They entered.
Dominik led her through the turnstile, where a security guard ripped her ticket. She looked at him regretfully. She didn't like this activity. She tightened her grip on Dominik's arm, and together they climbed the stairs.
Crowds of young people were already milling in front of and behind them, mostly wearing T-shirts with his image. She watched their animated faces, the ecstasy of expectation emanating from them, mixed with a touch of impatience. She moved gently between them, careful not to step on her dark skirt. Dominik directed her to the cloakroom and took off her coat. He handed it to the cloakroom attendant, along with her biker jacket, and grabbed her tickets, while Dorota, known to her friends as Szpilka, gazed delightedly at herself in the tall mirror, her slender figure and the bright light of the reflecting lamps surrounding her like a halo. The boy grinned indulgently and gently tugged her hand, turning to face her.
"Come on, I'll show you which booth we have."
She followed him obediently.
Inside the room, she stopped. Dominik also stopped and looked questioningly at Szpilka. She simply shook her head and motioned for them to continue. She was surprised by the sheer darkness, illuminated only by emergency lights, a few green spotlights hanging from the ceiling, and candles placed by the bar. Only after a moment did she notice the technicians running around with large flashlights, who didn't seem thrilled by the lack of better lighting on the stage, and the small lights illuminating the stairs to the second floor, where there were already a crowd of barely visible people behind the barriers and in the booths.
They pushed their way through the crowd milling around the relatively small space, climbed a few lighted steps, and a moment later, the waitress was taking a "reserved" sign from a small table surrounded by a four-person booth. As Szpilka sat down, she could still see the girl flitting restlessly between the booths, gathering up empty beer mugs, glasses, and ashtrays. She glanced around furtively. Her face was filled with equal parts reluctance and exhaustion. It was clear she wasn't happy with such a large crowd.
Dominik lightly tapped Szpilka on the shoulder. She turned away.
"I'll go find some friends. Will you sit alone?"
She smiled and nodded. She watched for a moment as Dominik disappeared into the crowd of long-haired, leather-clad people so similar to him that Dorota wouldn't be able to find him now, especially in this darkness.
She wasn't sure if smoking was allowed here. Just to be on the safe side, she looked around, and seeing no one from the staff, she pulled a pack of Marlboro from her purse. She lit a cigarette with a purple lighter and inhaled deeply.
She automatically placed her hand on the table. She felt a slight vibration. Moreover, the table was warm, as was the air. She didn't like it. The air conditioning was clearly malfunctioning... She didn't want to think about what would happen during the concert...
Suddenly, several lights flickered on. It was a technician, intently fiddling with his console, headphones on. Dorota saw the lights on the stage change as he pressed various buttons, and he glanced at them briefly before moving on to the next.
Few people except her paid any attention. Practically everyone glanced at the stage after the sudden flash of light, but after only a few seconds, they were back to talking, searching the ever-denser crowd, or sipping whatever they had in their glasses.
A couple in the adjacent booth began kissing. Dorota looked away and took a deep drag on her cigarette. She couldn't describe the emotion of such an event. She saw the faces of the kissing people as masks, hiding their true emotions beneath.
She felt a tickle in her foot. She smiled.
Just as she'd thought, the drummer was checking his equipment. Enthusiastic girls and a few guys had already gathered in front of the stage. Dorota burst out laughing. In their eyes, she saw a kind of pious delight that always made her laugh.
Dominik returned. He brought with him Kaśka, known as Melba, and her boyfriend Tomek, who was as common as his name, which was perhaps why she could never remember his nickname, Szpilka. If he even had one...
They greeted her. Kaśka even leaned across the table and hugged her tightly. As usual, she smelled incredibly strongly of some sweet perfume, which, incidentally, was the source of her nickname.
Tomasz merely nodded and then engaged in conversation with Dominik. She sensed a reserve on his part, which dampened her mood somewhat.
Kaśka glanced at the boys, then squeezed Szpilka's hand, forcing her attention, and asked about her new school.
Szpilka finished her cigarette, crushed it on the table, and tossed it into the box. She felt the vibrations coursing through her. She wasn't exactly in the mood to talk to Kaśka when the guitarist took the stage. With a slightly ironic smile, he looked towards the stage, where a crowd of fangirls, devoid of any spark of intelligence, were reaching out to him, probably hoping for something more than a handshake, judging by the specific smiles on their faces.
She abandoned her thoughts, stifled a sigh, and reached into her purse. She found a thick notebook and turned to Melba.
They were just finishing up a chat about the guys, who were becoming increasingly engaged in a conversation about new types of guitars, when Szpilka felt a chill run through her. She felt movement around her, a sudden commotion she hadn't noticed before, absorbed in her conversation with Kaśka. She was just getting up and looked at Dorota questioningly, but Dorota shook her head. Tomek was already walking downstairs toward the stage. Dominik stood next to Kaśka.
"Szpilka – aren't you coming?"
She shook her head again and gave him a pointed look.
"Okay, then keep an eye on our stuff!"
They exchanged smiles, and a moment later they were gone.
She focused all her attention on the stage.
Five guys were standing there. The only difference between them and the audience was that they were a bit older, had fancier clothes, and, of course, guitars or drumsticks in their hands.
One of them was clutching a microphone and smiling at the audience, while the others froze a second before the first bar...
Szpilka loved their music. She loved that sound, which lifted her above the reality around her. She loved the lyrics, which she already knew by heart, yet which, it seemed, were drawn directly from her. Every note, every song, was like playing on the strings of her soul.
She loved to press "play" on her way home from school, only to lie with her head on the desk a moment later, smiling blissfully, feeling everything that had been troubling her all day melt away, carried away by the sounds pouring from the speakers.
And now...
...now she watched with delight how much they loved what they did. How the guitarists quickly moved their fingers across the strings, occasionally glancing at the fretboard. They gazed far ahead, yet they were still here and now, focused on not suddenly drifting away with the music. They didn't forget that they could suddenly collapse with dissonance caused by something as mundane as a technical error. What an abstraction it was for them at that moment...
She watched the drummer dance wildly, as if he were trying to pour all his anger, accentuated by the shrieking of the cymbals, into the drums. He threw his head back repeatedly, raising his hands, armed with sticks, in a gesture of triumph (or was it freedom?), then lowering his head slightly as he watched, focused on how he delicately beat out the rhythm on the instrument he had just been tortured with, as if to soothe it before the next beat...
The bassist, who had always been a tragic figure to her, second only to the vocalist, playing melancholic tones and focused on the usually slow movement of his fingers across the thick strings. Tragic, more like focused on the audience, who had already focused all their attention on the vocalist or their own experiences.
And the vocalist... He was a one-man show. He had to convey both the music and its message contained in the lyrics of each song with his entire being.
And it was he she loved most. Not as an icon, a representative of the group. Not his looks, which she found commonplace. But for the joy with which he gazed at the milling crowd. For the way he tossed wet strands of hair from his forehead as, exhausted, he tortured himself with shifting emotions—from joy to sadness, from anger to peace. While the rest of the group behind him focused on producing sounds, he had to relive over and over again everything he had experienced long ago, writing the words he now hummed, shouted, or rode their wave somewhere deep within himself.
She saw how, after each song, they took a breather for a dozen or so seconds of applause, wiped their wet faces, and drank greedily from the bottles of water standing nearby.
...she saw him exhale and, smiling serenely at the audience, chatted with them for a moment, drawing laughter and applause from the audience.
Szpilka laughed along with them, noticing that He was gathering strength to resume His journey through another valley of sounds, words, and images they had created...
Familiar tremors echoed beneath her fingers. Dorota froze. She hesitated for a moment longer. But no—and He began the familiar verses. She closed her eyes. Gently swayed to the music... The
joyfully bouncing figures vanished. In the faces of the crowd, Szpilka saw a similar exhaustion to the singer's, and knew—these were the ones experiencing it the most.
She saw other faces, too—contorted, half-laughing. These were the ones who were no longer thinking clearly. Barbarians destroying the catharsis the five people could have created if not for them.
She saw a few bored people—those glancing at their watches and sipping from glasses as they sat in their booths. How the thought burned in her that someone might mistake her for one of them.
But now she's looking only at Him. Her head slowly falls back onto the table. Now she can feel it clearly—the slight tickle in her feet, the bass, the sharp needles of the guitars, and the hum of his singing. She closes her eyes slightly...
She loves this song so much... So simple. It seems trivial. But when she looks at the cigarette lighters flickering here and there, those sparks wandering over the crowd... When, looking at the group, she sees that gentleness descending on them all, when instead of the loud screams and protests of the music, they can sink into it and believe for a moment in this Eden they've created for themselves and dreamed of, before they hit it harder again. Before they start talking about fighting for it again...
Now she closes her eyes completely, surrendering to the rhythm...
She only felt the man's presence when he roughly shook her shoulder. She jumped up so violently that he jumped back.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a burst of applause. They'd finished. They were finishing altogether. They raised their hands in farewell, threw "feathers," drumsticks flew, along with the list of songs they'd played. They flew towards the hungry crowd.
She watched with regret. Only then did she notice the man.
He was undoubtedly a security guard. His nametag, navy blue shirt and trousers, his build was heavy. He waved his arms and spoke very quickly. Too quickly.
Szpilka frowned, her well-groomed brows furrowed, and as the stage lights dimmed, she pulled the notebook she'd been talking to Kaśka in from her purse. She tore out a single sheet of paper with a computer printout, quickly scribbled something with a pen, and handed it to the security guard.
He fell silent and took the paper warily.
He read it over and over again, looked at it, and Szpilka thought he blushed slightly. He handed it back to her, shook his head, turned, and left...
No. He turned to look at her again. The surprise in his eyes stung.
She took the note in her hand. She read it over and over again. Then a third time.
She wanted to read it a fourth time, but a faint mist obscured her world. It fell with a few tears onto the crumpled note.
She quickly wiped her cheeks, tossed it behind her, and smiled at the approaching Dominic, Melba, and Tomek....
++++
"Look what I found!"
The tired waitress was collecting the last of the mugs. She turned away, resigned.
"Well?"
"Something strange... You have to read it yourself," the woman said with a yawn. "I'm going to take this to the kitchen," she said, gathering a full tray from the table in the four-seater booth.
The waitress set her tray down on a table, sank into the booth, and straightened the crumpled note. She frowned slightly.
On the card was printed the words:
"My name is Dorota. Due to an accident, I am 100% deaf. I read lips."
And a handwritten note:
"Speak slower or write it down on this card, otherwise I won't understand you."
She just didn't know why the mascara was smudged. Brushing a lock of hair from her face, she thought something must have spilled on it.
She tossed it into one of the ashtrays among the trash and, grabbing the tray, headed for the bar.
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