The evening air was crisp and much more pleasant than the daytime suffocation. The streets seemed larger and friendlier now. In the slightly bluish, artificial light of the yellow streetlamps, they even inspired trust, seeming to be resting after a day of work. Marcin Flaj, returning home, wanted to follow in their footsteps.
He briskly traversed the city, dressed in slightly too-short jeans and a short-sleeved white shirt; in his right hand, he carried a leather briefcase. He was a slim, tall man, somewhat resembling a stick insect. His long, rugged face was adorned with round glasses, and he looked somewhat clumsy. The impression of clumsiness was reinforced by the seriousness on his face, combined with a childlike impatience. He couldn't wait to get home and, if he was lucky, devote himself to his favorite pastime. For now, he was irritable. He wasn't very sociable; among his friends, he was considered rather eccentric. Despite this, they sometimes took him to the pub after work.
"Come on in, you'll see, it'll be fun," they'd say. "You'll have some fun; you have to get out and meet people sometimes. Come on, Flaj, come with us!"
He didn't like being called by his surname. Despite this, everyone, from his sister and closest friends to his workmates and roommate, simply called him Flaj. He'd gotten used to it, though it still irritated him a bit. He didn't like going out with friends either. He usually got bored, looking at his colleagues and pretending to be amused by their anecdotes and jokes. He didn't know any anecdotes himself. At least not any he could talk about with his friends; they all related to his unusual hobby, which, while controversial, was the only thing that allowed him to escape the filthy world of greed and the rat race.
He eagerly traversed the crooked sidewalks, passing one dirty, unrenovated tenement house after another. He was overtaken by an old bus, popularly known as a "cucumber," lurching at breakneck speed. Flaj cursed under his breath. "If I'd waited at the bus stop instead of walking," he thought, "I'd be home in a few minutes." He actually enjoyed these walks back through the city at night; only common sense told him there couldn't be anything worthwhile in such a thing. The city at this hour was empty and very quiet; if a roaring car ever broke the silence, it did so in such a way that it seemed like an event of the entire galaxy. All this gave Flaj the feeling that the city at night was as lonely as he was.
He was in a hurry. He was afraid he might miss the opportunity for real fun, and since summer hadn't really started yet, such opportunities were few and far between.
He burst into the apartment like a rocket, slamming the door behind him. He knew that even though it was after midnight, his roommate was still awake. He crossed the hall in three strides and peered through the permanently ajar door into his room. His roommate, Zbyszek, was a short, plump man with a round, youthful face and a perpetually glowing chin. He spent his days working for a friend in a warehouse, where he usually slept through the night. At night, he sat in front of his computer, drinking heavily. When Flaj peeked into his room, he noticed a spherical silhouette in the blue light of the monitor, staring at it as always. Zbyszek was violently twitching his mouse, his other hand on the keyboard, occasionally reaching for a bottle of beer. Flaj knew this was one of the first; if Zbyszek were already drunk, he would have been chatting instead of playing. He was wearing headphones, the sounds from which could be heard even by Flaj standing in the hallway. Even though it was almost impossible, Zbyszek immediately spoke to his roommate standing in the shadows.
"Hey, man, how was work?" "
Same as usual," he replied, moving closer to the half-closed door
. "You got back a little late today. Is there some kind of party after all?"
Flaj never believed Zbyszek could hear him; he always thought he was just faking it, spacing his words so he could fit in with his own. Despite this, he always answered him.
"Nothing interesting. I had a beer with some friends and went." He pondered for a moment. "Piotr, you know the new guy I told you about. He's picking on me again. I'm good at jokes, but I don't like being made fun of. Besides, he started asking why I'm so weird." Falj shrugged helplessly. "What's bothering him?
" "Come on, man, you need to be more open to people. And chill out, finally start living like a human being."
"I live my life the way I want. " "
Anyway, as you wish."
Flaj smiled and went to check if a pleasant surprise awaited him in his room. He poked his head inside and listened for a moment. Nothing. He turned on the light, looked around carefully, glanced at the lamp hanging in the middle of the room, and then, leaving the light on, left. He went to the kitchen. He grabbed an apple, rinsed it with cold water, and returned to the room. He sat down on the couch, opposite the television. He grabbed the remote and forced the machine to work. He found some cheesy music program. Between Flaj and the television stood a small table covered with a colorful tablecloth. Overall, the room was rather spacious; it could easily accommodate two people, but Flaj was keen on space. His hobby demanded it.
He finished the apple in a few bites, leaving a good deal of pulp on the core. He never finished apples. He lazily placed the remnant of the fruit on the tablecloth, boredly observing the not-so-pretty pop singer singing the hit of the season with the obligatory word LOVE in the title and chorus. He sat there for about an hour, glancing occasionally at the open window. Unfortunately, nothing happened to herald the fulfillment of his hopes. "Not today," he thought, and went to sleep.
When he woke up, the room was chilly. The light blue dawn was attacking the room soberly through the still-open window. Flaj slammed his alarm clock just before the first bell. It happened to him often. He even wondered if, if he hadn't set his alarm sometime in the past, he would still wake up at the same time as always. He quickly finished his morning routine, dressed in slightly too-short jeans, a short-sleeved white shirt, and glasses. He packed his lunch into his briefcase and peeked into Zbyszek's room. The fat guy was asleep on the keyboard, beer bottles and crisp packets strewn beneath him. After making sure everything was as usual, Flaj went to work.
He worked in a computer hardware store. He didn't complain about the job, earned more than he needed to survive, and had practically always known about computers. Often, when something broke for Zbyszek, he'd get him cheaper parts and then fix it himself.
There were two salespeople in the store. They worked in pairs, always with the same crew. At least, until someone changed jobs or got fired, as had happened to Flaj's previous partner. Now he worked with Piotrek Pyrzycki, a young, fun-loving guy with shiny, gel-laced hair and broad shoulders disproportionate to the rest of his body. It was hard not to notice that Flaj and Piotrek were complete opposites. One was serious and quiet; the other was loud and perpetually amused. Although it must be admitted that they complemented each other quite well at work. Piotrek dealt with young customers, often selling them more than they wanted to buy. Flaj took on older, more serious customers, who were more impressed by his solid knowledge than by his engaging stories about equipment and humor.
They had been working together for over a week. Flaj, as always, focused on his work, seeming to ignore Piotrek, who, being constantly distracted, hadn't yet fully settled into his new job. They didn't get in each other's way, and generally didn't talk much. Piotrek, however, couldn't stay silent for long, so when no customers showed up for a while, he asked:
"Flaj?
" "Yes?
" "Have you worked here long?
" "Yes, what?" He looked up from his crossword puzzle and turned to his colleague.
"I'm just asking," he shrugged indifferently, "you know, out of curiosity. Haven't you ever considered doing something else?
" "No. Why?
" "You know, to earn some money, right? Besides, are you really enjoying this job?"
Flaj looked a little confused, put down his pencil, and propped himself up on his hands.
"I don't know... I guess so. I can't do much else.
" "What, you? Don't you have any interests? You see, I, for one, don't want to rot here all the time. I have prospects. I know exactly what I want to do.
" "What?
" "You know, for as long as I can remember I've wanted to be"—he thought for a moment—"a musician. Recently I even got myself this cool computer program to make music. Great, it makes you feel like you're fulfilling yourself!" He laughed rather strangely. "Don't tell me you don't have any interests. You have to be in such a hurry to do something after work." He smiled again, this time more cunningly. "Unless you have a hottie there, eh?"
"I don't have a cane." Flaj stared at the crossword, pretending to ponder one of the entries. "Although it's true," he added after a moment, "that I have a hobby I'm in a hurry to pursue.
" "Well," he said happily, "I knew there was a reason you were acting so strange. I had a friend who collected bugs. He was a real weirdo too." He pondered for a moment. "Tell me about that hobby.
" "Maybe another time," he replied. Flaj was afraid of such conversations, especially with Piotrek. He didn't want anyone to find out. He wasn't doing anything wrong, but if they did, they would definitely frown upon him. What he was doing wasn't normal, and he knew it, but when the opportunity arose to do it again, he simply couldn't resist. It was as if he lived just to do it. He felt like he was fulfilling some mission, doing the world a favor, but if the world knew, if they saw it, they certainly wouldn't understand. No one would understand. They would ask: Why? They were laughing and fooling around, and Flaj really didn't like being laughed at. He couldn't stand it. And if someone like Piotrek found out, Flaj would quickly become the victim of countless jokes and anecdotes. He couldn't tell him.
"Hey, man, we work together," Piotrek started to approach Flaj, smiling, "you can tell me." Flaj remained silent. "Don't you trust me? It's probably some kind of quirk. But you're not a pervert or anything?" He joked.
"No," he replied firmly. After a moment of silence, he began to stare into the air right next to Piotrek's head.
"What?" He was surprised and turned around. He cursed when he saw a large wasp clearly interested in his head.
"I'll take care of that," Flaj said, then took a single step toward his friend and, with a swift movement of his long arm, slapped the wasp. He struck it with the back of his hand, sending the force of the blow crashing to the floor. Almost immediately, he tried to pin it down with his large boot. It dodged at the last second. It flew toward the door, then turned drunkenly toward its tormentor. Flaj took aim and waved again; the wasp avoided the blow with surprising agility, but Flaj was prepared; now with the wasp between both hands, he could easily try to kill it with a clap. When it was almost there and slowed for a moment, performing some strange acrobatic maneuver, Flaj slapped it quickly with both hands, turning the wasp into an unappetizing, wet stain. The fight was over. Flaj checked the backs of his hands just to be sure, then laughed triumphantly. Piotrek admired the whole event with a smile. After his friend's outburst of joy, even he was a little carried away.
"Oh man, that was good!" he said enthusiastically. "Like some kind of fencer... Bang, bang, and it's over." He began parodying Flaj's way of fighting an insect. "A cut, a second cut, and a miss, suddenly a slap! And it's over! Not bad, man, I didn't expect that."
"Forget it," he replied, flustered. He lowered his head and went to his briefcase. He packed a pen and calculator (he always carried his own supplies) and a half-eaten cheese sandwich. "Listen, I have to leave early today." He glanced at his watch. "It's late, there probably won't be any customers, and I think you can manage to close the shop.
" "Hey, wait!" Piotrek ran up to Flaj as he was leaving. "I don't feel like sitting here alone..." When Flaj was already across the street, Piotrek said to himself, "Weirdo."
The dusk turned the sky navy blue. The streetlights were on, though anyone could practically do without them. There were fewer and fewer cars, and a large Volvo bus had pulled away from the bus stop he was walking toward. Flaj slowed down a bit. "Why did I tell him anything?" he thought, shaking his head. "It's a hobby, it's who knows what. I need to control myself. And that wasp thing, he'll have something to tell after work." He passed the bus stop indifferently. Waiting for the next bus in this state was unthinkable for Flaj.
After a few minutes of reflection, he decided that maybe finishing work early would give him some entertainment. The thought calmed him. After another few minutes, he realized that fighting the wasp had actually been quite entertaining. When he reached his house, he had almost completely calmed down. He even smiled in the apartment. He immediately approached his roommate's permanently ajar door. Zbyszek was sitting with his mouth open, facing the monitor. He typed a sentence at breakneck speed, then erased the entire sentence and carefully, slowly typed it again, smiling broadly. A half-liter, half-full bottle of vodka stood proudly next to the monitor. A slightly cold pizza with salami, onions, and a can of beer lay on the floor. A few slices were missing. Zbyszek hit the Enter button hard and then chuckled.
"Do you know what I just wrote to her?"
"No," Flaj replied, slightly surprised, to which Zbyszek initially responded only with a drunken chuckle
. "You'd rather not know." He waited a moment, listening to the music blaring from his headphones. He even tried humming something himself, then casually said, "So, what's going on at work?
" "Nothing interesting at my place. Same old stuff. But you're here earlier, aren't you?" he asked suspiciously from behind the crack between the door and the frame.
"You know what?" Zbyszek sighed and turned to the crack. "That's bad. They fired me. They said they didn't need employees sleeping through their shifts. They said this wasn't a hotel. So I told them I knew, because in a hotel, I'd be paying them to sleep, but here, they were paying me." He laughed drunkenly. "So they fired me.
" "And that friend of yours, didn't he help you at all?
" "Even Zenek couldn't do anything." He stared at the pizza, then knocked the can off and took a slice. He took a bite and downed the vodka in a single gulp, making Flaj feel sick. "Want some?
" "No, thank you."
"Feel free to have some." "
No, thank you," he repeated expressionlessly.
"Anyway, whatever you want," he mumbled with his mouth full. "Just you know... Now we have a little problem. Because if I don't have a job, I can't pay the rent.
" "Then find a new job
." "A new job will be difficult. To be honest, I can't even afford this month's rent and bills. Basically, I'm broke. I might even have trouble finding money for food." He sighed. "That's a tough one.
" "So why are you drinking so much?"
"And you know, I thought it was a bit sad," he laughed again, "so I threw myself a little party."
"A little party," he grumbled as he left. He entered his room, deprived of any hope of an entertaining end to such a miserable day. He sat down heavily on the couch. Before him, on the colorful tablecloth, yesterday's apple core reddened, and outside the open window, night was already falling. He turned on the television, the darkness of the room battling the vague light of the CRT. He found himself watching the same music program again, the same, lousy singer. Resigned, he was about to throw away the old apple core and go find a new one when a fly suddenly landed on the screen. Flaj smiled, almost on his feet. "So, it's today," he thought, and turned on the light. A second one quickly appeared under the lamp. Circling incomprehensibly, she didn't even realize what awaited her. She couldn't… After all, she was just a fly.
Flaj was pleased. For the first time in over a week, he had a chance to have some real fun. Slowly, he walked to the window and closed it. Then he carefully slipped over to the wardrobe near the television, opened it quickly, and looked around, clearly searching for something. Inside were numerous jackets, shirts, sweatshirts, and a coat that Flaj had never worn except the day he bought it. He wasn't looking for the coat, however, or any other clothing. He carefully checked the floor, fumbling with the clothes. He didn't find it. He jumped out of the wardrobe, slamming the door so loudly that he was afraid Zbyszek would hear him. "Exactly!" he thought, "Maybe he stole it... but why?" All sorts of ideas flashed through his mind. He could make a mousepad out of it, he could take it just for fun, he could throw it out the window to see if it flew properly. Zbyszek was capable of anything. Flaj covered the distance to the door in a single stride and cautiously stepped out. He walked to the crack and, straight as a bolt, asked,
"Have you been rummaging through my wardrobe?"
Zbyszek shifted in his chair. He glanced nervously around the room, then looked at the pizza, seeming lost in thought.
"No," he replied, and after a moment, turned his attention back to the computer.
Flaj didn't trust him much. At least not now, when Zbyszek was completely drunk. He sighed and thought for a moment. The most important thing now was to remember what he'd done with it last time. It wasn't easy. The last time he'd done it after visiting his sister, so he was quite tipsy. And tired. Very tired. So tired, in fact, that he'd immediately fallen asleep after finishing the game. It must have been behind the couch. He cautiously returned to the room and peered behind the backrest. It gleamed shyly on the floor, leaning against the wall. "Death's Plank," he thought, and reached for it. It was a small, black, square-shaped plastic plate; quite thin, but not very flexible. It served the purpose of a Death's Plank perfectly
Piotrek calmly walked toward Flaj's house, whistling the melody of the hit song that had recently been hailed as the revelation of the year. He hummed the catchy chorus to himself, mentally building an image of the singer. A group of young people passed him by; one nodded at Piotrek, to which he returned the nod. He had nothing to do; his colleagues from the grocery store across the street didn't want to go to the pub, and his other friends weren't too keen either. So he didn't blame Flaj for leaving his wallet at the store while packing too quickly. He didn't feel like going home, and a visit to a work colleague might prove amusing, to say the least. He hoped he could take Flaj out for a beer or perhaps discover his secret hobby. He and his colleagues from the grocery store had often wondered what was wrong with him, and information about his hobby might solve the mystery for good. Besides, he actually liked the odd man out. If only for the simple fact that he was strange. Sometimes people need friends like that so they don't feel so different themselves.
He reached the building where Flaj lived. It was a two-story, renovated terraced house painted cream and yellow. He stopped for a moment under an old, yellow streetlight and pulled his ID card out of his friend's wallet. Almost the entire space reserved for the photo was filled by an elongated, slightly sad face. Next to it was his first and last name, and below that, his parents' names. "Is his name Marcin?" he asked himself. He turned the ID card over and read the address in the upper left corner. He walked to the appropriate door and, out of habit, checked to see if it was unlocked before using the intercom. It was unlocked. Delighted that he'd managed to surprise his friend, he went inside.
***
Flaj crouched by the couch. Carefully, still close to the ground, he circled the lamp, staring at his victims. Both of them circled lazily beneath the lamp, unaware of the danger. The Death Plane was at the ready. He held it in his right hand, at his left shoulder, ready to use it at any moment. Finally, he positioned himself in the best attack position. He stood by the window, ensuring that any fly he hit wouldn't fly towards the table or the television. He waited a moment longer for the creatures to form a favorable formation, then swung with all his might. The first strike was like breaking billiard balls. The flies scattered, becoming faster and more alert. He had to wait for them to reappear before striking again. He hadn't expected to hit one on the first try. He didn't even want to; the game would end too soon. After a moment, he noticed one of them sitting on the wall by the door. He approached and took a closer look. It was one of those huge flies, surprisingly fast and agile, and above all, cunning. With all his might, yet gracefully, he swatted the Death's Plane at the white wall. The fly escaped at the last second. Flaj turned and swatted again, the rush of air from the plank only propelling the insect forward, harmlessly. Flaj didn't let his emotions get the better of him. He was a pro. He watched the fly carefully, trying not to lose sight of it. "Damn," he thought as it fled behind the closet. Now he listened for one of them to move. It lasted only a few seconds. Suddenly, he heard the longed-for buzzing sound by the window and approached cautiously. After a moment, he spotted another, smaller one; it bounced mindlessly against the glass, trying to escape. "No way," he thought, taking a swing. He grinned sinisterly and swung the Death's Plane right next to the window. It hit. The fly jumped back from the impact and thumped against the wall. A single hit rarely did the trick, but it weakened the opponent. The fly, buzzing mercilessly, fell to the floor. Flaj seized the opportunity and tried to crush it with his boot. With the last of his strength, it managed to dodge, but Marcin, prepared for such an eventuality, slapped it a moment later. The force of the impact sent the presumably dead insect flying onto the table.
Flaj, pleased with himself, approached the corpse. Sometimes, an opponent would reanimate after a while. Therefore, just in case, he always hid the corpse in a special box in an open drawer, so he could fight the same opponent several times. Using the Death Plane, he transferred the corpse to a small box already containing about fifteen dead flies.
He hadn't even fully closed the drawer when he heard a buzzing sound behind him, a challenge in his ears. He turned around briskly, taking a swing at the fly. The fly was sitting on the opposite wall, just above the couch. Flaj took a step. The fly moved; gaining height, it flew to the door, then curled back toward the couch. Flaj couldn't pass up this opportunity. He stood on the table with one foot and swung at his opponent with sufficient force. The fly turned back just in front of Decha. Overtaken by emotion, he swung again and tried to jump toward it, hoping to knock it off mid-air. Suddenly, instead of leaping into the air, he slipped on the colorful tablecloth and fell onto the table. The entire small wooden structure creaked and, it seemed to Flaj, tilted slightly. Less than a second later, it fell to the ground with a thud, losing its legs. At that moment, Flaj, lying on the counter of his broken coffee table, heard the disturbing ring of the doorbell.
Piotrek
stood in front of the door to Flaj's apartment. The hallway was illuminated only by the faint, bluish light from the street. He glanced around. Inside, the house looked much worse than it did from the outside; the dusty stairs creaked, the rectangle of the window, all black against the dubious light, was marked by a spiderweb of broken glass. Someone from the upper floor lumbered downstairs, cursing fiercely under his breath. Piotrek hoped the apartment door would open before he had a chance to meet him. He rang the bell again, and a moment later the person was on the stairs, opposite Piotrek. He was a large man, with an elephantine build. His bare feet were covered in Kubota flip-flops, and he wore blue nylon trousers, tucked into which was a sweaty undershirt. His hair was tumbling from beneath it and growing on his sun-baked arms. He had the face of a ruthless rapist. He slalomed down, holding a half-full bottle of cheap wine in his left hand. Piotrek watched the figure with fear, unable to look away. At one point, their gazes met. Piotrek's blue, innocent eyes were no match for the bloodshot, yellowed orbs of the man, who was constantly cursing. He lowered his gaze and turned toward the door, trying to ignore him.
"What the fuck are you staring at, you fucking drunk?" the elephantine man stammered, rocking back and forth. Piotrek took a step toward the exit door, but the sound of breaking glass stopped him. Just a meter away, a drunken figure with a forbidden face held the remains of a broken bottle, exposing his yellow teeth in a wicked grin. "Are you going somewhere?"
Piotrek flattened himself against the wall. He didn't know what to do; something told him to run, but he couldn't. The sound of the doorbell, which he accidentally pressed with his head, added to the drama of the situation. Just as he was about to give in to complete panic, he saw the door to Flaj's apartment opening to his right. He jumped inside without a second thought. However, he didn't find his colleague there.
"What kind of person are you?
" "Me?" Piotrek was a little flustered by the sight of the fat man with headphones on. "Me to Flaj.
" "That's cool." He stammered and swayed. "You know, all sorts of scum hang out here.
" "I know," he replied, nodding toward the door.
Zbyszek peered out into the hallway.
"Good morning, Mr. Franciszek!
" "Good morning," the elephantine man grumbled, pointing his thumb at the ceiling.
"How's your team?"
Mr. Franciszek sat down heavily on the step and extended a thumb to Zbyszek, mumbling something incomprehensible.
"Then hurry up, or they'll start without you," Zbyszek replied cheerfully, and then returned to his apartment.
Piotrek could still feel that gaze on him. His heart was pounding, his face was burning, and his mind was screaming for alcohol. Especially since, as he himself noticed, he seemed to be the only sober person in the building.
"Got anything to drink?"
"You know, man! Follow me," he replied and headed towards the room.
***
Flaj panted, trying to freeze motionless on the tabletop. The position he was in was quite awkward. He felt pain in his bruised elbow, knee, and pelvis; other than that and the damaged table, nothing else was damaged. He stood up quickly, wondering who could be knocking on his door at this hour, and whether Zbyszek had heard the fall. He surveyed the damage. The tabletop lay on the floor, completely covering two legs, the other two timidly sticking out towards the window. "That's a tough one," he thought. He quickly pulled himself together and put the Death Plane in the closet. Then he looked around for the fly, so he knew where it might be hiding just in case. He found it on the windowsill. This was his chance; now, with a bit of luck, he could dispatch it himself. Quickly and once and for all. He glanced around, as if to make sure no one was watching him, then took a swing. Just when his hand was halfway to the fly, he heard the shrill, electric shriek of a bell. Startled by the sound, he hesitated, giving the insect time to escape.
Flaj tensed, moved closer to the door, and began to listen. "Someone's going to come in here any minute," he thought quickly, his eyes roaming the room. "They can't see the room in this state. But who? Who are they? Who could THEY be? Or maybe... no, that's impossible. What if... I have to do something about it. He'll figure it out when he gets in here." He moved toward the remains of the coffee table. First, he removed the colorful tablecloth, then gently leaned the wooden edge of the tabletop against the couch. He examined the legs, frayed from the broken side. He had glue in one of the drawers; he began searching for it. A moment later, he was standing over the upside-down tabletop, glue in hand. First, he tackled the two adjacent legs, on the TV side. He poured a generous amount of glue over the places where they had once sprouted, then pressed the broken pieces against them, towering over the entire structure and supporting it so it wouldn't fall apart before the glue took effect. Not a second had passed when he heard a third bell, stronger and more terrifying than all the previous ones. A moment later, he heard Zbyszek's footsteps. Voices from the hallway, a brief conversation with someone in the hallway, and the two of them entering Zbyszek's room. Flaj breathed a sigh of relief.
***
Zbyszek switched on the lamp on his cluttered desk. The light spread around the room, revealing everyday treasures—cans, wrappers, crisp packets. He leaned down to the computer and connected the cable from his portable MP3 player to the sleepily humming machine. Piotrek sat down on the bed strewn with clothes opposite the computer. The window above the monitor was completely covered with dark blinds. Zbyszek took another sip from the half-liter bottle and then handed it to his new companion. He took a small sip and grimaced slightly.
"Don't you have any alcohol? You know, some juice or something?"
"I never drink," he declared, satisfied. "Mr. Franciszek trained me.
" "Mr. Franciszek," Piotrek muttered glumly. "He's quite a character.
" "A decent man. He has his own boy band, he was just on his way to rehearsal.
" "A boy band?
" "Actually, it's more of a choir, but Mr. Zbyszek always says it's a boy band, so let him have it." Zbyszek thought for a moment, then took a slice of pizza and handed one to Piotr. "Want one?
" "Thanks." He accepted the meal and, taking advantage of the moment when he had something to nibble on, took a larger sip. "You say choir..." He didn't look like a decent parishioner.
"Because it's not a church choir, it's a backyard choir." He checked his watch. "Besides, we can go for a walk in a while and see how they're doing.
" "I think I'll pass. I've had enough excitement for today."
Piotrek looked around the room. The first thing that struck him about the room was the almost complete lack of furniture. Just a bed and a desk with a computer. All the clothes and other belongings were simply scattered on the carpetless floor or one of the two pieces of furniture.
"You've settled in nicely
." "Yeah. I think I'll have to move out soon. The money's running out, and I don't have a job anymore. That's tough.
" "Did they fire you?
" "That's right. Because I slept on the job, can you imagine? To fire an honest employee for something like that?" Zbyszek sighed heavily. "I don't know... I didn't steal anything, did I?"
Piotrek shrugged, then took a long sip of vodka and choked it down with the edge of a cold pizza. He looked at Zbyszek, shielding his eyes from the glaring light of the lamp with his hand, and asked,
"Have you lived with Flaj long?"
"Since I moved in here." He pondered. "It'll be over a year now. What?
" "Haven't you noticed anything strange?"
"He does act strange sometimes." He stands by the door, telling stories, but never comes in. I can barely understand him. For example, before you came, he asked if I could borrow a fiver. Although I'm not entirely sure... Maybe he meant a tenner?
"You're drunk, man, you're starting to ramble. Just tell me if Flaj is at his place and you'd better go to sleep.
" "Ugh... He should be. But he doesn't like being disturbed, I'd better go with you.
" "What's the disturbance?"
Piotrek looked suspiciously at his friend as he got up. Zbyszek wordlessly switched his headphones from his computer to his player and headed toward the hallway. Piotrek stood up too and followed him.
"He just always told me not to disturb him."
Piotrek accepted this. After a moment, they were standing by the door to Flaj's room, from under which a yellow light had released its tentacles, dying in the thick shadows of the hallway. Zbyszek leaned heavily against the wall, tilted his head, and closed his eyes. Piotrek didn't want to wait for his newfound friend to finally react. He knocked. A moment later, he heard a groan and a bang, as if something large and flat had hit the floor.
**
Flaj stood over the broken table. The legs hadn't yet glued themselves together when he tried to put it back up. Haste is not a good advisor. Now he had a broken table, a single, nasty, giant fly circling under the lamp, and a stranger outside the door, who was most likely Piotrek. He hadn't been in such a stressful situation in a long time. He felt himself sweating, his heart pounding mercilessly; he looked around the room as if seeking shelter. Piotrek's voice came from behind the door.
"Are you okay?
" "No!" he shouted back.
"May I come in?" They were both silent for a moment. "I have your tenant here. I don't think he's feeling well."
"Okay. Come in."
Piotrek rushed into the room, ignoring Zbyszek, who was sliding lower and lower. He glanced at the old-fashioned room. Smiling, he glanced first at the remains of the table, and then at Flaj.
"What happened here?" he asked, feigning more surprise than he actually was.
"Nothing..."
Piotrek pulled Flaj's wallet from his pocket and held it out to him.
"You left it at work, I thought I'd bring it back.
" "Thanks."
Flaj, a bit embarrassed, took the wallet. At that moment, Zbyszek practically stumbled into the room and sat down on the couch. Flaj didn't know what to do; it wouldn't be appropriate to ask either Piotrek or Zbyszek out in such a situation, and anyway, if he didn't attack a fly, they wouldn't suspect a thing. "Maybe Zbyszek was right, we need to get out and meet people," he thought.
"Will you sit down?" he suggested clumsily to Piotrek
. "Sure.
" "Maybe I can make some tea or something?
" "Yes, you can. Thanks, I mean." "I mean, 'Okay
, I'll be right over.'"
Flaj quickly walked, full of doubts, to the kitchen. He turned on the electric kettle, already filled with water, and then pulled three glasses from one of the scratched, pale green cabinets. They were clean, but out of habit, he rinsed them all and began to dry them. The fluorescent light over the sink, which had just been turned on, began to hum and click, flickering unbearably. Flaj turned it off nervously and searched through several nearly empty cabinets for tea. He quickly dropped the tea bag into one of the glasses and then reached into the drawer for the teaspoons. "It's not so bad," he thought, waiting for the water to boil. "He's confused, maybe he won't ask stupid questions. We'll talk about something and he'll leave." He also had to think of a reason for the damage to the table... Just in case.
The kettle steamed steadily, then turned itself off with a pop. The sound seemed exceptionally loud to Flaj, considering the silence in the apartment. He poured the first cup of tea, then transferred the tea bag to another glass and poured it again. When that one had turned a fairly tea-colored color, he repeated the process with the last glass, then threw away the used tea bag. He poured two teaspoons of sugar into each cup. With one hand, he grabbed each glass by the handle, and with the other, surprisingly, he took a fresh lemon on a saucer, already cut open, and headed for the room.
When he entered, he saw Zbyszek flipping through the channels on the TV and Piotrek getting to the window. He quickly set the tea on the tabletop lying on the floor and turned to Piotrek, who had already opened the window.
"What are you doing?
" "I'm opening the window," he replied with his usual carefreeness. "It's a bit stuffy in here." "
He's right," Zbyszek interjected, a little indistinctly.
Flaj glanced nervously at the fly, which was still circling under the lamp. He wanted to deal with it, and the open window gave it a chance to escape. However, he couldn't arouse suspicion. He sat on the couch and took his tea, staring at the television. Piotrek followed his example. After a moment's silence, he interjected jokingly, pointing to the remains of the table.
"So this is your hobby? Some people collect stamps, others phone cards, and you smash tables?"
They laughed. Flaj pretended to be amused, but his laughter aroused the suspicion of insincerity. They sat in awkward silence for a moment longer until Zbyszek found a music program. A foreign pop star appeared on the screen, singing a somewhat bland hit of the season.
"Switch it," Flaj grimaced.
"Come on," Piotrek said, "it's the hit of the season! You just don't switch songs like that!"
"He's right," added Zbyszek
. "What difference does it make to you? You can't hear anything through those headphones anyway.
" "That's not true," Piotrek objected. "If he couldn't hear, he wouldn't be able to talk to me.
" "Don't be naive, he's just pretending. He says something, then waits a moment so you can say something. Then he says something again, and the fact that it sometimes makes sense is pure coincidence.
" "I was talking to him," Piotrek thought for a moment
. "It's just a pretense. It's impossible for him to hear anything..."
Their conversation was interrupted by someone howling outside the window. Zbyszek jumped up as if on cue and walked over to the rectangular, star-filled hole in the wall.
"Sing something!" he shouted into the blackness of the night.
"What?" came Mr. Franciszek's rough voice.
"It doesn't matter!
" "Jolka?
" "No, not Jolka. Maybe Chrysanthemums?
" "No problem."
Mr. Franciszek's drunken chant, performing solo today, echoed throughout the street. "
You whore betrayed me, I'll step in front of the train.
But I won't get through to you, because it's on a different track...
" "Shut your mouth, you scumbag!" someone yelled from the building across the street.
"What did you say, brat?" Mr. Franciszek growled indignantly. "I'll go over there in a minute, and you'll sing differently..."
The argument dragged on for a long time, fruitlessly. From time to time, Zbyszek joined in, until he finally collapsed onto the couch as if unconscious, leaning against Piotrek. The situation was becoming a bit awkward. "Maybe he'll leave now," Flaj thought. But Piotrek instead got up and started pacing the room. He was a bit surprised by the lack of a computer and was about to start a conversation about it when he noticed something strange in one of the open drawers. He stepped closer and peered suspiciously. Flaj stood up as if scalded. Piotrek gently, as if casually, opened it all the way.
"Leave it!" – Flaj shouted belatedly
"What's that?" he asked, pulling out a surprised plastic cookie wrapper filled with dead flies.
Flaj could have answered practically anything. It's easy to come up with a lie in such a situation. Even a naive one. You could say there was a special fly-killing substance in it, or that you collect flies because you fish with them. You could also say you didn't know about the existence of such a graveyard in your drawer, though that would be quite embarrassing and downright naive. But Flaj was too tired of the constant interference in his previously orderly life. He had no desire to lie or pretend; in fact, he didn't care anymore. For a moment, he only considered jumping out the window, but falling from the ground floor would only bring further humiliation instead of the desired result.
"It's a graveyard of flies," he replied emphatically. "Although, admittedly, a few of them might still be alive." Piotrek started to reply, but Flaj interrupted him brutally. "I keep them here because I hope that's the case and that they'll be flying around my room again in time. Why do I want them flying around my room? Because I like fighting them." Flaj began to approach the frightened Piotrek. "I run around the room with a piece of plastic I call the Death Plane, hunting flies. If there aren't any, I leave a core on the table overnight and wait for one to come. I see the meaning of my existence in this, and I don't intend to stop." Piotrek smiled stupidly, unsure how to react, as Flaj approached him, a distance that clearly marked the difference in height between the two men. "Some people collect stamps, others phone cards, and I kill flies. It's just a hobby. Are you happy?!
"I'll go now."
Piotrek put the box back and, head down, quickly left the apartment. Flaj looked out at the street. Mr. Franciszek sat on the curb, staring out the window. A moment later, Piotrek hurried out the door.
"Is it you again?" Mr. Franciszek stood up. "Because of you, I don't have any more wine, you luju!
" Piotrek sped up without looking back. He continued walking along the sidewalk, along the brightly lit, wide street. A roaring car passed him, but it was far from an event on par with the creation of the galaxy. He couldn't gather his thoughts; only one word kept revolving in his head: "Weirdo."
***
The next day, Piotrek wasn't at work. Neither was he two days later. On the third day, Flaj got a new partner: a young, slightly frail guy with slicked-back hair. This guy was fascinated by Star Wars and seemed unable to talk about anything else. Flaj didn't mind. At least he didn't ask too many questions, and what he did say wasn't all that boring. After less than a week, everything returned to normal. Zbyszek found a new job and, as always, didn't ask any questions. If he'd heard anything from that conversation, he'd forgotten it by the time he woke up. Only Mr. Franciszek started acting a bit strange.
One day, when Flaj looked out the window, he saw his neighbor jumping like a ballerina down the street, ping-pong paddle in hand.
"Good morning, Mr. Franciszek," he asked. "What are you jumping about?
" "Good morning, Mr. Franciszek. What's that? You don't know?" Mr. Franciszek approached the window and showed Flaj his paddle. "I'm hunting flies, and this is my Death Paddle."
Flaj's slightly bloodshot eyes clearly expressed terror. He turned, sensing a presence in the room. Zbyszek stood in the doorway.
"Hey, man," he said as if nothing had happened, "let's see what I found online.
" "What?
" "Well, come on, I'll show you.
" "Just tell me what, I don't have time now," he muttered nervously.
"Fine... Some guy describes his experience visiting a guy who hunts flies on his blog! Pretty cool, huh?" he laughed. "Exaggerated, I tell you..."
Flaj stopped listening. Once again, gazing wistfully out the window, he regretted that his ground-floor apartment precluded any such suicide attempts. "Apparently, most suicide jumpers die of heart attacks during the flight," he thought, "so maybe there's still a glimmer of hope." Suddenly, completely unexpectedly, he saw a large, cunning fly just outside the window, identical to the one that had escaped during the argument with Piotrek. Mr. Franciszek clumsily waved the Palette of Death, but the fly flew too high. Flaj couldn't resist, even though he knew he shouldn't. It would be the end of him, both in his own eyes and in the eyes of those watching the spectacle. But he couldn't help himself; some unearthly force compelled him to do it. Perhaps out of nervousness, perhaps revenge for the evening. He didn't know.
He quickly jumped onto the new table, made of strong wood, and threw himself through the window, killing the fly with a clap. This was accompanied by a cry of delight from Mr. Franciszek and a look of surprise from Zbyszek. A surprise so intense that it prevented him from speaking further, so intense that it forced him to remove his headphones and turn off the music. Zbyszek went to the open window and leaned out.
"Flaj?"
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