Alice's Secret

Everything in Alicja's house smelled different. The wardrobe, the table, the tartan oilcloth, even

the fruit in the basket lost their natural scent, as if trying to hide the most intimate part of their being from others.

When I first moved in with her, the sour air that filled every corner bothered me for a long time. I couldn't get rid of it. Finally, I asked Alicja why her furniture didn't smell of varnished wood, but instead tried to suffocate me with its sharp breath. She said that everything had its own secrets and that it wasn't worth dwelling on.

Over time, I grew accustomed to this pungent smell, grew fond of it, and even began to miss it, especially in the winter when it faded from my memory.

I would come to Wołosate at the end of June, right after the graduation ceremony. That pink piece of paper marked my time, dividing reality in half. Alicja always examined it carefully, read my grades aloud, and patted my hair. It was precisely this carefree tenderness of her hand that I eagerly awaited every year, even when I was bringing my Medical Academy exam papers.

We went to Szczupakowa Street three times a week for milk. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, we'd get up at a quarter to six to walk the mile and a half for a can of warm milk, fresh rolls, butter, and mineral water, buying it at the only store within a three-kilometer radius. Jan accompanied us on each morning walk. He'd creep like a gray shadow, always a few steps behind us. Jan was a beautiful feline individual with manners worthy of a feline aristocrat. Like everything in Alicja's house, he was very mysterious. He'd disappear for days, to who knows where, and then simply return, drink yesterday's milk, and curl up on the windowsill. Alicja discovered Jan's secrets by accident one spring day while searching for cake tins in the basement. Half-hidden in the cupboard, she heard soft squeaking coming from the corner. Jan turned out to be Janina – a young mother of four kittens.

In the afternoons, when the sun filtered lazily through the leaves of the old linden tree, we sat in the garden and silently solved crossword puzzles. Other times, for a change, we played solitaire. Then Alice would tell me about her childhood and youth, the happy years of her life, happy despite the ongoing war. Sometimes Alice would knit a sweater, and I would read Andersen's fairy tales aloud to her. She could listen like a little girl, then her nimble fingers would freeze, losing some of the stitches of her knitted sweater in her rapt attention.

On cold days, we would ride our bikes into the forest to pick strawberries and blueberries, which we would then eat with cream and sugar.

A letter from Michał arrived in mid-February

: "Dear Julia!

I'm sorry I'm writing to you so late. I was afraid of your reaction, I wanted to put this moment off as long as possible, but now I know I can't wait any longer.

Alicja is feeling worse and worse. She barely gets out of bed anymore. We offered to take her in, but Alicja didn't want to. She said she'd stay at home until the end. Julka, she knows she's dying, that there's no hope for her. I went to the hospital specifically to talk to the doctor, but he said there's no point in cutting her open. He said there's no point in cutting her open. God, I don't know what more I could do for her. She's so defenseless, like a child. I read her these terrible fairy tales every day. Have you noticed that none of them end well? Julia, I'm so sorry.

"Michael"

I drove the Peugeot to the church, from where it was not far to Alicja's house. For the first time I saw snow-covered Wołosate. The sky was constantly scattering white flakes across the fields, which accidentally landed on the barren earth of my head and shoulders. From a distance, the house looked as if a caring hand had covered it with a white blanket to keep it warm. The light was only on in the room upstairs. One bright eye watched over the house. Alicja lay in bed, curled up in pain. She was asleep, but despite this, a vertical wrinkle was visible on her forehead, a silent imprint of suffering. Michał was asleep in an armchair, his head resting on a thick volume of fairy tales. I placed my hand on his shoulder, and he opened his eyes immediately. He didn't say anything, just pressed his cheek against my hand. That was enough.

Two days later, Alicja died. After the funeral, I decided to stay in Wołosate for a while to sort out the things she had left behind. The smell was slowly seeping into my consciousness. A few days later, I felt that The tablecloth smelled of starch. Then I began to wander around the room, sniffing everything I could lay my hands on. The books began to smell of dusty paper, the armchair of torn plush, and the curtains of laundry detergent. The objects decided to reveal their new identities to me. The pungent scent that had always lingered throughout the house faded, leaving no trace behind.

And suddenly I understood. It was Alice's scent. When she left, he left with her. Images and sounds from the past remain in our memories, but a scent dies with its owner. Alice was no exception. She took her scent with her.