I'm twenty-six years old and I'm alone again. That's how lucky I am in life. That's how it is, some people succeed at whatever they try, while others don't. I've always had plenty of guys around me, and I always ended up with the wrong ones. I thought it would be different with HIM. He was exactly who I always wanted him to be. Very sensitive, warm, sometimes funny, sometimes nostalgic. He listened very carefully to what I said and seemed to understand everything. He was a great lover and did all sorts of crazy things for me. A little crazy and unpredictable, a little in love with himself, and a little searching around for... "something interesting."
He was... because he's been dead for three weeks. I'm slowly recovering from what happened. I feel so good that I decided to write down what happened. Maybe someone reading this story will reflect, maybe smile. Although they'll most likely tap their forehead. I think I would do the same. Because history is... strange.
I got back from Spain three weeks ago. I was there with friends. A married couple I knew and Rafał. Rafał is a guy I'd been with before. I knew I shouldn't have gone, but it was a special occasion. I know HE didn't want me to go. First, my friends invited me on a trip to the south of France. The couple I mentioned. They have family in Marseille. We could stay with them. Then we wanted to go to Paris for a few days. Maybe a month in total. He didn't like the fact that I wanted to go away for a whole month. We agreed that it would be reasonable. HE was an architect. He was working on a big project. This project was really big. He would make a lot of money on it. But he needed to be alone to work on it in peace. I was taking up too much of HIS time. I felt a little guilty about that. I wanted to go to make it easier for HIM. Besides, it was my last vacation. I finished my studies and found a job in September. I deserved this vacation, but HE couldn't go with me right now.
Then it turned out that my friends' family in Marseille were going away for a while, and my friends suggested I go to Spain. A friend of theirs had arranged a house by the sea completely free of charge. I felt a little embarrassed because we'd agreed to go to Spain next year, me and him. I hesitated, but the opportunity was unique. I decided to go. I wanted to make it up to HIM later. Besides, HE always understood everything. I loved him so much...
We were supposed to go for six weeks. That's what my friends had agreed, and I was going with them, in their car, and I had to fit in. So, not four weeks, but six...
And then it turned out that their friend who had arranged it all would be coming with us. And even later, it turned out that friend was Rafał, my first boyfriend. We were together for quite a while. Then everything fell apart.
I thought about it all for a really long time. I asked HIM if he really disliked it.
"I really... I didn't like the fact that you were going to France with your friends for a month," he replied.
I loved HIM. I hadn't had anything in common with Rafał for a long time. I was a bit dissatisfied with the whole arrangement, but I decided to go...
It was a very strange six weeks.
I saw many different beautiful places, and it was all quite nice and interesting, but on the other hand, I kept thinking about HIM and felt a little guilty. Maybe I shouldn't have gone. Rafał tried to seduce me. He reminded me of various moments when we were together. He was very nice. I felt that something was wrong with the whole situation. I missed HIM terribly. Maybe I should have stayed with HIM and taken care of HIM so he could work in peace. I didn't really know what to think about it myself.
And one more thing. I was a little afraid that if I left, everything wouldn't work out the way I wanted. Or maybe I'm just telling myself that now.
Maybe if I had stayed with HIM, everything would have turned out differently...
[...]
I returned home. In the mailbox, I found an envelope addressed to me.
Inside the envelope was only a piece of paper, and on it was written:
"When you come back and come to me, when we meet, I want to ask you something. I love you very much. I want to ask you - don't tell me anything about what it was like in Spain, don't show me any pictures, I don't want to know anything. There's no such place - Spain.
Me, who else?"
I took a bath and went to his place. I missed him so much. I didn't call on purpose to surprise HIM. I found his door sealed. There was a police seal on the seal. The neighbors told me he was dead, that it had been some kind of accident. I sat down then. I sat down on the stairs because I thought I was going to faint. The police told me he suffocated.
"What do you mean, 'suffocated'?"
"You see, the autopsy showed death from cerebral hypoxia. There were no other causes. The heart was fine. There were no signs of violence, nor anything that would indicate suicide. He just suddenly stopped breathing, and we don't really know why...
And two days later, Wojtek called me. He was a good friend of his. He worked for the police and was there when they found him.
Wojtek asked me to meet him.
[...]
"You see, no one noticed at first. It's a typescript. The last page was screwed into the typewriter. I read it and took the whole thing. I don't think anyone noticed. I read everything at home. At first I wanted to return it, but... no one would...
It's like a diary. Each note on a single page. Always a day number. He started numbering the days since you left. He must have really thought about you a lot. I think you should read them. No one else would have taken it seriously anyway.
I went home. I took a shower. I wrapped myself in a robe and made myself some coffee. I sat in the armchair by the window and started reading the "diary"...
Day 1
She left today. She didn't need to. I'd had my fifth beer. I put on Simon's "Graceland." It's been on repeat for hours. I drank the beer, staring blankly at the timer on my stereo. The minutes ticked by, and I calculated how many minutes there were left until she returned. Six weeks times seven days is forty-two days. Twenty-four hours times one thousand and eight hours. Sixty minutes times sixty thousand, four hundred and eighty minutes. Sixty thousand, four hundred and eighty lonely minutes. Paul Simon sings in the background, I open my sixth beer, it starts raining outside, and everything's fine. Starting tomorrow, I'm seriously working on the project.
Day 2
How could she go there with him?
I don't really know what I'm talking about. The girl's on her last vacation. Maybe I'm just jealous. I imagine he'll try to seduce her.
Jesus, I'm furious with him!!!
He was her first boyfriend. He used to touch her, make love to her, they were very close. It's all in the past now (that's what she said), but why does it piss me off so much?!
Day 3
I'm working on the project.
Day 4
I've been working on the project for the thirty-second hour. I've done a lot, and now... pee, pee, and sleep.
Day 6
I just got home. I worked from morning to evening, and I went to the seaside. I walked along the beach, remembering our walks here together. I remembered what she said, how tenderly she cuddled me, how she smiled, how she smelled, how her kisses tasted. I'm an idiot for being angry with her. Everything will be alright. I know that for sure.
Day 7
Every morning and evening, as soon as I wake up and when I go to bed, I hug her. I gently kiss her neck when I get up (because she's always still asleep then), snuggle up to her, and whisper silly things in her ear. And she always smiles a little then. In the evening, I remember how she smells, how she snuggles into me as we fall asleep together. It's strange, but I don't think about sex, just about these gentle affections. I think I'm getting old.
Just five more weeks and all this will start happening for real, and not just in my poor head, which, overloaded with problems, might not make it into my coffin one day.
Day 8
Project. Work is in full swing.
Day 9
Project. I'm working until smoke and sparks fly.
Day 10
Project. Today I drew the interior of an office. It looked a bit like my room. Much more modern, of course, but when I looked at the interior I'd drawn, it immediately reminded me of my room. I drew an old typewriter (just like mine) on the desk. I drew a screw-in sheet of paper in the typewriter, and on it I wrote, tapped out, "I miss you so much."
Day 11
I'm drawing and drawing. I'll skip tonight. I think I'll go to the cinema or something...
I'm back from the cinema. I miss Sylwia terribly. I'd love to hug her so much. So many more days...
Patience is a good thing, but where can I find it?
Day 12
Project. I need to finish the interior sketches. I have an appointment with an investor tomorrow.
Day 13
I showed my sketches to the investor today. He examined them very carefully. Looking at a drawing of an office interior, he took his glasses out of his pocket and carefully examined the typewriter on the desk. He glanced at me over his glasses but didn't say anything. I have the impression he was making a real effort not to smile.
Day 14
Two weeks have passed. I wish I had a letter from her. To read that she loves me and misses me.
Day 15
Today I dreamed that he raped her.
I would have killed him with my bare hands. I don't know how else to put it. In the dream, I wanted him dead. But I really wanted it. And badly. I wanted to kill him... I swallow a bitter lump of impotent rage. A moment later, another. And new ones rise in my throat. I can't do anything. I just have to wait. It's just my sick imagination.
Day 16
This is a very difficult experience for me. I have to trust her. I have to believe she'll be wise. That she truly loves me. If I turn out to be wrong, it means what happened between us wasn't worth much. If this is true love, she can handle anything. Time. Distance. Memories. Everything.
Day 17
Why doesn't she write to me? It's been over two weeks and I haven't heard a word from her. Maybe she's having so much fun she doesn't have time to write to me...
Day 18
Project. Just like every other day.
Day 19
Today I checked my mailbox eight times. Every time I passed the elevator. Eight times. I'd love to get a letter from her so badly...
Day 20
I was sitting in my room, drawing, when I heard water dripping in the bathroom. Drops fell about once every five seconds, hitting the bottom of the tub with a dull "drip." I went to the bathroom and discovered that the water wasn't dripping, the tub was completely dry, and the dripping sound had stopped. I turned both faucets off, shrugged, and returned to my project.
Maybe five minutes passed, and the dripping started again.
I stood in the bathroom, wondering where the drip could have come from. Of course, the faucets were off, the tub was dry, and the sound had stopped. I left the bathroom, and it started again. I walked around a few times. I found nothing. The dripping stopped, and after a while, it started again. Finally, it stopped for good.
Day 21
"Friendship between a woman and a man is possible... as long as the woman is a lesbian or the man is a gay"—that's what a friend of mine once told me over a beer. He probably hasn't remembered it for a long time, but it's stuck with me.
Not that I want to say anything specific about it. I'm just writing this... out of a stupid frenzy.
Day 22
I probably won't get any letters. A plane carrying packages from Spain must have crashed, or the postman was bitten by a dog, tore open the bag of letters, and no one picked them up. Or someone's stealing my letters from the mailbox.
Or Sylwia doesn't remember my address. She remembered something wrong, and the letters are reaching somewhere, but not to me...
Or she doesn't want to write to me.
Or maybe she doesn't have time...
Oh, it was dripping again last night. I got up several times, but I couldn't find the source of the sounds. It started to irritate me a bit. Finally, I fell asleep in the early morning.
Day 23
I got home and was already on the first floor (I live on the third floor) when I remembered I hadn't checked the mailbox.
"Oh, forget it." There's definitely nothing—I stared at the toes of my shoes for a moment, then slowly turned and went downstairs to the mailbox. There was a blue envelope with white clouds. It had my address on it, and on the back, in block letters, "Sylwia." At first, I wanted to open it immediately, but I resisted. Holding it in my hand, I opened the apartment door. I collapsed on the bed, still holding the envelope. I examined it from every angle. I decided I wouldn't open it until evening. "For dessert"—pleasures must be savored.
Whenever I was a little boy (and even today, actually), I saved the best bits for last. That is, when I ate alone, because when I ate with someone from a shared plate, I ate the best bits first, of course.
That evening, I went to the lake. To the place where we'd once been together. When we arrived, the sun was setting. We sat and chatted. It got quite dark. We swam by the moonlight. Then we put on sweaters and sat there cuddling for a long time. It was one of those moments you don't forget, even when a lot of time has passed and you're with someone completely different.
So I went to that place by the lake. It was quite late. The sun had set (just like it had back then). I undressed and slowly entered the water. It felt exceptionally cold (not like back then). I swam out to the middle of the lake. I lay in the water and looked at the sky. Then I did a quick swim to tire myself out. I
dried myself off, put on my tracksuit, and sat on the shore. I rested my head on my knees, wrapped my arms around them, and closed my eyes.
I sat there for a good half hour, or maybe just five minutes, or maybe an hour. I recalled various moments we'd had together. I pictured Sylwia—her eyes, lips, smile, and... I remembered where she was now... and who she was with.
And then I realized I didn't really want to read that letter. What could possibly be inside that I wanted to read?
That she was having a great time? That he was trying to seduce her? That she'd seen this or that? That it was beautiful in Spain? That she regretted going with him? She
didn't have to go.
I actually had no idea what the letter could possibly say, but... I threw it on the seat, started the engine, and, somewhat resentful (why exactly?), drove home. I didn't read the letter. I put it on the nightstand next to the bed, and then drove to the seaside (it was almost midnight). I drank a beer in a small café and wandered around the beach for a bit.
I went to bed feeling like something wasn't right, but I didn't really think about what it was...
Day 24
I woke up and the first thing I saw was a letter from Sylwia. The envelope was leaning against the nightstand, exactly as I'd left it yesterday (what was supposed to happen to it?).
I didn't read the letter today either.
Day 25
I woke up this morning and remembered the dripping in the bathroom. As if on cue, it had started again.
Day 26
I sit and think about how this guy is working her. He has plenty of time. If he's clever, he might sow some small doubts first. Not immediately and not directly, because that wouldn't work, but gently, step by step, as the falling drops carve... no, this dripping in the bathroom is driving me crazy!!!
Day 27
Today I dreamed that Sylwia had returned. She came to see me. We hugged each other very tightly. We stayed like that, holding each other. My eyes were closed, and with my whole body, with all my senses, I felt... Sylwia.
I opened my eyes and saw our souls embracing. Two little creatures woven from mist, almost invisible, snuggling together. Just like us. I smiled at those ghosts.
And then I woke up and... she wasn't there. I'm terribly sad when I wake up.
Day 28
I'm actually finishing the project. Just a few more hours. I just need to finish a few little things.
You don't have to wait another two weeks. Come back to me tomorrow. Please.
Day 29
Today the second letter arrived. I sat and stared at it for about an hour. I didn't open it. I put it on my desk on top of the first.
I'm in a foul mood. I don't want letters. I want her back.
Day 30
I finished the project. The guy signed for the receipt. I'll cash the money in within two weeks.
Okay, we've gotten a little carried away, now come back...
Day 31
Today I had a dream. Sylwia and I were standing completely alone in a large (ballroom?) hall. The floor was covered with large stone slabs in various colors. I stood on a black slab with red veins, and Sylwia on a blue-celadon one. We stood side by side, unable to cross the boundary between the slabs. We held hands and spoke, but nothing could be heard. There was complete silence. We looked into each other's eyes. Sylwia was crying. Tears slowly ran down her face and dripped onto the floor. I wanted to do something. Hug her, say something. I asked her why she was crying, and she took a tear on her finger and touched my eye, and I started crying too. Our tears dripped onto the stone slabs. Drip, drip, drip—they hit the floor. It was the only sound in the complete silence.
And then I woke up. The room with the stone slabs was gone. Sylwia was gone (NOT!). Everything was gone. Only that sound remained: drip, drip, drip... somewhere in the bathroom.
Day 32:
I love you, and you've gone somewhere...
Day 33:
When I wake up in the morning, and sometimes during the day, I close my eyes and imagine you're here. And then I whisper quietly: I love you, I love you, I love you...
Day 34:
I called Sylwia several times today. Maybe she's back already. She could make me some clothes and come back a few days earlier. No one answered. I went to her house in the evening, but there were no lights on in any of the windows. Maybe she'll come back tomorrow. She'll knock on my door tonight and throw her arms around me.
Day 35:
I read what I wrote yesterday and noticed I'd eaten the letter "P" twice, and it reminded me of a story about Gruggles. My grandfather used to tell it to me when I was a little boy. My grandfather was a journalist. Well, not really a real journalist. He worked in the newsroom. He'd go to football and hockey games and write notes from them afterward. Sometimes they were printed on the sports page, sometimes not. Just short notes, a few sentences each.
My grandfather had an old typewriter. I remember it like I saw it yesterday. It sat on his desk in his room. Sometimes he'd let me type on it. One day my grandfather told me about Gruggles. They're creatures that live in typewriters. Not all of them. Just some. One of them lived in my grandfather's typewriter. My grandfather called them Gruggles because they made those little sounds: gru gru or gle gle. And sometimes they'd smack their lips as they ate. And they fed on letters. If someone was typing, they'd quickly eat the letter they were trying to type. Every Grugle (or maybe Grugiel) had their favorite letter. The one who lived in Grandpa's typewriter ate the letter "S." At first, very rarely. He'd eat one letter every few pages. Later, more and more often. Eventually, he'd eat every "S" Grandpa tried to type.
Grandpa told me that his tenant would sometimes sing. He had a soft, high-pitched voice. Grandpa told me he couldn't catch his breath. Something happened that would make you choke. Fortunately, it happened very rarely, and the singing was very short.
I loved those stories about Gruggles and believed them for a long time. I was a little afraid of them. Sometimes I thought that one day I'd go into Grandpa's room when he wasn't there, hear the soft singing, and start choking. For several years, I never went into Grandpa's room when he wasn't there. I think the old man made up the whole thing about the singing so I wouldn't be able to snoop around in his room with impunity. Then, of course, I stopped believing in Gruggles. At a certain point in life, you grow out of believing in Santa Claus, the stork that brings children, and all that other nonsense that adults invent to get rid of children and their annoying questions.
I didn't check it at the time, but I'm sure the font with the letter "S" on Grandpa's typewriter simply started jamming.
I was reading what I wrote yesterday and remembered Grandpa's story about Gruggles. I smiled for a long time and fondly remembered my childhood.
I'm sitting here and I really, really miss Sylwia...
When will she finally come back to me?!
I called her several times today. No one answered.
This dripping in the bathroom is going to drive me crazy!
Day 36
Funny, but what I wrote yesterday is missing a few "p"s again. I'm thinking fondly about Grugel, who lives in my machine. By the way, I'll have to take it to the service center. Let them find the fault and fix it. That's what they're there for, after all.
I'm in such a strange mood. I miss Sylwia, but at the same time I'm angry with her. How could she do something like that to me? How could she go there... with him? Today I found another letter from her in my mailbox. This is the third one. I put it on the dresser on top of the two others. I haven't opened either of them yet. I'm terribly tempted to open it. To read that she misses me terribly, loves me, or something. But I don't open it because... I don't want to think about... I don't know... something. Something I'd find difficult. It's terribly complicated. I have so many fluent feelings inside me.
Day 37
I wrote a short letter to Sylwia today. I sent it. I want her to read it when she gets back, before she comes to see me. I wrote in it that I don't want to hear anything about Spain. About what happened. What she saw, how she played. I don't want to!!! Now I kind of regret sending it. It's a bit stupid and childish. I love her very much and I really want things to work out perfectly between us. I have a bit of a grudge against her. I'll have to do something about it. We'll have to talk. You can't leave it like this. You can't leave things unresolved because they always come to the surface eventually.
It started dripping again. Maybe it's just dripping in my head?
I turned on the tape recorder. I recorded a few minutes of the dripping.
It's evening. It stopped dripping a while ago. I listened to the tape, and the dripping was still there. I'm a little relieved. That means I'm not crazy after all.
Day 39
I haven't been on for two days. The machine was in for service. The specialists disassembled it, thoroughly tested it, and said everything was fine. They thought the machine was perfectly fine, and I was an annoying bore who had nothing to do, so he wandered around, complained, and made everyone's lives miserable. Damn them! I'll have to get my friend Robert. He has a knack for fixing mechanical things.
Today I heard a faint chirping sound. I glanced at the wall, behind which the neighbor's child sometimes sings, and realized I couldn't breathe. I glanced quickly at the sucking machine, but the singing had stopped. Jesus, but that old story is still inside me. What a fool I am...
It started dripping in different rhythms. Sometimes faster, sometimes slower. I stopped trying to figure out what it was a long time ago. Every time I went into the bathroom, the dripping stopped.
Day 40
Today I noticed that the letter " " was also disappearing. The first thought that came to my mind was that they were already here. I wonder what would happen when they both started singing at once? I made up my mind very quickly. I almost tried. And I have a vague impression that I heard three singing voices, or maybe more? Maybe there were five, or maybe six? Jesus, they're singing from the ow! And this hole doesn't work! I'll hear!!!! Atunku!!!! ATUNU!!!
ATUU!!! AT!!!
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