A Christmas Carol

###DAY###

My tooth hurts. No, that probably doesn't best describe what I'm feeling right now. I'm sure you've felt this pain yourselves, which, although it originates in one spot, radiates throughout your jaw. And even to your cheek and ear. And I can't do anything about it. I can't do anything for two reasons. The first is that I'm standing behind the plastic, blue handle of a supermarket trolley. A supermarket colorful with tacky Chinese lamps and reeking of fried carp from the tasting menu. The second reason is lack of money. I'm afraid to ask my parents for fifty złoty for the dentist, because I know it might ruin their holiday. I don't want to limit the number of dishes on the Christmas Eve table, because there aren't many of them anyway. My dad lost his job six months ago. He still can't get another one, and the benefits barely cover the bills. Oh well, these are the times. Others have it worse.

There's carp in the trolley. The cheapest, probably caught from the most sludgy part of the fishpond. Next to it, a net full of beets, eggs, and some spices. Everything's the cheapest. The most important thing is that the price doesn't exceed the value of the voucher, or there won't be anything left to pay for it. Just some ham and a canned food, and we can start preparing for Christmas. It won't last long. One salad, one cake, some herring, and a carp. The same one resting in a plastic bag at the bottom of the cart. Actually, resting sounds strange. It reminds me of resting, but it clearly isn't resting, just darting around looking for something to fill its gills. There are only a few jars left on the caviar shelves. I still don't understand who buys it. It's expensive, and no one can eat it. And probably few people like it either, but it's just not passé to talk about it openly or not have it when guests come over. Now to the checkout. Next to the red Santa Claus Coca-Cola, the blue Pepsi, and the green Kamis spices. And finally, you can stand behind the redheaded couple, the elderly lady in the mohair beret, the mother with her child, the Juppie wearing a tie, and a cell phone in her hand. Painfully flashy, with polyphonic jingle bells and a contact list of 2,500 names. After an hour at the cash register—which was apparently manned by a newly hired cashier, a blonde at that—and after dropping a złoty into the rectangular slot of the ZHP can—you can finally go to the bus stop. The bus, as usual, packed to capacity, and free, takes us right to my friend's house. We still have about a kilometer to walk.

The apartment welcomes us with an open door. And a million mingling scents. However, the most noticeable is cabbage. I hadn't eaten dinner today, so the scent effectively tempted me. I filled my stomach and went into my room. The tightly closed door and open window made it almost impossible to smell the food. I love the freshness that greets me whenever I clean my room. 7 p.m. The news arrives, and, tired from the day, I throw myself into bed. Just before the weather clears, a text message arrives. "Are you coming over?" They're predicting a snowstorm on Christmas Eve. And that's just as well, I'm not going anywhere, even though the atmosphere will improve a bit. "Okay, I'll be there soon." I leave without buttoning my shirt, without putting on my scarf. My gloves are torn, so I won't take them either. I won't be parading around like some tramp with my fingers hanging out. A five-minute walk and I'm there. The bell rings, I stroll down the stairs, and at the door, I'm greeted by a pretty girl in a tracksuit.

"Did you want something?" he asks, surprise in his voice and expression. "

I came to check the plumbing," and I add, almost shouting, "Good evening!"

"Come in, my parents are out shopping."

She looked as usual. That is, as usual to me. A friend. Pretty enough to see her beauty, not enough to tell her. I turned right and sat down in the strangest, but to me, most relaxed position you can imagine at that moment. Kaśka brought in the tea and turned on MTV. The first sentences were, as usual, complaints about the tiring day, the shitty weather, and a general lack of ideas for the evening. Except I had the idea, but what don't you do for friends? "

That new Bloodhound video is great. But I preferred Foxtrot," I break the silence and my staring at the fourteen-inch TV.

"I'll show you what's great in a moment."

She turns off the TV, opens the drawer of her red alder desk, and pulls out a disc. Probably burned with illegal MP3s. The remote, two clicks, and the disc tray of the silver LG player opens. Kasia places the disc on it and taps the buttons on the remote twice with her finger. The sounds of a Christmas carol slowly emerge from the speakers hanging on the walls. American. I might add, my favorite. Frank Sinatra dreams of a white Christmas. I suspect that if I were someone like Sinatra, I wouldn't have to dream of anything. To be clear, I'm not complaining. And I know others have it worse.

"But after we go to New York, will we spend Christmas together? You, Daria, me, Darek, and our children?" A hint of doubt appears in her eyes.

"No, just you, me, and our—I emphasize—children.

I'm not thinking about our children or marriage to my best friend. I'm just teasing. I love her reaction. It's always the same.

-Fuck you.

Someone might find this offensive, but our relationship has advanced enough that we can afford absolutely anything. I check my watch. It's almost nine. Another hour and a half has passed, talking about nothing. Meanwhile, my parents have returned. Of course, I've said hello. More music videos worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Boring, but not tiring, and split in half. I feel like sleeping. I tell Kasia about it.

"Actually, maybe you could come over on the first day of Christmas? Maybe I'll come over on the second?" I hear instead of the usual, "Go ahead." "

I don't know if I'll be home all Christmas," I lie. It's good that I haven't told her my holiday plans. Not really mine, but forced upon me by the small amount of money I have. I don't want to invite her to a holiday she saw on the news, where they said not all families can afford to organize holidays. And that we should help them on that day. On that day. I'll gladly help. Or I'll trade. I'm not in the best of shape either; I'd trade a piece of bread for a plate of borscht.

"Okay, cool. Go away then." Kaśka looks sad, but doesn't seem surprised.

I'm leaving. Of course, I said goodnight. I didn't wish her well, because we'll see each other again tomorrow. It's cold outside. Colder than when I left the house, so I had to zip up to my neck. The bus splashes over an old lady, but I escape unscathed. I'm going home. I was going to go to bed, but I decide against it. I search through my videotapes and put one in the player. My parents are leaving Kevin home alone. I start daydreaming and feeling envious. My Christmas will be hopeless, as usual. The lights flash, and the world slowly disappears behind my closed eyelids. I fall asleep.

###12:00 AM###

I wake up, the alarm clock says the ghost hour. I get up and, as usual, follow my need. I don't turn on the light; I won't need it, and I don't want to wake up. I'll just sit down. I head to my room. The smell of cigarette smoke and the glow of embers.

"Shhh, shit!" I collapse to the floor, terrified. For a moment I don't move, telling myself I'm still asleep. I turn on the light, and the nightmare vanishes. I smile to myself and press the switch again. I lie in bed and pull the covers over me. I smell smoke again. I turn over and hear a cough. And again, as if someone were choking. Was my father drunk and my mother kicked him out of bed? That's the only possibility I can think of. I turn on the bedside lamp. In the chair, at the desk, sits a twenty-something yuppie. The one with the polyphonic jingle bells. From the supermarket. So I'm still asleep. Only everything seems too real. Even the toothache.

"This isn't a dream," the yuppie reads my thoughts—not reality either. I won't explain, because you wouldn't understand.

I stare blankly. I don't know what to do, but I don't feel afraid. I'll say right away that I believe in ghosts, so it was easy for me to believe his words.

"The rules require me to introduce myself. I am the Ghost of Christmas, Happy Only in Appearance. I know it's a bit long, but distinguished individuals have many names. Da Vinci, for example. In life, I was David, so you can address me that way." He stubbed out his cigarette on the desk and coughed again.

"Cigarettes are bad for you." That must have been the first words I exchanged with the ghost.

"Tell that to the dead.

" Not only did I start stupidly, but it was also pointless. Dead. But why did I see him in the supermarket?! Could it be..."

"An hour later, I died on the highway in my BMW. Good thing I was at least exceeding 200 km/h." I don't know what to call his expression. One of the thousand emoticons available on his phone would probably do it best. I'll call it a grimace of anger laced with pride. Maybe you can imagine it.

"But why are you here?" More and more questions are pressing to my lips. "Your presence only reminds me of that fable about the miser..."

"Exactly," he interrupted.

"But I'm not Scrooge. And it's not even because of my financial situation, so to speak." Surprise flashes across my face. Not the kind of contrived, artificial kind you see in movies, but genuine, human surprise.

"Well, that's the detail that sets your story apart." He smiles, and for a moment he looks genuinely pleasant. For someone who died in an accident. "Come on, let's not talk, I'll show you everything. Explaining won't help, and we don't have much time."

The ghost snaps his fingers. I start to feel dizzy. After a moment, everything straightens up again, and I feel snow on my nose. We're hurtling at unimaginable speed through streets lit by streetlights. Snowflakes disappear behind us, looking like the stars from Star Trek, when Captain Kirk ordered the hyperspace launch. We slow down. A large white house with a balcony and a red roof comes into view. Lights glow in the windows. Walking through the walls is a stranger feeling than I expected. We're standing in a beautiful room. My dingy pajamas don't match the marble interior. I instinctively back away from the Amstaff running past us.

"Don't be afraid," Dawid reassures. "He can't see us. No one can see us."

This time, on foot and without passing through walls, we enter the living room. There's a buzz of conversation, about twenty people at the table. The notes of "Silent Night" slowly flow from the speakers. The table and décor are opulent. Kossak and other greats adorn the walls. Unfortunately, most are obscured by baubles and chains anyway, with only fragments visible. The faces of the diners are smiling, full of joy. Everyone is reminiscing. Jurek's First Communion, Marian's incredibly funny skiing accident in Zurich, Stefan's grandfather, and a host of other experiences. The smell of cake. Baked by Jena from the best bakeries in town. A kilogram cost a fortune, as if diamonds had been sprinkled instead of poppy seeds. I look around the room. I go to the other side of the table. Under the Christmas tree are a multitude of presents. Some spent more on wrapping than my Christmas Eve.

"I don't understand," I look at the ghost. "Did you bring me here to see what I'm missing, what I'll never experience?" Did you intend to hurt me, or was it an accident? An accusatory tone, an accusatory look. And a genuine pain in my heart.

A woman rises from the table and heads towards the kitchen. A man emerges immediately after her. Most likely her husband.

"Come on," Dawid follows them, beckoning me with his finger. I obediently follow him.

A couple is standing by the five-thousand-dollar dishwasher. The same ones who left the table. They're arguing. But in whispers, so no one in the room can hear them. I hear everything.

"Luckily, my mother only had two of you; you're just as messed up." The hand next to his leg clenches into a fist. "And luckily, tomorrow I won't have to smile or pretend to be delighted by her arrival."

"You should have thought about it fifteen years ago," the woman says, returning the favor. "

I was twenty, and if it weren't for the fact that I had sex with you and the consequences, you could be shining my shoes today." The man's face is covered in sweat. She wipes it with a white handkerchief emblazoned with gold initials, "Like your father."

"Fuck you." The woman picks up the crystal platter and leaves. The man slams his fist on the table.

The ghost looks at me with a smile.

"Idyllic, isn't it?"

We return to the living room. I notice two people I haven't seen before. Familiar faces. I see them every day when I come to Kaśka's. They're her parents. But she's not at the table. I turn to the ghost.

"Where is she?" I look straight into his blue, tired eyes.

Dawid walks down the hallway, I follow him, until we reach a closed door. Walking through the wall again. The tooth is nagging again. The room is roughly the size of a living room. Instead of paintings, there's soundproofing wallpaper on the walls, and thick curtains on the windows. In the middle, there's a carpet. God, it's so pleasant to walk on it with bare feet. On the carpet, there's someone I'd recognize even if all my senses were taken away. I'd feel her presence. She looked beautiful. Dark hair a little past my shoulders, gray eyes, a shiny black choker around her neck. White shirt, black skirt. Tears run down her cheeks, and she wipes her mascara with her hand, smearing it even further. She looks at the TV. A plasma, forty-two-inch, Phillips. A movie on it. The girl looks at the boy. "Promise you won't fall in love with me..." I know this scene by heart. We've both cried a hundred times watching it. But now Kaśka isn't crying just because of the movie. I see it, and my heart aches terribly. The family, with plastic smiles plastered to their faces, poses for everything to be done in accordance with current fashion. And she sits alone on the carpet. She picks up her phone. Four words. "Merry Christmas, I love you." The melody of a received message. "I love you more." It must be me.

The ghost grabs my hand and whispers in my ear. Time to leave. Ten minutes to one a.m. And again we're hurtling through the dark streets, flying over apartment buildings, sports fields, and cars. Free, absent, forgetting our worries. We're back in my room. Dawid dusts off his suit and lights a cigarette. "

Lie down. You have a long night ahead of you." He disappears before I can say anything.

My eyelids grow heavier and heavier until I fall back asleep. I hadn't had time to start dreaming when a rustling sound woke me. I glanced at the alarm clock. It was:

###1000 HOURS###

Another ghost sits at the desk. This time it's a woman. The scent of perfume fills the room. I turn on the lamp. I want to laugh, but laughter would be out of place. Marilyn Monroe sits in front of me. I smile and try to smooth down my hair.

"You don't have to. I don't pay attention to it anymore." Despite her words, she smiled flirtatiously. Or maybe not flirtatiously. Maybe it was just the smile showbiz taught her, and that was the only way she knew how to do it. "I am the Spirit of a Lonely Christmas. I will show you the saddest truth about the world. I will show you that a person only loves when they need it, that they discard unnecessary burdens. I will show you that the greatest humiliation is not spitting in someone's face, but forgetting them when they stumble. I will show you what each of you secretly fears."

The light fades, and we rush. Icy needles pierce our faces again, but the streets disappear, and we fly over the forests. Faster and faster, until I'm out of breath. I faint, and after what seemed like only seconds, I wake up. We're in an alley, dark, stinking of garbage and filth. I kneel and rub my chest. I slowly gasp for air and recover. I stand, and Marilyn lights a long, white cigarette. Despite the subzero temperature, she doesn't feel the cold. The ghost winks at me and gestures for me to follow him. We reach a bend. A man stands by a steel barrel filled with newspapers, wood, and rags. He's wearing at least two coats peeking out from under a short jacket. On his head is a pink and purple hat with a pompom. His greasy, matted locks fall over his forehead. He's breathing on his hands, which are clad in black, fingerless gloves. He steps away from the barrel, scoops up a passing cat, and sits down on a pile of rags, probably his. He strokes the cat's head. The cat looks into his eyes and escapes his arms. The tramp smiles and reaches into the inside pocket of one of his coats. He pulls out a photo. An old, crumpled one, still in black and white. I walk over to take a closer look. The photo shows a family. A woman, a man, and a child. Most likely a girl. I notice the resemblance between the beggar and the man in the photo. It's the same person. I look at Marilyn.

"Yes, that's his family," he says, anticipating my question. "They abandoned him eighteen years ago when he lost everything he had on the stock market. They just walked away and left him like an unwanted puppy. They even forgot to take him to the shelter.

I get the idea. This is his Christmas. By the glow of the burning bucket. With his family in a photo. By the Christmas tree from Central Park. Christmas Eve dinner will be tomorrow. Or the day after tomorrow, or in two days." A tear rolls down my cheek. This man holds all my fears, anxieties, and nightmares. I wipe myself with the sleeve of my flannel pajamas and turn to the ghost.

"Let's go," I say. "I understand what you mean, and I don't want to look at this anymore. Take me back.

" "Look," the ghost says, pointing behind me.

I turn and see a woman. Older, the same age as a tramp. Dressed like him and probably just as lonely. She walks up to him and sits down next to him. They stare at each other, embracing. People only understand each other when they're in the same situation. And only then can they truly love. Sad. And more brutal than a Van Damme movie. Despite everything, it's nice to watch this couple. Nice to see people truly sincere. Maybe for the first time in my life, I see love. No more looking. Marilyn puts her hand on my shoulder, and everything disappears. I must have blacked out again, because I wake up in bed. Alone. Without Mrs. Monroe. And the time is later than I expected. Just in time for the last ghost to arrive.

####2.00 HOUR###

An old man stands in the doorway. I only remember him from photos, but I recognize him immediately. My grandfather. He died when I was three. A wonderful man, he fought in the Home Army, and later, during communism, he was in the underground. And I don't remember a single minute spent with him. Not even through the fog. He smiles. His smile radiates warmth and sincerity. He knows I've met him. He sits down on the bed and places his hand on mine.

"You expected death, right?" he asks, his smile never leaving his face. "You'll meet her and me at the same time. And I think I'm prettier."

I smile and think about what I can say to him. What to ask. So many words are pressing on my lips. When I finally open my mouth, he begins to speak. "

I am the third, last ghost you'll meet today. I'm here to show you that the world isn't as bad as the previous ghosts made it out to be. And to teach you to look for the positives where you think there aren't any." "I am the Spirit of Happy Holidays," he stood up, and I followed.

We leave the room. The smell of cabbage and peas filled my parents' room. Inside, my family. My mother, sister, father, and I. Everyone is standing. My father puts down the Bible without closing it. He picks up the Christmas wafer from the table. He divides it into four and hands it to everyone. Everyone wishes each other well. Tears welled up in their eyes. My mother's voice trembled. "Don't repeat our mistakes," he tells me. "Be someone, because we are no one." I lower my head, not looking at her. The answer. "I love you, for these peas and cabbage, for something from nothing, and these tears." I wipe them from her face. And kiss her cheek. Everyone sits down. Everything smells amazing. No one is crying anymore. Time for presents. Socks, painting my father's face with more joy than many a Kossak. Lipstick and deodorant. So much happiness in two hundred and fifty grams. And that oven mitt. It's just fabric, but at least Mom won't burn her hands again. I pull my gift out of the wrapping. A pen. A fountain pen. No, not that expensive. But just as beautiful, maybe even more so, because it's mine. I'll use it to describe what happened to me. I smile. I've found my happiness.