Arsenic

 

I couldn't make it out. I couldn't separate it. In the stuffy laboratory darkness, something was rippling. I just couldn't make it out, couldn't separate it – what. I mean, I had my suspicions. It could have been me. It could have been the laboratory. It could have been a common, unexplained fluctuation. I was certain that something in that stuffiness was mocking my hard-won normality, that in that obscurity, my scruples (the same ones that keep a person in check every day) had somehow become tangled, relaxed, and he didn't care, he put his feet up on the table, stuck his finger up his nose, sat down to one side and watched.

It was hard to talk about day, because it wasn't day anymore. It was hard to talk about evening, because it wasn't evening yet. However, we could arrange for dusk. One could have assumed it was dusk, though that wouldn't have mattered.

And yet, it's undulating in full force. Each successive wave swelled and splashed in amplitude, only to climb anew. A lost cause. I say, I'll lie down on these waves, so what? After all, I've had my share of dealings with sea waves, so I should have been able to cope with this strangeness—this distortion of dusk. I sit, waiting, wanting to lay my weary body on the ephemeral swells, oblivious to the seaweed and imaginary shadows slipping beneath the surface. A lost cause.

I took a hammer to the head: nothing. No waves around me. But I listen—I tense, I stimulate the most bizarre freaks of my consciousness (how ridiculous I am at this!). And nothing.

But how could it be, when I feel! As if—organically… I sense, all over my body, that it is undulating after all. It must be undulating…

If it wasn't a laboratory, I thought, if it wasn't beakers, measuring cups, jars, benches, tweezers, Leiden bottles, then it must be me. There's no other way—so I look down at myself. Stupid? No, not stupid—this undulation, though for now I could only guess at it, had a nature—I imagine—very physical, not spiritual, metaphysical, transcendent, ineffable, upper, light, lithe, elusive, volatile, buoyant, Platonic—or whatever you might wish. Well, no, it was corporeal in some primitive and crude way, and so it would have to reveal itself sooner or later—uncomplicatedly and clumsily.

Little came of my sitting, my gazing. I had to grapple with another fact: it wasn't me who was undulating—swelling—splashing.

If it wasn't me, if it wasn't the irritating, besieging environment, then it must have been happening somehow "together," somehow "globally"—and considering that nothing was happening, that the materiality of the phenomenon, though undeniable, wasn't in a hurry to creep out—above all, somehow "under the skin."

A lost cause.

Meanwhile, behind me, the radio was chattering. An actor, hired for a rather paltry salary, was reading passages from some writer's new novel. Of course, he saw himself onstage, of course, he was wearing a fancy costume, of course, he wasn't sitting in front of a microphone in a cramped studio, of course, he wasn't reading these words just because the author had a friend at the station, of course, it wasn't a novel, of course, he was saying, "If our ethereal shadows arouse your impatience, consider, I see, that you slept for a moment, that you dreamed these apparitions—and that's all..." Of course, he was saying it, no, he wasn't at the station, he was saying it, that's what he was saying, Jesus Mary, Jesus Mary, he was saying it, not at the station, on the stage, how could he not say it, he was saying it, Holy Virgin, he was saying it, after all, ambition, he was saying it, after all, school, he was saying it, after all, when he walked down the street, he was saying it, after all, his father was saying it, he was saying it... But I, it seems, misheard.

/I'd been visiting my aunt and uncle for vacations ever since I learned to fake everything a young man should. My uncle started working at the state-owned farm right after the war, and soon he brought my aunt there with one of my cousins ​​clinging to his skirt and another still in the womb. /

Meanwhile, the subcutaneous realm temporarily faded in favor of other phenomena, even more material and anti-spiritual. There, on the shelves, stood many jars of substances of various consistencies, properties, and uses, but only one, it seemed, had truly gone wild in its intrusive fatness. It was brown, already more dull than shiny, pushing itself brazenly among the other jars. It stood there, childishly corpulent, like Ubu Emperor, and its belly jutted out right at me.

I couldn't look; I lowered my gaze.

/…from then on, even though it was highly irrational, I'd go to the forest ravine more often. The lewdness of this niche in the ground, a mere ditch, no different from dozens of others in that area, made me push forward in a ridiculous and childish way. I was there almost every day, as if waiting…/

Arsenic trioxide was always a trustworthy assassin. No Prussian ever escaped it, even if it was grazed by its dagger – the poison.

Meanwhile, I continued to exert considerable effort to stare at the jar (and even then, never for more than a moment), whose ugliness was not so much beyond my strength as rather too trivially in keeping with the hideousness of the evening (for it was already possible to speak of the evening). It was like improvising a blues in E minor on the Aeolian minor scale in E. It shakes you. Too much harmony is irritating.

/…August. My trysts with that hollow were slowly taking on the characteristics of a ritual. However, the more sacred my visits became, the less real the possibility of fulfilling the hopes planted in me at the beginning of July seemed. That flicker from among the trees still lingered in my mind, but in moments of greater exhaustion, or perhaps weariness, I couldn't discern whether it was a real memory or merely a phantom born in a dream, assimilated by memory./

I reached out, grabbed it, pulled it to my chest, turned it, and peered in. An unpleasant odor filled my nostrils. I was about to grimace in disgust, but at the same moment a different kind of disgust gripped me, even a ridiculous panic, for I hadn't worn protective gloves. I am a timid and cautious man; I usually dislike experiments, so I quickly put the jar aside. I noticed that the yellowed sheet of paper glued to its surface, with As2O3 scribbled in pen, had slipped slightly when I held it, indicating that the glue had dried and was holding poorly, which in turn indicated that the contents themselves must not be in their first years. Strange as it may seem, though, while—as a chemist—I had a relative trust in the poisons I encountered daily and knew that, with proper treatment, they could be tamed, revulsion welled up within me at the mere thought of expired toxins, rancid fatty compounds, and phases separated where a single substance should have been. Everything that, conspiring with time, had escaped the forms familiar and predictable to me, those on the notes describing the vessels and the records with which they had been brought to the laboratory. Dead substances—corpses of compounds—were what always filled me with anxiety.

For some reason, I spat on the ground.

I glance timidly at the jar again (and he stands, looking at me). I think there might actually be traces of poison on its dirty, dull body, as well as on its lid (and he stands, looking at me). I wash my hands (and he stands, looking at me). I sit, my head bowed low, almost between my knees (and he stands, looking at me). I listen to some of that drivel on the radio (and he stands, looking at me). And he stands, looking at me. I feel myself blushing, simultaneously fading into gray (and he stands, looking at me). I lower my eyes again (and he stands, looking at me). I glance furtively (and he stands, looking at me). I lower my eyes (and he stands, looking at me). I glance (and he stands, looking at me). I lower my eyes (and he stands, looking at me). And I think something like a sly smile appears on my face (and he stands, looking at me). I reach slowly, carefully weighing each movement, for the rubber gloves (and he stands, looking at me). I pull them on my left hand (and he stands, looking at me), I pull them on my right hand (and he stands, looking at me).

/…it was unsettling. When I walked through the forest that afternoon to visit my ravine, it began to pour heavily./

Eventually, I had to reach for the jar of arsenic again. But this time I did so with due solemnity, and the ease and confidence of those gloves gave me a sense of confidence and power that I wanted to revel in.

I unscrewed the lid, confidently placed the lid on the lab bench, and peered inside. I couldn't see much anymore; it was very dark. I boldly plunged my hand into the substance to examine its consistency. Just as I had suspected—arsenic trioxide in its amorphous form. It was a kind of goo, but so heterogeneous that I could feel the roughness of the unevenly distributed granules between my fingers.

The revulsion that sent shivers through my entire body didn't reach my hand as it sank into the jar. Oh, no – she began to wade through the filth, paddling, pushing her fingers into the most inaccessible nooks and crannies, just to get further, just to crush the lump against the glass refraction, to maul the stinking pulp, to merge with it in the cesspool.

And that wasn't enough for her. She felt she had to get at least a little out.

/…it was bearable. Her own savagery…/

I saw myself reaching out, and there, inside the jar (when it was a completely sovereign body), it had scooped up a fair measure of As2O3 on its index and middle fingers. Suddenly, contrary to my previous self-image, it seemed quite tempting and shimmering to examine this sample up close. I began to bring the hand with the arsenic to my face, and suddenly it was right next to my lips… as if I wanted to taste it…

A sudden brake slammed on me as soon as I saw myself in the full absurdity of my actions (as my then-scrupulous self-consciousness probably saw me). I quickly pulled my hand away.

Times had become frivolous. My aunt had lowered her tone when it came to being strict with me, she had retreated into herself, a fact I diligently exploited. How different a tone they must have taken on then…

I say – I hadn't tested anything. Now, as I sat there with the poison in my hand, when there was only one thing, when my hair was greasy and matted, sweat dripped constantly from my armpits, and my eyes (I imagine) took on an expression of indifference, should I stop?

/…quite little then…/

Should I stop the experiment halfway? Me – for God's sake – a scientist? When had I already decided on it? Or rather – when did I agree to let my right hand initiate it? Because of the circumstances? And what? – put it in a jar, seal it, and…? No, that was out of the question.

/…that if at all…/

I brought it closer to my face in a similar manner, but I tried to avoid my mouth, lest the stupidity catch me again. Nostrils – I thought – I'll try it if it comes out through my nostrils. I moved the arsenic maybe 2-3 centimeters from my nose. When a sharp, unpleasant smell began to seep into my nostrils, I inhaled as hard as I could. Suddenly, blackness before my eyes, nothing but stuffy ether. A bitter tear rolled from my right eye. A bitter tear rolled from my left eye.

I had to withdraw my hand again as quickly as possible. Not through my nostrils.

I found myself at that sad point where all concepts blur and vanish. I remembered Morcinek's fable, "How the Miner Maślok Bartered with the Treasurer," and that absurd motif about offering the tobacco-hungry Treasurer that very stimulant. He never stinted—he just scooped as much as he could onto his two massive, worker's fingers—his middle and index—just as I scooped up arsenic. I found this parallel to the legendary mine ghost so amusing that I burst out laughing, spitting out everything within a radius of a few dozen centimeters.

Then, as if an ice cube slipped down my esophagus and sloshed in my stomach… Normality! Where's my normality? I'm sitting in the dark in the laboratory… poison in my right hand… I think of the Treasurers—not the Treasurers… I compare myself to them… and normality (saved for years, saved hard, saved in torment)—fled away. (Now I know that it must have been my scruple, my tangle, that got into the dance—ha!)

I couldn't laugh anymore.

/…and it was still decreasing…/

Decreasing? The arsenic trioxide in my fingers certainly hasn't diminished from this sitting. I sit – he's in my right hand… I sit – the radio's chattering… I sit – it's not diminishing, not diminishing, tiririri, not diminishing… I sit – waves? Hell? I sit – that's for sure… I sit – he's in my right hand… I sit – left hand… what's the left hand doing?

I look. My left hand is nothing… only slightly raised, stiff (washed by waves?). My sleeve has slipped slightly – nothing more. So it won't help much.

I sit – he's in my right hand… I sit – the sleeve of my left hand…

/…and I swore to myself (but it's only pretend) – nothing more…/

Intellectual sterility is my most terrible nightmare. Please remember – the most terrible nightmare.

And I sit – he's in my right hand… I sit – the sleeve of my left hand… Its slipping was (I imagine) completely accidental. More than that – it couldn't have mattered. Oh yes, it must have been devoid of any subsurface. It was the most extensive shallows, one that could be influenced by any meaning or context.

Oh, how foolish and trivial its subsidence was! I'm sitting—no doubt about it… And I began to feel contempt for this sleeve of mine! To go down so brazenly and against my will… just so… just so… I'm sitting.

A lost cause.

I began to sniff, to smell, to observe whether it was still rippling around me. Rippling. I thought that reaching the source of this resonance was completely pointless. (Let it ripple, what the hey, how about a whistling, sail on, sailor!) Except that it could distract me for a while, confuse my mind, drown out the hum, just to free myself from this arsenic, just to push my thoughts in a different direction.

A deceptive idea. I was even quite good at distracting myself, as long as it didn't reach the point of tangible reality. Because how can I escape with my mind when it's still on my fingers? A lost cause.

I sit – the sleeve of my left hand…

The final act usually comes to a person because of great feelings, matters of the utmost importance, powerful machines of abstraction. Not for me. Extremity strikes me as an empty form in itself, merely thinning out (if conditions are right) the intrusive pressure of reality. And if you need "justification," if you crave a "stimulus" from me (or rather, a stimulus for me), then please—here I offer it to you—let it be intellectual sterility, which is—remember?—my most terrible nightmare. The most terrible nightmare…

My radicalism looked something like this: I brought my right hand (with the poison) a short distance closer to my left hand (with the exposed sleeve). I shuddered, hesitated, but only so as not to scandalize my scruple, which, though very depraved lately, had been unable to fully evade its moralizing nature.

And then—poof! It happened. The poison was placed on my multilayered epithelial tissue. My first thought: you've done something stupid. Thought two: what the heck – I'm stupid. Thought three: there's still time to remove, rinse, disinfect, clean, close the jar, get up, grab my coat, leave, forget, pretend it didn't happen, bribe my scruples with evening Bible reading, find normalcy, there's still time. Thought four: it's not time anymore. Thought five: can you stop thinking for a moment? Thought six: no, I can't. Thought seven: well, at least focus. Thought eight: I'm trying. Thought nine: oh well… Thought ten: maybe not? Thought eleven: no, no. Thought twelfth: oh yes, yes. Thought thirteen: terefere. Thought fourteen: yes, yes! Thought fifteen: no. Thought sixteen: yes. Thought seventeen: no! Thought eighteen: yes! Thought nineteen: is a soldier coming? Thought twenty: through the forest. Thought twenty-one: Old Fredro? Thought twenty-two: "Down with the dick!" Thought twenty-three: Enough!

Thought, perhaps thirty-fourth, rightly observed: the poison was still on my skin and nothing. Thought thirty-seven whined: woe, woe, Christ! But thoughts forty, forty-third, and forty-ninth persistently and prudently asked: what next?

And they were followed by other thoughts in the row of thoughts fifties and sixties, until I believed that this question was now my priority.

It so happened that thought number seventy-two (I still remember its extraordinary nature) tempted me: rub it in!

It was so utterly irrational and eccentric, grotesque and senseless, that I did it as quickly as possible. Oh, yes—rub it in! My right hand (safe, because it's gloved) madly rubs the poison applied to my left forearm! I no longer count my thoughts, I just rub it in, frantically, accompanied by salivation, flushing, ruffled hair, and (I suspect) gills in my eyes. I rub it in. I rub it

in, I feel it, it penetrates the skin, it penetrates the flesh, it penetrates (perhaps) the veins, the blood, the brain! So I rub it in more fervently. I rub it in, I rub it in, I rub it in. Most of the hair on my arm has long since worn off; only a few remain, rolled, broken, and stuck together.

Less than a minute passed, and there was no trace of arsenic. Out of breath, I stopped rubbing and tossed back the hair that had fallen into my eyes. My left arm was red. A distinct flush. The pseudo-cuff of my slipped-down sleeve was stained with the substance.

Did he do something, man? – that was another thought. But I knew there must have been scruples behind it. Oh yes, it was him, the hypocrite, who had come to his senses somewhat too late! So I ignored that thought, especially since the next one seemed more constructive: what would happen next? After all, this act couldn't go without consequences.

I realized it was stinging. I couldn't tell, however, if it was just a simple burning sensation, the result of thermal energy released in a simple mechanical way: by rubbing (if so, where were the waves then? Why hadn't they washed and soothed me?), or if something was already eating me from within, the poison beginning its infamous frolics—infection, necrosis, ha, ha, the devil knows, they won't tell.

And it was like this: for a good few minutes more—peace. However, I noticed that the red was fading, fading, but instead of pink, it was turning yellow, and then white. So strange and alien was this phenomenon that another moment had to pass before I noticed a much more disturbing fact. It was swelling. My hand had visibly swollen, bloated, swelled, distorted its somewhat slender form, and bloated. When, after a long and this time genuine hesitation, I touched the skin, I clearly sensed it was hideously taut, something gathering beneath it that shouldn't have been there. I'd even venture to say it throbbed, took on a distasteful life of its own.

It'll burst, I thought, it'll burst my skin! It'll burst, the thing will splatter everywhere, and I'll lose consciousness, as if a vein burst! I wasn't even gripped by fear, but rather revulsion. No, I said, I won't let it burst on its own.

I grabbed a well-sharpened pencil. I'll stab the hole myself—a monster will emerge! I stabbed.

And then, surprise—salvation. A transparent substance, thin as water, flowed from beneath my skin. Calmly and innocently, it spread over my hand and began dripping onto my pants. Lymph! Oh, how much more familiar, warmer, lighter I felt. Good old lymph! Good old lymph! The same one from calluses, the "blaze" on my heels and toes, flowing! Oh, sweet lymph!

I had a paper knife at hand. I cut away a patch of dead skin to reveal the pink of healthy, regenerating tissue. But instead of pink, I saw yellow, and then white—swelling, swelling, pressing white. Déjà vu, a mirror dream?—Never mind. There was no way around it—pencil, armpit, it flowed out, knife, I cut it off.

After removing the patch, I saw, instead of pink—who can guess?—swelling, swelling, pressing white. "Pah, I cut it off. And the same thing happened. It was a lost cause. I wasn't laughing at all.

/…indeed, I wasn't laughing at all at the time…/

Thank you. Meanwhile, the situation was becoming quite serious. I wonder how many layers of epidermis the average person has, covering the dermis? – I thought. I pierced and cut away several times, but there was no end in sight to the unappetizing process. A hole began to form in my arm – no exaggeration here – a hole! An open-pit mine! Nay, a crater!

I felt an icy pang of panic in my chest. I began to hastily recall all the substances that – it seemed to me – might have a soothing effect in such a case. My knowledge proved rudimentary. Besides, it was no time to search the most forgotten corners of the laboratory, because that was still in operation there. Correct me if I'm wrong – there is no such thing as lymphatic glands. But then I could have bet that, as a result of rubbing in the poison, my body had undergone such a profound mutation, such a disgusting perversion, that it had hastily developed just such a pathological gland!

I knew I couldn't cope on my own. Across from the chemical plant was an emergency room (very appropriately). I jumped up from my chair, abandoned putting on my coat, and, standing there, in my apron, one glove, and leatherette clogs, ran out into the street (feeling the chill of the early spring evening, which I probably would have enjoyed quite a bit under different circumstances), crossed the damp roadway in a prohibited area, and fell inside.

I lied to the nurse at the window that I'd spilled acid on my hand. She led me to the examination room and sat me on the couch. She went to wake the dozing doctor. The lightbulb, casting a pale light over everything, flickered and sizzled extremely loudly.

As luck would have it, a radio was playing in the small room adjacent to the office. As luck would have it, it was tuned to the same frequency as the laboratory.

Down the corridor, the doctor, shuffling in yellowing slippers, was carried away with heavy, slow steps.

/…because smallness and insignificance had clung to me that summer for good. And although another July was approaching, seemingly outlining new, alternative forms of creation, and summer began its etude, while the last chords of the spring song were still dying out, I could tell by the heaviness of my eyelids that nothing would happen, and I wouldn't take a single step in any possible direction. For was any direction still possible? /

Was it possible? This wasn't a question for that evening and that couch. Perhaps if there were waves… but they had faded. There were no waves.

The light bulb sizzled, flickered.

/…continuous…/

This was, perhaps, the only time I felt something akin to longing… for waves? Hell?

It sizzled, flickered.

/…somehow we're going…/

It sizzled, flickered, went out. It lit up again, sizzled.