4

X

"No, it's not Asia, you fool." This is Ewka," he gasped.

"Oh, is that you?" – he replied resignedly.

Ewa was one of Joanna's best friends. Always determined. Always energetic. She always knew "better." At 35, her husband left her for a younger woman. Back then, she was a housewife. Scared. Terrified. But after a few months, she was transformed beyond recognition. She found a job at a women's magazine. A magazine with the tagline "How to Get, Seduce, and Leave a Man." When she was married, she devoured cooking guides; today she reads Gretkowska and Jong. She told Joanna many times, in front of Andrzej, "That selfish bastard, I don't deserve you."

"What time will Asia be home?" she was as sarcastic as ever towards Andrzej.

"I don't know, she's not home. Do you know where she might be?" Ewa's voice sent him into a fighting trance again.

"What?!?" she laughed twitteringly. "You miss me now?" – Her words struck him with a fist of irony. – She probably dumped you and ran off with some normal guy, or better yet, some stupid, muscular hunk.

– What the hell are you talking about?!? – He stopped being a hysterical boy, realizing that only by fighting to the death, biting the black, bitter earth, would he get Joanna back, not "Asia" – he thought. – You surely, you viper, know where she is. Tell me, tell me, you… – he didn't finish

. – Even if I knew, I wouldn't say a word. Bye, Jędruś – she hung up the phone.

– Good morning, Mom.

Snow was falling lazily outside the window in the late evening darkness, obscuring the filth of the city.

– Good morning, Andrzejek.

Joanna's mother admired him. She thought Joanna was too self-pitying and should be happy with such a husband. Hard-working, conscientious. A doctor at the university.

– Mom, did I find Asia at your place? – he sat on the pouffe, picking at the tablecloth lying on the table with the telephone,

"No, she's not at my place, Andrzej. What, isn't she home? Where could she be wandering around at this hour?" she wondered aloud. "What kind of wife is she who isn't at home, with her husband? That awful Ewa probably dragged her somewhere.

" "Mom," he tried to interrupt his mother-in-law's monologue, "Mom, tell me where Asia keeps her friends' phone book. I'll call her friends. Maybe she's been lingering somewhere." He stood up abruptly, opening the drawers.

"I'll tell her what I think! For a husband like that to be waiting for her at home?!? And you probably haven't eaten dinner.

" "It doesn't matter. Really, it doesn't matter. Tell me, Mom, has Asia been acting strange lately?

" "No, probably not. But I'll tell her when she shows up. Maybe you can come over for something to eat."

"I'm not hungry! Where's the phone book?

" "In the other drawer. Under the phone. I—

" "Thank you, Mom," he hung up.

XI

Resigned, he entered the bedroom, his hand reflexively suspended in space upon contact. He hesitated. He doubted. Snap. Snap. In the darkness, he collapsed onto the bed, lying on his back. He placed his hands on his forehead, wiping the last vestiges of hysteria from his eyes. Light streamed in through the half-open window, blinded by the blinds, intrusively, imperiously, despite the mood. The brightness of hope. The glow of the city he hated so much, but knew. He knew he would have to become a brother to it, humbly drink in the bitter kisses of the street to find Joanna. The dirty, sticky brightness of the streetlamps, creeping into the room, caressed his face with its rough hands, hanging on objects oblivious to pain. On a running clock. On a lamp under the umbrella of a lampshade. On a thick book. Seemingly fitting into the whole, yet somehow ostentatiously isolating herself from it. Cutting herself off from the tragedy with her calm and composure. Distance. Stans. Constans. Joanna! Let the world go mad! Let the world spin, and in the sparkling dance of atoms I will find the answer. I will weave my bearish hands into her hair, redefining, through the prism of me, we, she. Joanna! The candlelight of the city vibrated in his body with an even greater longing, casting a shadow of immature love. Love whose routine had killed the joy of experience. Love that weighed less than a heart in a hand. Love he had lost. Love! Love! Joanna! Love!

He lay lifeless, on his back, his gaze fixed on the objects that Joanna had touched only hours before. A crimson, fiery snake coiled around his body, winding from his feet, over his thighs, his belly, his neck, and finally his head. Through dilated pupils, it slithered into his brain, sinking its blunt, brilliant teeth into his synapses, his pineal gland, and his cortical lobes. It tightened around his will to fight, licking away the last of his strength with its moist, fiery tongue. It burrowed deep into his brain, poisoning his warrior instincts, numbing his clarity of thought. He rotted. He withered. From tiger, puma, scorpion, he transformed into a larva, a rat. Images of the past pierced his poisoned body, constricting his throat with remorse. He stared at the chandelier. He stared. He stared. Joanna. Today the chandelier didn't resemble a tortured hanged man; this evening it dangled from Joanna's ears like the gold earrings he'd given her for their tenth wedding anniversary. He lay on his side, staring at the nightstand. Joanna. The nightstand's slender form evoked the image of her. Her body. Her hips, breasts, neck. Like a statue of the enchanted soul of his beloved.

He leaped out of bed. Ripping off his shirt. Taking off his pants and underwear. Naked, he crawled into the bathroom, rising to the shelf with cosmetics. He reached for the lipstick, turning on the water over the sink. He unscrewed the lipstick and, humming a martial melody, began painting his torso a crimson red, hopping from foot to foot. He stuck his head under the faucet, then pulled it out and dusted it with pale pink powder. He spun around and ran out of the bathroom, heading for the bedroom. He lit five candles. Arranging them in a circle. He sat in the center. He howled. He bit. He snorted. Joanna! The will to fight filled his soul. He became a tiger. The fan by the bed, rotating on its axis, emitted rhythmic sounds, the rhythm of prayers to the gods. The ancient gods of existence and the creation of the world. Slowly, with complete reverence, he lifted candle after candle and, dousing himself in wax, extinguished them. He stood up and, shivering, fell onto the bed.

He fell asleep.

XII

"Good morning, Mr. Dean.

" "And welcome to our most talented young doctor. Do you remember that matter I asked you about? That small paper for the scientific congress next month.

" "Yes, I remember, Mr. Dean. I have a request for you.

" "Yes, sir. I think I can speak now, Mr. Habilitation Candidate.

" "I need a few days off. I have personal problems.

" "Oh, Mr. Angel, Mr. Angel, you're not slacking off in your duties. You know there are many waiting to take your place."

"I know, Mr. Dean, but this is just about a week off. I have some very urgent personal matters.

" "What happened? Probably something with your wife. I told you a long time ago to see a specialist.

" "It's none of your business," Andrzej pursed his lips.

"But Mr. Anioł, please don't get so worked up. You yourself said your wife has problems."

"It's none of your business," he repeated more forcefully, with clear anger in his voice.

"First you say something, then you deny it. Something's wrong with that. I don't know if I can grant you this leave. We're going through a tough time. You know, semester papers, master's theses...

" "When do you need this report by?" he sat down resignedly on the pouffe.

"You don't have to rush. Anyway, if you don't want to, you don't have to help me; I'll manage somehow.

" "But, Mr. Dean, I undertook this task, this help, this contribution of my knowledge to your work, so I will." He regained control of his nerves. "

Okay, okay. Since you so request, I'm granting you leave for four days. No longer. We need you at the faculty.

" "Thank you, Mr. Dean. Goodbye."

He sat resignedly on the pouffe, staring at the crisp morning light. The sun was rising over the winter sunset, over the worries. It was dawning on a new day, a springtime of hope and faith in a better tomorrow.

He opened a drawer and pulled out a notebook with the addresses of Joanna's friends. The conversation with the dean had motivated him. He understood that only by acting calmly and unemotionally would he be able to find her. He drew conclusions from that conversation. He calmed down. He quieted down. He tamed his anger and nerves. His chaotic mind was working and analyzing the situation like a computer. "Thank you, Mr. Dean," he thought, without a trace of anger at the man's condescending tone and the objectification of him. "Thank you, Mrs. Dean"—thank you.

He dialed several of Asia's friends, but each time he received a similar response—"You deserved it, you idiot." He didn't respond. His mechanical mind, now single-minded in its single purpose: finding traces of Joanna, worked meticulously, like a calculating practitioner.

"Good morning, Miss Katarzyna?

" "Yes, I'm here. Who do I have the pleasure of meeting?

" "Andrzej Anioł here. I'm sorry to call so early, but something strange has happened; Joanna didn't come home last night.

" "Finally. She left you, but don't tell me anything?

" "Please don't repeat what you all keep saying, because I'm not interested. I want to find her, so maybe you know something about her. She never confided in me.

" "Or maybe you didn't want to listen to her. Maybe you were preoccupied with yourself, only yourself, but something really is wrong. She would have told me she was leaving you.

" "Exactly. Tell me everything you know.

" "I don't know if I can, but in the current situation, I think I have to." The silence on the phone stretched on endlessly. "Asia, she had something to do with prostitution."

"What?!?

" "Yes.

" "You must be mocking me." You don't seem to understand the gravity of the situation. Joanna didn't come home last night, so please don't mock me.

"Listen, man, I'm not kidding. If you were even a little interested in her, you'd know everything, or maybe you'd have guessed, but now we have to look for her.

" "But that's impossible. My wife and the prostitutes? What are you talking about? How can I find any trace?

" "Preferably at the train station, by the theater. I'll go with you."

They passed the theater, only to turn left a moment later and park in the parking lot by the bus station. The colors pulsed in his head like traffic lights: red for anger and rage at her for what she was doing. Yellow for composure and calm, and green for hope and faith in finding any trace. Just as these three lights never flashed at the same time, it was difficult for him to reconcile these feelings in his head. He was tossed around by waves of extreme emotions, cooled by the yellow light of composure. Green for hope, and red for the nerves of anger and rage. His mind throbbed like a springtime city, constantly stopping, cursing life, only to press the accelerator of logical thinking with all his might and reach the next traffic light. The yellow color only cooled his emotions. Just as in life, taking two steps forward, we take one back, with only a few moments to reflect, so he analyzed the emerging situation in light of new information.

He parked the car as Katarzyna advised. On the corner. Where the tormented women of city life trade their flesh. He couldn't understand his wife, he refused to accept her excesses. After all, they lived comfortably; she lacked nothing, so why was she pushing herself into such a quagmire? Why was she trying to disrupt the order of the world by entering this harsh, predatory, disillusioned world? Perhaps, like young people, she needed faith in life, in people's good intentions, in the utopia of the world, or perhaps she simply sought attention from women who could bestow it on her, who needed her, her blind faith in the inevitable and eternal change.

He could never understand environmentalists, squats, poets, but sitting in the car, observing these parts of the city, thoughts of understanding Joanna's behavior began to germinate in his mind. How could one live in such conditions, how could one thrive in such a world? He asked himself, but he was still far from accepting her behavior. He couldn't understand all the subcultures that, over time, transformed from destructive to subcultures that effectively changed the world. Perhaps it was an excess of goods and a lack of affection, sincerity, basic and natural gestures on the part of his parents and peers, a world dominated not by commerce, as sociologists and journalists claim, but by the world of profit, a world of people calculatingly concerned only with obtaining any, even the smallest, benefit for themselves. “They are normal women, they love the same way, they cry the same way and they laugh the same way,” Katarzyna snapped him out of his monologue of thoughts.

"What kind of women are you talking nonsense? I didn't tell them to go out on the street. They can go to work and earn their bread honestly. To me, she's not a woman; I wouldn't even touch one, not for anything, not even if I had to do it for Joanna." He bit his tongue. He had a feeling.

"How do you do that? I've never had contact with prostitutes," he asked Katarzyna.

"What kind of man are you if you can't ask a woman into your car. How did you pick up Joanna?"

One of the girls standing at the edge of the parking lot, attracted by their attention, approached the car. She leaned against the window, revealing her breasts, covered by a skimpy cleavage.

"What do you want, dears?" she smiled, resting her hand on her hip.

Andrzej couldn't resist and signaled for Katarzyna to lead the conversation.

"Get in. We'll talk," she shouted from the backseat.

"I don't have time for chatting. I'm here at work."

Katarzyna pulled out a fifty-zloty bill, tucking it into her bra.

"That's different. But perversions cost more.

" "What perversions, what perversions?" Andrzej tried to keep his temper under control, but now he exploded.

"What does the couple want?" She was already sitting in the front seat, adjusting her stockings.

"We have a case for you," she handed her the second fifty-zloty bill. "We're looking for Asia Anioł."

"I don't know her," she replied abruptly. "What are you? The police?

" "He's her husband, and I'm her friend. She didn't come back last night, and I know she helped you.

" "Did Alex send you?" she lost her composure, touching her eye, which was black but well covered with a thick layer of makeup.

"Listen, you were friends, right? She didn't come back last night, right? I think you owe her something, right?"

"Okay, go to Stalowa 20, apartment 6. Ask for Nina. I don't know you and I've never seen you before." She quickly got out of the car, slamming the door.

"Sex and bondage," she shouted to her friends, "I'm not doing it."