And then he lay huddled against the wall in the train station lobby. It was autumn. Zakopane was gradually sinking into fog and the smoke of burning leaves. The gray sky, the falling rain, and the mud lingering on the sidewalks made the people and the city seem as if they had been plucked straight from the dreamlike visions of Schulz's prose. Undefined, alien. Mountains loomed somewhere contourless, distant, and inaccessible. A vast mass of silent granite—Giewont—was lost in the clouds. The city, so crowded in summer and winter, so pulsating with the pulses of visitors in multicolored costumes, now became silent, deserted, and still. Brownish-red leaves littered the roads and sidewalks. The constant drizzle swept people from Krupówki, driving them to warm cafes and restaurants. The funicular to Gubałówka had been closed for two weeks. Slowly, people began to think it was always like this here.
And he lay against the dingy station wall. Curled up, frozen, almost unconscious. Those arriving and departing tried not to look. They only cast fleeting glances and averted their heads. "Some beggar." The next train was announced over a loudspeaker. People were pouring onto the platform, tourists lugging huge backpacks.
The boy was young, his face was bearded, his jeans stained. The smell of alcohol hung around him. He had come here yesterday; first, he sat on a bench, staring fixedly at the wall, then, when it got late, he lay down. But someone had thrown him out. He only remembered taking a few steps and falling. He wasn't from around here. He had actually come from far away. He liked Zakopane, liked its atmosphere, those old houses, those beautiful churches, that old, mysterious cemetery on Kościeliska Street. And the Tatra Mountains. He knew them well, had often gazed at them from Gubałówka, had often followed their trails. He had been here in the summer. Alone. When everything was green and fragrant in the sun, when the city was cheerful and the mountains stood wide open. Why was he here now? He knew. Because this was the only place where he had previously found peace, where he felt safe, amid meadows, ridges, wooden shelters—far from all the turmoil of life.
He slept. Sometimes he woke for a moment, then fell asleep again. And images, thoughts, flashed through his mind...
He believed people. He trusted them. He almost always had time for them, for his friends, his fellow students. For others too. He listened, asked questions, was there. And even when someone wronged him, he discovered many things to justify it. He defended them mentally. He didn't accept this image of others. He thought everyone would eventually understand their mistake, he was certain that everything would eventually work out, explain itself. No matter the situation. Where he lived, he had quite a few acquaintances. He rarely spoke to them about himself. He didn't like that. There were a few people he particularly trusted. He didn't hide his plans, observations, dreams from them. They, too, shared their thoughts with him. That was closeness. The boy believed he had already reached a certain level of understanding, one that would allow him to calmly endure all setbacks, to hold no grudges against anyone, to turn his back on people. He knew there was good in everyone, and if someone was causing him distress, it simply meant something was deeply troubling them. Then he knew there was no point in being offended, running away from them, but reaching out to them regardless. He helped people out of the darkness, listened a lot, and spoke a lot himself. At least he tried to do so. Besides, that's what God told him.
But for some reason, what happened to him happened. First, there was one person. A girl. And some feeling. Everything was supposed to be beautiful, peaceful—but no. She said it wasn't her. Then someone else. He told her almost everything, he trusted her deeply. It was a shock when she suddenly told him, "Piss off," and left. For a long time, he couldn't understand it. And there were a few other people. Colleagues, pseudo-friends—it was fine for a while. But when the moment came when he needed support, no one had a moment; everyone became strangers. "Sorry, I'm leaving, sorry, I have school, sorry, I don't feel like it." He didn't understand.
And there was another girl. The first fulfilled love of his life. They invested a great deal in this relationship. They talked for thousands of hours, walked for miles, visited many places together, laughed and cried, met their families and friends, talked about their future together, their shared home. They truly loved each other. However, after three years, there were still silly arguments, grudges, and unspoken words. It turned out they had slightly different visions of life. And it happened as it sometimes happens, which is a cruel paradox of life: they loved each other deeply, but couldn't be together, they loved each other deeply, but couldn't help but hurt each other. She broke it off. But too suddenly, too cruelly. The boy couldn't recover. He felt like a man suddenly left alone in a vast, dark forest.
He desperately wanted to be able to trust people. Previously, he had tried to be open, reliable, and kind. He liked people very much. It seemed to him that he even loved them. He wasn't afraid of them at all; he thought he had finally found friends he cared about, whose words he paid attention to, with whom he could talk about anything. But no. It turned out not to. These people eventually left him. Sometimes even without a word. And he was convinced that words could solve everything, resolve anything—if something was wrong. But they left. Simply. He asked for reasons—was it his fault? They either didn't say anything, or something very strange, that things weren't as they should have been. He was deeply disappointed. He didn't understand their behavior; after all, he had talked to them so much, been with them so much, everything was so good. And they left. And it wasn't even so much that these people meant so much to him. It was that such behavior was making him lose faith. He was losing the faith in humanity he had built up until then. He was beginning to fear, to close himself off tightly. He didn't want this. He truly didn't want to stop trusting people, didn't want to run away from them. He didn't want to accept their insensitivity.
But slowly, imperceptibly, something inside him was shrinking. Slowly but steadily, he began to grow cynic. He noticed this with horror. That he was becoming ironic, malicious, surly. He was beginning to avoid people, no longer able to talk to them. That he was losing trust in them. And only one thought: to leave here. As soon as possible. From this city, from these people and places. So that he wouldn't have to make any more calls, answer the phone, so that he wouldn't meet someone again who would tell him they liked him, and he wouldn't believe them. To leave.
He found himself in Zakopane. The Tatra Mountains – a place associated with fond memories. A stone Sleeping Knight with an iron cross perched on his mustache, raised by penitents at the beginning of the century. Giewont. He had always greeted him when he came here in the past. And now he walked those familiar streets, hanging out in pubs—places he'd once frequented with his girlfriend, whom he'd often met in Zakopane, in Krakow, because she wasn't from his hometown. They lived far apart. Their love hadn't overcome misunderstandings, they hadn't managed to get used to each other. Despite this, the feeling still lingered.
He didn't have the strength to go to the mountains, and he'd taken almost nothing from home with him. He'd packed just a few things and told them he was going on a trip. He felt increasingly worse. He kept asking himself why this had happened, why all those people he'd trusted had robbed him of his faith in humanity. And he no longer had the strength to forget, reconcile, and move on. In the evenings, he'd wandered around the city, sat on benches, and watched people pass by. Until finally, he found himself despising them.
First, he spent the night in a youth hostel on Nowotarska Street, then, when money began to run low, at the train station. He ate anything. Sometimes rolls and jam, sometimes he bought canned food, sometimes chocolate. He thought a lot. About his former self, about what he had done, what he had been like. Now it was all laughable. Only occasionally would a thought cross his mind: to give up, to go back, to forget, and move on. He quickly quelled it with another, about people who were ruthless and unpredictable. He no longer knew what a human being was like. Philosophy, theology, psychology. Many said he was powerful, strong, capable of great things, called to holiness. And now... To him, he was just a small, pathetic creature, unworthy of sacrifice.
He started drinking. Every day he went to pubs, downed a few beers, bought vodka. His money dwindled. He'd sit somewhere quiet and drink. Then he'd return, staggering and vomiting behind the bushes. He provided disgusted passersby with something to comment on and evidence of the "demoralization of today's youth." And inside, he laughed at them. At those ladies, those polite, polished boys, and their exemplary daughters. He was killing everything within himself that he had once lived for. With ferocity and hatred. That he was such an idiot, that he allowed himself to be fooled like that.
He met strangers. They took him to some nondescript, dark apartment; there, they drank heavily together, girls and boys. There was sex with Who-Knows-Who, there was compote—"You understand, you fucking hit yourself and you pass out." You don't give a damn about anything, it's a total joke, try it." He tried. Some girls..., some faces. Then he fell into darkness, everything was spinning, he saw figures. He slept in a nightmare, his head was pounding in the morning, he didn't know where he was.
He returned to the station. There he lay on a bench. He hadn't washed in a long time, everything had become indifferent. One day, a face loomed before his eyes. A familiar face. A once-close friend from the city where they both lived, where they went on trips together, went to parties. He used to consider him a friend. The other man seemed very surprised. He saw him on the bench, thought it was someone similar, but no. He approached, leaned over—and left. Some strange coincidence had brought them together just now, in Zakopane. Coincidence? Or maybe not...
Scraps of thoughts were still flying through the man's head. There was a lot of talk about friendship, about friends. And suddenly it all turned out to be worthless. Instead of simple interest, he was met with fear. And everything vanished. All that fucking A high-flown friendship, all the grand words about it. And yet THIS is working right now, in these circumstances. When you're almost unconscious, when you're drunk, high, when you stink, and you're lying here on this damn, spit-covered train station bench in Zakopane. Now let's see where all these declared "close friends" are.
They'll say, "He's in deep, he's done for himself. I'm his friend, his colleague, but let's be honest. He should have thought a little before he got himself into this mess." And they'll leave him. What's a friendship or acquaintance worth in a hothouse environment? When everything's fine, and no one wants anything from anyone. Who can you trust, and when, who can you trust to remember you when you hit rock bottom, through no fault of your own or not? That's what he thought, sitting helplessly on the ground.
Winter was setting in. The first snow had fallen, the mountains were covered with white caps. It lay dirty, soggy, and mixed with mud on the sidewalks and roads. People were constantly going somewhere. Maybe home, maybe shopping, maybe to see friends who would greet them with a smile, a joke, and then... Things became even grayer. The holidays were approaching, and colorful, glowing Christmas trees appeared in window displays and squares. More people began arriving. The real siege came before New Year's Eve. Krupówki Street was swarming with people, entire families, embraced by couples. Restaurants, McDonald's, bars, and hotel cafes were crowded. The weather was still unfavorable. Highlanders traveling by bus complained that there wouldn't be enough customers.
The boy was cold. A frost had set in, and he didn't have much warm clothing. He took refuge in a nearby bar at the bus station, but people quickly threw him out when they noticed his appearance. He had dark circles under his eyes, bloodshot, his clothes dirty and disheveled, his hair matted. So he went elsewhere. Then he returned to the station. At least there was peace there, although the police accosted him a few times. Once, as he walked, a ragged man accosted him. He asked for money. "Fuck off," he simply said. He himself had become a shadow of a human being; nothing remained of his former, smiling self. He loved people.
He was asleep, curled up against a shabby station wall, next to a radiator. The floor was cold and wet, and everything hurt. People standing in the ticket lines didn't look at him. He lay unconscious. Someone accosted him, nudged him in the side, and said something. "Fuck off," he choked out unconsciously. And he sank back into a restless sleep. A dog—a spotted mongrel with a sad face—sniffed him carefully, paced around a bit, and lay down right next to him.
It was evening, not long before Christmas Eve, and the streetlights were shining outside. Mass was beginning in the Church of the Holy Cross on Zamojski Street. People were walking in groups, dressed in thick coats. A priest in a beautiful chasuble emerged from the sacristy, accompanied by a procession of white-robed altar boys. Everyone stood up in rapt attention. The organ played powerfully...
The boy lay still. Beside him, the dog. Somewhere nearby, music drifted clearly from a club. "Takie tango" by Budka Suflera.
Meanwhile, snow was still falling quietly outside. A normal thing at this time of year in the Tatra Mountains.
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