Vorschman parala – boom (Forszman lapara – boom).

)

And there were glittering and wonderful things – oh my!

All the events started happening (sometimes rapidly, other times lazily and slowly) the day the newspapers wrote that the water wouldn't flood.

Because it was like this: November ended and December arrived. The holidays were over and everything else was in order (New Year's Eve, hangovers, etc.), only the snow was lacking to make it cohesive. We were so pissed about it that it finally fell so generously in the middle of January. And that's when we started complaining! If the snow had even a modicum of humility, he could have explained himself with a slight embarrassment: "I was supposed to snow – I didn't, I wasn't supposed to snow – I did," but where – phew! The snow? – It never occurred to him.

You wouldn't believe it: once he started snowing in the middle of January, he kept snowing until mid-March! It's a wonder they didn't kick us out of the EU for this, though it might be to their advantage, because snow like this obscures many illegal objects, like dog poop in the squares or the steps of stalls extending onto the sidewalk.

But here's the thing: the newspapers wrote – it won't flood. We were all overjoyed – if it doesn't flood, then Jesus, Mary, Jesus, Mary – a festival, a festival, a grand celebration! Only something smelled off to me (and not even the poop, though a ton of it appeared with the thaw), because I keep thinking: "Why is it that there were smaller snows and they flooded, and now this heavy snow won't flood?" But the newspapers have it in black and white, so festival, festival!

There will be no flood

, farmer, calm

down. The water won't flood.

This year, it's quiet.

Don't worry, you cellarer .

The EU is lowering flood rates.

Our people in Iraq killed a turbanist separatist without taking a single dollar, in gratitude to President Bush for lobbying for Polish dryness.

Podhale highlanders: - We've been killed, sir!

Flood – no!

That's more or less what they wrote in the newspapers.

I took an afternoon nap because I could barely see all day and eventually got tired. And so my alarm clock rings, which I set myself because I needed to feed the fish. So I get up. Right leg – splash. Left leg – splash. The apartment is flooded. And so the flood began.

Water up to my ankles – because I live on the ground floor. I go to get the newspapers, trying to console myself that it won't flood (because what made my apartment wet was just a flood). I look – and there are soggy newspapers floating, sometimes drowning, and they are doing pirouettes on and under the water, as if saying: "pimpi – rimpi, shit!"

How lucky it's not a flood, but just a non-flood, I thought. Oh, if it were a flood, I'd have to pack my bags and go upstairs! How lucky it wasn't a flood. If it were (yet) a flood, I could already assess the damage and start looking for a repair crew. But, Maiestas Domini, happiness, joy, because it's not a flood, but a non-flood. Ha, ha – the water is already waist-deep – wet! Funny, I say, it feels like a flood – hee hee, what a joke!

It was slowly creeping up on me that I wanted to check on the first floor. So I went up to the first floor, and there were the Grocholskis crouched on their suitcases, but as soon as they realized I was coming, they started pretending they were camping. Well, okay – I'll admit it – I, on the other hand, pretended I was pacing up and down the stairs for my health.

We spent some time there – they pulled out sandwiches and ate, and I wandered back and forth until the stairs flooded. I couldn't walk anymore, and I wasn't skilled at diving.

"Oh, wet, wet, but it's a good thing it wasn't a flood," I said to the Grocholskis. "

Yeah, right, we were also afraid that if it melted, it would flood, but when we read in the newspaper that it wouldn't, we immediately felt happier, so we went on a picnic right away," the Grocholskis explained. "

Ha, ha – that's really nice. Could I join in the fun, because, you see, I'm getting tired of it down there?"

"Of course, please," they agreed.

So we played on the first floor until we started getting wet. Then the Grocholskis suggested:

"Maybe we should see what the Kraniukis are doing on the second floor, since we weren't talking to them anymore?"

"Well, we could take a walk..." I replied, seemingly casually, but actually with great relief.

They gathered their belongings, already a bit dripping, and we went upstairs. There, the Kraniukis were putting a ladder up to the hatch that led to the roof. They noticed us and immediately hurried to explain:

"Oh, hello, nice neighbors! We just bought a new ladder and we're checking to see if it can reach it, in case we ever need to get up to the roof, poke the antenna for good reception, or something..."

"Oh, yes, that's true, because sometimes when the wind blows, the picture really does jump!" the Grocholskis and I replied.

And silence fell. And only a murmur—a murmur, a murmur—a splash could be heard—the water was rising, and already on the landing between the first and second floors. I stood, looking at this ladder, and they stood, and they were also looking at the same ladder, and so we glanced at each other again and again, and a certain awkwardness arose, because we stood and looked as if it were two years ago, and you have to know that two years ago, there was a flood! It was so flood-like that, with my weak nerves, I couldn't afford to stand there, and what had to happen happened—I searched for a subtle form. I said to them, "

That paint on the ladder has a nice shine, right!" And then I noticed my own blunder, because not only was the ladder old, but it was also wooden and uncovered. I thought to myself – they'd think I was crazy, ready to laugh at me. But the Kraniukis and the Grocholskis replied:

"Yes, it's beautifully glazed!

If it's beautifully glazed, then so be it," I thought, and we continued standing, only with our chins resting on our hands, we began to nod with delight, like select connoisseurs – ladder climbers.

Meanwhile, the water, step by step, rose until it was about to flood the second floor as well. Damn it, I thought. "Damn it

," I whispered to myself. "Hoh, what a lovely lady has come!" the Kraniukis said, and taking off their shoes, they began to soak their feet in it. Hee hee, a nice idea, I must admit. I hurried to soak my feet in the water, and the Grocholskis didn't lag behind. We sat there on the last step, kicking our feet in the lush water, and even a few pranks and mischiefs began to sprout, as always happens when playing with water and in it – because time and again the Kraniuks showered the Grocholskis, then the Grocholskis tried to drown me (but ha! Ha! – incompetent!), and I didn't hold anyone accountable for their mischief.

We sat, sat, on that last step, and suddenly my bottom began to get wet. Did I pee? But no – I looked – they were already in the water too, and that was a sure sign that the level had risen again. Like with a flood, everything – literally the same note! Saint Joseph, what luck that it was only a flood!

This wading and dancing became less enjoyable, because soon we were waist-deep in water and it started to get cold. But we continued sitting – so that it wouldn't! Only our faces twisted in thoughtful grimaces, because we needed to quickly find some way out of this cold dance. My fingers are already numb, I say, "I'll shoot blindly, maybe something sensible will emerge."

"Did you watch 'Dziennik' yesterday?"

A moment of silence—nothing. Nothing?

Krum—bara, krum—bara, krum—bara, out of my head! Silence.

Sturba, his bitch, as Witkacy would say.

Krum—bara, krum—bara, krum... And suddenly it clicked!

"Oh no! We couldn't look because the painting was all messed up! We couldn't see anything, nothing!" the Grocholskis said, and we were in shape. The Kraniuks immediately hurried to suggest that we go up onto the roof to do something about it, which was responded to with great enthusiasm, as the water was already reaching the end of the wainscoting and—generally speaking—it wasn't good. The only consolation was that it wouldn't flood. It wouldn't, Jesus, Mary, Jesus, Mary, it wouldn't, it wouldn't, it wouldn't, it wouldn't, it wouldn't, it wouldn't, it wouldn't, it wouldn't!

And we were on the roof. It was full of bird cakes, I mean those white specks that no one had come up with a name for, and they're not worthy of being called shit. And people had already piled onto other roofs around us, all clinging to their antennas, twirling and waving them, peering from near and far, as if making some kind of observation. They fumble, make adjustments, and something keeps seeming out of place, out of sync, and as long as it lasts, they adjust and adjust, and—every now and then—they turn around to see if the others haven't already abandoned their antennas. But no way! Some are already broken, twisted, but they've just stuffed them in the cracks between the tiles, seemingly holding on and continuing to rotate.

Our antenna was strong, so we didn't break it, but the disgust began to overwhelm us because—yes—we were quite a handful, so we could take turns rotating it, but even so, after a while, enough was enough, and too much, too much.

Dusk began to fall, and people on the roofs were already collapsing here and there—mostly, though, where only one or two were struggling with the antenna. We bravely defended Częstochowa, even though we were already dying, and with particular regard for the Kraniuks, who—if I remember correctly—even slept for a few minutes. I already thought it was hell, Gehenna, eternal damnation, or some other mushroom, but salvation came, and it was from the roof of building no. 5 (meaning building no. 5 on the street named after the famous poet and baroque metaphysician, Ślizgomir Zdęba). Because there, a certain Łysy (the messiah in our little salvation) was spinning his antenna with his family and the entire neighborhood, and it didn't faze them one bit, because the roof was so crowded with them that it must have taken half a turn per head, on average. But then—they sit down, breathe, and continue working without thinking. It's a precedent – ​​yet unprecedented (because it's such a fanciful paradox that – mind you – if something wants to be a precedent, it must also be unprecedented!) – and we already know what consequences precedents bring – everyone would just invoke them, and precedent quickly becomes the canon. This is what happened in our neighborhood, and I didn't even have time to scratch my forehead before everyone was already sitting, panting and puffing on the roofs, dissociating themselves from work.

"Sandwiches, nuts, other snacks, drinks, minor erotic services for any of you?" A certain Crooked One, always the first to try and figure things out at every opportunity, always pursuing the idea of ​​making money, not breaking the bank, approached us on a raft. "

Thank you," we replied. "

Perhaps, since you've already decided to go camping, I mean, it would be worth while to while away the time, play a different tune, something...

" "But we didn't bring any money.

" "Oh, unfortunately, I really don't have anything to offer you," he said aloud, then leaned forward, resting his arm on the edge of our roof, and continued quietly: "Oh, stick, mushroom, I know you're not going camping, and you know I am too, just so... well..."

"You'd better move on," the Grocholskis urged, clearly frightened by what he might have said. He nodded, sighed heavily but understandingly, and, pushing himself away from the roof, drifted on.

A month had already passed, and the dogs had drowned, and we sat on that futile roof, savoring the futility, with only the Kraniuks exchanging casual remarks, and such a fierce, such a terrible feeling crept up (for it was cold, my breath was foul, and the water had stopped coming in—that even fear could no longer serve me as a distraction), in which a person could confidently say that nothing would ever move again, neither forward nor—hell—back! And only the fact that I was exhausted saved me. I fell asleep.

I woke up in the early morning—around four, I think—and it was the one, the only time among all those events of those days when the disgust and misery left me for a moment, and I could afford a little emotion (mistaken?), for everything was enveloped in complete silence, the water stood still, the air cool and crisp, and the sun—a colossus with a pink body—climbed atop a pedestal and spilled out over the world with a glide—a bit like it was bleeding, but the blood remained. And then I saw the great inseparability of that sphere and its blood, for when it began to turn from pink to yellow, the blood itself performed the same chameleon-like trick, and I thought, damn it, damn it, Jesus Christ—I could come down at once, I could evaporate, I could do anything, and the inseparability would remain, as it had been before me and would be after me. This delighted me again, and immediately afterwards I was so terrified that I woke up the Grocholskis and Kraniuks, because I felt terrible being alone (not asleep) in the presence of such magnitude, and the nothing began to cover me with its sheet again, except that I now knew that nothing was omnipresent, but lived within me and would not fail to emerge at every opportunity.

"I thought," I said to them, because I somehow had to explain this wake-up call to them, "that they had stolen our antenna, but no—it was just a half-asleep delusion of mine... You can go back to sleep."

And they went to sleep, but that was enough for me—that moment of their sleeplessness—for all thoughts of nothingness to fade away, along with their terrifying brightness, and only a certain stench remained, or a pressure on my temples, a sort of hangover.

On other roofs, they began to rise; Knockoff was again cruising the estate on his raft, and Łysy was taking baths with his. My neighbors also soon awoke, alone now, and began stretching and yawning (and for an unusually long time, to kill the boredom).

Some time later, the Kraniukis were sitting on the edge of the roof, soaking their feet. I went over, sat down, and soaked my feet too. There was silence. And then they spoke, saying:

"No, sir, it's not easy. Only that it didn't flood, that's something to be happy about..."

And almost as if on the roof of building seven, a middle-aged man jumped up and roared with all his might: "Lord, have mercy!" A terrible flood!

We—meaning the rooftop communities—all immediately fell to our knees, only various moans could be heard, such as:

"A madman, he's lost his mind!"

"Holy God, have mercy on his soul!"

"A madman, a madman, let them bind him.

" "Bound, not bound—he was already possessed by the devil!

But in our holy kneeling, agitation, and agitation, a certain uncertainty, distrust came over me, and I lifted my head—I began to glance more closely at the people and noticed that others (some, of course) were also lifting their heads and looking at others. And at the same time—more began to rise, raising the alarm about the flood! I continued kneeling, because—I thought to myself—it was clearly stated in the newspaper (and more than one) that there would be no flood. None. None, none, none, none—I stood up too! But what was that? "Everyone's standing up straight around me now, no one's mad anymore, standing has become the official canon of normality..." And everything started to blur again, again so casually, not this way, not that way, not this, not that, nothing, such a phi and something and someone there, but nothing...

Oh, I have it – because (it only took me a moment) some old man was thundering from roof number fifteen, drawing out in a preacher's voice:

"A terrible flood has descended upon us, oh Lord, what a terrible flood!

Exactly! It was a terrible flood. And what was all the shouting about, why all that pathos and madness? A flood, but a terrible one – that's what!"

I sat down on the chimney. Meanwhile, the dead body of the madman who had first begun to thrash around was drifting into the blue distance, face down in the water, occasionally slightly overturning to the side. Who killed him? Did he throw himself into the water? Damn it?

Pimpi-rimpi, shit.

Then boredom set in, until about 4 p.m., because I saw a wooden house floating towards us, the kind children build in trees, where (as we all know from American movies) crickets could hide, and all the strange and bizarre things they'd encounter, find, conjure up, etc., etc.

Nothing kept me there on that roof with the Kraniuks and Grocholskis. I thought it wouldn't be such a foolish idea to board, which, without explaining anything to anyone, I did when the house passed right by our building.

And there, crouched in the corner, crouching, was a man, wearing pants like his younger brother's, a T-shirt just as small, with green suspenders, thin, with uncombed, greasy, short hair, and barefoot. I felt uneasy, as I hadn't expected the cottage to be occupied, and I felt I'd invaded, unwelcome in this place. Before I fully realized it, however, we'd drifted out of the settlement, and there were only vast expanses of fields, everything a few meters above the floodwaters, and it was too late to turn back. I needed to familiarize myself, and although I hadn't exchanged a single word with the gentleman yet, I was already regretting jumping onto that strange barge. But what could I do? "

Good morning, I feel very embarrassed and I sincerely apologize for this intrusion, but I didn't think anyone would be here—if I had known, I would have stayed there on my roof. Not that you're bothering me, but rather I'm bothering you... Oh, anyway, this is your little house. I apologize for even comparing you with my weight, it's absurd, I beg you to ignore my... but he sat there, not changing his position or facial expression, and seemed not to listen to me at all. I really began to point out my own stupidity. Did I need to push myself up onto these barely vaulted boards? And I could sit there now, calmly and comfortably, though perhaps boring, with the Kraniuks and Grocholskis, turn the antenna occasionally, exchange a word, or not. I felt like sailing! So I had it—the little house, the madman, and me.

And he didn't say a word. At first I thought he might be so stern, implacable, and cold that he didn't pay attention to my elaborate explanations, but finally I realized he was just a madman. And he sat there. I kept explaining, but it was like throwing peas at a wall.

After a while, I gave up and sat diagonally across from him, because I wasn't particularly happy with the way the barge was tilting. We sat there for a moment, silent, and then suddenly he spoke!

"Your vassal's vassal is not your vassal!"

"Excuse me?" I was determined to keep the conversation going, however absurd it might seem. "

Your vassal's vassal is not your vassal."

"Yes, I know that, I mean, I've heard that before, but what does it have to do with this situation anyway?"

"The vassal of your vassal is not your vassal.

Fine! I almost preferred it if he didn't speak. To hell with the fact that there wasn't the slightest chance of reaching an agreement—it was possible to come to terms with this state of affairs relatively quickly—but that bastard, that son of a bitch, that star-crossed son of a bitch had no desire to stop. And so from then on, he persistently explained to me—relentlessly—that the vassal of my vassal is not my vassal. The lesson was enlightening and good (useful!), but enough, enough!

We didn't sail long, but my nerves were fraying. It was worse than someone playing two melodies in different keys and rhythms—one for my left ear, the other for my right.

I found everything I needed—crickets, cigarettes, food, gadgets from the junk shop, even some vodka, but I couldn't indulge in any entertainment because the one was buzzing and buzzing. I grabbed the ball, tried to set it up for him, threw it—missed. It bounced off the wall and flew out the door. This also gave me a simple yet brilliant idea, one I didn't want to delay for a moment. I got up, grabbed the intruder by his tailcoats, and threw him overboard.

Immediately, I felt relieved, my spirits lifted, and I began humming some sea shanties:

"Sail, sailor, all night long on the sea..."

I looked out the window, took a deep breath. How wonderful I felt for that moment! But the wonderful wouldn't have been wonderful if it hadn't vanished in a flash (a hideous rhyme, but I'll leave it). There – somehow awkwardly hooked, anchored – was that corpse, that is: the corpse of that madman who had been imagining a flood. And something tempted me again (it was that kind of day, apparently), because without thinking, I jumped out of the house and doggy-swimmed over to the tree and the corpse.

Only then did I see myself in the full absurdity of the situation. So what? The corpse of the tree, I grabbed the corpse, and that was it. What else could I do? What the hell was I jumping out of? I told myself – at least I'll get a closer look at the corpse. I rolled him onto his back, but that made him let go of the tree, and we drifted a few meters. Now I was the one clinging to the branch with one hand, clutching the corpse tightly with the other to keep it from escaping. Somehow I managed to "weave" him between the branches so I didn't have to pay so much attention to every movement of the water.

I examine him, admire him, feel him, look—something white protrudes from between his clenched jaws. I try to pry them open, but nothing—a lockjaw like bright thread. I punch him in the neck, because it seemed to me that this way he might let go, but I'm going to slap him (so as not to make things tragic by falling into slapstick). My stupidity drove me to the limit—I pinched his loins, as you do when you want them to jump up and down in a funny way. And—eureka—he opened them! I quickly pulled out the white paper, and it was a sheet of paper. I hurried to unroll it, though even that wasn't entirely easy, because it was so soaked in his saliva that it could have fallen apart at any moment, which I couldn't allow, hoping something would be written on it.

And I wasn't wrong. The ink was smudged, but letter by letter, word by word, something, something, already flickering, already forming... Oh, this, this – oh, tirli, tirli – oh, psium, sium – oh, fuck! "The vassal of your vassal is not your vassal"!

Pimpi – rimpi, shit.

This whole thing was starting to sound like a plot to me, and I regretted throwing that idiot overboard. On the other hand, even if I hadn't thrown him overboard, it wouldn't have helped me at all, because the barge had long since sailed away, and practically every solution was useless. It was like a damn Rubik's Cube – you get close to coherence on one side, and on the other, everything falls apart. A man like me never gets the comfort of holding all the strings.

Meanwhile, the corpse started to float away again, but I didn't need him anymore, so I let him go. I clung to the tree, but night slowly began to fall, so I decided to climb where the water hadn't yet reached, as I didn't like my rheumatism.

It was a full moon, so from the distance I saw a shape slowly approaching my tree. A man—old, with long, gray hair, thin, and dressed in rags that looked out of place. He swam over, clearly exhausted, and I helped him climb onto one of the branches without asking any questions. He drew up his emaciated, wrinkled legs, trembling. I would have gladly given him some of my clothes, but I was soaked myself. Only after about an hour did he look at me, piercingly, but not reproachfully, and say these words to explain himself (which I also greatly appreciated, as I'd had enough of crazy people):

"I fell into the water..." He trailed off a bit oddly, but I thought it was due to exhaustion. "I was sitting—you think—on the roof and I felt a bit wobbly..." Again, such a cut, a strange break, but I didn't say anything, I continued listening. "And there—you're paying attention—these little rascals, scoundrels, whores were having fun, and something went wrong with them, they came up behind me and pushed me out..."

I was at a loss for words. His speech was truly bizarre, strange. He began each sentence ordinarily, spoke ordinarily, but in the end it all came to nothing—some awkwardness, incompleteness, perversion, incorrigibility—so vague, so sloppy, backward, not in the slightest...

"And you," he asked, "where did this tantrum come from?" I decided not to let him know that the strangeness of his speech was pressing in on me and tormenting my thoughts, preventing them from gathering their bearings. I briefly told the old man my story, omitting throwing that fool overboard (as well as that vassal who was making a lump in my throat!), so he wouldn't be afraid I'd want to do the same to him. It wasn't that I cared about his sympathy or trust—I was simply afraid that, driven by primitive instinct and a primal will to survive, he would attack me first.

"The moon is shining brightly on us..." I remained silent. "Don't you think so? A night like this doesn't happen often...

Half-heartedness, that's what it is! His speech was an expression of some torment of incompleteness. An indefinable force prevented him from being complete—even this completeness in the smallest, most ridiculous sense, because the only thing that mattered here was the completeness of the word. He stood behind a hellish barrier—or worse—a barrier had been placed before him, and it was impossible, impossible, for him to move even a step further. Half, half, half, half—and not a gram more was his lot. With a cut, a severance—that was how he was able to end every tremor, no matter how trivial, every organic reaction that occurred and was initially suppressed in the smallest cell of his tortured body. His identity seemed to me like an eternally open, forever bleeding wound. And everything wallowing in hopelessness, losing reality in the excess, overwhelmed by matter, antimatter, and the figures of rhetoric and illusion. If only that moon—if it weren't full and dancing in the waters of an unflooded state—perhaps all this wouldn't have caught my eye so vividly, getting lost somewhere, fitting into the tone from time to time. But it towered—majestic, mysterious, silent, like a tyrant—a titan! One thing I knew—the old man choked on an inexpressibility that I could also call ineffability, or—impossibility.

There are nights when one can finally become a phenomenon—a reflection of one's own being, when certain imperfections disappear and one begins to speak not in one's own language (that is, the stifled, embarrassed one), but in a more universal one, transcending the blaséness of the day. And so I tried.

"And you, yes, I see, halfway—you can't bring yourself to speak."

"Listen, are you serious?" – he couldn't even pretend to be Greek.

"Your helplessness is consuming you.

" "I've been through a lot today. I'm tired..." This depressing power, as well as its incomprehensibility, began to terrify me.

"You should do something about it."

"Er, I've been like this since I was a child, right?" It's impossible to describe the choking sensation in his extremities. I had the impression he'd gladly blurted out the entire contents—just once—triumphantly, wistfully, but something seemed to grab the words at the last moment and shove them back into the depths of his doubts.

"This will kill you."

"Let's get some sleep, what do you think?"

I saw there was no point in pressing them. We wished each other good night, searched for optimal positions among the branches, and soon fell asleep. I was awakened by the splashing of water and the sounds of a panicked scuffle—the old man had fallen from the tree, clearly still asleep and unaware of what was happening. I jumped to his aid and helped him climb back onto a branch.

"What happened?"

He gasped for breath for a long moment, choking, and rubbing his face.

"Look—that branch I was leaning on broke in half—garrrr—"—and sure enough, one of the branches was broken. But what happened next! No sooner had the old man and I calmed down a bit than the water—out of nowhere—began to rush in a swift current in the exact opposite direction from before! It practically rushed like a mountain stream, even though its surface was so vast that the end couldn't be seen.

We felt a lurch, a jerk, another jerk, and—bang—our tree was down, and we were back in the water. The old man clung to me, and I to him. We floated along, carried by the current, and soon I saw the apartment buildings of my neighborhood rising at a dizzying pace. A few times we bumped into something—I don't know what it was—and a few times something hit us. I was choking and probably starting to lose consciousness, while the old man's senses had long since given up, and I wasn't even entirely sure I wasn't clinging to another corpse (because we'd honestly bumped into something hard a few times!).

Oh, we'd bumped into something solid, because everything pointed to my losing my mind! I looked ahead—the water was getting more and more churning, we were swimming through an ever-narrowing channel—and there, at the very end, between numbers fourteen and nineteen, stood a giant (a real, not a gimmicky colossus!). And—worse still—we were inevitably swimming straight into its jaws.

The water carried us relentlessly, and there was no way we could save ourselves. A few more seconds—one, two, a fraction, and then—it was gone... Pam! I hit something with a tremendous impact and felt ropes cutting into my face, and I was only pressed harder against them by the pressing masses of water, and then, again and again, smaller and larger objects struck us. My arms ached unbearably, but—for some reason—I didn't let go of the old man. Every now and then, we were submerged by a larger wave, but by some miracle, we almost managed to return to the surface. In the panic that gripped me, I noticed that there were other people around us, as well as animals, cars, household appliances, and everything else we could think of. And I finally realized that we were—and the whole mess—in a huge fishing net. And then I fainted.

I woke up in the hospital. On the bed next to me lay a strange man, hooked up to a thousand tubes and pumps, and around me were the Kraniukis and Grocholskis.

"Lord, Jesus Christ, we were so worried about you! Where have you been? How did you disappear? Why? Tell me!"

"Oh, I staggered over the edge of the roof and fell in. And I got carried away," I lied. I didn't want to tell them I'd deserted from the futility of being with them. "And then nothing interesting happened... I was sitting in a tree with this guy, and suddenly... Oh yes! Where's the old man?!

"What old man?"

"Such a man... I fell into that net with him... Exactly—how on earth did the water disappear, and what happened anyway?

" "Oh, sir..." They beamed as one. "It's our new friend, our savior, our benefactor—the Great Dwarf of Salvation! He came and guzzled the water! We owe our dryness to him!"

This nonsense was so grotesque that I had no intention of listening to it any longer, or pondering it at that moment. I was more interested in the fate of the old man than in our savior, whoever he was, and seeing that neither the Kraniukis nor the Grocholskis could give me any information, I jumped out of bed and rushed to the hospital reception desk before they could say anything. The nurse on duty there looked at me as if I were crazy.

"Is there an old man like that lying around here?"

"Sir, there are many old people lying around here."

"Yes, I know, I'm sorry, I... Oh... A man, about—I know—sixty-five... " "

Do you know his surname?"

"No."

"Or at least his first name?"

"No... Long hair, slim..." she began leafing through some papers. "He's a flood victim, just like me!" I exclaimed with unusual loudness, as it seemed to me a great convenience and a good lead. She froze for a moment over the files, looked at me piercingly over her glasses, grabbed the phone, turned her back, and uttered a few words into the receiver that I didn't catch.

"Wait here a minute."

So I waited tensely. Two burly men in bulletproof vests and black caps arrived. They grabbed me by the arms, threw me against the reception desk, put my hands behind my back, put handcuffs on me, and led me out of the hospital. A police car was waiting there. I didn't protest, didn't even think of evading, because I knew full well what they meant, and that explanations wouldn't help. It was about this "flood." In my conversation with the nurse, I told her I was a flood victim, and it was a flood, after all. I could only be angry at myself, though I was also a little angry at her, because I had finally woken up after my ordeal, and my mind had every right to be a bit foggy.

I was thrown into a cell. It was damp and dim, but thankfully, I was given a number one. That is, solitary confinement, because they probably considered me a danger to the surroundings. Or maybe they were afraid I would incite other prisoners to call the events of the last few days a flood. The last few days—exactly—what day was it? How long had I been unconscious? And most importantly: what happened to the old man?

A few hours had probably passed when the door opened, and a little more light poured in. The jailer announced that I had a visitor. "Old man!" I thought. He led me through narrow, pale corridors, and I was certain that at the end the old man would be waiting, and we would fall into each other's arms (because, damn it, we've been through a lot together), and he would promise to help me, and swear eternal gratitude for rescuing me, etc.

Imagine my disappointment when I saw the Kraniuks and Grocholskis sitting behind a rough table. But I soon came to my senses ("better a rydz than a pigeon on the roof").

"Sir, you're in trouble!"

"Well, that's how it turned out, but I simply—you understand—spelled it out...

" "Yes! You have to be careful! You have to know it was a failure!" they said very loudly. And then they leaned over to me and quietly said, "Actually, it's absurd. But since when has that scoundrel, the Great Dwarf of Salvation, been in charge..."

"He's the one who got into power?" "I exclaimed, and the jailer glared at me.

"Oh yes, Mr. Krasnal, our friend and savior, is taking care of us now," they replied aloud, adding immediately in a whisper: "What a little son of a bitch, sir!"

There was a moment of silence. Then I attempted to tell them my fate in more detail, with particular emphasis on the old man, and asked them to try to find him. They promised they would. Then I asked, afraid to even listen to the answer:

"Don't you know when my trial is and what might happen to me?"

They looked at each other uncertainly, confused, and then replied:

"You were sentenced to life in prison. "

I felt faint, and a chill settled in my chest. I managed to ask:

"But how is that possible? Without a trial, without even a charge, how could that be?"

"Well, you know," they said very calmly, "you finally blew the case. It was a failure—and they said it, Holy Lady, categorically and decisively—cruelly cold!" – and I realized that they truly (I swear, I'm betting!) believed in this hellish debacle and that I wouldn't have to look for help in them, that Krasnal and no one had chewed them up and spat them out, crumpled. The Grocholskis and Kraniuks were no hope.

I thanked them for their visit, and they promised to look for the old man again and said they'd come back in a few days.

Hmm, how can a person feel who's just learned that for a single word they'll spend the rest of their lives in prison (ha, ha – almost like a married couple – you just say "yes" and that's it: stupid – stupider – married, tirli – tirli!)? And here I surprised myself, I was speechless, because some childish hope came over me. Ho, ho – what's that, no, I thought, I'll run away – yes, I'll run away – oh! I'll be like Leo III, I'll be like Winston Churchill! Yes – under cover of darkness, or with a gun in my hand, heroically and with pathos – I will escape, I will free myself – that's what I will do!

And I fell onto the bed, crying. Despair.

And then for a long time, nothing happened. For weeks I slept and ate, and walked around as if unconscious; I seemed to be beginning to fall into depression. The Kraniukis and Grocholskis visited me, but less and less often, and their stays were brief, because there was nothing to talk about either. No news of the old man, and I had lost two teeth. I wasn't really aware of what was happening around me, because I didn't particularly care. I even rarely went out to the yard, because fear consumed me when I saw those faces and heard those voices. And above all, I still couldn't understand what I was doing there.

It all dragged on, disgustingly and sluggishly, and if I'd had a rope, I probably would have hanged myself, but not from a complete breakdown, but rather from sheer stagnation, as Didi and Gogo had it. Then one day, I received a letter. My surprise was immense, especially since I had no idea who the sender could be: a certain Henryk Chwin, who had given his address as the Great Dwarf of Salvation of the Intestines. I quickly tore open the envelope and unfolded the note inside. It read only: "

Soon you will be free, sir."

I didn't understand a thing. I retained enough presence of mind to hastily scribble out a reply.

This is pleasant news, and my heart rejoices, but, dear sir, I know neither who you are nor on what grounds I should be dismissed. I beg for a reply as soon as possible, for I am ready to lose my mind with uncertainty.

I addressed it to the Grand Dwarf of Intestinal Salvation and mailed it. The reply arrived that afternoon. I was utterly astonished, and opened the envelope.

You'll forgive me. I wanted to keep it brief, so—you understand—damn it, to make it effective, pathetic, triumphant. As you've already learned, I'm never that good at speaking. I wanted to try it in writing, but again, it failed. I didn't think I'd only cause you more stress—a huge blunder. I hasten to tell you what happened and how it is.

By the way, I'm that old fool who was sitting in the tree with you.

Hosanna in excelsis Deo! It continued: "

And the Lord, likewise, saved me. My gratitude will be eternal, but it is impossible to express it in a letter. For now, I also want to do something for you.

When we both lost consciousness, while in the net stretched in the jaws of the Great Dwarf of Salvation, he consumed all the water, and they began to dismantle the net. From the stories I know that one of his fangs caught him, and a small hole was created, into which I fell, and then was swallowed by the Dwarf. I awoke inside him—I don't even know how long I was unconscious.

I began to look for a way out, and I saw the light, I was already close, when I encountered some people—your neighbors, the Kraniuks and Grocholskis, as it later turned out. You will ask—what were they doing there? Well, they were getting up his ass (meaning: the Dwarf's), but now many people are getting up his ass—such are the times. They told me your story, and I was about to rush over there to see you when another brilliant thought flashed through my mind.

I retreated to the digestive tract of the Great Dwarf of Salvation and got my hands on his intestines. And so I've been screwing him up for four days now—if I count correctly—inflicting incredible pain (because I'm squeezing it, hammering my teeth into it, and bruising it mercilessly), and I have only one demand—that you be cleared of all charges and released. You're still resisting, but you won't last long—at most, I think two days and you'll be free, so we'll see each other soon.

Yours sincerely,

Henryk Chwin.

I was completely overcome with joy and emotion. Jesus, Mary, Jesus, Mary!

And indeed—in two days I was released—and I walked proudly past the other cells. From behind the bars, they looked at me with envy, then with admiration, or longing, but always in silence. For once in my life, I was the embodiment of dignity—of dignity! The prison warden was waiting at the gate:

"Because of you," he drawled through his teeth, "he's almost dying..." He was shaking, his face flushed, and he wanted to continue in that tone, but he fell (i.e., not to the ground, but in spirit) and rose, but now in gentleness—in reconciliation—to add: "I wish you all the best," and these words contained all his weakness and helplessness. And I (for that brief moment) was powerful.

I returned to my house, and the Grocholskis and Kraniuks warmly greeted me on the staircase. I entered the apartment and sat in an armchair. The clock ticked. Tick-tick-tick-tick (by what right does it operate, despite all this flooding? Uh—i.e., flooding, Jesus, Mary, Jesus, Mary...). You know who I was waiting for—the old man.

Around five o'clock, I heard a knock on the door. To hell with seriousness (maturity!), I thought, rushing like a madman to open the door. And the old man stood with tears in his eyes, and tears welled up in mine, and he fell into my arms, and I into his. Then we separated, and something extraordinary (extraordinarily pathetic, tragic) happened. His halfness stood vis-à-vis my nothingness, and they merged into one great impossibility. The impossibility of spontaneity, the impossibility of emotion, the impossibility of even a step in one direction or the other. And nothing was as it should be—because, yes, I invited him in, we treated each other warmly—heartily, I was filled with gratitude, and probably he was too, but somehow it wasn't right, somewhere it wasn't working, somewhere it was wheezing, knocking, and bang-knock, bang-knock, and nothing, and something, and someone, and as if, and supposedly, or maybe, comsi-comsa.

In any case: this wasn't how I had imagined our meeting, and he probably would have seen it differently, too. But once impossibility has crept forth, it's hard to turn back, sometimes even impossible. And I asked myself then how far impossibility can reach—how far can this viscous ooze reach, this thoroughly disgusting substance, alternately sterile and salty, this stagnation of inexpressibility, this weight pressing against my temples? I thought it could reach everywhere, spill through the smallest crack and fill every darkest nook, even the utterly forgotten. It seemed to me that impossibility (impotence, impossibility!) could wade endlessly, as long as it didn't encounter a barrier—an end, a wall—and that only this barrier would it be incapable of pushing through—that impossibility could reach the farthest reaches of form, but it was powerless to create a new form (its own), feeding only greedily on things already existing. And here alone I could see the shadow of my own chance.

However, before I managed to find a new form in which our wonderful, dreamlike non-verbal communication would take place, amidst shouts of joy and explosions of spontaneity, he already had to go, it was already late, the last bus was leaving, etc., etc.

I woke up the next morning with a feeling of strangeness. I had to get out of this apartment, this house, into the fresh air, into people, into the forests, into the cities, to get rid of it. And so I did. First (maybe good, may good, Jesus Christ...) – a tour of the estate.

Ho, ho – I'd walked a long way – maybe fifty meters, and already I'd taken another beating. Where the Great Dwarf of Salvation had stood, sucking water from the flood, there stood a huge block of granite. A black, hideous cube – probably fifteen meters high and as wide. It blocked the main entrance to the estate, provided far too much shade, halved the playground, and generally – was an obstruction and an eyesore.

"Yes, sir, it was the Great Dwarf of Salvation who ordered what to put here, in memory of the Flood Suction," explained the caretaker who happened to be there.

"But what the hell is this?

" "What do you mean – what? The Ass Stone to the Glory of Sucking In!"

"But why the hell is it standing here?

" "Well... For glory, I guess? "

"But it's in the way!

" "Shhh..." he put his finger to his lips. "It is, but what can we do?" he said in an almost inaudible voice, spreading his hands. We both turned toward the massive mass, and it seemed even more forbidding and blacker than it actually was, as it stood, looking into the sun from our position. "But," he continued, "soon there will be a festival on this stone, I mean: the Ass Stone, and we will rejoice."

"Rejoice – but of what?

" "What do you mean: of what?" he said, indignant. "That it was just a flood, not a deluge," he mused, and added: "Because if it were a flood, then, as the Great Dwarf of Salvation says, 'Oh, damn, damn!'" and shook his head, agreeing with himself.

The strangeness that had infected me that morning became the very essence of normality, and I already knew it wasn't worth seeking normality in a more normal dimension, or at least it wasn't the time yet—not the time. I decided to return: straight to my apartment and slowly to life before the flood. But did the latter even have the right to exist?

A few days later (around 4 p.m.) the old man came to visit me. We sat and talked about this and that, though I couldn't escape the awkwardness of not expressing our shared and individual thoughts for a moment. Death is a death at times, I say. Salvation sometimes comes with a sluggish attempt, an action undertaken casually. Once again, I tried to revive vitality, breathe life into the corpse of our normality. In short, I wanted our gratitude to burst forth, to even see our stupidity, our childishness, our pettiness—whatever!—anything. "

Henryk—oh, exactly—we've been on first names with the old man—listen: you don't even know how grateful I am to you for getting me out of that prison."

"But stop, there's nothing to say..." but I didn't let him say it at that moment:

"I'll never repay you—I'm forever in your debt.

" "And vice versa: you saved me, even though I was a complete stranger to you."

"So, you see, we're mutually indebted. I'll never repay you, and you me—I'll be at your service forever, you at mine! Ha, ha—what a mess—it could turn out that I should be my own humble servant, because after all, if I'm at your service, you'll be at my service anyway...

" "No," he interrupted me very decisively. And then the words fell on me, like a cold dagger: "The vassal of your vassal is not your vassal."

And before I even had time to feel the terror, I didn't even have time to think of the question, which, even before I'd asked it, would have frozen my blood and filled me with dread, because the Kraniukis and the Grocholskis began knocking on the door.

The shiver just managed to shake me off, and I didn't have the strength to even look at Henryk, afraid to see his face, because I knew—I knew—that it wouldn't be the same face I'd looked at up there in the tree, and later in prison, and even just a minute ago. I was afraid of the very thought of that face, of what it might express, or what it might want to hide. I got up and went to the door—opened it, greeted him—just to avoid thinking, to avoid thinking.

"Aren't the gentlemen getting ready for the festival yet? Ha, ha—but it's going to be fun! Hee, hee, hee, hee, ho, ho, ho, ho—pim—pim, oh my!

So we gathered and went to the festival, and I still didn't look at the old man, only focused on the Grocholskis and the Kraniuks. They were babbling nonsense, chanting songs over and over, but that was good, even good, just to avoid looking, just to avoid thinking.

I don't even know how, but I found myself with Henryk, the Grocholskis, the Kraniuks, and the entire estate on top of a granite giant. Łysy was there, and the Koślawy beer carrier, everyone was there! The sun was still shining, though it was already setting, and the band had started playing. Then the Kraniuks and the Grocholskis called out to me, their voices brimming with mirth:

"Come on! Get dancing! Come on, come on, with Mr. Henryk! The music's playing! Well, boom!"

Henryk took my arm, and we began dancing together, doing all sorts of twists, mostly half-turns, twirling, and whatever weirder moves we could think of, we immediately put them into practice. Henryk clapped his hands, then we changed the direction of our contortions, linking arms with each other. And finally, I finally had to look at that face. I looked. And she was boisterous, joyful, and carefree, dancing in rhythmic hops, hops. And she was full of normality, but could there still be normality after the vassal?

Pimpi-rimpi, shit.