Iris

The circular time of birth and death, the rebirth of nature, falling leaves, melting snow, and a chilly wind that, along with the cold, dry air, brings questions about the future—all these bind the unconscious human being with bonds of hope and passion. An inexorable, untamed momentum constantly and discreetly—silently—writes ever narrower circles. Seasons, months, weeks, and above all, moments arise anew, or rather, claim their place in the rich world of human experience. Time loves to look back, evoking images and associations.

The influence of the natural world on the human being, ingrained in it with all its limbs, is particularly strong in spring and autumn, when everything undergoes intensified change—it is as if, along with the transformation of the external world, every element of consciousness and feeling—an ant, a dog, and especially a human—were transformed.

As early autumn arrives and the leaves on the trees slowly begin to burn, taking on all shades from bleached yellow to crimson and brown, a certain story resurfaces in my memory, one that, to a small extent, also applies to me. And it applies because I was a subconscious observer, or rather, I became a part of it.

The place where I lived, a large tenement building with spacious balconies, was situated between two streets – one a small, residential one, and the other a two-lane bypass where traffic only died very early in the morning, or, if you prefer, late at night. The tenement house was inhabited mostly by elderly people – married couples who had already given birth to their children, but there were also many lonely people, condemned to the soulless anonymity that is almost natural in a larger city.

The story, which I hope I'll recount as faithfully as possible, concerns an elderly gentleman, and I probably wouldn't have been familiar with it if it weren't for the fact that his windows faced almost directly onto mine, and I was an unwitting, though not always, observer of his daily existence. More than once, I had the privilege of watching him read the newspaper, eat a meal, or watch television. There was a certain order to all these and other activities the elderly gentleman engaged in, and it seemed that each of them made sense only when they occurred at a specific time—he ate breakfast around eight, simultaneously reading the morning paper, then usually went out somewhere, always watched television in the evening, and his first program was (I think) the news. The elderly gentleman lived alone, or not entirely alone, as he had a dog named Irys. I saw that they shared a friendship and a sense of mutual respect, and I must add that Irys was a special dog, whose gestures and canine dignity seemed to possess more of a human nature than a canine one. I know this because, as it later turned out, he was placed in my care for several months. However, when he arrived, he wasn't the same dog anymore; it seemed as if he were merely awaiting his final days. His appearance had also changed; the poor thing had lost weight, his eyes had become sunken, though still sparkling—they were sad. He seemed to cry almost constantly, even though he didn't shed a single tear. He slept for days, until one morning, when I wanted to take him for a walk—I shook the leash. He didn't jump up as usual, and he didn't respond to my calls. He was lying—as always—on the couch, but his gaze was dull, and when I touched him, his body was cold. He probably died during the night, but I still don't know if it was from grief or old age. If a dog can feel grief, it was probably from grief.

It happened almost a year ago, in the fall, but it's not this fall that awakens memories of past events in me every year.

The elderly gentleman with whom Irys spent almost sixteen years was sometimes visited by his daughter and her ten-year-old son. Then he seemed especially cheerful, leaving the house earlier than usual to buy delicious cookies, which his grandson loved. Sometimes, in the mornings, while still at home, I would see him breaking his daily schedule, and I was already certain his family would visit him that day, and usually my predictions were correct. This happened maybe four, maybe five times a month.

His daughter and grandson lived on the other side of town, a distance easily covered on foot in forty minutes, but despite this, the gentleman was deeply moved by each visit. He was excited, and his face became very cheerful. There's much truth in the saying that people become like children in old age, for he was then like a child, longingly and hopefully waiting on a December evening to finally unwrap the long-awaited gifts that had, until then, persistently enticed their insatiable imagination.

The concern and regret that sometimes showed in his eyes also had something of a childish charm. Perhaps it was sincerity, perhaps sensitivity. In any case, I knew he missed someone with whom he could exchange even a few words, but the conversation with the elderly gentleman—when it did happen and lasted longer than the usual "good morning" or "goodbye"—was short and rather formulaic, and almost always concerned his grandson.

The memory of the boy made him incredibly vivid, and he always proudly praised the little one:

"He's a smart boy, and such a good one, he gets along so well with Irys, and believe me, dogs love children and good people. I'm just worried... about this school, these thefts, these fights, and if something happens to him... what can I do, what can I do?"

"You know," I replied, "it's not entirely like that, the boy is smart... he'll manage, you just have to be optimistic," I consoled him, though I wasn't sure what I was saying. "

I'm optimistic, but what do I have besides him... my daughter and grandson?" he mused, adding, "I only have them, and... my Irys, who... who is nothing like me, old, distinguished—a good dog."

The older man spoke in a specific way, typical of older people who perceive reality through the prism of the last days, looking back, wanting to forget, even for a moment, that they were already descending from a mountain, that they were at the summit from which they could see more, from which they could also see the end.

When his family visited him, he became a different person. I saw how happy he was during these visits, how everyone sat at the table, chatting, smiling, sipping tea, and eating delicious cookies. The boy—as children do—would immediately leave the table and shout joyfully, "Irys, Irys, little dog!" and pet him, and then the dog would lay its muzzle on his lap and bark joyfully.

Even when the old man's grandson abused the dog's patience, pulling the poor thing by the tail, ears, and paws—Irys never barked, not even growled, and there were plenty of opportunities to do so, even though the animal sometimes seemed to be on the verge of a dog's patience.

The elderly gentleman loved watching his grandson, genuinely delighted, call out to Irys, and the dog chase him around the room, scattering pillows and moving chairs that had until then been part of the geometric order that reigned throughout the apartment. The apartment itself possessed a certain peculiarity – almost all the furniture had its designated places, to which the tenant was accustomed and always knew exactly where everything was, or should be. However, the items frozen in disarray didn't irritate the elderly gentleman; they were like mementos, reminding him that moments ago the entire house had been teeming with life. He refrained from any tidying up, so as not to disturb the memories that seemed so vivid. Irys held a special place in this hierarchy of associations; one glance at the animal was enough for the elderly gentleman to see how the dog played with the boy, how much joy it brought to the little one, who loved it immensely and treated it as a full member of the family. He couldn't imagine being at his grandfather's without hearing the dog's joyful barking and seeing its wagging tail and its dark brown, shiny, patient, smiling eyes.

When I left the house in the morning, I could almost always see the elderly gentleman strolling with his faithful companion. However, it wasn't a mutual punctuality, or at least not on my part. Strangely, the few dozen minutes encompassing their morning walk coincided with my departure. Often, I saw their slowly moving silhouettes against the backdrop of the nearby woods, covered with leaves still green but slowly yellowing. Other times, they strolled along the path. Still others, I might notice two dots (or rather, a dash)—one regular, the other, somewhat resembling a comma, approaching me and taking on familiar shapes.

I became concerned when, for seven days in a row, I hadn't seen the elderly gentleman on a walk. I was somehow accustomed to the sight, and I felt a sense of inner peace. I concluded that this was nothing out of the ordinary. Besides, the elderly gentleman often spent time in the kitchen and seemed to be in relatively good health, although he spent a lot of time in front of the television. On the seventh day, since I had the entire Sunday off, I decided to investigate this strange situation – was it simply a coincidence, or was there a completely different reason? To my great surprise, the elderly gentleman hadn't left the apartment all day. Why? My first thought was – he was sick, but no, he looked quite well, remarkably well for his age. Finally, I understood – Irys was gone. As I later learned, he had given the dog to his grandson, who had been begging him for it.

"Grandpa, if Irys doesn't go, I don't want to go, I'll stay, I want to be here, and if Grandpa goes, I won't be alone and I won't miss him. Grandpa, if you can't go, how will we ever see each other? When I have Irys, it will be as if you were with me, and I'll always remember you, and Irys will too."

The older gentleman's daughter landed a good job at the headquarters of the company she worked for, which was based near Warsaw. A decent salary and a company apartment—these are probably good arguments and a way to a better life in the big city. His daughter wasn't doing too badly, but it wasn't the best either, just to make ends meet and still have some money for small things.

The older gentleman certainly felt great sadness for his Irys, but he couldn't afford his grandson's sadness and inconsolable longing; he preferred to think the boy was happy, even at the cost of old age's loneliness. The thought of being left alone, without family, without anyone close to him, without human touch was unbearable.

Irys spent a week with them to acclimate, as he wasn't a young dog, and although he was with people he knew, he refused to eat for the first two days, and sadness was evident in his eyes. I think when I picked him up from the shelter, he looked at me the same way he did then – with sadness and resignation.

Early Monday morning, my daughter and grandson, along with Irys, came to the elderly man's house for a moment, but they spent less than an hour there and then left. I saw the elderly man saying his fond, warm goodbyes.

The next day, they were supposed to go to Warsaw, and the elderly man was left alone. I felt somehow connected to all this because sometimes, rarely, but rarely, I talked to him about various things. Lately, he seemed to be more open; apparently, the need to confide in the thought of being alone was becoming stronger than his innate reserve.

As night fell, the thought of the elderly man being left alone—I don't know why—kept me awake. I fell into a half-sleep. I saw myself running towards Warsaw after the car, but the road was becoming increasingly sticky, and my legs were sinking into the black asphalt, until finally only my head was sticking out, I couldn't move, and no one could help me because everyone was going to Warsaw. I saw the elderly man; he was also running after the car, screaming for help, and began to look around, but he clearly didn't notice me. I woke up around midnight, and then I slept peacefully. In the

morning, none of my nightmares bothered me at all, and only a glance at the busy road behind the tenement building, from the side of the balconies, brought back a distant memory.

In the afternoon, as I was returning home, I saw, alarmed, an ambulance parked in front of the elderly man's staircase. They were indeed carrying someone out on a stretcher, but I immediately dismissed the thought that it could have been him, and strangely enough, the thought didn't bother me at all.

The next day, as I was leaving my apartment, I was accosted by a neighbor who lived below me, one floor below. I don't know how she ended up here, on my floor, but that wasn't important, as I later realized. "

Good morning," she said. "

Good morning," I replied, and slowly began descending the stairs.

"Please wait," she almost shouted. "Do you know what happened?

" "Well, unfortunately, I don't know." I was a bit wary of the elderly women's revelations.

"The gentleman with the dog in the last stairwell died in the hospital today," she announced sadly.

At first, I couldn't put the facts together. "Who is he?" I thought. Only after some reflection did I realize that the only person in that stairwell with a dog was the elderly gentleman. I was gripped by terror and disbelief; these two emotions were seeping into my consciousness and engaged in a violent conflict. It's so easy to confuse people, even easier to confuse dogs, and elderly people sometimes have vision or hearing problems.

"He died of a heart attack. Apparently, his daughter and grandson had an accident somewhere near Kielce," the woman added with utter seriousness and concern.

This news hit me like a blow, knocking me to the floor and paralyzing every limb. I felt as if my legs were rooted to the ground.

"How do you know?" I asked desperately. "

The son of that old woman downstairs, who lives below us, is a doctor at the provincial hospital.

" "But is that certain? What about his daughter and grandson?" I asked in a trembling voice.

"I don't know, the son of that woman downstairs. Well, the doctor said there was an accident, that's all," the elderly woman replied.

I returned to my apartment and lay down on the bed. I felt my limbs go numb and the life draining from them. I was like a small child paralyzed with fear, petrified and sobbing. I couldn't do anything, I couldn't move. I don't remember falling asleep, I only remember waking up late in the afternoon and then, somewhat calmed, thinking it all over. I saw these images—the way they overlapped, the elderly man answering the phone and falling to the ground, the car hitting a tree, the siren of an ambulance, the rush—a glimmer of hope. A helplessness gripped me, preventing me from leaving the house, preventing me from moving. My body, now like cotton wool—frail, swayed from side to side, my legs gave way under me whenever I tried to take a step. I gave in and collapsed onto the bed. I slept soundly; nothing could wake me, not even the hum of traffic, which is almost constant and so intense that a person unaccustomed to it can't sleep for a moment.

The first rays of early autumn sun forced me out of bed. I decided that even by a miracle, I would find out something closer and bang on every door that remained closed to me.

I dressed quickly, left the apartment unlocked, and went downstairs, then back to the second floor – after all, I'd learned everything from the neighbor below me – my morbid absentmindedness was reaching the peak of despair, but I knew it would pass. I knocked without thinking.

"Good morning.

" "Good morning, where have you been?" the woman asked reproachfully.

"I had to stay home… (I was searching for an excuse) but what about the gentleman from the last staircase… is that true?" My question sounded almost like a statement.

"True," she looked at me as if I were crazy – a good person, concerned about the accident… but it's a shame," she began to sob. "… it's a shame about the boy, sir." She burst into tears. "The boy… died yesterday in the hospital in Warsaw."

"What do you mean… what?" This news hit me with the force of a sledgehammer.

A strange state took hold of me, lasting tenths, maybe hundredths of a second, but leaving such a strong mark that every memory of him causes fear and panic. A state impossible to learn—it always steals a fragment of consciousness to awaken violent fears.

"What about the mother?" I asked, my voice full of resignation and regret.

"She's in the hospital in Kielce, but the woman downstairs' son—you know—said she'd be discharged next week," she replied with visible relief, as if this news had allowed us to forget, even for a moment, the boy's tragedy.

We stood in silence for a moment, enslaved by the silence, as if no words could express what had happened and language itself refused to obey, as if it had lost its pliability and turned to stone.

"I know, sir, it probably doesn't matter," the woman said, trying to break the awkward situation, "but apparently their dog escaped unscathed.

" "I'm listening," I replied, as if snapped out of a trance. "What, what dog?

Irys, he was riding with them, I'd completely forgotten. But how can anyone think about any animal in such a situation? I don't think we can, we're not even allowed to. Why? Perhaps because a person is capable of deeply understanding another person, perhaps because only a person has free will not driven by impulse, perhaps because they can distinguish between true goodness and true tragedy.

A month has passed since those events, and I still haven't seen the elderly gentleman's daughter. I only know that she was released from the hospital after a few days in good physical health, but on the verge of a nervous breakdown – such people are probably doing their penance on earth.

The elderly man did indeed die of a heart attack; the hospital was unable to save him. His chances of survival would have been high if resuscitation had been performed sooner. Unfortunately, he collapsed on the floor and lay there (in who knows what agony) until a neighbor found him, but by then it was too late. Now he doesn't miss the boy, doesn't search for memories, is close yet far away, gazing at the endless horizon and basking in the rays of the eternal Sun.

Irys was surrendered to a shelter, which didn't surprise me at all. Although the reasons might have been different, they were all similar and likely dictated by the same consideration. Looking at Irys, the elderly man revived happiness and a vision of moments that had passed, yet which gave him the strength to wait. What the mother experienced whenever she looked at the dog – to say the least, a feeling completely different and intensified, and to try to understand it.

(Perhaps after three, four, maybe seven years, a person won't be able to comprehend what it felt like when that strange state crushed every limb for that particular moment... but what can one do when that moment doesn't last a tenth of a second, but recurs permanently for a year, two, three, a lifetime?)

One afternoon, as I was driving home, a thought occurred to me - since the shelter was less than three kilometers from the building, I decided to make a slight detour and... check if Irys was there. The idea seemed misguided and pointless, but since it was Friday and I had no particular plans for the rest of the day, it was still a good alternative to a boring afternoon. The shelter had just been renovated. I went inside and found no one in the office, so I headed for a long room, or rather a corridor, with animal cages on both sides. I didn't even hope Irys could be there, so I briefly glanced at the sad faces; every glance from these frightened and rejected creatures was like a plea. I touched the mesh and, as I walked, lightly traced it with my finger. Then I sat down in the chair that stood behind the desk against the wall, probably belonging to the caretaker. A sense of guilt and admiration began to stir within me. Why were these states so different and distinct? It was enchanting to imagine how a human must feel, when such a dog could express her sadness so profoundly, with just a glance. Guilt, however, resurfaced whenever I thought of poor Irys – after all, it was the human tragedy that mattered most, and I was walking around the shelter looking for a dog. What does the suffering of instincts mean when confronted with the suffering of free will? It's good that many people can maintain the hierarchy of being and recognize what is important, but above all, what is true. Perhaps I could not fully find my way in this multitude of feelings that shook me like a wind shaking a small tree whose roots had not grown deep enough into the barren earth.

I got up from the chair and looked ahead, somewhat resigned, heading for the exit. I looked at the caged animals and felt a pang of sadness. Suddenly, the one I was looking for appeared before my eyes – poor Irys, his head down, not barking like the other dogs, he was quiet. One look brought back all the moments he had been so closely connected to. I don't know why I hadn't noticed him before; maybe he was too quiet and inconspicuous, too shy and indifferent. That same day, he found himself in my apartment.

I learned from the caretaker that he refused to eat anything at all and they thought he would die. I had similar concerns – for the first week, he drank only water. When I looked at him, it seemed to me that he was losing weight. Only then did he start eating, but he wasted away day by day. Yet there were times when he would come and lay his tired, battered head on my leg and fall asleep. A moment later, he would wake up and, terrified by his excessive tenderness, flee into the room. It was difficult to look at him when, as if in pain, he bulged out his shiny, brown eyes, which were perpetually covered with a thin layer of tear fluid.

When he died, I felt I had lost a part of the world, a witness to a certain history gone. I felt no sadness; I involuntarily surrendered to reflection, which filled me with melancholy, like a puppeteer stuffing a doll with down to achieve a regular shape.

Every raindrop, every leaf, every blade of grass spoke to me as never before.

The autumn sun shone shorter and shorter, looming over the endless horizon. The bare trees, whipped by the cold wind, swayed unconsciously, as if devoid of life… but somewhere beyond the reach of human sight, the world in the rays of the same Sun was giving its first breath of life.