The taste of cardboard Is a man who cheats on his wife still a man? *

 

I met her at Elżbieta's, who, for some reason, had thrown her "standing party" midweek, on a Wednesday, moreover, when every normal guy would be sitting in front of the TV with a cold beer, watching the game.

She wasn't very talkative, merely standing in the corner of the terrace, exchanging a few words with Elka, who, as always, tried to play the role of the model hostess.

Incidentally, she sometimes succeeds in entertaining the guests effectively, and sometimes not, although overall I was never particularly bored at her "parties." Just regular vodka gatherings, only standing.

However, she was so busy that evening (she had invited the mayor himself), she couldn't properly attend to all the guests. Around nine o'clock, she decided that since I was staring at her secretary's buttocks and, besides, I had nothing better to do, I could exchange a few words with her just to kill time.

"I'm not in the mood for entertaining teenagers today," I grumbled.

"Stop whining, go and talk to her, her name is Marta. Besides,

she's not a teenager anymore. She turned twenty-five a month ago."

She didn't turn around when I moved the lounger, so that the sound of the metal frame scraping against the floor caught her attention. Any other person would surely have reacted to the sound by turning their attention towards the sounds, but the stranger didn't. So I sat there like some loser, paralyzed by an overwhelming situation, with only one recurring thought in my head: I was at a party where the alcohol was flowing freely, and I was sipping juice from a carton and staring at some unknown brat. I actually felt like leaving the terrace and returning to a spot where I could observe everything, but one of the women I'd never liked, who'd spotted me a few minutes earlier, was eager to ask me to go out to dinner with her again this year (in a joking manner, as always, though both she and I knew what I meant). So, to avoid another confrontation, I decided to focus on the stranger whose buttocks—as Elżbieta claimed—I'd been staring at for half the evening, which wasn't entirely true.

To this day, I have no idea how the words that tangled themselves in my tongue contained so much trash—in a voice lifted straight from a bad romance novel, I declared, "We're having a lovely night tonight," to which, of course, she didn't react at all. And since I hadn't reacted to her behavior either (at that point, I didn't care how the conversation would go or if it would even begin), we stood on that terrace, suspended from a balustrade shaped like a wall dotted with imitation sandstone: me with a juice box, she with a menthol cigarette, which she smoked rather lazily, albeit with years of skill.

*

"What shall we name him?" I asked, covering my legs with the duvet.

A momentary silence fell, interrupted by the ticking of the wall clock, Aunt Zośka's wedding gift.

"How do you know it's going to be a boy? It's only been four weeks," she replied, checking the greenish mask evenly spread over her face.

"And what if it's a girl?" "She added when I didn't respond.

And I didn't respond because, in essence, it doesn't matter whether the baby is a son or a daughter, as long as the baby is healthy and the delivery goes smoothly.

I wasn't worried about Anna; she's a strong woman, though she looks fragile and delicate; it was worse for me – I didn't know if I'd make it in the delivery room, even though I'd promised I'd be there. In movies, of course, all births are smooth and without complications: the woman in labor turns red for a moment, her eyes bulging, a sign of a reaction to the helpful doctor's command to "push," the fearless father bravely holds his wife's hand the entire time, imitating breathing as if during childbirth classes, and the baby, upon seeing the world, has a full head of hair and, what's more, sees everything immediately, smiling with smiling eyes. The whole thing, of course, lasts several minutes, as if detached from the actual duration of labor.

Pathetic, yet wonderful at the same time.

"If it's a daughter, you can name her whatever you like.

Just not Marta.

" *

"Yes, indeed, we're having a beautiful night tonight," she said, still staring straight ahead.

Her voice intrigued me. Only then did I look at her more closely. Indeed, she didn't look like a teenager—the first impression I'd formed upon seeing her proved false, because after mixing her appearance with her voice and the aura marked by the smell of tobacco, that impression underwent a metamorphosis.

"I brought you some champagne," I announced, placing my glass on the balustrade.

She still didn't react. She continued to stare straight ahead, making no movement, idly yet gracefully smoking a cigarette.

She was attractive and extremely alluring. Besides, a man always pays attention to a woman's appearance, as if it had a decisive influence on the character she is, whose legs and buttocks he's gazing at with his greedy gaze.

Sensing my intense scrutiny, she directed her gaze towards me.

"Please find me a chair," she said dryly.

I looked around, but aside from a metal deck chair with a blue-checked blanket on it, I couldn't find anything resembling a chair. So I excused myself and returned to the living room, which in Elżbieta's house is right next to the terrace.

Finding a piece of furniture standing under a bust of a writer, I headed back towards the exit. In the living room, a lively discussion was taking place about municipal land designated for investment, with Elżbieta leading the way, aided by her partner, who was fawning over the mayor, whose rounded cheeks were turning increasingly pink from the overabundance of compliments. However, I found nothing of interest in this discussion.

"Interested?" "

I'd advise you to be careful, she's a cunning brat," the voice added after a moment.

Turning, I saw a broad-shouldered man with a Kirk Douglas chin gazing intently at Marta. In his eyes, I read nostalgia mixed with desire and a strange anger that I could faintly, yet still sense. Suddenly, I realized that this woman, seemingly a teenager, had a past I knew nothing about, but which was beginning to be appealing. This past, precisely because of its unfamiliarity, suddenly seemed worthy of attention, a fact intensified by the man's gaze, which took on a slight sneer.

"No. I'm just trying to be polite," I replied calmly, looking at the stranger, who didn't react, merely nodding his head as a sign of acknowledgment.

I could have responded completely differently, criticized my supposed intentions implied in the word "interested," but, driven by unspoken male solidarity, I discreetly yet firmly acknowledged the warning with a look.

The man walked away.

*

"Let's meet at 5 p.m. Where we always are," Anna announced, and I, surprised, replied that I still had a lot of work and wasn't sure if I'd make it by then, especially since "where we always are" was outside the city limits and Friday afternoon traffic jams were quite bothersome. Nevertheless, faced with a fait accompli, I gave my word that I would be there.

"Good," she replied, "I have something important to tell you

. "Anna, can't you tell me over dinner? It would be simpler and less complicated, wouldn't you think?"

She didn't answer, which meant it was indeed important. The last time she'd asked me to go there was when her mother died, and she, unsure what to do with her last request, decided to talk to me about it there. She claimed it was a magical place for her, a place that soothed and moved her at the same time, and that it had always been important to her.

It was in this clearing that I kissed her for the first time... It was a warm September in 1995, when we were both twenty-six years old...

I parked in the parking lot just off the road and, taking off my jacket, followed the forest path toward a small stream running through the forest. It's rather rare for an ordinary stream to take on the shape and vigor of a mountain stream, adorning the forest like the Bieszczady Mountains or the Tatra Mountains. I liked this place, and Anna later grew to like it too; from then on, it was our shared place.

She was waiting for me, sitting on a blanket spread on the lush but still sparse grass, a wicker basket lying beside her.

"Sit down," she said quietly.

I sensed emotion and suppressed joy in her voice. And though I couldn't detect anything resembling fear or apprehension, I began to feel apprehensive nonetheless.

She told me to close my eyes and hold out my right hand. To ensure I wouldn't mix up the sides and to make the moment sublime, she added, "This is the one I extend in greeting, and the one I always touch her hair with." Only then did I realize I always touched Anna's hair only with my right hand.

I did as she asked.

*

It was clear the stranger was already somewhat bored with solitude, yet I wasn't in a hurry to return to the terrace, seeing no greater necessity. Calmly approaching the railing a few steps away, I placed a chair with the seat facing the garden, reaching for a cigarette.

Instead of sitting down, the woman placed her bent leg on the chair, pulling up her black stocking slightly. She looked not like a street urchin with a half-smoked cigarette in her mouth, but like a lady who had momentarily forgotten she was in public view, not in a ladies' room. She looked seductive, and I couldn't help but stare at her firm thigh. There was so much grace in her posture and an undisguised delight in revealing the allure of her own body, which, by the way, she had no intention of being ashamed of; she was actually enjoying the situation, sensing that she was, at that moment, the object of the observer's fascination.

After a moment, however, she removed her leg, hastily grabbed her purse, and headed for the exit, leaving me alone with the chair and the cheap banister. I didn't want to be stuck there, so I followed her.

She knew I did it – at the exit of the estate she stopped for a moment, looked around, and then said:

"Follow me—it's not far."

Paralyzed, I reached for my keys, heading toward my own car while watching her get into hers.

She took off with a screech of tires—she raced down the deserted road at a speed bordering on reasonable, but at that moment, it didn't particularly bother me. I drove just as fast, trying not to lose sight of her.

Five minutes later, we arrived at a suburban motel. In the lobby, where the television was blaring, the elderly receptionist dozed open-mouthed. However, at the sound of the doorbell, he awoke and, without a word, rose from his chair, handing me the key marked number five. He mumbled that he could pay in the morning.

I took the key and silently walked toward the end of the hall.

*

We made love for a long time, but it brought me no pleasure, although Marta proved to be a passionate and skilled lover. Around one a.m., I got up, covered her naked body with the sheets, and went to the shower. For a full half hour, cold water poured down on me, but I didn't feel it at all. I only knew there was a small mirror next to the shower, which I definitely wouldn't look into.

I got out.

I'd been driving those few kilometers for an eternity... I cheaply tried to turn back time, to force myself not to answer the day before yesterday's call, to refuse Elżbieta, to find the impending threat in the man's eyes, not to get in the car, not to take a cold shower... not to remember...

I arrived.

Anna was lying peacefully in bed, reading a book. Without saying a word, I lay down next to her, and she touched my head, just as she always did before bed. Then she put down her book, turned off the bedside lamp, and snuggled up to me, placing her hand on my stomach.

We lay like that for a moment, then she brought her lips to my eyes, touched them with the warmth of her touch, and whispered softly, "I love you."

It hurt.

I didn't sleep a wink that night; the following nights were sleepless and just as exhausting. The days, however, passed as if I were a completely different person and could divide my life into "before" and "after." "Before"—happy, "after"—horrible.

But I couldn't blame anyone. No one but myself.

*

I told Anna about this two years later. Throughout that time, I tried to live normally and not think about the incident with Marta, who had left town immediately after becoming pregnant with the owner of the porcelain factory. But every time I felt my wife's hand on my face, when she told me she loved me, when she remembered our son who died in childbirth, I no longer had the strength to live normally and remain silent. It was like a harsh punishment.

Riddled with guilt, one winter evening I chickened out and told her the whole truth about the incident, feeling a strange sense of relief I never should have felt.

"I know," she replied, looking sadly into my eyes. "I had guessed everything."

"He was a little nervous, maybe even scared, but he did as I asked—he sat down and, closing his eyes, held out his right hand, in which I placed small, woolen booties, one pink, the other blue. When he opened his eyes again and looked at them, he hugged me tightly and quietly told me that he already loved this child.

And then I burst into tears..."

*

Is a man who cheats on his wife still a man?