Cure takes time. This statement isn't a major leap in the structure of my reasoning; this sentence has nothing to do with discovering new lands, with the idea that treatment requires a sufficient amount of time. Everyone knows how to write about certainties, how to explore axioms. Obvious matters are never discussed, irrefutable facts are left to themselves, the first sentence should never have been written down. And yet, this is not a sentence left for fun. I don't situate this sentence based on the absurdity of my own thoughts. The sentence is important, even though it attempts to express the obvious, this sentence is not nonsense.
After the fatal blunder, Zosia left without a word, turned on her heel, and disappeared around the corner. Grzegorz's eyes, despite their vivid hatred, tried, like Othello's, to penetrate the poorly plastered tenement house and glimpse the treacherous woman's cream dress. He couldn't know, because how could he know, when after that overwhelming event, we drank vodka neat, blurring the world? He couldn't know that in three hours, that is, about one hundred and eighty minutes, Zosia, hated and adored for such a long time, would express her regrets, longings, and desires in the other's arms. He couldn't know this, because despite the vast amount of time they shared, a man will never fully understand a woman, nay, he won't even halfway understand her. Understanding a woman, such a complete understanding, doesn't exist. Women don't understand each other, a woman is an enigma, and being with a woman strongly corresponds to attending a Copperfield show.
In despair, Grzegorz reached impossible states; his states of consciousness were unexplored, untamed terrains, never trodden before. For those two weeks, fourteen days, Grzegorz soaked in alcohol like a giant sponge. The alcohol, poured in by the bucketful, caused hallucinations, chronological disruptions, dreams and nightmares. In short, Grzegorz completely lost track of time; he had no idea—how could he possibly know—what time it was, what day it was, whether it was nightfall, or whether the pale light filtering through the dirty window was perhaps the early morning light. He was completely lost. After the fatal blunders of their treacherous women, men often act according to a certain pattern, established over the years and Hollywood cinema. The betrayed hero walks down a gray street in the pouring rain. The betrayed hero enters a random pub. The betrayed hero takes a seat behind the brown counter. The betrayed hero, with a dull expression on his face, begins to down the vodka.
Although it's typical as hell, although it reeks of embarrassingly imitating Bogart, such behavior by a betrayed man is truly beautiful. The romanticism in this typicality is incredibly beautiful, an element of a certain, perhaps masochistic, self-deprecation, a fundamentally fantastic element of a man's life. When you calmly walk into a bar, order four 50s, and without further ado, down the liquid, not giving a damn about everyone present, men and women above all, not giving a damn about anything, feeling terrible humiliation, anger, but also incredible relief and freedom.
One could say this, but one should refrain from overly intrusive notions and conclusions, as this sentence won't fully capture the case. Therefore, one could say that Grzegorz's treatment, proceeding according to a specific plan, focused on one, but not the only, factor, centered on a single point. Grzegorz's treatment centered on a glass bottle filled with gray wine. Naturally, besides vodka, Grzegorz was saved by cigarettes, friends, music, Grandma Aniela's pierogi, and the calm tone of his mother's voice. In short, when his beloved betrayed him, and Grzegorz couldn't forgive the betrayal, he couldn't, because (once again, the details concerning the betrayal and the reaction to it should be omitted; to break it down into paragraphs is, by repetition, irrelevant, and unjustified), Grzegorz was treated with everything. A prescription was written for him, and he was to take every edible particle, excluding women. Grzegorz's treatment was to last quite a long time, long enough; he could treat himself with anyone, but even if he could, and he could, he would treat himself with women; he didn't want to treat himself with other women.
Zosia's recovery from her breakdown should be treated as a separate topic. Her treatment, in which alcohol wasn't the initial and fundamental link, followed a different path, the scenario of shaking off the overwhelming reality written on the canvas of love poetry. As
Zosia disappeared around the corner, turning onto Kijowska Street, she already had a plan for how to remedy it; already in her clear head had formed an intricate plan to heal herself and build a new world order—new, not without her beloved Grzegorz, but slightly different from the previous one. Her blond head had developed a plan for the future; Zosia may have been developing this plan even during her frivolous games with the handsome young man, fitting the threads together and devising an ending to the awkward story.
She was recharging her batteries, an accident happened, an accident befell Zosia for the first time. Guiltily, with a contrite heart, she begged Grzegorz for forgiveness, begging, knowing that Grzegorz would never grant her purification, the forgiveness of her sins; he would never touch the wooden confessional, no, because he wouldn't. Therefore, fully aware of this and the futility of her own aspirations, she was aware of the lack of consequences of her actions. Even at the moment of betrayal, she sensed the end of any future shared motives with Grzegorz. And yet, she committed betrayal. Perhaps she had never loved Grzegorz, perhaps she had, but her feminine nature, disliking stability and aversion to monotony, suggested as it suggested? In the end, Zosia recovered within a month. Another man became the cure. If she wanted to stimulate Grzegorz's possessive ego, she completely failed. She calmed down enough that after that month, she stopped taking prescriptions delivered in a yellow car. She dated someone, dumped someone. Apparently, the time spent with Grzegorz had smoothed, subdued, sidelined the part of her woman that strives to gather around herself the largest possible number of male companions. Despite the distinct flashes of her blue irises at each accidental, embryonic encounter with him, Zosia never again wandered around in the evenings, responding with a warm smile to the painfully monotonous, measured, and resonant whisper of my friend Grzegorz.
Loneliness.
Why wasn't the woman of my life with me? Why didn't the woman of my life, instead of charmingly immersed in the flowery bedding, delving into the prose of Sholokhov, Dostoevsky, and Chekhov, even fill this cramped little room with her breath? Why did the woman of my life, instead of gazing sleepily at the small, black-and-white television—but mine—stare at another, colorful, several-dozen-inch television? Why, after all, couldn't I touch the woman of my life, stretched out on the cold sheets, with my damp hand, inhale her scent, savor the dark sweetness of her wonderful body? The answer to the multiplying questions was dead silence, which I knew perfectly well, because the woman of my life had precisely outlined her problems with me and the reasons for her absence from my attic. I knew why this deity didn't drink tea in my little sanctuary. I knew perfectly well why, and that's why I responded with silence.
The woman in my life had grown unbearably tired of me. My miserable existence, my little house in the sand, my Icarus wings, my wild fantasies, my unfinished texts, my unpaid wages, my broken promises, my alcohol, my cigarettes, my habit of language, my minimalism—all of me was alien to her. Every single particle of me twisted her beautiful lips into an ironic, malicious smile. The serene, beloved woman laughed mockingly at me, at my accomplishments, or rather, the lack thereof, at my Homeric similes, at my favorite movies, at my phone calls to my mother, at my passion for soccer—all of mine suddenly began to overwhelm her, irritate, and confuse her.
Why, despite my knowledge, despite my perfect understanding of the subject, did I respond with dead silence? Because I also knew perfectly well that my existence was exceptionally miserable, that unfinished essays were final exam kitsch, that unpaid paychecks were pennies spent entirely on booze, that promises were vile, utterly unattainable dreams, that linguistic distortion was an absurd trick of Satan's verses, that minimalism was the final nail in a coffin poorer than that of Pope Paul VI. I knew all this perfectly well, I knew it even before she, in a shrill voice and flushed face, gathered up the things scattered around the room, saturated with the perfume of "Fare Away," and shouted out like a litany these worldly, monstrous shortcomings. I knew all this perfectly well, wondering why she hadn't noticed it sooner, what God had hidden from those dear little eyes, what driving force had beguiled her with a fleeting illusion. I was perfectly aware of my own fallenness and sinfulness. The woman of my life wasn't with me. Perhaps I had lost the woman of my life as well. Perhaps the woman of my life had ceased to be my woman. Perhaps, to make matters worse, I had lost my life too?
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