The world through your fingers

 

"Good morning, Mr. Wacik!

" "Good morning, good morning," the man replied, bowing to the door, not to the person who had called him, and hurriedly disappeared behind the tenement door.

Michał really disliked being addressed as "sir," and ironically, everyone did. He was twenty-seven years old, so, incidentally, he was a gentleman—but he didn't accept it. But, like it or not, in his navy blue coat, hat, polished leather shoes, and a scarf tightly wrapped around his neck, he looked very dignified, and the courtesy itself seemed to creep onto his lips. And that mustache. Through it all, Michał was Mr. Wacik before he even reached adulthood. And he didn't have the strength to fight it.

He climbed the stairs, pausing for a moment on each step, clutching the banister tightly. He ran his hand along it, his fingers tightening on it before taking the next step. With a determined expression, he climbed to the first floor, his heavy breathing echoing in the dark, cold hallway.

When he finally reached the first floor, he stopped before the door on the left and rang the bell. An irritating buzzer sounded, reminiscent of a school bell. Michał waited on the threshold for a long moment.

He coughed into his cupped hand.

The locks on the large, wooden doors clanged—first the top one, then the bottom—and then the left door swung open into the apartment.

"Come in, Michał," said the woman standing in the doorway.

"Hello, Ania..." he greeted her. He spoke quietly, in a weak, hoarse voice.

Anna stepped back to let him in and helped him take off his coat. While Michał slowly, phlegmatically unwinding the scarf that was tightly wrapped around her neck, she hurried to the kitchen, where something clearly demanded attention, as an angry gurgle could be heard.

"Would you like some hot tea?" "She asked, stopping in the kitchen doorway and turning to Michał.

"Of course," the man nodded vigorously. "A kingdom for a cup of tea!"

Anna smiled radiantly. She was a pleasant, well-groomed young woman. Like her brother, she was not yet thirty. She shared an apartment with him, and she was the one taking care of the house, because Michał was a man—and men, by nature, live at home first—and a weak, ailing man, moreover, so he himself required Anna's care.

He hung his navy blue hat on the coat rack and lumbered into one of the rooms. He entered and closed the door behind him. A moment later, however, he ran out as if scalded. He covered his mouth with his hand and breathed whistlingly through his nose.

"Good heavens, it's cold in there! Did you open the windows again?" he asked, entering the kitchen.

"I had to air out the studio!

" "Are you trying to kill me?" Michał asked in a weak, whistling voice. - This frost is making me spit out my lungs!

"Michał, I know, your lungs... But you can't just suffocate in there in that stench of paint and solvents. It was so stuffy in there that I almost fell over when I walked in. You'll ruin your lungs sooner than the cold winter air, not to mention the fact that your head might get muddled from those fumes. It's not healthy!"

Michał wanted to say something, but a terrible coughing fit effectively prevented him. The man, bent double, choked on his own throat for half a minute.

Meanwhile, Anna brewed some hot tea. She added a teaspoon of sugar and stirred.

***

Michał stood at the window of his studio—spacious and bright—watching the noisy, busy street through the glass. He was captivated and saddened by this urban dance—people rushing back and forth, stopping, trying to pass each other, and always taking a side step in the same direction. Children running just in front of the horses pulling carriages. Friends shouting at each other from opposite sides of the street. He watched them for hours, until, driven by their ceaseless rush, they blurred before his eyes; until dusk fell and the streets grew silent. He could hear noises and voices even through the closed double windows.

Michał couldn't do that. He couldn't run or shout. He couldn't dance among the people in the street, dance between the carriages, and sing about how happy he was. Because he was never happy. He had been sick since he was a child, and even when he was born, after receiving a slap on the bottom, instead of bursting into tears, he would cough. He crawled a little cautiously, and after only a few meters, he was panting so hard that his parents began to wonder if it was right for him to learn to walk. Michał, however, learned to stand, and eventually to walk—a little later than other children, but still. And when he uttered his first syllables, his tiny, childish voice wheezed. After his first word, he choked for two minutes. And he coughed like that all his life. He had terrible coughing fits that tore his lungs to shreds; long, agonizing attacks that shook his body like lightning bolts, over and over again. Sometimes they ended after a few minutes, and Michał was drenched in sweat and red-faced. And nothing came of the coughing. Usually, when someone chokes, they eventually cough up something that had settled there to torment them, and then they were fine. Michał, on the other hand, had coughed nothing in twenty-seven years of chronic sore throat. He coughed completely aimlessly. He even thought that he was coughing like that out of habit, and he tried to stop—to force himself not to cough—but to no avail. He tried not to breathe, reasoning that if breathing causes coughing, then not breathing would contribute to its disappearance. When that failed, he even tried to put a noose around his tubercular throat—but he only strained unnecessarily, and his lungs and heart ached. And then he had to explain to Anna at length what he was doing in the middle of the studio, standing on a stool with a rope in his hand.

Watching people—free, laughing, and loud—put him in a melancholic mood. When he thought about it too long—about how others could do it and he couldn't—he fell into depressive moods. Under their influence, he grabbed a brush and palette and, mixing dark paints for hours, painted depressing pictures about nothing; wild swirls of gray, navy blue, and black. And only this work truly exhausted him—more than the joyful sights and melancholy thoughts. With violent movements, he smeared sweeping arcs and large circles on the canvas, dipping his brush in a different color every now and then, mixing and smearing them. And he didn't stop until he had covered every inch of the easel with paint. And then, contemptuously, he called each of them "Nothing." Nothing 1. Nothing 2. Nothing 47. Anna didn't like them either. She begged him not to paint those abominations anymore, and she stuck the ones he'd already scribbled in the broom closet.

Of course, Michał didn't have this bright, spacious studio to paint the abominations until he was exhausted in a fit of anger. And he had quite a few paints, not just blacks, grays, and navy blues. And talent. A skilled eye for detail. He could conjure up small miracles on the canvas with tiny dabs and patient strokes. He spent hours mixing colors on the palette, adding this paint, then that, and when he finally achieved the desired color, he aimed his brush at the canvas—and bang! And somehow, he always managed to bang it so that something more than just a shapeless blot emerged. A bang was a bang, and he always got something different—and always exactly what he wanted. A smile, a hand, a glint in the eye, a leaf, or a cloud. He painted people and landscapes. The same people he saw—and heard—on the street, or in the park he sometimes passed through. He painted processions moving left and right, along sidewalks and streets; women and men dancing in the square around the town hall. Sometimes seaside beaches, crowded with vacationers; he remembered that magnificent view he had once admired from the window of the sanatorium. He painted so beautifully that reality seemed pale in comparison, and real people—unremarkable. His paintings had more detail than what he painted, and the figures in them looked as if they were about to leap out. They were always in motion. They ran somewhere or spun. They rarely stood on two legs, and even then they went this way or that. Mostly, however, they ran, even jumped; almost flew. Their legs left the ground, and people hovered forever above the ground, captured and immortalized by the artist, arms spread out to the sides, as if ready for flight. Michał spent entire days in his studio, painting townspeople and beachgoers. He didn't go out plein air. He painted people as if they were alive, but he didn't drag his easel around the city to capture them alive. Although he had a view of the city even from his studio window, he usually stood with his back to it. All he needed was light. The rest was in his head—and in his hands. In his perfect fingers.

Anna liked these paintings—and she wasn't the only one.

***

—Good morning, Mr. Wacik!

"Good morning, good morning," Michał replied, bowing to the door, not to the person who had called him.

He straightened up like a soldier, snorted through his nose, and turned toward the street. Approaching the curb, he looked first left, then right for any approaching traffic. Seeing no traffic, he stepped onto the road. He staggered across the cobblestones, then, reaching the other side, turned right and walked forward. He walked, his gaze fixed on the distance. He squinted and ruffled his brow. He wore a navy blue coat and a matching hat, and despite the sunny—cool, but not cold—air, he had a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. He slowly passed people walking in the opposite direction, their coats unbuttoned, welcoming the first days of spring with relief. A man bumped him in the shoulder from behind, rushing past him. He was running somewhere at a nervous jog, his coattails flapping in the wind. Michał leisurely strolled down the street, where there were more shops than apartments, more display windows than windows. He paid them no attention. His thoughts were already elsewhere.

"Good morning, Mr. Wacik.

" "Good morning, good morning..."

In early spring, the park might not have looked particularly impressive—the dry grass was just beginning to rise, and the first buds on the trees failed to conceal the embarrassing bareness—but it was a pleasant place where people came year-round. Michał did too—though he wasn't sure if he came here to relax or torment himself. He needed these daily walks—Anna had been instilling this in him for so long that he began to think so himself. He couldn't stay indoors, because he would calcify completely and suffocate. He needed walks—and the best place to just walk was the park. The city is for living in, the shops for shopping, and the park for strolling. And so Michał walked. He walked slowly along the gravel paths. Sometimes he sat on an empty bench. He made a circuitous circuit of the entire park—like a caretaker—and then returned home for a hot cup of tea. This daily ritual, however, was marked by unspeakable suffering. Because people—townspeople, usually organized, walking single file, at a single pace, according to the rules—here, in the park, shed their urbanity like a winter coat. They ran along the winding gravel paths like they couldn't run on the sidewalks for fear of bumping into someone and getting hurt. Adults behaved like children, and children knew no bounds. They lay down in the grass or rolled down the green hills, laughing their heads off. And Michał walked through this laughing, fast-paced procession, head down, walking at a snail's pace, coughing. He didn't have the strength to join in, and seeing him, people didn't force him to join in the fun. And this disconnect between them and him drove him to despair. He wondered if they shouldn't be there to avoid depressing him, or if he shouldn't be here to avoid spoiling their fun.

A girl walking in the opposite direction smiled at the scowling man. Their gazes met for a moment, but Michał immediately lowered his gaze and passed her without a word. She was pretty, very pretty—he had to admit that. But he wasn't into girls—not this one, nor any other. He didn't want to fall in love. He was even afraid to descend the stairs, let alone talk about love. After twenty not-so-steep, though narrow, steps, his pulse doubled, and his heart pounded so hard he could hear its echo reverberating through the hallway. Falling in love would inevitably end in a heart attack.

It was from here, from the park, that Michał drew inspiration for his paintings—dancing, running, laughing people. He painted these very people, against the backdrop of the city or the beach. He adored them, so joyful and lively, and at the same time, their freedom tormented him. They were his muses and his demons. He both loved and hated painting them, even more than the dark, sweeping scribbles collectively known as "Nothing."

"Oh, excuse me, sir!" the young man said, almost bumping into Michał. He brushed past him, bowing apologetically, and hurried along the gravel path. Behind him, Michał heard the cheerful voice of the girl he had passed with forced indifference.

He closed his eyes and prayed to be home as soon as possible.

***

Michał dipped a thick brush in the navy blue paint for a long time. He stabbed it into the canvas like a knife, pressing it as if to pierce it. A large, dark blot remained in the center of the easel.

"What are you painting?" Anna asked, entering his studio with a tray bearing hot tea, a sugar bowl, and a slice of lemon. He never asked for sugar because he didn't know how much he would want. It depended on his mood, and in his opinion, he added sugar himself once the tea had cooled a bit. "Artists..." Anna sighed each time, shaking her head.

"Oh, I don't know yet..." Michał sighed.

His sister suspiciously eyed the dark stain on the canvas. She looked at her brother accusingly.

"Those dark... abstractions again," she said bitterly, shaking her head. "I asked you...

" "No... no... That's not it..." Michał defended himself, but his voice was quiet and trembling. "It's... it's me..."

Anna looked first at the navy blue blot, then at her brother.

"Work on it..." she said, patting him on the shoulder.

***

Michał stood before his painting as if hypnotized. Not captivated—because although he adored it, he hated it with all his heart. He simply stood there, frozen to the gallery floor. He couldn't move. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the navy blue blotch, which, after minor adjustments—painting on cuffs, a few buttons, and adjusting his hat—looked remarkably like himself.

"This painting definitely stands out from the others, don't you think?"

The man snapped out of his stupor, hearing the words clearly addressed to him. He glanced at the girl with a worried look, but his eyes immediately darted to the painting.

"There's a great sadness radiating from it, despite all those dancing people," the girl continued. "These vibrant colors, these smiles... It's all so... deceptive, you know?"

"Hmm..." Michał mused, though he himself believed that saying "hmm" in intelligent conversation was the worst faux pas one could commit.

"I think the only thing real in this painting is this man, right here," she pointed, almost touching the canvas. She was centimeters away from breaking the gallery's main rule: not to touch the exhibits. "This painting was created for him," she added, fixing her gaze on Michał's oil painting. "It was supposed to be just him, and everything else was just a pretext. A contrast to confuse. And the whole thing turns into a bitter grotesque...

" "That's sad," Michał stated curtly.

He listened to the girl the entire time, mentally reacting to her words, but all he could say was: it's sad. He didn't want to tell her how accurate her comment was, how it stung, like a well-placed punch. He didn't want to reveal himself. Because Michał, although he exhibited his works in the gallery, didn't come here as an artist to show off and receive applause. He came as a spectator; to watch people look at his paintings, and perhaps to overhear what they had to say. He never suggested any interpretations himself. He didn't speak—at most, he nodded or briefly summarized the other person's long argument. He tried not to contribute anything to the conversation—he gave them the paintings, and that was his only duty.

"Hmm... He looks like you," the girl remarked with surprise. "Very similar, although you're dressed differently."

Indeed, Michał wore a lighter, ash-colored coat and a gray hat. He didn't have a scarf.

"I don't see the resemblance," he said, shaking his head and glaring at himself with hatred.

He took a step back and looked to the right, toward the gallery exit.

"You're right, let's go see the painting next door, it seems much more cheerful!

" "I... I have to go... I have to leave," Michał muttered and headed for the exit. "I feel faint...

" "I'll help you!" the girl offered, and before he could object, she wrapped her arm around his waist and threw his arm around her neck. Fear paralyzed the man, and paradoxically, he now needed the girl's help to get out of the gallery. She only let him go when they were outside.

"Better?" she asked, concerned.

"Better, better..." Michał sighed heavily. He slowly backed away.

"It happens that people react very emotionally to art," she soothed. "And that was a very dark painting...

" "Yes..." the painter admitted bitterly.

"You don't like this artist's paintings?

" "Yes and no... Sometimes I like, sometimes I hate... And sometimes I both hate and adore a painting.

" "It must be a special person, this painter... Only this painting made me realize it," the girl continued. She was a pleasant, slightly pale brunette with large eyes and flushed cheeks; perhaps natural, perhaps from the cold, perhaps from exposure to art. "That sadness that appeared amidst this joy... This one terribly sad painting in the entire gallery, where landscapes full of happiness hang side by side. And technically, this one painting is identical to the others. The people are laughing just as much, dancing just as much. They are not painted carelessly. The author doesn't change his technique. It's the same as always. And only this sad person... He appears there for the first time and redefines the entire painting. If you could cover him with your hand, it would be the happiest panorama of all these paintings." And I keep thinking that he's in all of them, just painted over. That the artist didn't want to show him, and for dozens of paintings he contradicted himself. He didn't want to show himself... It's good that he found the courage...

"You think?

" "Monika," the girl said.

"Monika..." Michał repeated. "Michał Wacik."

The girl stopped and widened her eyes.

"It's you!" she exclaimed, astonished.

"It's me..." The man shrugged.

Monika shook her head in disbelief, staring at him with large, gleaming eyes.

"And in the painting," she asked, "is that you too?

" Michał had intended to tell her to stop calling him "sir"—she looked not much younger than him, maybe twenty or twenty-two—but he knew it was useless. Only Anna called him by his first name.

"Too," he replied.

"I should have guessed," she said with a smile. "You paint beautifully! Really!" she added appreciatively, looking at him.

"Thank you."

Michał continued to stare straight ahead. They walked slowly down the narrow sidewalk, he on the left, she on the right. Michał didn't even know where they were going, because although he had started walking, she had turned onto an unfamiliar street, and from then on, she was the one leading.

"But it's sad that there's so much pain. It's good that you've opened up, even in this form. Art is good therapy.

" "It won't go away that easily. Not by painting a few pretty pictures... It's too deep inside me...

" "I wish I could help somehow," the girl said.

"You can't... It's too deep inside me..." Michał shook his head. "It's simply... it's me. It's me.

" "Then fight yourself," the girl said with a smile. "You'll be a worthy opponent for yourself. Besides, it's rare: to know your opponent as well as yourself. I think it's worth a try."

Michał frowned. For a long moment, they both walked in silence.

"I'll say goodbye here," Monika said, stopping at the steps. "I live here.

" "Goodbye," Michał replied. He smiled slightly. The girl amused him.

"See you later!"

She ran up to the man and kissed him on the cheek. She waved at him from the threshold and disappeared behind the door.

Michał stood there for a few more moments, staring at the porch.

***

He didn't go home immediately. He wouldn't be able to sit still within four walls, much less in an empty studio. He walked through the park, breathing heavily. His heart was pounding in his chest like crazy. Not tiredly. Nerves.

He was going to fight.

With himself.

He quickened his pace, and when he felt he couldn't go any faster—that his joints couldn't take it—he broke into a jog. His heart pounded, his breath hissed, and he—in spite of his legs, in spite of his lungs, in spite of himself—instead of stopping, he began to run. His coat—closely buttoned to the last button—pinched him and restricted his movements. So he ripped it off without unbuttoning it. He tugged at the lapels, and the buttons scattered onto the gravel road. The coat fell to the grass. And Michał ran and ran. And he thought that he no longer wanted to be a painter. That he would no longer be an artist. That his wonderful fingers would never conjure another painting.

He reached the edge of a steep hill, and even if he tried to stop, the force of momentum pushed him down the slope. He ran; he didn't try to stand. He didn't try to regain his balance. He ran. His heart was beating so fast that in a moment it might have collapsed. He felt a stabbing pain in his aching lungs. His mind—confusion. Emptiness.

He tripped over a root jutting out from the steep slope. He lurched forward. And instead of stretching his arms out to break his fall, Michael spread his arms as if to greet the earth warmly.

Instead, he said goodbye.

He caught the wind in his wonderful fingers and soared above the park—high above the gravel road and the trees covered with new buds. His laughter, carried by the wind, was heard throughout the city.