Machine

I once made myself this interesting razor. Two metal handles, each with a wire, and a plug at the end of the wire. A plug for the outlet. The handles are screwed to a nice wooden stand so it can stand on a table. It's in the closet. Still. What do I need it for? Nothing. Nothing for now, it might come in handy. You plug it in, and those handles have 230V. Or more, depending on how you connect them. We soak the handles, this time our own, in salt water and grab the metal ones. The current flows through our hands, arms, straight to the heart. And the heart doesn't like such razors. I won't describe what happens to the human body when connected like that, because you can read about it in any health and safety manual. What matters is the effect. Death to the person connected. And such a razor, ladies and gentlemen, sits quietly in my closet. I invented it myself, I made it myself. Why? When I was making it, I wanted to use it right away, but I chickened out. And that's good. If I'd used it, I wouldn't have met Aga, wouldn't have experienced the moment (ten minutes?) of happiness I so easily gave up later. Why did I remember her now? I've been thinking about her since this morning. Is it easier to live knowing my life will end so easily? Will I take out my razor today? I'm sitting on the couch now, mindlessly flipping through channels on the TV. The house is empty. As always. I came back here a week ago after a ten-year wandering the world for work. I spent a week cleaning. Today I have nothing left to do, so I sit and stare blankly at the TV. Ten years away from home. A long time? Or maybe a short time? It's been like a week. A tidy sum saved up in the bank, forty-two years on my back, and nothing more. Everything was left behind. Eyes fixed on the next, better and better job, an increasingly difficult task, an ever-higher salary, I harbored an insatiable thirst for excitement that drove me from place to place. A balding man in his forties, athletic, and what... He's sitting on the couch now, thinking about his old razor.

Ten years ago, when I left here, I left my wife and two-year-old son in this house. I promised them I'd just earn a little money and be back soon. Two years, tops. After two years, there were two more, and then another. Five times two years. And I returned to an empty house. But the typewriter was exactly where I'd left it. Maybe because no one but me knew about it? I don't hold a grudge against my wife. She wrote letters, sent photos, begged me to finally come back. But no, there was another contract to fulfill, another project to finish. Finally, I received a divorce petition in the mail. I signed it. I took two days off for the first time and got drunk. Alone. Ballantines—apparently the best whisky in the world. And what a hangover! I threw away all the photos and letters. I tore them up and threw them away. I didn't shed a single tear, even though I tried to cry. I thought crying would cleanse me, but alcohol did it much better. Adaś, my son is over twelve now, and I don't even know what school he goes to. I don't even know what he looks like. But what's there to say? I knew how this would end when I signed the divorce papers.

Now I'm sitting here, racing through my thoughts and trying to kill the guilt. I bought a case of beer. What good is that if I already feel drunk after the second one. And there's still a dozen left. Damn it, I should be focusing on myself, not dwelling on the past, which is no longer my past. I lost something I truly needed along the way, replaced family happiness with a desire for a comfortable life. Not just my own, after all, I always sent money to my wife. So what? She patched up her life. With someone, I don't even know the guy's name. I mean, I knew, she wrote a letter once, but I forgot. Why do I need this news? Why do I need to know that the role of my child's father is being replaced by the man who was here while I was busting my ass in the name of... exactly what? Now it's time to reflect. I'm finally back, I've completed a certain phase of my life. Time for something new. But what? I have no idea.

I found the razor. It stands before me, tempting. I know, I wrote, it's in the closet. I lied. But I don't have any special feelings for it. I look at it with dispassionate eyes and know that I love life very much. Whatever it is. Why did I take it out? Exactly, why? It's one of those thoughts that races through my head and won't let me rest. What did I expect coming back here? What do I expect from myself? I had to come back here; this is my home. Empty, but home. My haven. I knew I'd come back someday. Admittedly, I was supposed to go HOME, but all that's left is the building. But at least there's a place to sleep. Because where else could I drop anchor?

Thoughts, my thoughts. They keep returning to those days when we had nothing together. But we were happy. I loved my wife, no, mistake, I still love her. If I didn't, I wouldn't be writing about all this, right? I'll open another beer. Pour it into a glass. Let it shake me up. Let it kill something, let it revive something. Let it do something to me that will allow me to face the future with courage. At least temporarily. That's how alcohol always had an effect on me. It helped for a brief moment, allowed me to relax. It's been so long since I felt that! Everything comes back. All that neglect, all that guilt, and emptiness. So you have to push it away a bit, feel like SOMEONE, even for a moment. Just like I felt when I emigrated. There's a sense of ill-fulfilled duty. I fought for something we didn't need, or rather, it did, but in a slightly different way. And I, obsessed with my own abilities, let myself be carried away by a wave of success, forgetting about that magical family fire that burns and warms everyone, regardless of their wealth. I stared at my bank balance. I stared at the possibility of another renovation, the possibility of sending my son to a better school, the possibility of buying a bigger car. And then it turned out that there was really no one to give all this to. Somewhere along the way, I lost love without even realizing it. This only dawned on me when I received the lawsuit. But then I immersed myself in work, trying to chase away the desire for love. I thought the money would be enough. With that thought, I sank deeper and deeper. A difficult project? Andy will complete it! After all, he's the best! Another bonus!

Oh, I'll get drunk today. Just like I used to drink Ballantine's, now I drink beer. "Beer"—that's what my wife used to say. Drive away, kill those thoughts. But something was lingering in my head, some tiny gnome whispering in my ear: You've lost your life, even though some would say you won.

Why am I doing all this? Why did I come back here? I didn't want to go back. I wanted to work. But I had no strength left. A heart attack. Doctors, the hospital. My superiors were terrified. My first heart attack at forty-two? Exercising didn't help. Stress, fear of missing a deadline, and dealing with subcontractors took their toll. The contracts dried up. Andy dropped from first place in the rankings to one of the last. Everyone said, Andy's burned out, he's finished. I felt it was time to go back. I checked my bank account and was astonished to discover that in our country I was a rich man. Back there, I was one of many. I came to my senses, packed up, quit my job, and came back. And I felt like I'd returned to nothing.

I have a gold card from some bank, everyone there is so nice to vomit on, transfer us more money. Numbers, ever-larger numbers, someone's getting a bonus for keeping such a customer. So I smile too. Yes, Mr. Marcin, the transfer will arrive this week, we don't have to worry about a thing. How happy these idiots were when I switched my account from a Swiss bank to ours, a domestic one! Another moment and they would have been licking the floor in front of me! Maybe some coffee, maybe something stronger? – and Mr. Marcin smiles at me knowingly... "No, unfortunately I'm driving..." Mr. Marcin makes a face of understanding, and the elegant assistant (damn, they used to be called a secretary, now it's all assistants) brings me some coffee. And I fucking hate coffee!!! They should get me some good tea, for God's sake! A mug, not just a fucking cup, but a damn mug of hot tea with two teaspoons of sugar and no lemon! But no, I take the coffee, smile, thank the assistant (I accidentally glance at her cleavage, flat as a board, bra with some kind of sponges), and pretend to drink the filth. To them, I'm a minor deity, one of those people with a lot of numbers in their account at THEIR bank. I'm not the most important person, certainly, but important enough that it's worth making me a weak cup of coffee and giving me a forced smile. "What's up? Is everything okay? I'm so happy!" "What, am I supposed to tell this idiot that I don't know why the hell I came back here? That everything I loved was born and died here? Would this dapper little man in the perfectly tailored suit understand that, or would he even bother to listen? Fuck him! I have a gold card and you sons of bitches are supposed to kiss my ass!

Another beer. What's the point of all this? I called my best friend from years ago. He used to say, call me whenever you need me. I called. "Hey, I'm back, let's meet somewhere." "Sure, I'm so happy, but we're leaving for my parents tomorrow, call me in a week, okay?" "Sure, no problem... And what, shouldn't I understand that? He has his own life, his own family. My time will come in a week. You have to know your place. After all, he's not a bank. I'm not the most important person here. Do I blame him? No, why? He cares about his family, let him protect them, let him not make my mistake. I remember his girlfriend, yes, she's his wife now. She wouldn't let him leave. I said, 'Man, one, two, the women won't even notice, we'll go, we'll earn money, we'll come back, we'll afford anything!' He didn't listen. He stayed. When I left, I thought he was a loser. Idiot, not taking advantage of such an opportunity! And now... who won what, who lost what? Or maybe call it a draw? This draw is terribly uneven. His life keeps going on; mine is starting all over again." But how do I start a life? Where do I begin? Maybe I should use a razor? No, fuck, I love life too much.

I'm leafing through my old phone book. There are no more numbers I can dial. Because where am I supposed to call? My friends who've long forgotten I'm even alive? My wife? What am I supposed to tell her? Hi, Aga, it's me... I just got back and... What's next? What am I supposed to tell her I'd like to snuggle into her breasts? That despite everything, I'm here, and I can't come to terms with my life? What right do I have to get involved in her new, organized relationship and ruin what she's been trying to fix all these years? What does it matter that, while I was there, I still dreamed of her, remembered all the moments we spent together, replayed them in my head like a movie playing over and over again. I so desperately crave her touch, her smile, the moment of an innocent, accidental brush of her hair, her gentle embrace, her snuggling as she leaned over the table. Her gaze, her pure, clear eyes, looking at me as if I were the most important person in the world. I was proud of that. I was proud that she was there for me; I knew we would overcome all adversities and be together. Then, still certain of it all, I left. And somewhere along the way, I lost it. Of my own volition.

I broke and destroyed the razor. It's not needed. I have no certainty that things will be easier on the other side. Here, despite everything, I have what I have. I don't know what to do with myself, but I have to see my son. For his sake, I have to find the strength to look him straight in the eye and tell him why I took myself away from him.