Benefactor of the Year.

 

Bernard P. wasn't that stupid. He wasn't fooled by the radio slogans, mindlessly repeated a dozen times a day—"Do good all year long." Bernard P. knew that was impossible. A whole year meant three hundred and sixty-five, twenty-four-hour, damned days filled with goodness. No one could bear that. Besides, no one needed so much goodness.

Bernard P. became a benefactor once a day, every so often. This happened the moment he stood before the mailbox with a basket full of garbage. Using a bent wire, he pulled out the mail and walked with stately gait toward the dumpster. He would sit in a fetid alleyway, his hearing alert to the neighbors' footsteps, a cigarette lit and carelessly tucked into the corner of his mouth. When he finished, he would sigh, not at all from the prevailing odors of universal decay; he would sigh at the baseness of human fate. It was at moments like these that he would place an empty basket over his head (so the neighbors wouldn't notice his despair) and run back to his room, to the fifth floor. There, he began to do good. He wrote tender poems to Dominik the Stolarczyk. Even though his girlfriend, Mirka, wrote that he was a complete prick and that people had seen him with her sister, how he behaved, and how he made love to her. Bernard P. had a talent for poetry. From the flood of words that rushed to his lips, he could choose the right ones, the most tender ones. He wrote about feelings, longing, and tears. When he read his own poem, he was deeply moved, yet his hand didn't shake as he signed it—Mirka.

To Mariolka and her three children, he wrote from prison that he would mend his ways, so that she wouldn't believe that Karol had hanged himself, because that was idle talk. He'd see, he'd be back soon, and he'd beat her like he used to until her head bounced. Bernard had no idea what Karol Żyro might have written if he hadn't hanged himself. He must have imagined for a long time that he was just as repulsive and disgusting. So he figured that if Mariolka had put up with him for so many years, she must have enjoyed being beaten.

Bernard P. was the one who enjoyed official letters the most. He didn't have to come up with everything himself; sometimes he'd subtract or add "no," sometimes draw a flower in the corner to make it more cheerful. When a debt collection agency wrote to King Wacek from number seven informing him of the date of their visit, he changed a few numbers. The king was as happy as a child, and Bernard, who saw it, even more so.

Bernard P. was a lunatic, legally and legally, and he was entitled to a pension. Therefore, when his neighbor in the same building, Mędzińska, known as Mędunia, wrote a letter to the Social Insurance Institution (ZUS), informing her that Bernard P. was a fraud posing as a lunatic, but in reality he was a scoundrel, a lazy bum, and a cheater, yet strong as a horse, which she could attest to, as he personally moved her locker. This indicated that Bernard was not entitled to a pension, and that he signed the letter anonymously, meaning not at all, because he feared retribution from Bernard, whose eyes were so evil. Bernard, on behalf of ZUS, replied thanking her, but added that he hadn't expected such filth from Mędzińska. He called her an ungrateful monkey and threatened that if she reported a respectable citizen again, he (ZUS) would deal with her differently. That same day, Renia Mędzińska sent another letter to ZUS. She dropped the letter into a nearby mailbox, from which Bernard P. retrieved it. That same afternoon, he went to Mędzińska's to make a final decision.

"Good morning, Mr. Ben, how about some coffee?

" "You're a false woman," said Bernard P., and gave her a juicy slap. Juicy because he spat on her first.

"Jesus, Jesus," Mędzińska began to scream. In vain, because Bernard P. didn't intend to wait that long. The strangled Mędzińska looked much better than she had been alive, Bernard thought. Just to be on the safe side, he undressed her (which he quickly regretted, as the woman's body was a pitiful sight) and drowned her in the bathtub. Then he returned to his room and immediately fell asleep. That night, he dreamed that he had been awarded the title of "Benefactor of the Year."

Early the next morning, he decided to write to the jury that had awarded this honorable title.

"Dear and Respectable Jury. I'm writing because I know who should receive the title of 'Benefactor of the Year.' My name is Bernard P., and I'm the best candidate. I know this might seem funny to some, but I'm truly very good. According to the competition rules, someone else should nominate me, but that's not possible. I've been doing good deeds anonymously for many years. When I heard about the competition, I thought it was time for the world to hear about me. I live in a studio apartment on Obrońców Westerplatte Street. I live alone because so far no woman has wanted to move in with me. There have been a few. One even stayed overnight, but only for a night. She didn't commit to it for the rest of her life, even though she said I was a decent guy, if a little strange. I don't know what she meant, because I've gotten used to everything and I don't know what's strange and what isn't. The way I dress and the way I look might seem silly to some, but quite wise to others. I don't think sleeping in a cupboard behind glass is anything strange. I love tableware. When you put a real porcelain cup to your ear, you can hear music. No person or instrument can produce such music. This music intoxicates me. The whisper of a cupboard is the most beautiful thing in the world, and when someone tells me that sex or fast cars are the best, I know they've never spent a night in a cupboard behind glass. However, it can't be any store shelf with a plywood backing and plastic trim. The cupboard has to be made of wood, preferably old wood. Back to the women. Although Olga initially resisted, she agreed to make love in the cupboard. It was a huge experience for me, and not because it was the first time. I was afraid for the cups. Olga moved her legs so much that I kept trembling, afraid she'd break one. It turned out I was right to be afraid. When I heard the sound of the saucer shattering, followed immediately by the cup, I thought my heart would break. Olga said many harsh words to me, completely undeserved, so I don't regret never seeing her again. I don't think anyone should regret never seeing her again.

Dear Chapter! I've stopped contact with women for the sake of good. I think that's a sufficient argument... or maybe I'm wrong."

Bernard P. sealed the envelope and put the letter in the mailbox. After a week, when there was no reply, let alone an invitation to the upcoming ceremony awarding the "Benefactor of the Year" title, Bernard P. began to suspect something was wrong. He began to suspect that he wasn't alone in reading other people's correspondence. The next day, he was sure. He wasn't the only one doing this. For a moment, he thought about the diminishing chances of winning the title. If all the Defenders of Westerplatte were doing good, then surely they would all want to win. Bernard P. decided to act. He wrote a new letter to the Chapter.

"It's me again – Bernard P. Just to clarify. The nominations for candidates from Obrońców Westerplatte Street are no longer valid, unless you're awarding them posthumously. I should also mention that my candidacy is perfectly timely. During that terrible gas explosion, I went for a walk. I like walks at odd hours. As I wrote earlier – 3 a.m. doesn't seem odd to me personally. It seems just right to me – equally good for a walk in the woods as for dying. Oh, I almost forgot, I changed my address – if you were sending an invitation to the gala, I now live at Jasna Street 18, Apartment 7. Best regards, Bernard P.."

When a week later, in his new apartment, Bernard P. watched the "Benefactor of the Year" award ceremony, he felt cheated. The title went to a woman from the "Give a Dog a Chance" foundation, which feeds homeless animals. Bernard cried. He had done so much good to people, needlessly, without any gratitude. Bernard P. looked out the window of his new apartment, lit a Sobieski, and smiled at a dog running past.

The next day, dogs began to disappear all over the city.