John

Day 1

I was one of the last people to join the team. I didn't notice him right away, but he definitely saw me from behind his desk. He knew everyone and often observed our work, but no one interpreted it as surveillance. He was simply with us every day. At first, I couldn't get used to him. His slow movements, measured speech, and teasing irritated me, but when I looked at my colleagues, I saw that they accepted his behavior with satisfaction and sympathy. Strange... I always thought such people were treated with a bit of disdain. I thought he was trying to reduce too many things to Polish reality. Things had to be different here.

Day 5

I learned his name was John, the Polish Janek. I smiled to myself. In Poland, that name had been forgotten. These days, almost no one named their sons that. If anyone did, everyone smiled when they heard "Jan." John is a very popular and well-liked name here. Maybe because it sounded better?

He often stood at the window, gazing out at the busy streets. I'd heard he'd grown up far from the big cities in the outback, so perhaps he was fascinated by the speed at which people lived in large urban areas. Out of curiosity, I looked in the same direction as he did. I was surprised to realize he wasn't looking at the street, the cars, or the people. He was inhaling deeply, as if trying to relax. I sometimes did that when I was really nervous, but he didn't seem agitated. He was calm—as always...

"I like the smell of eucalyptus," he said suddenly, turning to me. I flinched. He knew I was looking at him, wondering why he was standing at the window.

"You don't?" he asked quietly. His voice was pleasant, low.

"I don't know... I haven't wondered..." I replied as quietly as he did. I don't know why we spoke in whispers. I was embarrassed and went back to my work. He also moved away from the window, gave me a strange, farewell look, and went back to his seat. I didn't see him again that day. I felt terrible—as if I'd caught him in a very intimate situation, reserved only for the select few. And yet, he was only standing at the window... Yet, a strange feeling of guilt grew deep inside me. What was happening to me?

Day 9

From then on, I couldn't find my place. And, horror of horrors, every day I waited anxiously for John to appear. Eventually, he would arrive, sometimes glance in my direction, and that was it. I told myself it didn't matter to me, but I felt a twinge of jealousy when he approached my friends and chatted warmly with them. Sometimes they burst into laughter. It reminded me of school. Whenever someone laughed like that, I thought they were mocking me. That idiotic way my insecurities were born, and I couldn't cope. And it remained that way to this day. Unpleasant situations flashed before my eyes—sneering whispers, stupid smiles, inappropriate remarks, and my own barely suppressed tears.

"Are you okay?" I heard right next to me. John crouched down by his desk, gazing worriedly into my eyes. I blinked a few times to shake off the nightmarish memories. As if to spite him, a few of my tears fell onto the desk. He looked at them, then gently wiped each one with his hand. He looked up at me.

"It's not worth it, whatever the reason."

He walked away, and I sat still, as if I'd just seen my dead mother.

I didn't come home for a long time that day. I sat in First Fleet Park until late, thinking. Until finally, a policeman approached me and asked,

"Good evening. Do you need any help? Do you have somewhere to go?"

I glanced at him. He had a pleasant, quite handsome face. I smiled slightly, then looked around. It really was dark. December days were very long – I must have really been staying up late.

"I have somewhere to go. Thank you."

Day 13

I'm not a superstitious person. That's why it didn't bother me that it was Friday. I can safely say – I counted this day as a success. I was working on a new book, something wasn't working, my hands were doing something completely different than my head told them to, but I didn't particularly care. I think for the first time, I wasn't worried about anything.

John came in completely openly today, meaning he didn't come unexpectedly. I saw him walking toward me and even waved him off. I realized I wasn't annoyed by his manner anymore, which had been so irritating at first. Somewhere, that feeling had faded, like childhood memories fade. We only remember what we want to. And I wanted to remember John today—from Friday the 13th.

"You have a beautiful smile," he said in a deep voice any woman would fall in love with. Sometimes I felt like all the girls in the office were in love with him.

"You should smile more often," he added after a moment.

I was silent. I wasn't used to such honest, uninhibited remarks.

"I think I'm asking too much of you after all...

" "Why do you say that?" I asked.

"Your eyes are the color of gold, but your gaze is cold and hard as ice crystals. I wonder what happens to a person to make their joy fade?"

I was speechless. I didn't know whether to take this as a sarcasm or an invitation to talk. He must have sensed my hesitation, because in one swift movement, he pulled up a chair and sat down at my desk. I hadn't expected such vehemence from him.

"Where are you from?" he smiled warmly.

"Poland.

" "Ah. The land of bison, highlander oscypek cheese, and Veit Stoss's altarpiece."

I was speechless. I genuinely didn't know what to say. All the foreigners I knew, when they heard "Poland," could only say that Wałęsa was from there and that John Paul II was born there, but he surprised me with information I never expected to hear. I couldn't help but laugh. Everyone looked at us, and I laughed more sincerely than I had since we left Warsaw airport. That's when I realized people could laugh heartily, and not necessarily at me.

"Finally." John put his chair back and went about his business.

After work, I talked to my colleagues and told them the reason for my outburst. They reacted similarly. And they laughed at themselves, too. They, too, would have mentioned the Pope and Wałęsa.

Day 20

Days passed. My new job was becoming more and more pleasant. I got to know some of the people better. I even went to a real Australian barbecue, where I ate well-done ribs and shish kebabs, and drank cold beer alternating with hot, strong tea. But the most important things always happened in John's company.

That day, I stayed in the office late. I had a ton of work, and since I didn't like taking it home, I stayed longer. But today, it wasn't my duties that kept me at work. I wanted to talk to John. I had meticulously planned every moment of our conversation, but he beat me to it again. He came to me himself.

"What are we going to talk about?" "He asked directly.

I looked at him intently. He was a real man. When he laughed, his voice rang loud and sincere. When he got angry, the air sparkled around him. And when he held a woman in his arms... You wanted to be that woman. His voice snapped me out of my thoughts.

"Are you done for today?

" "Yes.

" "Let's go to the Rocks Canterbury store."

And we did. In the café, we talked about unimportant things, mostly about our lives and others'. About adventures, events, curiosities.

"Why did you leave Poland?" John reached for another cup of coffee.

I didn't answer immediately. It's not easy to remember things that are unpleasant for us. But once we learn to do that, they won't be so unpleasant anymore.

"I escaped. That's what I call it."

"From who?" he asked, barely audible, as if afraid to frighten the moment of honesty that had emerged between us.

"Or rather, from what... From the pain of my mother's death and my breakup with my boyfriend," I said slowly through my teeth, and felt how much hatred still lingered within me, even though over three years had passed. I thought it was all behind me, but the mere memory filled me with rage. John must have sensed it, because he asked something completely neutral to me.

"Why Australia?

" I needed a long escape. When the Warsaw airport disappeared, I felt relief.

"Are you happy in Sydney?

" "I don't know. Memories cloud everything, so I don't think so. I live here, but it's like I'm dead. I have friends, but it's like I don't have them or don't appreciate them. I can't come to terms with my mother's passing... What did it give me? Did it make me grow up? Did it ennoble me? Or should I treat it as a punishment?" I blurted out my pains, which I hadn't discussed with anyone in a long time.

"Or maybe as help?"

I looked at him, surprised. I didn't understand.

"You see, we treat death as something terrible, we fear it, and we don't allow ourselves to think that sometimes it brings something good. And if your mother were alive, maybe you would still be stuck in the grayness of life you told me about. Nothing would have changed—you wouldn't have taken the risk, and you wouldn't be here. After all, you always wanted to go to Australia."

We were both silent for a moment, each lost in our own thoughts. I sighed. I'd never experienced death that way. For me, it was only despair and sadness, not a driving force that made anything happen.

"I don't believe in God," John said, her tone strangely hard and cold. "But I know you do, so I'll tell you this. Maybe God has new plans for you. Maybe you're needed here, and if not you, then your son or daughter.

" "But why is it at the expense of others?"

"Everything has its cost. Old technology fades away, laying the foundations for a new one. Culture transforms, customs change. And every being dies so that another can emerge.

" "What about love? That's my biggest failure. Three years ended in a single day. I loved him, and he simply left me," I wallowed in self-pity and my failed life.

"Don't blame yourself. You were deeply committed, he clearly wasn't. What good is love like that? He cheated all his life, and he would cheat on you? Why are you still thinking about it? Patience, girl. You'll meet your love here."

I couldn't sleep for a long time. I stood at the window, looking at the Southern Cross. John was right. Why do simple things only become obvious to us when a stranger explains them to us? I was lost in the constant desire to feel sorry for myself, and I couldn't see the good things that surrounded me.

Day 27

Nothing major happened. It was just as if the sun were shining brighter, my breathing became deeper, and my legs felt lighter. Basically, the same thing was happening, but as if written on different paper, in a different book, with a different hand.

Day 33

John didn't show up for work. News no one expected arrived. John was dying. After work, I went to the hospital. No one had agreed, but everyone showed up. We stood in the hallway, huddled together, uncertain, like frightened children. They wouldn't let anyone in to see John. Apparently, he'd had a heart attack, supposedly his third. The doctors were amazed he was still alive. They didn't give him a chance, but each of us had faith in him and his will to live. I looked at my colleagues, their faces full of fear and disbelief. Finally, I understood. Each of us had entrusted some secret to this man. The little blonde from sales and Walter, the graphic designer. Who knows? Maybe even our boss had spoken to John? What made us so eager to share our secrets with him?

It was getting late. Most people had gone home. Of course, they had families, children, and responsibilities. Only those who had no one to return to remained. We talked quietly about John. He'd only been with us for three years, but he'd gotten to know everyone. Strange, John was still alive, and we remembered him as if he'd passed away long ago. Maybe people need to talk in difficult times? Maybe that's what John had told us. Don't run away from problems, but talk about them.

The boss appeared in the hallway. He'd just gone to talk to the doctors. He wasn't coming back with good news. My hands were shaking. Memories began to pass like images before my eyes. The phone rang. The doctor's dispassionate voice asked if I was Janina W.'s daughter. "I'm sorry, your mother died at 1:45 PM..." As if someone had ripped out my heart, arteries and veins, and then put it all back together, but somehow clumsily, backwards.

"John passed away a few minutes ago," the boss said quietly. I heard a sob behind me. Someone gasped.

"Did he suffer?" I whispered.

"No.

John was dead." Our doorman was already standing at the gate, which he wouldn't open. It didn't matter that he didn't believe in God. I believed for both of us.

Day 35

John's funeral took place today. We scattered his ashes over the ocean—just as he had desired. He was 67 years old. As I poured the ashes through my fingers, I remembered his words. "You too will die someday. Everything will be gone then—the suffering, the sadness, the longing."

Day 40

I sat in First Fleet Park. I remembered John. Who was he really? He knew so much about us, we knew nothing about him. I don't know how long I sat there. Suddenly, I heard a warm, male voice.

"Good morning. Do you remember me? We met here recently."

I looked at the unfamiliar man. It was the policeman.

"I remember, but you're in civilian clothes today.

" "It's my day off. Can I join you?

" "Of course." I made room for him on the bench. He had a pleasant face. I watched him curiously. He, too, didn't take his eyes off me. Finally, he said,

"I'm not good at beating around the bush and I don't have a ready-made formula, so I'll just say this... My name is Neil. Would you like to join me for tea, coffee, or something?"

I wasn't surprised by his directness. Most Australians were known for it. I extended my hand to him. He shook it gently.

"Elizabeth. Fine, but on one condition. You choose the place. I don't know Sydney well.

" "You're not from here?

" "No. I'm from Poland.

" "The land of John Paul and Wałęsa," he said in one breath, then added, "And pickled cucumbers. I love them."

I gave him a sideways glance. Did he say that specifically to make me laugh, or was he just trying to make fun of my country? But his expression was very serious. I smiled slightly. Actually, pickled cucumbers were quite popular here in Australia.