"Creating strong interpersonal bonds is essential for a child's proper development." Especially in the three-year plan, I thought of my little vampire in the same terms as the previous regime. By the way, the road to hell is probably paved with self-help books. If one followed all the recommendations: "How to become a good mother," "How to make a child grow up to be a happy person," etc., one (read: mother) would probably end up in a psychiatric ward with symptoms of the final stages of depression. Listening to sermons at Sunday Mass can also make you go crazy. Priests have become incredibly concerned with psychology lately. Everywhere I go, I hear: "Listen to your child," "Talk to them," "Observe them carefully." My vampire is still too young for now and isn't yet considering joining any cult. He has no problem with alcohol, cigarettes, or other substances. Although I've been keeping a close eye on him lately, to see if his pupils are dilated or constricted (I never remember the effects of drugs). He probably wouldn't be able to handle this or that yet, but the nanny who's taking care of him probably is.
Recently, Marek asked if I was feeling okay. Me? I look absolutely thriving. The fact that I sometimes mention the child at work and express doubts about the nanny's reputation isn't a sign of illness, is it?
"You know, Magda, the frequency of your "sometimes" is alarmingly high.
" "What do you mean?"
"That it's not normal.
" "You don't know yourself. You don't have children of your own. We'll talk when you've taken care of them.
What's this all about? So you can't mention your own child. By the way, maybe I'm exaggerating. The cell phone bill is five times higher since the nanny started taking care of the vampire. But how can you not think about it? Yesterday, as usual, I was coming back by train. And there were two unfledged, dressed-up women, and God knows what else, telling each other what they're doing, where they're doing it, and who they're doing it with." One is about 34 (I suspect that after scraping off the 3 kilogram layer of fluids, not the good kind—powders, mascaras, creams, and other such things—she'd be about sixteen), the other, by the looks of it, is about two years younger (about 14 after scraping off the years). They talk, smile, even laugh out loud, and glance unabashedly at the men who appear in the doorway. Oh, youth, I think. But what's youth? Just listening to them makes my old, childish ears redden. And then they started telling their usual fairy tales. I listened so intently that I almost forgot to get off. Their tales sounded so familiar to me. Maybe because I once spent a vacation in the village they were gossiping about. The people there were indeed strange. There was also one very pretty young woman there. At the time, I wasn't at all surprised that no one spoke to her. He was a young man, so he had something else on his mind.
It's late. And a childhood rhyme has just stuck with me. A slightly macabre one.
"Don't look under your skirts
, flowerpots will fall on you,
there will be no children,
only little guinea fowl.
I'll curse you ,
you'll be in heaven in no time."
Brrr, to think about such things in the evening. And then the streetlights went out again. I'll have to run the next 100 meters with my heart in my mouth. Wait a minute, what was that time? A world record in the 100-meter dash? I suspect the fastest woman in the world would break any record in fear. Well, maybe not me. The last time I ran after a vampire was two years ago, when he was learning to walk. You could call it: an obstacle course race over the world's shortest distance. And I marvel at the sprinter's motivation to achieve the best time. This ride home seems awfully long. It's strange that so many coincidences today. At work, besides Mark and his suggestions about my mental health, train gossip about my childhood village, there was also that little list. I even remembered that the only young person in the village, the woman no one spoke to, must have been crazy. They were terribly afraid of "differentness" there. Grandma forbade me from going to the grove behind the house. And there was always a light on there, and that's where the young woman disappeared. As if the villagers had excluded her from their community. Grandma would sometimes look at that spot, and then tears would roll down her cheeks like peas, and her eyes would be so clear and distant.
"My Jasia, my Jasia," she would whisper.
"What Jasia, Grandma?" I would ask. And then she would look at me as if I'd summoned the devil.
Brrr, I still get chills when I remember. Phew, finally a normal sidewalk and the streetlights are working. Another five minutes and I'd be home.
I decided to surprise the vampire and the babysitter. I'm here about an hour early today. I thought I'd sneak into the house unnoticed and surprise them. I quietly climbed the stairs, the key not even grating in the lock. Here I am. I slip my shoes into my right hand and tiptoe into the vampire's room. I just stumbled upon a fairy tale, I thought to myself.
"Don't look!" the girl said, climbing the ladder to the boy standing under the tree. The ladder was missing a rung. She'd lost that rung when the girl's grandmother was so young and beautiful that all the boys in the village turned their heads. Grandma would then go up to the loft to stack hay. On that hay... well, that one... you're too young to tell you about hay. (Fortunately, I thought.) Anyway, because of that hay, one Sunday a young boy took his dog with him and went into the forest. He didn't return. People searched for him later, but there was no trace of him. However, the villagers said that the grove behind Grandma's house was haunted, and even though the biggest berries grew there, they couldn't pick them. Apparently, they were enchanted.
"How is it enchanted?" asked the little vampire (I must admit I didn't like this story at all, but I was also curious what kind of berries they were).
"So enchanted that if someone tasted them, they kept coming back to the forest and hanging out there until they finally disappeared.
" "Oh my," my little vampire exclaimed, "I don't want a story like that where people disappear.
" "Hush, little one, wait to see what happens next," my guardian said sharply.
Surprisingly, the little vampire wasn't frightened at all. He lay down calmly, as if he'd heard the story a hundred times before, and waited patiently for the next part.
"Grandma had a much younger sister. Such a little angel. She was funny, cheerful, always helping everyone. She had beautiful black curls, and everyone said she'd grow up to be the prettiest girl in the village, so she'd have no shortage of suitors.
" "And who's the suitor?" my son asked in a very learned voice.
"A lover is a boy like you, only a little bigger.
" "I'll be a lover soon too," my son said, almost falling into a narcissistic mood.
"Hush, I'll continue," the caregiver said, yawning.
Jasia had a cat named Mruczuś. Once, the kitten ran after a bird into the forest. He was gone for a day, then another. On the third day, Jasia couldn't take it anymore and went looking for him. She was gone for two days. Finally, she returned. But she was a changed woman. Her eyes were empty and terribly sad. She returned without the cat. Then, sometimes, someone saw the cat. They got scared. The cat looked completely different from Jasia's, like a wild one. His eyes darkened. From the road, you could sometimes spot him too, sitting in a grove, staring at a birch tree. Jasia, too, seemed to be taking on a bit of that cat. She would disappear into the grove for days on end. People in the village started saying she would become a witch. They stopped talking to Grandma. And Grandma had to find a husband to keep the house and the entire farm from falling into ruin. Then the black roosters, the guinea fowl, started dying. The people couldn't take it anymore and ordered Johnny to build a cottage in the grove. And this is what happens to children who don't listen to their parents.
The nanny finished the story, and the hairs on my arms stood on end with fear. Meanwhile, the little vampire had begun to snore.
Brak komentarzy:
Prześlij komentarz