I woke up at 11:14 on Thursday, the sun was high in the sky, streaming into the room, shimmering against the wooden wall. It was July or August, the summer month. The asphalt would once again heat up like the sheet metal above Grandma Janina's stove. People would once again sweat mercilessly. Women would once again conquer the world in skimpy skirts. Men would once again be lost in wicker baskets, sipping beer, glaring at the ladies with shaggy eyes. Wojtek would once again be sitting at the bar, asking for a stately fifty. I would once again write nothing.
I woke up, and the thoughts that had been rushing through my head then began to crowd, one after another. These thoughts depressing me despite such beautiful weather. The radio was announcing that my blood pressure was perfect, warning allergy sufferers, but I wasn't allergic, a warning unnecessary. I opened my eyes and thought. A full stop is highly appropriate here, emphasizing that I thought immediately after waking up that I was pondering a nightmare, that despite not yet fully awake, despite these obscene, mood-wracking thoughts, I was pondering a dream I had recently had—that dream slowly rising to the surface, that red balloon slowly rising above my head, that green curtain pulled by steel cables, very, very slowly, slowly becoming real in my skull. I was dreaming of a book then.
Whether it was a written book, a story not yet composed, unbound by a false literary gesture, whether someone, somewhere, had already printed this novel, or whether I had read it before, I don't know. I know that I dreamed the book unequivocally—or more precisely, the physicality of the book was more vivid in my dream. The gray, stained volume, bound in paper, kept revolving in my head all night. The author—God only knows who the author was—the content, the herubs probably know the content in detail, the artwork on the title page—perhaps my guardian angel saw it. I only saw a book wrapped in brown paper, three hundred pages long, worn, probably from frequent reading. I dreamed of the book then; it was my first great discovery.
Some time passed before I dragged my tired body to the bathroom, before the cold stream of heavily chlorinated water washed away the remnants of sleepiness, before I ate a high-calorie breakfast, before I lit my first cigarette of the day while drinking my morning black coffee. Between delving into the secrets of my nightly tales and these few irregularly repeated activities, I couldn't always get up from my fall, didn't always have the strength to walk to the shower, didn't always want to eat, didn't always have the courage to drink my morning black coffee, always smoked my first cigarette. Between these two periods, I stumbled upon a clue.
I decided to head for the library. I dreamed of a book. The library could be a link connecting me to a magical world. A library where I met acquaintances and strangers, but more often the former, I took aim at the library with hundreds, thousands, millions of books—bring me here!—I repeated feverishly. I already sensed something strange, it dawned on me that in this spacious place, in the presence of a General of the Polish Army, Staszek de Marco, Madzia Pusta Głowa, Antoni Emalia, the First Librarian in the World, Andrzej the Artist, and many other incredibly colorful figures, the story that gripped me would be revealed. I was taking a wild guess that there, among the shelves, in the shadow of the cold, white walls, I would find the answer to the questions that troubled me: whether my catastrophically wasted life was the most honest truth, or my mess, my lies, my inertia—or whether it was all fiction.
Let me put it another way. I had irrefutable evidence to believe I was a looser. I knew it every time I sat down at a table with a bottle, a blank sheet of paper, or a typewriter. Anything standing or lying on the table reminded me of my futility. The silent Siemens telephone, the faded photo of the woman in my life, the worn bridge cards, the employment contract, the old university transcript, the high school diploma, the birth certificate, and all the things in the world arranged or scattered on the rickety wooden table all proved the futility of existence. I knew it not only because everyone around me was prattling on about it, not because the woman in my life was choking on my lack of independence, not because Tadeusz the Internaut was reproaching me for the excessive alcohol I'd consumed, not because my dear old Józef was blaring overhead about the uncertain future of a grown man. I knew about the aimlessness because I was aware of the lack of any purpose, even a ridiculous one, though idiotic, even an infantile one. I had no purpose, I had awareness.
Yet I couldn't say—and I should emphasize a crucial aspect—that despite all my arrogance and enslavement to chaos, I couldn't say that when I headed to the library I knew what would happen. No, not that. I could only assume, weave thin, barely perceptible, spiderweb-like threads, conjectures, and hopes built on little faith, but these conjectures and hopes were never certain. So, as I walked down the narrow street to the library, I didn't know.
I entered, greeted the regulars politely, shook hands with the men, and graced the women's faces with a rueful smile. Walking into the library, I didn't know many things, the most important thing, but the presence of the regulars was the only certainty I considered. Whatever might happen in the world, the library regulars were always in their place, that is, in the library. On the one hand, it was immensely encouraging, and filled me with optimism, to see several young people constantly sitting there, reading books in the library, chatting in the library, drinking coffee, tea, and alcohol in the library, even sleeping in the library. Indeed, from this perspective, one can reflect on the human mind's receptiveness in all circumstances, especially in a cultural institution. This spontaneous life appreciation group meeting in the library was an example of the younger generation's incomplete degeneration.
The other side of the coin, not so shiny and glorious, library patrons, addicted to its cozy walls, put a dent in their so-called professional lives. Library patrons could write beautiful poems, but they didn't, because the conditions there—the artistic chaos, the large number of human bodies, the noise, the crush—didn't allow for even a moment's concentration. Library patrons could deepen their knowledge, apply for doctorates, professorships, internships, or job applications—but they didn't deepen their knowledge because there wasn't enough time for all of this, they didn't have time to leave their sanctuary. Library patrons could make lifelong friends, conquer the world using their personalities, but they didn't conquer, because the library world was completely absorbing and completely, even excessively, sufficient. Yes, library patrons, that handful of strange little people, could only breathe among dusty shelves, in the proximity of thousands of books and the peculiar smell of socialist manuscripts preserved for years for posterity and for the delight of the patrons.
So there was Andrzej the Artist, a friend of mine from my youth, whose youth, strangely deeply rooted in my mind, his childhood, peculiar and in its own way fantastic, could not be overlooked in the attempt to assess and describe the character of this colorful figure.
Analyzing his personality, Andrzej, was eternally "another pair of galoshes," delving into the secrets of his artistic mind, attempting to capture the fervor of his painterly nature through unskilled phrasing, unlearned stylistic language—a task perhaps beyond my strength, but the strength so necessary to write about Andrzej the Artist increases after every, even fleeting, encounter with him. Among the people I saw, excluding the naturally contradictory natures of the women in my life, the ego of Andrzej the Artist was eternally synonymous with a creative and artistic mind, a mind of aesthetic superiority.
Let's take, for example, the painters he admired, exalted, placed on pedestals, exalted into the holiest pantheons, and bestowed upon them heavenly accolades, because he simply loved painting, was passionately excited by it, and painting and prints completely absorbed him. The painting in question is an example, though several other examples will be listed below, building evidence from them to support the thesis that Andrzej's nature is that of a complete aesthete.
Needed information about Rubens? Andrzej the Artist provided information about Rubens. Needed a book on the Impressionists? Andrzej the Artist obtained a book on the Impressionists. Needed information about Starowiejski's workshop? Andrzej the Artist shared information about Starowiejski's workshop. Painting – brushes, easels, canvases, objects, the smell of turpentine – Andrzej the Artist inherited a genetic passion for painting. His esteemed father, Krzysztof, often sat his flaxen-haired, plump son on his lap and, for hours, pointing with a slender finger at photographs in the album book, explained and instilled in the young mind the theory of painting. From Krzysztof, Andrzej the Artist inherited undoubted talent; a divine spark had seared his skull. Krzysztof painted, enthusiastically creating colorful pictorial constructions, skillfully wielding his hairy brush. His son also possessed the uncanny ability to place lines in the right places, at the right angle, at the right length, and with the right sensitivity. Awareness of talent, Andrzej the Artist was no hypocrite. Despite the constant criticism of his own paintings, despite the notorious negation of his own achievements, Andrzej the Artist knew his talent, made no secret of it, saying he knew how to paint, that he enjoyed it, and would continue to paint for many years to come.
Indeed, Andrzej the Artist possessed a superior aesthetic mind; painting—in theory and practice—was the most distinguished of arts, second only to music. Painting made him an aesthete. Andrzej the Artist gazed at the sky through a painter's eyes, Andrzej the Artist peered into necklines through a painter's eyes, Andrzej the Artist searched for booze through a painter's eyes, Andrzej the Artist looked out the window through a painter's eyes. With the practiced eyes of a painter he assessed a shapely waist, with a painter's gaze he selected adorned ladies, his mind, the thoughts born in his head, were richer with deeply illuminated visual aspects, his judgments, despite highly rational and empirical conclusions, were always built according to a certain, if one may say so, visual scaffolding.
I sat at a small table by the wide-open window. The hot air seeping in from outside enveloped my face, as did a cocoon of cigarette smoke. In the library, five out of eight people always smoked. It was no different when I entered, greeted everyone, exchanged observations on the importance of human health, congratulated the General of the Polish Army on a healthy and long life, and sat down, opening "The Collected Works" of Venedikt Yerofeyev.
I settled into that incredibly comfortable chair, covered with worn fabric, and hunched slightly over the open book. My calm eyes slowly scanned the lines of text, my sensitive ears curiously caught the conversations of the regulars, Staszek de Marco's lecture on the lack of emotional balance in his life; Staszek de Marco constantly linked himself with women, pledging his undying love for his current woman, swearing and vowing that finally, yes, he had finally found the other half Plato spoke of, that his quest for stability had reached its desired conclusion. This wasn't the finale, this wasn't the goal of Staszek's aspirations, this was an eternal finish, the conviction of his other half's perfection, Staszek de Marco's certainty and his efforts were for naught; this conviction usually burst, like a soap bubble, after a month of acquaintance. Staszek spent no more than a week gathering his broken heart; his treatment was a masterpiece, a masterpiece of world medicine. Then he met another Justyna, Małgosia, Maria, or Iwona. Time repeated itself, history repeated itself, Staszek de Marco was always searching.
So, chaotically browsing through Yerofeyev, I had already read this book, I was sated with the charm of this place, its character, its specificity, its atmosphere, the riposte of the First Librarian of the World that Staszek - the Eternal Seeker, if he finds nothing, it is proof that he is a fool and does not know how to search, the sneers of Magda Pusta Głowa, who wanted to shine with unblemished brightness, these absurd sneers of hers rather obscured than brightened, which the General also noticed loudly, fascinated, I watched Andrzej the Artist passionately and silently creating a magical picture on the library's large desk, I heard the strong curses of Deaf Ryszard thrown outside the window towards the blue, cloudless sky and the burning ball suspended at an unreachable height, the slightly shrill, but very pleasant and soothing voice of Little Kasia poured into me, inviting those present to taste the cold drinks purchased For money from the Special Fund for Higher Necessities. You were right, I told myself, you were right to come here. The accumulation of such an inexhaustible, enigmatic human material in one place is a balm for you, you hypocrite. I whispered to myself and smiled warmly, like I hadn't smiled in a long time. The relaxed, natural curve of my lips in that warm smile was truly a reflection of my inner self. Little Kasia, passing by, concentrating on delivering a large tray filled with glass, smiled back. She had a beautiful smile, I didn't know it, but she put me in a hypnotic state with that little face. In an instant, I realized that this smile was the most beautiful I'd ever seen in my life.
What did I feel when the features of her face appeared so beautifully, what did I think of her, the young girl so gracefully showing her white teeth, what observations flowed at the sight of her curious eyes? I don't know, I don't know now, and back then I couldn't know even that much, the sun buzzing outside the window like a wasp, those thunderbolts thrown by Richard's voice, the landscapes created by Andrzej the Artist, the emptiness of Staszek de Marco, the indulgent tone of the First Librarian of the World, the General's momentary absence as he moved with a spring in his step to get another pack of his favorite cigarettes, these factors that intrigued me to the core were obscured by that innocent smile and the cauldron in my head grew even larger and I couldn't think about the slippery slope of my life and I stopped thinking about Yerofeyev, I wanted to think only about her smile, I wanted to invent her and create her exclusively for myself, but my tangled thoughts jumped towards the staid measures of vodka to withstand the pressure of my hungry heart and lonely soul, or maybe the thoughts were arranged this way not because, maybe in my alcohol-diluted brain I was creating a plan to free myself from the shackles of a fatal reality, to cut off from total, persistent inertia, perhaps I thought that my existence, enriched by such smiles and such eyes, had a chance to acquire an even more concrete purpose, and the fear of such a conviction moved me deeply? Before my eyes loomed she, carrying a tray filled with glass of every color and shade, I already knew—those moments of dreamlike nightmare, that holy book I had been dreaming of lately, the determined plan to arrive at the library threshold, the tray carried by Little Kasia, her smile and the bar glass—signposts and instructions from the Supreme Lord.
It wasn't that the Most High was pushing a glass toward me with an invisible finger, directly from heaven, which brings to mind a well-consumed vodka. The Creator's sign was her, that little angel carrying a cheap, silver-plated tray, on which, with their resonant voices, various glasses or tumblers brought to mind, summoning from the black expanse those bitter memories, from the bitterness of the stomach. Night visions, a book wrapped in paper, the leisurely flipping of the pages of the "Collected Works," a fleeting, blasphemous glance at it, a shy smile—the Creator and Lord of the Universe, under the influence of the surrounding factors, caused me to reflect on myself. I felt it, the Eternal God commanded the humble servant: "Humble servant, you have several years ahead of you. Put the brakes on, take a breath, don't make me get rid of you and put you in the service of Mephisto." I'd be lying if I said I didn't hear that divine command scrolling through the blue sky. I'd be doubly lying if I said that the magical state I experienced in the library space didn't have a slightly destructive effect on my self-assurance. I'd be a thrice lying if I said that Little Kasia's smile over the tray she carried didn't awaken in me a warm hope of finding my own personal path in this dizzying world, strewn with thorns, yet filled with peace and happiness. I still had time for a desperate search for myself; I had time and hope.
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