5

XIII

He couldn't wait until evening. Until the end of the day, when escort agencies began to pulsate with the daily grind of their lives. He couldn't force himself to be patient, waiting for the time when the filthy larvae of existence crawled out of their holes, like vampires afraid of the light, existing in the moonlight.

In defiance of God, yet fearing his bearish hands, the slap of fate, he yearned with all his might, with his whole being, his whole abandoned self, to change the sequence of time, the order of the days, so that the sun of Joanna's love would illuminate the all-powerful, vast night and allow him to meet Nina in the early afternoon. So that her knowledge would fill his troubled soul with the hope of finding Joanna. So that the filthy words spilling from her lips would bless his waiting for a sign of the near end of his journey and his search for even the smallest hidden signs of the tortured city on the road to Joanna.

The city bled with sunset. The roar of engines enslaved the city's head with an iron hoop. Residents, clinging to the metropolis, drank in the first juices of spring, not allowing the parks to breathe. How much he hated this place, yet how much he couldn't live without it. As without Joanna.

Every evening he returned home from his hated job, wading through the filth of a hated city, arriving home to his hated wife. He didn't like this place, he didn't like his job, he stopped liking his wife. Perhaps because he stopped liking himself. He never quite grew into adulthood, never stopped harboring illusions, a vision of the world that, when confronted with reality, left him inconsolable. He couldn't come to terms with the world. Too despotic, too domineering, too lonely to view the world without emotion, without the stain of a happy childhood.

He felt insecure about himself, needing people, needing objects to compare himself to, objects to lean on. Too emotionally weak, too intellectually developed, he escaped into the world of others, and people, fearing threats, predatory intrusions into theirs, theatrically discouraged him from further attempts, disgusted him with themselves.

He was too turned outward. Empty inside, he sought his own in the lives of others, but people wouldn't allow it. They defended themselves. They slap the face with stares. They fear respect that fails to respect their boundaries. Deprived of his own self, with the boundary between Andrzej and the world blurred, he wandered further and further in his stupidity. Constantly defining his existence by comparison with others, he was empty and burned out inside.

He needed ever new stimuli, ever new experiences that would give him the feeling of being alive, of being a tangible person, not a mind, not a thought, an energy. He needed a sculptor who would shape a sculpture from the clay of his potential. A "sensitive" type pretending to be "conscientious." How it gnawed at him, how this corset of rules consumed him, yet it was difficult for him to relinquish control over others and himself. An emotional virgin.

Today he fought for his tyrant, for the person who limited him, but without whom he couldn't live. He missed this monotony. He missed someone to whom he could tell stories of the day, to whom he could complain, curse, and above all, feel heard, feel that he was important to someone.

He didn't know what his life would be like after getting Joanna back. He didn't know if she'd make a fuss, he didn't even know why he was looking for her. Out of habit, rationality, affection? After all, he could have waited for her at home. Waited and thought up the most sarcastic excuses. Was he looking for her because she was his wife? Because they'd been together for 15 years? Probably not. He was looking for her to redefine their relationship, to make his life more complete. Today, sitting in the car on the way to the escort agency, he knew that this event, Joanna's kidnapping by mafiosi, wasn't a tragedy, but a divine gift that he had to... make the most of. He didn't know what their life would be like "afterward," he didn't know how to change their situation, but he knew his efforts wouldn't be in vain. As always, Joanna defined their relationship, even though he hated it so much; he wouldn't let her dictate his life, but Andrzej had no idea how. His entire life was knowledge, the world of books, the world of intellectual experiences, but suppressed in childhood, subjected to the domestic rigors from which he was unable to outgrow, unable to mature, he wanted to be master of the situation, wanted to create and direct everything.

He sped across the hot asphalt, mechanically driving his car. In the gardens of nearby cafés, people, exhausted from a day's work, gathered to relax over gossip, cognac, and coffee. Girls, sitting in pairs, threes, looked for men, but there were none. They finished their coffee and moved on to the next café 100 meters away. Privateers, who in the mid-1990s were wealthy men with bellies and Mercedes, were living in poverty, making last-minute deals to survive, to last until death. Boys in suits working in Western companies were more likely to look for boys than women. And visitors, though everyone in this city is just passing through, were intoxicated by the luxury of the capital.

XIV

He entered a tenement building on Stalowa Street, one of the most dangerous streets in Praga Północ, on his way to an escort agency.

He had never ventured into this part of the city, even though it had become fashionable thanks to artists. What attracted them to this place? Low rent? Or perhaps what attracts all artists – so-called real life. They believe that drunks, thieves, and whores are a metaphor for their lives. As always, artists were drawn to them. Perhaps they were seeking subjects for their works among them. Works about life, so-called real life, but none of them, unlike a few, dared to live the life of these streets. After a few hours spent in Praga, they returned to their velvet apartments, seeking respite in the arms of velvet women, while life in Praga squeezed its inhabitants into the tight corset of everyday life.

Today's generation of artists is accustomed to luxury. This isn't the generation that, instead of going to university, chooses chauffeur training to observe life. This isn't the generation that, deprived of freedom of speech, is forced to flee westward to work for their daily bread, the freedom of refuge. Ours is a generation of conformists. People with soul problems inflated to the limit. Perhaps the American revolution of the 1960s has only now come to us. After 40 years.

Like the hippies of old. You are slackers. You are lazy. We are artists.

The tenement house was entered through a wide gate, guarded by three thirty-year-old men with the faces of sixty-year-olds. Children played in the concrete courtyard, around the chapel of the Queen of Poland. They must grow up quickly, perhaps too quickly. Fighting against the oppressive reality of everyday life, not against the delusions of their own minds, a luxurious oversensitivity. They steal because they have nothing to eat. They beat people to prevent them from being beaten. They curse and swear, because whoever doesn't is out of business.

With trembling legs, yet oh so determined, he crossed the stairwell. The drunks called after him, "To Agnieszka, Agnieszka. The Queen of Steel." He entered the stairwell, covered in terrazzo dating back to before the war, terrazzo arranged in geometric flowers that remembered its old Jewish owners. He began climbing the worn wooden stairs, which creaked with every step. On the sides, traces of varnish and the original, natural color of the wood could be seen, but in the center, worn from footsteps, they exposed the interior of the oak flesh, step by step.

He took his time. Slowly, step by step, he climbed higher, devising a plan of action. He had never visited escort agencies, but his mind told him that money could do anything. As always. And not just there. Holding on to the balustrade, which swayed and creaked pitifully like the stairs, he announced his presence to the tenants. He soaked in the atmosphere of this place, this district. Rough, porous, spotty, reality clinging tightly to his body.

He wanted to meet Nina as quickly as possible, hand over a hundred złoty, buy information about Joanna, and escape this backwater of reality. He wasn't an artist, self-aware, possessing a thousand masks, able to survive in any conditions. He was an ordinary man, an ordinary frustrated man, like many in this city, like many among these old, dilapidated, ghostly tenement houses.

He spotted the agency's door immediately. A red light glowed above the doorframe 24/7. For some, the red was inviting and enticing, for others, a repellent scream of "Don't come in." They succeeded in one thing: they attracted attention. Andrzej had no choice. Whether the red disgusted him or even desired it, he had to go inside.

The apartment, like all the others in the old tenement buildings, was vast and spacious. Three rooms, along with a bathroom and a kitchen where the "girls" presented themselves, but which wasn't used for preparing daily meals. He stood in the doorway, confused, not looking around, waiting for their reaction. Waiting for their first step, the first step that would bring him closer to Joanna. An ugly old woman and a broad-shouldered man sat at the coffee table. They were surprised to see him, but they didn't show it. They looked at him calmly, emotionlessly, though he, in his expensive suit, looked out of place in this establishment.

"What do you want? We only sell one thing here. Delight," the old woman said, not taking her eyes off the tomato soup. "

I'm looking for Nina," he said, standing on trembling legs, his voice trembling.

"Nina? Nina isn't a woman today, but we have other pretty lovebirds. Girls!" "—she shouted into the apartment as her hand hovered over the plate, holding a spoon full of rotten-orange soup.

"I'm looking for Nina," he repeated, staring at the old woman with a dog-like gaze as the girls, dressed in flowing, easily shed clothes, walked past him.

"Nina and Nina," the spoon dropped to the plate. "What, you have a crush on her?" She spooned another portion. "How many times can I tell you, elegant lady, Nina isn't a woman today! Or maybe today, and only today, she is.

" "But I want to meet Nina," he persisted. The girls lined up in the kitchen, showing off their best features: ample breasts or shapely hips, highlighting their first-rate assets.

"Mister, there are lovebirds here, prettier than Nina, and you're so bloated for her." She pushed aside the half-empty plate of tomato soup, stood up, and, shaking her big ass, walked over to Andrzej. She looked deep into his eyes, smoothed his jacket, and looked at his hands. "Okay, little sparrow. Nina, get ready!" she shouted into the apartment. "Second door on the right," she said, returning to the table.

The whores gave him a hateful look, then hunched over, went limp, flabby, and began to chatter.

He entered the room. A bed covered with satin sheets, a small glass table, drawn curtains, and a lamp glowing red, like the one at the entrance.

"Wait," he said to her back and his fingers, fiddling with her bra.

"For what? We don't have time. The old lady told you I wasn't a woman today, I was 'sick.'" She threw her bra on the bed.

"I need information." I won't even touch you," he said, staring at her shapely back, which gently curved down to her buttocks.

"But it'll cost you." She quickly lit a cigarette and walked naked to the window.

"I'm looking for Joanna."

"Who?" she feigned ignorance, staring at the turquoise Madonna statue. Suddenly, she turned and approached Andrzej, looking into his eyes, her breasts touching his chest. "You're Joasia's husband, aren't you?

" "Yes," he looked at her lips. "I'll pay you. They kidnapped her because of you, because of you whores, so now help me.

" "Yes, they kidnapped her because of us, but I don't want any money from you." She pressed herself against his body, tilted his head, and began whispering in his ear. "She said you didn't like us." She combed his hair. "She said we were cattle to you." She looked into his eyes. "She said you wouldn't go to bed with any of us." She smiled, tenderly touching her lips with her fingers. "Is that true?

" "What do you want?" He pushed her away and fled to a chair, not looking at her naked body.

"Don't you know, Andrzej?" – She sat on his lap, placed her left arm over his shoulder, and tenderly stroked his hair with her right. – I'll help you, but… – She stood up, stubbed out her cigarette, and lay down on the bed. – But… You have to sleep with me. You'll find out who's better for you. Me or her? A whore or a woman?

– I'll pay you. I'll pay you a lot of money. As much as you want…

– No – she interrupted him mid-sentence. – You know what I want. I want you, Andrzej. I want you, Asia's husband. Choose.

His entire life flashed before his eyes, like a fast-forwarding movie. All those moments that were important. Those moments that were painful and those that brought joy. He had to make a decision that would lead him to Joanna. She had always made them, she had taken responsibility, and now, to get her back, he had to make it himself, he had to stand at the forefront of life.

– So, Jędrusiu? – She lay completely naked, staring dispassionately at his curled-up form.

He said nothing. Like a small, stubborn, rebellious child, he stood up and slowly began to remove his clothes. Nina turned onto her side, looking at him without embarrassment.

"What now?" he asked, standing naked.

"Come on, show yourself. Don't be shy. Let's see what Aśka had at home," she laughed rudely, scratching her lower belly.

He didn't. He slid under the sheets, waiting for her touch. Tenderly, sensitively, she touched his hair, forehead, eyes, lips. She reduced him to the position of a trusting, willless being, awaiting her gestures. She pressed her body against his. She manipulated his senses. Controlling every reflex, she reduced him to a soulless puppet, begging for an even greater stream of sensations pulsing through his veins. Logic, reason, rationality, and inhibitions ceased to exist. The centuries-old male instinct unleashed an animal within him, howling for "more, more, more!", completely submitting to her lips. She paused. She looked into his eyes. She admired the achievements of her femininity. She triumphed, seeing the fear of the end in his eyes. The separateness of souls, bodies, and minds ceased to exist. Like animals, soaked in the sweat of desire, they basked in unity, in God, the absolute. He can already feel his short, choking breath, announcing the unspeakable. He can already feel the tremors in his thighs. He can feel his body's mantras of pleasure, feel his pulsating hands. He's an absolute, a male, an animal, a God. A scream. A delight.

"The Blue Parrot. You'll find her there. She helped us escape our professions, free ourselves from our pimps, and for that, Alex kidnapped her." She laughed like a whore, reaching for a cigarette.