Marian

Marian Wlazło, being exceptionally sensitive about his surname, was very reluctant to discuss the circumstances in which it was bestowed upon the forerunners of his family. To be precise, he never spoke of it. He also never revealed that he even knew it, so all his acquaintances lived in the belief that the history of the Wlazło surname, like the histories of the vast majority of surnames, graced a group of those minor elements of world history that no one bothers with; in short, that such a name did not actually exist. But nothing could be further from the truth!

For generations, the Wlazłos were a family that exemplarily cultivated tradition. Children were told the story of the nickname bestowed upon a poor but well-married peasant, Maciej, from the cradle. It might seem highly inappropriate for such a story to be heard by swaddled toddlers, but another distinguishing characteristic of the Wlazło family was that they always knew better. There was no Wlazło who would compromise even once in their life; they never gave in to a discussion, even if they were at odds with the entire world. It was rare for anyone in this family to speak to the same person twice. The Wlazłos had their honor, their pride, and—often erroneous, but always their own and unquestionable—convictions.

Members of Marian's family were generally very cheerful people, but only within their own circle. They didn't joke, laugh, or become familiar with strangers, unless the stranger was a very attractive member of the opposite sex and a potential future Wlazło. In such a case, every Wlazło became a delightful, incredibly intelligent person, bursting with eloquence in every direction, so that observers of such a scene unconsciously wiped their faces, expecting to be drenched in his beautiful words. There was no young woman Wlazło had ever met who didn't later become his happy wife. Because, undoubtedly, becoming Wlazło's wife was an enviable blessing. The women in this family were highly regarded, never working, always beautiful and well-groomed; they joyfully raised their numerous children (there was never a childless Wlazło over thirty) and with no less enthusiasm maintained the order and overall beauty of the household.

It should be noted that Marian Wlazło was different. As for his surname, surely no one doubts that he would prefer not to dig up its roots? But who would ask him for his opinion?

The story dates back to the times of Polish nobility, when a poor peasant named Maciej roamed the land. He drank copious amounts of mead and didn't shy away from Russian vodka. He wore his long beard, perpetually stained by alcohol and food, proudly puffing out his chest, seemingly in competition with another poor peasant called Jontek. Jontek was brazenly handsome, and his entire brazenness boiled down to the fact that, with a seemingly extraordinary arrogance, he unconsciously concealed all his handsomeness! Not only did he sport a waist-long beard, even more spit-covered and filthy than Maciej's, but his baggy, torn, dirty, and stinking clothes made him look like a handsome man—God forbid, a raggedy man!

There were two of them in the village, and they disliked each other like two magpies who fight over a bone. They gave each other a wide berth as they wandered along the country lane. And when the two of them happened to peek into the only pub in a run-down town three Hail Marys from the village, everyone knew the tables and chairs would be packed. It usually started after the fifth or sixth mug of brewed beer. The innkeeper would prudently hide the glasses under the counter, then crawl underneath, shaking his butt in the air and burying his head in his arms. It might seem logical to ban both drunks from the pub, but there were two significant obstacles: there were no tough guys in the town capable of standing up to the thugs, and when they did show up at the inn, unchallenged, they spared no expense. They drank themselves to death, falling asleep under a bench, and at dawn they set off on their journey back to their home village. Throwing tables is incredibly tiring, and since the tables were made of solid wood and had been used without fatalities for some time, the drunken acts were tolerated, not without coercion.

"So, my child, there came a day..." one of the grandmothers recounted to one of the Wlazło family's grandchildren, brimming with pride, puffing out her chest in a practiced gesture common to all Wlazłos, "...when two little scoundrels had to court!" That's how Maciej, a poor peasant, was always referred to in this family; he was a "scoundrel." And he did indeed have to court one beautiful, sunny morning, as he stumbled out of a bar that was empty at that hour, dirty, and covered in puke. Lifting his eyes, red from drink and rimmed with a livid swelling, he saw a woman he didn't yet know would radically change his life. At first, he was simply enchanted by her girlish beauty, the way she moved with a grace unheard of among women in that area. It should be noted that the women of this village, forgotten by God and the Devil, were courageous women. They were close to sporting mustaches and guzzling honey without restraint. Their bodies were plump and soft, but their character was as hard as rock. The women of this small village in eastern Poland, working in the harvest and in the town guilds, definitely lacked femininity.

This made the peasant Maciej all the more captivated by her long, silky hair, the golden color of the best tavern beer (a connection Maciej certainly had no small significance in), her slender, rosy face, adorned with crimson, heart-shaped lips, and her innocent eyes like two gleaming almonds. He moved slowly forward, his gaze fixed on her enormous, pert breasts, barely concealed by her low-cut bodice. She danced along the slippery city cobblestones, a tub full of laundry under her arm. "A drunkard's paradise," Maciej probably thought, his gaze persistently following the passing beauty and her extraordinary breasts. "This is a drunkard's angel; it's so good to be a drunkard!" When the girl disappeared from his sight, he turned his head after her, momentarily forgetting the rest of his body, still moving forward. Such gymnastics could only end in a fall. Maciej fell flat on his face to the ground, his head hitting the damp cobblestones. Only a strangled "ugh" escaped from deep within his chest.

It took him a moment to recover enough to lift his large, bloated frame from the ground and take stock of the situation. Anesthetized by the alcohol still roaring in his head, he didn't feel a lump the size of his fist growing on his temple. Nor could he see the color of the lump, which was slowly beginning to resemble a plum. A Hungarian plum, ripening at a rate that was, for a plum, alarming. He looked around, searching for something he thought he had lost, but he couldn't remember what it was?!

He seemed even drunker than he actually was. Even if it might seem that someone who never really sobers up couldn't appear "more" drunk, that was precisely the case. He walked unsteadily, his unseeing gaze fixed somewhere in the distance, his mouth open comically. People and animals moved out of his way as he sped along the country road from bank to bank. He hurried somewhere in his drunken trance, knowing neither where nor why he was going. All the grandmothers of the Wlazło family described this moment in great detail. This march was the prelude to the most important event in his life, to the most important event in the existence of the entire family, to the moment when the family unofficially came into being.

Peasant Maciej's drunken march was also—Marian would shudder at the memory—the prelude to what, in his opinion, was the most shameful part of this story. Peasant Maciej had seen the purpose of his journey. He saw his target, with gray eyes and a heart-shaped mouth, accompanied by the drunkard Jontek. Jontek was courting the girl, not at all rejected. The girl was hanging laundry on the line, smiling from ear to ear, revealing a row of white, even teeth. Jontek gazed hungrily at her cleavage, a churlish smile on his face and a trail of saliva sticking disgustingly to his thick beard.

Maciej initially wanted to burst into tears at the sight, but after a moment, anger and lust took over! He adopted the most menacing expression he could muster, and he was capable of much in that regard, and then he strode briskly forward, rolling up the sleeves of his worn gray shirt. Jontek had no chance of noticing his approaching rival, who approached aggressively, not hiding his fury, best visible in his watery, swollen, and now deeply wrinkled, pig-like eyes. He grabbed his rival by the so-called louse and brutally tore him away from the delightful sight of a girl's breasts. Jontek fell to the ground no less spectacularly than Maciej had just moments before. "What the hell is he eating?!" Jontek supposedly cursed, according to grandmotherly tales. He didn't have time to elaborate on his question, because an enraged peasant was already sitting on his chest, eagerly punching his bearded face. The hazel-haired girl turned with the ease of a butterfly and watched with unspeakable horror the brawl in which Maciej's victory was certain. She placed her slim, tiny hands on her inflamed cheeks, shaping her crimson lips even more expressively into a full, plump heart.

After less than two Hail Marys (according to the family wives), Jontek was already lying breathless, and Maciej and the girl were heading to the village, to Maciek's barn. Leaving her white, washed dresses and pantaloons in a wooden tub, she willingly went in her lover's arms. The people they passed along the way shook their heads in pity. "With that drunkard, such a pretty girl!" they probably thought with distaste. "What a bunch of balloons she has!" the peasants must have thought too, setting aside their scythes, sickles, or whatever they happened to be holding. And she toddled joyfully at Maciej's side, laughing heartily, with a subtle note of madness in her voice.

In the hayloft of the barn, they could only initially enjoy the moment themselves. Immediately, half the village came running, having heard the girl's cries and moans. They grabbed pitchforks, scythes, and rushed to the aid of the murdered man or beast. However, upon reaching the scene, they stopped dead in their tracks at the wide-open, rotting doors of Maćkowa's barn. They stood and watched in disbelief at the deeds of the hideous, bearded drunkard. It was undeniable that they watched with envy—whether women or men, they envied such vigor and strength as one.

After a while, the spectacle had to end, for a handsome gentleman appeared on a black steed, and his face, though not young, was filled with terror. "He's raping my daughter!" the chatelaine supposedly shouted in hysterics, while in the background his little daughter sobbed with unmistakable delight. "Get that pig off my daughter before it's too late!" But at that very moment, the spasmodic tremors in Maciej's back betrayed that it was already too late. "Just now, sir, too late, it's gone, it's a bloody mess!" one of the peasants is said to have shouted, and this sentence was repeated by the grandmothers each time, unchanged. This is how the Wlazło family came into being, and this is also how the peasant Maciej stopped being a spitting drunk (which, of course, doesn't mean he stopped drinking).

The handsome castellan proved to be a man worth admiring. In the face of the greatest tragedy of his life, he maintained composure and sobriety. They pulled their daughter, still laughing delightfully, beautiful and rosy from recent delights, onto their black steed, and galloping away from Maćko's barn, they managed to say: "Tomorrow, peasant, they will bring you in a horse-drawn carriage to the manor, and you will forget forever that you were ever a peasant and a drunkard, and if not, I will have your filthy mug removed!" The peasant did not protest.

So, a poor peasant named Maciej unexpectedly became Master Maciek in the manor of the then-respected castellan, all thanks to the desire of a deranged lord's daughter. From then on, whenever he rode through the village in a beautiful, ebony, ornately carved carriage with crimson-trimmed seats, he was called "Wlazło Maciej, Wlazło Maciej!" And Maciek was so proud of his achievement that he never abandoned the nickname. At the same time, despite all appearances to the contrary, he was a man of extraordinary cunning, so that soon the entire manor house and its outbuildings belonged to him, and these peculiarities in his craft were not enough! He fathered eight sons and one beautiful, rosy-cheeked, fair-haired daughter, just like his mother. He began a family with extraordinary traditions, a wealthy and prosperous family, full of gigolos and clever, resourceful (in every sense of the word) young ladies. So there was much to boast about.

However, Marian Wlazło also happened to be in this family. The 21st century, of course, is neither the time nor the place for family reminiscences from the days of noble Poland, nor the time to boast about them; at least that was his assumption, unlike the rest of his family. He certainly had a large family. Three brothers and three sisters, each with at least two children, and it's certain they wouldn't stop there. Six siblings plus two parents, and all eight of them (not to mention aunts and uncles...) hated Marian wholeheartedly, blaming Warsaw for his depravity.

Even at thirteen, Marian displayed above-average academic abilities and displayed exceptional intelligence in the field of science. His entire family lived in the countryside, of course without the shame of labor. Although the estate no longer included fourteen villages, as had been the case in the past, they managed to defend over two thousand hectares of land from wartime dismantling, from which they continued to derive considerable income, cultivating wheat, rye, and rapeseed. They employed a vast number of people and owned a plethora of top-caliber agricultural machinery. They were unrivaled farmers, and what allowed them, as the saying goes, to rise to such heights was not only their business acumen but also the absolute solidarity of the Wlazło family, which Marian alone dared to break.

He graduated from the village school (as is tradition, none of the Wlazłos had ever sullied their studies or contact with the so-called "intelligentsia") a year early, and the teacher declared, "The boy must go to university, the boy has talent!" Marian, on the other hand, was deeply moved by this talent and said to himself, "Yes! I must go to university! I have talent!" His family's reaction, however, was incomparably different: "What is university?! You've got to be kidding!" But Marian wasn't kidding. At eighteen, he was accepted to the University of Warsaw, where he studied biology, and received a social scholarship. In subsequent years, he continued to receive scholarships for his outstanding academic performance. His family never truly forgave him for this disgrace, but perhaps their attitude toward Marian would not have been so hostile had Marian married and fathered seven sons. Marian, on the other hand, neither fathered nor married.

With increasing certainty, one could assume that he was cursed. Of the entire four-hundred-year-old line of gigolos and Casanovas, he was the one born a shy and timid boy. He was handsome, for a change, and plenty of girls quietly fell in love with Marian, both at the village school and in college. He had several less-than-successful relationships with beautiful and intelligent, if dissolute, girls, but Marian never fell in love, and the girls didn't stay with him for more than a year. Most of their trysts were initiated by the girls themselves or by Marian's well-wishers. Nothing ever came of such a date, at least not in the way Marian's family expected.

One encounter in particular, however, was noteworthy, more for the mystery of the event itself than for its impact on his unwieldy psyche. Aside from his ability to quickly learn about bacteria and fungi, Marian displayed no other significant talents, such as driving. The meeting with Sylwia was not, in truth, his first physical contact with a woman, but it was the first meeting during which so much happened, and Marian met again with each of his previous partners many times.

Until now, Marian's encounters with girls had been limited to rather unsatisfying sex. He'd first been hit on by a girl in high school, two years older than him, when he was seventeen. After one incredibly tedious school party, she took him to her house, led him to his room, and told him to take off his pants. Completely unaware of these matters, Marian did as he was told and lay down on the bed. He waited through the entire ritual with a straight face, like an inevitable cataclysm. The girl told him to go home, and that was the end of Marian's first sexual adventure. Subsequent encounters weren't any better; he'd made love in the beds of numerous beauties, in several city restrooms, and in meadows outside the city. Nothing surprising happened until he met Sylwia in the car (which was also the place where he hadn't met a girl for the first time).

The girl didn't turn off the engine; it was an exceptionally cold winter outside, so she turned the heater on high. They both climbed into the backseat without further ado; Marian already knew what they expected of him. The girl, in amorous ecstasy, arched her naked, slender body, aiming the top of her head, thrown back, straight at the windshield. Her shoulders were hidden from Marian somewhere behind the backs of the front seats, yet he could freely observe with peculiar curiosity (that's the right word) her small, pert breasts, bouncing in all directions. They were making love in such a way that it couldn't be called calm, though, given the girl's increasingly wild cries, when suddenly Marian felt something moving beneath him. He tore his gaze from the luxuriating breasts and discreetly glanced down, careful not to disturb the girl straddling him, but saw nothing, though undoubtedly something very large was still moving beneath him, accelerating with the rhythmically bouncing girl. He concentrated for a long moment, and when he heard Sylwina's final cry of pleasure, he had a revelation. They were rolling, along with the car, over the bumpy slope of a forest ravine. Delighted with his discovery, he wanted to share it immediately with his partner, but then he felt a tremendous force throw him forward, his nose hitting the girl's parted crotch. Then he lost consciousness.

When he awoke, he heard the irritating sound of a horn and felt the smell and taste of semen mixed with blood on his face. He opened his eyes wider, but it was dark all around him, and he couldn't see anything until he opened the car door. However, he felt an incredible pain in his nose. A feeble ceiling light, covered in blue plush and red bloodstains, flickered on. The light seemed so feeble and ominous, for the lamp itself was covered in a large stain of congealing blood. Marian didn't realize what was happening, remaining in a state of severe shock for about an hour. He didn't even recover enough to remove his former lover's limp thigh, fading with each passing moment, from the horn. The piercing sound initially pierced his brain like a drill bit, but after a moment, he was able to ignore it. Curiously, he gingerly touched his nose, yet in shock, he didn't yet feel the true pain that was yet to come.

When the police arrived, likely notified by a nearby resident, Marian was still sitting in the backseat, gazing wildly around, while Sylwia remained compromisingly posed, thrown through the car's shattered windshield, half inside the car and half on its mercilessly crumpled accordion-like hood. A large red stain still remained on the tree: a mixture of blood and brains from the previously beautiful Sylwia Z., undoubtedly the main culprit in this entire tragedy. From what the police determined, there was no doubt that the two children (though both were twenty-two at the time, to the police they were unofficially children, like all young people who get into terrible trouble through carelessness and youthful stupidity) had been having sex in the backseat of the car, and that the girl must have accidentally released the parking brake, but the car wasn't in gear, and as a result, it rolled down the hillside, hitting the tree. To this day, Marian doesn't know for sure what happened that evening, nor does he particularly care. His broken nose has healed quite well, though it leaves a slight hump at the bridge. Admittedly, the shock of the accident wasn't new to him. As one might suspect, Marian's entire life has been one of unending shock, with a perpetual look of surprise on his face and a perpetual unawareness of what was actually happening around him.

Marian was not a sentimental man. He was unmoved by the death of Sylwia Z. (he likely wasn't fully aware of it), just as he was unmoved by the death of his own parents. Less tragic, it was a completely natural death from old age, in his own large marital bed, in his own family home in the middle of his own ancestral village, for the core of the Wlazło family never left that glorious, eerily forgotten village in the east of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. Informed of his parents' deaths, Marian returned to his hometown, abandoned years ago, kissed and hugged his entire large family, one by one, leaving no one out (as everyone, without exception, attended the funeral and wake). He ate and drank his fill, and then the day after the wake, as joyful as a wedding, he returned to his small, favorite studio apartment in the center of the capital.