It's terribly hot, and the air is filled with the irritating smell of dust and human sweat. The crowd screams and spasms. At first, it's difficult to make out the din. What are these people doing here? Why are they screaming? They're crying for blood. Many women cry, calling for divine help that doesn't come. For a moment, Rose feels lost, and her heart sinks in fear. But then her gaze falls on the protagonist of the drama, and in that moment, everything becomes clear. The winding, dusty road, which Rose and the others are slowly treading, leads to the Place of the Skull. The moment she realizes what event she's participating in, she weakens and falls right at the feet of a soldier. He passes her by indifferently, nudging her lightly with his leather-shod foot. Rose touches the wound on her knee, feeling warm, sticky blood beneath her fingers. She gets up and continues, staggering. The noise terrifies her, the dust seeping into her lungs, taking her breath away, stifling her speech. This climate is clearly not agreeable to her. The condemned man falls, perhaps for the second time, and the din intensifies. She had never considered the state of hygiene in those days. What a stench! And those terrible teeth... How hard it is to walk, how hostile her body becomes all at once. And yet her brother kept telling her she should lose weight. They often argued about this, because Róża despised her earthly form and had no intention of devoting the slightest attention to this vanity of vanities. Now she's beginning to regret her stubbornness. The sweet smell of blood hangs in the air, dangerously irritating her nerves. The women cry louder and louder. Róża howls like a madwoman, and the wind carries her voice farther and farther. Then he speaks to them. Róża can't hear well; it's so hard to make out anything over the noise. Besides, she doesn't understand a thing, what a barbaric language! But it wasn't for nothing that she had participated in every Station of the Cross. "Don't weep for me. Weep for yourselves." She already knew. She felt her body weakening with each passing moment, her limbs failing. It grew darker and darker, and a moment later she saw nothing. Darkness, emptiness, nonexistence. She fainted, screaming, spasming, and calling upon the Lord with all her remaining strength.
She slowly opened her eyes. She could still smell the unbearable smell of blood. Above her, she saw a very Polish, slightly swollen face, adorned with a halo of thinning red hair.
"How are you feeling? Are you feeling better? You must have fainted, should I call a doctor? Do you have heart problems?" the redhead bombarded her with questions in perfectly understandable language. Everything became clear. She had another vision, this time in the supermarket, in the meat section.
"No, thank you, I feel better, I don't need a doctor." Rose was clearly irritated by the inquisitiveness of this red-haired demon and wanted to get rid of him as quickly as possible. She could still taste the earth where his feet had walked, the words of the Savior still rang in her ears, and this unfortunate man was pestering her with questions about trivial matters. What tactlessness, what heartlessness, she thought.
"Maybe I should escort you home? You certainly don't recognize me, I can see from your expression, but it doesn't matter, it really doesn't matter. We're neighbors, dear lady. We've been for quite a few years now. But don't worry, I'm really used to being unnoticed. I'm afraid this terrible heat will take a heavy toll this year." The redhead smiled broadly, his humble eyes twinkling with amusement. Róża was slowly starting to get carried away, but she decided it wouldn't be appropriate to make a scene in public and drag this nightmare out forever. It would be better to take advantage of the offer and get home as quickly as possible, to continue contemplating the great event that had befallen her today. "Damn supermarkets, they could install some air conditioning, it makes you feel like you're in hell. My mother's brother, God rest her soul, also fainted in a similar place once. Unfortunately, he wasn't as lucky as you, falling and smashing his head against a large metal crate of discounted underwear. A dead body on the spot, no way. What a sight it was, I tell you, blood, bras, and sexy panties everywhere..."
Róża considered this unfortunate encounter a manifestation of satanic forces, determined to erase and taint the memories of the moments she experienced while communing with the Lord at all costs. She sighed heavily and hung her head sadly, which the redhead interpreted as sympathy. "Don't be sad, ma'am, he was an old man, poor thing, and his time was drawing near anyway.
" They were walking slowly down the sidewalk now, he twitching strangely and gesturing wildly, she gliding like an apparition, constantly uttering sighs of pure despair. Undeterred by her gloomy expression and hostile glances, the redhead continued to chatter away, not even expecting any interaction. Finally, they reached a dirty, gray apartment building and went inside. He walked her to the door, wanting to make sure she wasn't in danger of fainting again. This weather and this weather would knock you off your feet.
"Well, I think I'll say goodbye to you now, ma'am. If you need anything, feel free to ask. I live two floors above, at number 86. Well, goodbye then." And please take care of yourself.
"Thank you, sir, thank you so much. It's a rare occurrence, someone so eager to help. Goodbye, sir." Róża felt like she was about to suffocate from these forced pleasantries. She longed for this man to finally disappear from her life. Rudy smiled radiantly and hopped into the elevator. He waved goodbye, then she lost sight of him completely. She felt an incredible sense of relief.
The apartment was neat, meticulously clean, and smelled of holy bliss. Róża inhaled the soothing scent with pleasure. She quickly unpacked her purchases, drank a glass of water, and then, without missing a beat, lit the candles on her home altar and fell to her knees. As she said her prayers, she felt her blood begin to pump faster through her veins, her whole body returning to balance. She gave thanks for another wonderful vision that the Good Lord had deigned to grant her. She felt wonderful. After finishing her duties, she washed her hands and, feeling a sense of duty well accomplished, settled down in front of the television with a cup of good, strong tea. Her favorite series was just starting, so she turned on the set to drift into the beautiful world of fiction, and within minutes she was fast asleep in the armchair. She didn't doze off for long, because a moment later she was awakened by a fear that gripped her heart, gripping, profound, and irrational. She felt strange in her own apartment, so uneasy, so alien. She had the feeling she was constantly being watched, and it wasn't a comforting presence; on the contrary, something sinister lurked in the heavy evening air.
Róża knew perfectly well how tempting she was to all sorts of evil forces. After all, no demon could remain indifferent to such piety. Therefore, she was exceptionally cautious and often sought the help of her personal exorcist, sometimes even as a preventative measure. She even invested in a pager, which she gave to her little father, Boniface, so she could call him freely at any time of day or night, calling for help. It was a well-known fact that in such cases, rescue operations absolutely couldn't wait. Tempted in every possible way, Róża even once persuaded him to perform an exorcism at the grocery store next door to her building, where she did most of her shopping and couldn't afford to risk ignoring the potential dangers that might lurk somewhere between the bread shelves and the cooler. Father increasingly complained about his client's excessive timidity, and he responded less and less frequently to her calls, citing the excessive workload and burden of responsibilities that everyone entering the order must shoulder. However, no amount of prayer, mass, or work for those most in need could be considered by Róża as a sufficient reason to ignore her pleas for help. Boniface's carelessness was already irritating her, and she even considered drastically reducing financial support for the order. Now, however, the matter was extremely serious, so she decided to put aside her prejudices and forget about her conflicts with the exorcist for a moment. With a trembling hand, she reached for the phone, waiting for a quick response. But time passed, and there was still no answer. Róża decided to act alone until professional help arrived. So she lit the candles again and began her prayers, but the fear persisted. She wondered when this demon would reveal itself in all its glory and what form it would take. She was afraid to fall asleep, for in sleep one is completely defenseless. More than once, the evil one would seize her unconscious state, and she would be met with cruel visions: naked men and women in negligee, and even herself, given over to carnal desires, sinking into this imagined debauchery. She would then awaken drenched in sweat and racked with remorse, rushing to confession. Anyone who has ever awakened in a state of euphoria, their body defiled and still white-hot, knows how terrifying these moments were.
Father Boniface remained silent and it looked as if he wouldn't speak again that evening. Róża suspected a conspiracy by Father Editor of Rozdzial Christowa, with whom she had been at odds for several years. He was undoubtedly the one who had negatively influenced the exorcist, knowing full well the tragic consequences it could lead to. It was obvious he wanted to destroy his opponent as quickly as possible, for the country was already beginning to divide into two camps, drastically weakening the political influence of this most media-friendly pastor of all time. Until then, Polish Catholics had been one large family, fighting under his aegis against all manner of threats from communists, Jews, Masons, freethinkers, and other scoundrels. Now, however, this entire intricate, deadly structure was being shaken to its foundations by Róża herself. It all began when, outraged by a clearly anti-Semitic broadcast, she called the station and, taking up valuable airtime, delivered an argument in which she argued that not only was the Blessed Virgin Mary not Polish, but moreover, that Jewish blood certainly flowed in her veins. Such a slander, of course, could not be left unchallenged, and Father Editor, supported by crowds of faithful listeners, declared open war on Róża. Initially, the fight was uneven, as Rozdzialnia had an exceptionally wide circle of admirers and, moreover, the ability to sway public opinion to some extent. However, over time, a widely respected Catholic weekly, a publication of the intelligentsia and with a strong tradition, sided with Róża, and a certain balance was achieved. The dispute gradually intensified and expanded, even thematically, as the question of the Virgin Mary's origins by no means ended. Eventually, the matter reached the pages of magazines with more diverse worldviews, and public television also took an interest. All the wars raging around the world at the time quickly shared the fate of bribery scandals, acts of terrorism, and parliamentary disputes; that is, they ceased to interest the public, which was now absorbed in "Róża's War," as the tabloids referred to the heroine's dispute with Rozdzialnia Christowa. After a few months, however, interest in the case began to wane, as the mutual mudslinging between the feuding parties gave way to increasingly complex rhetoric and strictly theological debates, which, of course, could no longer be considered a particularly interesting topic. These were, of course, mere appearances created by the Radio Station precisely to discourage the wider public, which ultimately led to a decline in the number of supporters of our heroine and to her being placed in a position where she was practically on her own. And so it happened, and the initially combative and brave Róża began to regret the moment when this devastating dispute erupted. She was terrified of the Radio Station's militias,The mohair berets were renowned for their cruelty and uncompromising approach to opposing Father Editor. The fanatical pensioners were capable of almost anything, capable of quickly finishing off the Terminator himself. They would stand outside the church where Róża prayed and make sarcastic remarks. They tried to win over all the faithful from our heroine's parish. They blackmailed the priest. They would make her confessor unconscious to extract as much compromising information as possible about their victim. In short, they gradually began to transform our heroine's life into a living nightmare. Róża found this situation increasingly difficult to bear, but she knew that, like Job, she was being tested, a test she must overcome at all costs.
Now she sat alone and anxious, dwelling on every detail of the conflict that had brought her to the brink of nervous exhaustion. She felt she had to talk to someone, or the evening would end either in intensive care or in a mental asylum.
Slowly, she rose from the armchair and approached the elegant bureau, her only memento of her grandfather. Opening a tiny drawer, a sort of secret compartment, she sighed heavily and pulled out a large brass key. She weighed it in her hand for a long time, frowning, visibly waging some internal struggle. Finally, her eyes lit up, and her face lit up with a smile—or rather, a strange grimace of determination. Then Rose turned to the wall, where a painting of The Last Supper, a mid-range reproduction of Leonardo's masterpiece, hung. She pushed it aside slightly, clearing access to the safe beneath. She turned one lock, then another, and then punched in the appropriate code on the tiny keypad. After a moment, she opened the massive door and inhaled deeply, eagerly inhaling the aroma emanating from within. Carefully, with hands trembling with emotion, she pulled out the round bundle and placed it reverently on the table. Slowly and delicately, she began unwrapping it, setting aside each scrap of red velvet. Finally, from beneath the gleaming folds of material, a golden box carved in the shape of a life-size male head emerged. Rose froze for a moment, even seeming to stop breathing for that brief moment. She so rarely found the courage to disturb the saint's righteous slumber that she always felt embarrassed, uncertain, and out of place. Sometimes she felt unworthy of possessing such a precious relic, yet she couldn't bring herself to give it to anyone, even the Pope himself. She hid it from the world so carefully that not only had no one ever laid eyes on it, but no one even knew it was in Rose's possession.
Gently and slowly, she opened the lid of the golden box. Saint John the Baptist's head looked at her with a slightly melancholic expression and a long yawn. The woman froze for a long moment, falling into a reverie mingled with unconcealed spiritual intoxication. The saint's eyes, somewhat clouded by long sleep, now looked at her somewhat unintelligently. Rose flinched slightly, struck by the power of that gaze, but after a moment, she regained her inner peace and decided not to delay a moment longer before striking up a conversation, for she feared that this weary old man would fall back into a long, deep doze, which she wouldn't dare interrupt a second time.
"I've slept in, no need!" Saint John beat Rose to the moment of interaction, still yawning widely and delightfully. He would certainly have stretched happily if only he had had more than his head at his disposal.
"Hello, noble father..." Róża smiled uncertainly, still dazed by the situation she hadn't had time to get used to over the years. "Surely you'd like something to drink... A herbal infusion? Or perhaps you'd like a glass of excellent cognac? I keep the bottle for special occasions, not that I do or anything, God forbid... but someone else can always be tempted, right?"
Jan's head glanced at her ominously, as if indignant at the suggestion. After a moment's hesitation, she nodded and asked for a straw for her glass, in case Róża hadn't considered all the circumstances. A moment later, a glass of cognac with a straw and a tiny umbrella (for added effect, though it's inappropriate for this kind of drink, as Jan rightly pointed out, notwithstanding, he wouldn't allow it to be removed), an ashtray, a pack of American cigarettes, and a bowl brimming with peanuts, stood before Jan. The Baptist's head eagerly began to consume the alcoholic beverages, slurping loudly and rolling its eyes with delight. Rose watched this with devotion, happy and calm. All her troubles now seemed vanity beyond vanity, for she once again felt strength and courage within herself. Communing with the saints always gave her incredible strength. John the Baptist's head watched her intently, already awake, and her gaze piercing and mysterious. The holy man finally asked for a cigarette. Rose lit one and put it in his mouth, and he puffed calmly, exhaling the smoke from the corner of his mouth, never ceasing to watch her intently. He loved all sorts of novelties, so when the first tobacco stimulants appeared, he became a great connoisseur and supporter. He had the comfort of knowing that heart disease and lung cancer could no longer concern him. "So what?" he muttered.
Rose had been waiting for just that. She eagerly began reporting on the latest events related to her war with Rozdzielnia Chrystusowa (Christian Broadcasting Station), then, after summarizing the more pungent facts, fell into a sad reverie. She had just realized that for the first time in several years, when reporting to Jan on the course of this conflict, she couldn't back up her words with any press reports. The media remained silent, seemingly dismissing the matter and dismissing it as a secret. Róża, of course, saw it as a conspiracy by the Father Editor. Now, in fact, every failure, every unpleasantness she faced, was treated by her in precisely that category. This was, in fact, a very common, even typical, approach, for the Father Editor was everywhere sniffing out a Jewish conspiracy, with Róża, of course, at the forefront.
"I don't know what to do anymore, I feel trapped, my exorcist is silent as if under a spell, on top of that they insult me, slander my good name, take away my supporters and friends, and on top of that devil, and this heat, I fainted today, a red-haired demon tormented me, only drunks and whores are interested in me anymore, and this stench of cheap wine, come on, it's unbearable, simply unbearable!" Róża's nerves clearly snapped. Jan's head looked at her with unconcealed horror.
"Take a sip!" Jan finally muttered in a tone that brooked no argument. "And pour me a little more too, if you please."
Róża obediently complied, pouring him a large glass, and then she took a sip from the tap so deeply that she snorted with delight. As the pleasant warmth spread through her insides, she decided it would be worth a shot, one shot, one on each leg, so she shuffled to the kitchen and returned with a glass. She poured herself a glass, poured one for Jan's head, and they sipped the exquisite drink in silence.
"You had a vision today, didn't you?" Jan asked, breaking the silence. His gaze grew increasingly mischievous and glassy, and his smile never left his face. He played with the straw, swirling it with his tongue, making it wiggle in all directions. He almost poked it in his eye.
"Yes... I did.
" "You watched the Passion of the Lord, my dear. Now you know what suffering is. And you see the meaning in it.
" "Yes, yes, I know, everyone carries their own cross to their own Golgotha. So what, and that's all?
" "You know you're going to die. That's something. Do you think how many people actually know that?"
Róża tucked her legs under her, sinking deeper into the armchair. Jan's head smiled, somehow melancholy, even nostalgic.
"It's not so bad when you think about it. I'm not complaining, anyway." Jan cackled drunkenly. "Don't lose your cool, what more can I say?" Here Jan's head shook with laughter and almost fell off the table.
"How sad..." Róża sighed resignedly.
"Eh, you'll be born again for eternity, so why bother? Unless they make you a relic, then it's worse, because that's a tough job. Is there anything good on TV? Turn it on, we'll watch something."
Róża obediently turned on the TV, and then they happily devoted themselves to the contemplation of American action movies, sipping cognac in absolute silence.
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