Sunken treasure

 

My grandfather, who was proud of his aristocratic ancestry throughout his life and the owner of a nationally renowned chain of pharmacies, used to say while puffing on one of his foreign cigars: "Boy, get everything from the top shelf. Listen to the best music, read the best books, and talk to the most valuable people." Blinded by his authority, I despised the ordinary. I never went to a student dance in favor of the opera. I didn't read modern writers, but I pledged allegiance to the Greek philosophers. I studied to meet the wisest of men. I never had many friends because people thought I was too pompous for my age. I remembered my grandfather's words for a lifetime, and even as a teenager, I thought about financial security. While my peers wore long hair and went barefoot, I thought about the future. As a teenager, I didn't lie, steal, smoke, or drink alcohol.

My only friend was my wife, Eliza. When we met, we were both studying pharmacy and achieving top grades at university. She supported me and always encouraged me. As my wife, she helped develop my business, which quickly generated enough profits to build a large house. While I was at work, Eliza tended the garden, which she had designed herself. It featured a large pond, numerous fruit trees, and old wooden benches that Eliza bought at flea markets. The garden was our refuge, and we spent Sundays there together, leaving all our worries outside its fence. Eliza told me about the effects of the various herbs she grew. She explained that the nectar of Datura stramonium was deadly to bees, and in the distant past, Datura was one of the ingredients in witches' ointments. We would sit there for hours, listening to the silence that enveloped the pond. I'm sure that if it weren't for Eliza's presence, I would have gone mad with loneliness. When I met her, she was the embodiment of the freshness of youth. Petite, with almost milky skin, she seemed the quintessence of girlhood. She was my angel, my refuge from the commonplace.

But in recent years, something had driven us apart. Eliza doesn't cuddle up to me like she used to. When I get home, she's already asleep—silent, like Sleeping Beauty.

One day after work, I went for a walk in the park. I wanted to think about this strange situation. That day, the gods of storm, wind, and rain must have been preparing for a grand spectacle, because the air thickened and the sky took on a bluish-gray hue. The park instantly deserted, and for a moment, I felt completely alone. I realized that Eliza and I were barely speaking anymore. I also realized that I hadn't touched her in ages. A moment later, I was sitting on a bench, drowsy and exhausted. It started raining in earnest, and I couldn't stop thinking about Eliza. I thought that if I exposed my face to the rain, it would wash away my misdeeds. However, I only felt worse. People looked at me suspiciously from under their umbrellas. And indeed, they had reason to. Men soaked in rain and sweat, with their shirts hanging out, probably never in the history of the world had made a positive impression. I was ashamed. As an educated and responsible man, I shouldn't do such things. Such things don't happen to people of standing. However, over the next four rainy days, I did it three more times.

When I returned home, Eliza was already asleep. My dear Eliza. She doesn't know how sinful her husband is. She doesn't know how lonely he feels, how he longs to listen together to the subtle song of the backyard pond. She doesn't know how his liver reacts to his evening whiskey. "Beautiful Eliza, wonderful!" I thought then, dazed with alcohol. I admired her clean neck and well-groomed shoulders. I relished the thought that she was mine.

Contrary to Ludwik's belief, Eliza never slept when he returned home. In the mornings, she disappeared without a word. Ludwik felt the gulf between them widening. Nevertheless, his wife's presence alone comforted him. He didn't need to talk to her—it was enough for him to be there—to admire her flawless beauty.

One overcast evening, Ludwik returned from work to find his wife gone. From the kitchen window, however, he noticed a woman's figure dipping her feet in the backyard pond. She was dressed in a dress full of shimmering sequins and looked like Goplana.

My beloved looked like a goddess, like the most precious treasure in the world's waters. Eliza—my most precious treasure. I gazed at her from afar and compared her to nonexistent creatures. Then the thought crossed my mind that perhaps Eliza, too, didn't exist at all, or, God forbid, had died long ago. Disturbed by these thoughts, I slowly approached the pond.

As Ludwik approached the water's surface, he noticed only a single reflection. At that moment, an old, gray-haired gardener emerged from behind an apple tree. He was a native of Warsaw, who often boasted of his blue, bourgeois blood. His small, slightly flattened nose moved in a ducklike manner. Although a bit nosy, he carried out his duties very well. He looked at Ludwik curiously and said:

"What are you looking for, sir? There are no more fish. Damn the cats..." he continued, but Ludwik wasn't listening.

"You'd better get under cover, it's pouring heavily...

" Indeed, "(...) rain was pouring down from above, and there was salt water below,"* and Ludwik felt as if he were drowning. Suddenly, he stopped and looked toward a small island in the middle of the backyard pond, which couldn't have been more than three square meters. It probably wasn't much visited, as tall, wild grasses had grown all over its surface. Sharper eyes might have spotted a barely visible tombstone made of gray sandstone.

The gardener shrugged and walked away, leaving Ludwik alone. The man stared at his reflection, perhaps trying to spot some precious sunken treasure at the bottom of the pond. Because whoever doesn't search, perishes, dissolves into nothingness, he thought. The longer he stood in the rain and stared at his distorted image, the more it seemed to him that he lived in the depths of the sea.

And yet, I thought then, refreshed by the cry of the gods, there is a difference between the life of a drowned man and the life of a diver…