's the rub (don't ask anyone about the sawmill, or you'll kill me!): I didn't have a shoe. And since I didn't, I only wanted to plant more (because, of course, because of him, I didn't!), and since I wanted to plant, I didn't have one even more, and so I fell into a devouring loop, and only one solution remained—to throw myself into this madness, to wash my disgraced body in its waters.

"Dobrosłowia! Hey!" I shouted. And though I know there was still a hint of falsity in my voice, Filip G. lifted his face and looked at me, and his gaze was probably meant to be a votive offering and thanksgiving. And though it was, in fact, the final nail in the coffin, I accepted it like the most virtuous of benefactors, that is, feeling gratitude for gratitude shown, even without ceremony.

I helped him rise from his knees. He stood up, brushed the dust from his clothes, straightened, and took a brisk breath, his face clearing. But it only lasted a moment. And then everything lively and spontaneous began to drain from us again, and a stagnation took its place within us, and I felt we would remain like this forever unless something happened soon.

"Excuse me, may I interrupt?" a gentleman in a checked cap and a tasteful scarf appeared before us. "I accidentally overheard your conversation." Yeah, that didn't surprise me at all, as the "conversation" had all the hallmarks of a theatrical tirade. "I see you've had a bit of a breakdown, and here the Dobrosłowia are waiting, but they might..." He fell into thought, then added, remaining in his reverie, no less theatrical than Filip G.'s previous struggle with normality, "They might escape... I'm willing to help you. I'm a Painter," and he pronounced his "Painter" as if he wanted to throw him at our feet, but I'd rather shit on the "Painter." And that was it – I was actually about to take off my pants, because madness has its privileges, after all, when I noticed the sidewalk was rapidly approaching, and everything around me was rapidly growing, and suddenly I fell to my knees, and beside me, kneeling even more piously, on even more pious knees, was Filip G.

Suddenly, Painter's hand fell on my head, and probably another hand fell on G.'s head, and we heard a voice:

"Rise, because I'm not someone you kneel before." So I want to get up, and here – figa – I can't, because that paw of his, gentle, fatherly, is pinning me to the ground and won't let go. So I try harder, but the paw must weigh a ton, and although it's supposedly placed freely, it has gripped my skull, and nothing, nothing, just pinning and pinning. "I am your equal, I, like you, waited for Dobrosłowia, I looked out for Dobrosłowia—but I can't and can't get up for the devil, and even though he says we're equal, down he goes, down he goes, down he goes, down he goes." "Come on, now—come on—and if he doesn't pull us!" So we stood up that we almost fell over again, only this time on our shoulders. "Well, that's better right away." And as he said this, I sensed a quiet hope in his voice that we would want to fall again, but Filip G. was too lost in the literal meaning, and I hadn't even thought about falling down like a painter before—phi—and now—I was about to unbutton my pants when I saw the world begin to pass us by, and I realized that we were no longer standing, but slowly moving. And suddenly—the Painter's arm embraced me—tenderly and friendly—and the other embraced G. in the same way. "

Let's take a little walk," he suggested, "if you're up for it, of course." I didn't, but what! I tried to stop and was disappointed again. For the arm was like a bulldozer, and although it took small, unhurried steps, it drove me, oh, it drove me on and on! "And now, since we're strolling along so pleasantly, I can explain to you how to get to Dobroslovia."

I didn't trust him a whit and wanted to hear it firstly: out of curiosity, secondly: because of my newly acquired madness. Filip G., on the other hand—I could have cut off my arm—strained his ears, and his heart began to beat faster as the Painter continued:

"So the road to Dobrosłow is simple. Yes, it requires a certain sacrifice, but it is simple. And it leads through liberation. Yes, you must liberate yourselves, so that each of you can achieve your own Dobrosłow." He now assumed a monumental pose, his figure probably meant to express pride, dignity, and courage, or some such nonsense. In fact, it had become utterly absurd, as always in such cases. "You need to strike at the forms, you need to destroy the Babylonian faith, so that you can erect your own monument on its ruins. You must shatter what is established, violate what is ordained, and Mars will be your ally! Hasta la victoria siempre!"

G. wept with emotion, and courage welled up within me:

"What the f--- are you doing here? Ouch!" The heel of a sturdy slipper mercilessly crushed the toes of my bare foot. And I lost all desire to rebel.

"And now we'll start liberating you," declared the Painter.

And so we did.

"Heads up, heads up!" he said contemptuously. "And who the hell said you have to head up? Ass! Ass! No need. We'll liberate you from head up! Yes, yes, no thanks, no thanks." Filip G. was already on his knees, and I felt his enormous paw resting on my shoulder, seemingly just resting, but pushing, pushing, and slowly, slowly, my knees buckled and my neck bowed, and then I fell before him again, his paw anchoring me to the ground so completely that I thought it would be like this forever, that until the end there would only be kneeling and liberation, kneeling and liberation. Meanwhile, he said: "Your gesture moves me," and he pressed me harder. "It moves me because it shows that you've already understood," and he pressed me harder. "You've understood that only freedom can be surrendered, because only it will bring you kind words!" and he pressed us harder.

And when he tugged us again to get up, he led us through the park and the city, finally bringing us to some courtyard I'd been to before, or hadn't. It doesn't matter, because it was no different from dozens of other courtyards in my city. Now you'd like to write, "But those were just appearances, because..." But you can't, because these were facts, not appearances: the boys were playing football, there were vulgar graffiti on the wall, a neighbor peered nosy through the window, and a few youngsters were taking drugs in a parked car. And there was a carpet beater.

Painter led us to that carpet beater too. He says,

"Do you know what this is?"

"A carpet beater," I replied matter-of-factly.

"A carpet beater!" – our liberator, our redeemer, was indignant. – A carpet beater! Pettiness! Small-mindedness! Shortsightedness! Spiritual shallowness! A carpet beater – phi!

I was silent, waiting to see what he had come up with next.

“This,” he said, “is not just any ‘carpet beater,’ but the instrument of your liberation! This is the cornerstone, the milestone towards goodwill! This is what you are looking at.”

I folded my arms across my chest and yawned ostentatiously, letting him know he hadn't won me over yet. Suddenly, something occurred to me – a pure thought, a living, flesh-and-blood idea – I was about to unbutton my pants to finally shit, but then I saw: Filip G. was already striding in rapture, speechless, towards the scuffed carpet beater and beginning to tenderly stroke the metal tubes with a reverence worthy of the most sacred. I heard him trying to mutter in adoration:

"That... that... ah..."

"Yes, yes, I understand. I know..." Painter said in a warm and familiar voice. "And you? Won't you follow his example, friend?" He turned to me. "Well, not necessarily," I thought to myself. I also thought that madness doesn't have to mean ridiculous. Oh, and I'd gladly shit on my "friend." "Well, we're just chatting away, chatting away, and the kind words are waiting. Come on, like a crack of a whip, hop on the carpet beater!" he shouted briskly, clapping his hands. And before I could get a word in edgewise, G. was already hanging upside down, like a bat.

"Come on! Come on!" he shouted at me, his cry sounding like the cry of a crucified man. It was shocking and wistful—you could say the weakness of his entire miserable life, intensified by his droopy frame and the Painter's cap, infected me. I unwisely glanced at the latter, and in the meantime he was looking at me (probably for a long time!) and nodded, his gaze probably meant to be encouraging and friendly, and though in reality it only inspired hatred in me, I approached the carpet beater and hung there. I tried to deceive myself that I was hanging for Filip, for madness, that no Painter could force me to do anything, that if I wanted to, I would come down, and I didn't believe in good faith at all. But I knew the truth was different. I was afraid to face it, however, and preferred to wade into lies against myself. And I preferred to hang mindlessly.

Minutes passed, and then probably hours. The Painter said he would come back in time, when we were sufficiently free from the "head up" mentality. We, however, spoke little. At first it was bearable, then a crisis came, and as we know, after a crisis, only good things can happen—until another crisis. So, during this "good" moment, I decided to distract us a bit and brilliantly weave in a suitable quote, so that it would become an allusion—a bond between our situation and a certain event from history:

"Father, why have you forsaken me?"

It didn't catch on. Filip G. merely let out a piercing groan, probably taking my words seriously.

Another x amount of time passed. To my surprise, I heard G.'s labored whisper:

"Tell me... Tell me, please, am I already... am I already..." and suddenly he howled with unexpected force—"Free!"—and wept. My first instinct was to consider his question, but I could only muster a short, perfunctory, yet completely truthful:

"I don't know."

Then he let out a sigh of helplessness and doubt. For a moment, I thought he had died. But he spoke again:

"What if..."

He was interrupted by someone's shout:

"Holy Lord!"

We saw a stocky figure in work clothes heading towards us. His face was plump and ruddy, with a thick, evenly trimmed mustache. We were still hanging when, folding his hands on his hips and nodding his head pityingly, he began to speak:

"Oh, boys, boys... That Painter has led someone astray again. Oh, that's how it is – his promises, his quasi-methods. I know, I know – it's all tempting, smells good and sparkles – rebellions, freedoms, revolutions, upheavals. And constantly against, against! But that's not the way – here he dragged us both by the collars, thus bringing us down to earth – to Dobroslovia." By the way, hello, my friends, I'm Mr. Majster. And as for Dobrosłowia, there's only one path to them. And it's simple; you just need a little patience, a bit of determination. And no "liberation" involved. There's only one method.

Oh, I knew this from somewhere, and I didn't like it at all. Filip G., on the other hand, despite having just been so badly fooled, began to cheer up and grow in hope. Our adventure with the Painter hadn't taught him anything. He was like a beaten dog that always comes running when its master calls, hoping this time it won't get greased.

"Get up, get up, as quickly as possible!" I thought a paw would pin me to the ground, but nope. We got up without any problems and quickly dusted off our dusty clothes. "Oh, what's that?!!" he grimaced, clearly looking at my legs. "No shoes? But that threatens... Jesus, Jesus... that threatens a hundred illnesses and wounds!" How are you going to Dobrosłowia without shoes?

"And this, this, is impossible?"

"But not even as much as you can, as much as you need to! To Dobrosłowia! Ha! Only without shoes! How about with shoes?

" "Well, what's the point?"

He rolled his eyes in irritation. He sighed again and again. It was obvious he was trying not to explode. Finally, he came to his senses and, still struggling a bit with his emotions, replied:

"The point is to be shod, but go to Dobrosłowia barefoot. With shoes, but without shoes, understand?

" "No," I replied without emotion, truthfully.

"No," G. echoed me equally coldly, which surprised and delighted me quite a bit.

"It's illogical. I don't understand it.

" "Me neither."

Mr. Majster fell into a reverie. Then he began to speak quite calmly, as if to people somewhat limited:

"So, to reach Dobrosłowia, you must follow certain strictly established rules. This barefootedness is only the tip of the iceberg; it's just the introduction, the very beginning, and where's the finish line? I'm willing to lead you, nay, to guide you, through the labyrinth of these rules, but first you must accept as a given that I always speak the truth, and some things you must believe, because they cannot be understood. And so it is with footwear. So—wait here. I'll bring you some shoes so you can walk barefoot towards Dobrosłowia."

He left us at the carpet rack and walked off in the direction he came from.

"I don't trust him.

" "I don't trust him either...

" "Filip, let's escape. We have time now. We'll go to my place... Or to Broken Horn! To Burns, to Gomber, and maybe we'll even meet Bean! We'll have a drink—we'll tell them!" It'll be fun... We'll do it our way. We'll get down and dirty, or we'll get happy—damn it. You'll see, now's the time to break up with this madness, let's get out of here...

"Broken Horn is gone. The devil has taken everything," he said, his gaze glassy, ​​empty, and distant. "We have to stay—we have no other choice, and you know it. This man can lead us straight to Dobroslovia. Every night before I go to sleep, I had only one dream: that one day Dobroslovia, that Dobroslovia..." He cried again. I put my arm around him in a friendly way, patted him on the back, and then I started to fear myself, because I suddenly felt the urge to take his suffering, his dreams, his torment, the excruciating pain of his entire life, to shit on him. But I didn't even have time to unbutton my pants before it all passed, and again because I suddenly understood everything. And I knew it wasn't his madness, but ours. And that each of us had exactly the same share in it, and that each of us had this dream, only he wanted to intensify it, and I – to suppress it – and that was the only difference. Then I, too, cried in his arms. We stood there, sobbing, when Mr. Foreman returned.

He courteously pretended not to notice our tears. He handed me his old work boots. I put them on – well, I was actually wearing shoes, but it was as if I were barefoot. The boots were two sizes too big and so soaked that they squelched irritatingly when I walked in them. Intuitively, however, I sensed that these weren't the barefoot shoes yet. It was a common (but so real and telling!) discomfort.

"Let's go."

He turned, and we followed him. We walked without a word. He only glanced at us occasionally to see if we had given up. But we had no intention of retreating now—he was leading us straight to Dobroslovia! Or at least that's what we thought.

He led us to the construction site. It was already afternoon, so all the tools and machinery lay idle, and a relative silence reigned, broken only by the sounds of cars passing a few hundred meters away. He brought us each a spade and a shovel, handing them to us with the words:

"You'll dig here, and you here," he pointed to a spot about a meter away from mine. "You'll throw earth into the other's hole. Yes, yes, don't look so blankly—you're supposed to dig holes for each other, because you must know that only by digging a hole can you reach Dobrosłowia. Only one of you will succeed, and the other—unfortunately—will remain untouched. I'll come back in a while, and then one of you should be ready to meet them. Remember: Dobrosłowia—they are already within reach. In the meantime, come and see us!"

He hadn't even disappeared behind the fence when, where my hole would be, a mound from Filip G.'s diggings had already risen. I stared at him in disbelief. The shovel was almost invisible, only a blurred glow, and the first sweat broke out on his forehead. I stood helpless and powerless. I hadn't considered competing at all, yet Filip clearly wanted to trample me and bury me right at the entrance. For him, I no longer existed, nor Róg, nor the thread around me—he only had his passion, the shovel he waved in madness, and Dobrosłowia, towards which he was willing to plod regardless.

He probably would have buried me soon, without even noticing, if a car hadn't driven through the gate in the makeshift fence, nearly hitting him, and startling him from his frenzy.

Moligsztajn, a writer we knew well, got out of the car. He was very surprised to see us, and also pleased, because he saw us in a rather dishonorable situation.

"What are you doing here?" He looked down. He laughed, trying to be relaxed, casual, carefree, and somehow "American" about it all. "And what are you wearing?"

Filip G. only now realized the situation, and saw his own now quite substantial hole and the mound of clay where mine had been. Sadness filled him, he lowered his gaze, refusing to look at me. However, I decided to focus on Moligsztajn for now.

"And why did you come here?"

"Ha, ha! My new cottage is being built here, gentlemen!"

"Ah, the cottage..."

"Well, what are you doing here?"

"Mr. Majster," I tried to speak without embarrassment and with reserve, but I knew full well how ridiculous I was in my situation, "ordered us to wave our shovels around a bit, to get to Dobrosłowia..." "

To Dobrosłowia?"

"Yes," G. said without looking up.

"But what do shovels have to do with Dobrosłowia?" Moligsztajn was sincerely surprised.

"Mr. Majster said that whoever digs the hole..."

There was a moment of silence, which was interrupted by the writer:

"Hmm, I don't know, I don't know... But I know you don't complain about lack of money." "

It's been worse.

" "Well...

" "So it couldn't be simpler. There's a special little shop! You can buy as much Dobrosłowia as you want."

"A little shop?

" "Of course.

" "Are we understanding each other correctly," I tried to clarify, if that was even possible, "is there a shop selling Dobrosłowia?"

"Absolutely.

" "Do you know where it is?"

"Sure! Quite close. Shall I take you?"

A moment later we were sitting in Moligsztajn's car, and about ten minutes later we were standing in front of a shop whose sign read: "E. Mina & B. Mosiądz." Slowly, almost timidly, we opened the door, which rang a bell.

Inside, it was dimly lit, filled with dust and damp wood. An older man emerged from the back, dressed in a well-tailored, but dusty suit. He ran his hand through his thinning hair.

"How can I help you?"

"We'd like to purchase two Dobrosłowias," I replied firmly and bluntly.

"Of course, but which ones?"

We exchanged confused glances.

"Uh, well—just—a simple Dobrosłowia."

"I don't quite understand..." the salesman seemed less confident now.

"Two Dobrosłowias..."

"But, gentlemen, there's no such thing as a Dobrosłowia. There are Half-Way Dobrosłowias and Temporary Dobrosłowias." We also have Dobrosłowia Złudne in our assortment, and if needed, we can get Dobrosłowia Hypothetical or Potential within a week, but in all the time I've been working here, no one has ever asked about Dobrosłowia Simply," he laughed indulgently and wiped his hands on a cloth on the counter. After thanking them, we headed for the exit.

As we emerged, the fog was rising.