Puppet theater

What am I doing here? Why exactly did I come here? I guess I've outgrown my secret, unrequited crush? I guess... I remember back in elementary school, when the object of my immature love was my English teacher. I studied and got good grades just to see the smile on her face. It was so childish that I laughed silently at the memory. But that was a long time ago. I can't stoop to such behavior now. And yet I did it. Why?

Before my eyes was a girl who seemed to be the answer to my questions. I knew virtually nothing about her, except that she was a pretty brunette and worked at the Stasiek pub. A girl like many others. And yet, something drew me there, to that place, a place I wouldn't have visited if I hadn't happened to be passing by and recalled a certain story from a few days earlier.

Yes, two, maybe three days. It was an ordinary summer-autumn evening, one of many spent anywhere, no matter how, as long as with whom. I sat by the fountain and chatted with Radek. It was 7:30 p.m. People were constantly passing through the cobblestone streets of the old town. It seemed their sole purpose was to block my view of the Museum of Modern Art, which always made me laugh when I looked at it. I don't know why. It was a little mystery.

Music from nearby clubs flowed around me. The gray mass of passersby eventually thinned and took on color. From it emerged the silhouettes of beautified, extravagant young women who, without makeup, would have looked younger than fifteen, gelled-up hustlers, then a more elegant crowd – men in their thirties accompanied by younger women, visiting exclusive establishments. Finally, security patrols appeared on the streets. A lazy half-moon, surrounded by stars, rested in the thick, dark sky. Nightlife was beginning.

We sat there, waiting for the rest of the company, chatting about everything and nothing, when suddenly he approached us. A mysterious brunette woman. She handed us leaflets and said with a permanent smile,

"We invite you to the newly opened pub 'Stasiek', it's around the corner."

Then she went off to haunt other people. Out of boredom, or perhaps out of simple curiosity, we glanced at the paper gifts and tossed them into the bin next to us.

When I was walking to the store on Thursday evening and saw the word 'Stasiek' burned into a wooden board above me, I remembered this probably meaningless story. And I asked myself: why, having passed this way a dozen or so times—perhaps an exaggeration, a few—had I not noticed this "newly opened pub" before? Ha, good question. I'll think about it someday. If I feel like it.

In my mind's eye, I pictured a pretty girl who probably didn't remember me, just as I hadn't remembered her a second ago. "I wonder if she'll be here today," I thought. It didn't occur to me then that she didn't have to work there at all, just hand out flyers. I turned the doorknob and walked in.

My first impression was average at best. The smoky interior, the almost iconic wooden tables, the barely perceptible lighting, supposedly designed to create the right atmosphere, the rotten green and gray decor. All of this evoked memories of similar establishments frequented by underage high school students, rightly hoping to be sold alcohol. There weren't many people. A group of five at one table and a young couple at another.

I walked up to the bar without feeling anything, and surprisingly, I saw her. I couldn't help but recognize her, even though I couldn't remember a single detail about her appearance. Besides her brown hair, of course. In such situations, I simply explained that my subconscious was associating the current image with the one from a few days ago. It compared them and rendered its verdict, not wanting to bore me with thousands of lines of calculations.

I saw her shapely figure in a chair behind the bar, a book in her hands. I could only see faint writing on the back cover, but I was almost certain it was some Harlequin. The passage she was reading must have been a love scene, because she didn't notice my presence until she turned the page.

Confused by my appearance, she approached the bar and, with the look of a little girl caught cheating, asked,

"Excuse me, I didn't notice. Can I get you something?

" "Beer. This must be a very interesting book?

" "Oh, I like fantasy. Especially Tolkien.

So it's not Harlequin after all," I thought. I'd misjudged her. Don't judge a book by its cover. Neither did the owner.

"Hmm, you're sitting there reading, nice work," I said with a gentle smile, which seemed silly a moment later when I realized I shouldn't have called her "you." After all, we didn't know each other at all.

"It's a relaxed day today; weekends aren't easy," she replied. I guess she didn't take it to heart. For some reason, seeing her behind the bar, I thought I'd find something poetic and mysterious in her. But she was an ordinary, perfectly normal girl. I had to laugh just thinking about how, a second ago, I'd been looking at her like a painter searching for hidden meaning in a classical landscape. And suddenly, the last vestiges of the charm vanished when she touched on a completely mundane subject—oh, I forgot about the beer...

I didn't really want a beer. I wanted to talk to her. About anything, about Tolkien, whom I also liked, philosophy, or the weather. I felt the need to talk and listen, like characters in uninspired movies who confide in bartenders over whiskey. Instead, I watched her pick up a clean glass and fill it with beer, probably completely unaware that all my thoughts were directed at her. I saw her brush back her shoulder-length brown hair, her gaze darting randomly, searching for a stop.

The conversation trailed off, and I, already accustomed to the stranger's voice, began to pick up other sounds I'd previously ignored. They all hit me at once, as if trying to convey something important, shouting over each other. And so I heard the voice of a boy telling his sweetheart he couldn't go to a party with her the day after tomorrow, the loud laughter of the crowd from the other table, the sound of beer clinking into a glass, all mixed with jazz emanating from nowhere.

I felt intoxicated by the very atmosphere of the place. My thoughts were torn, clashing, refusing to let me rest. What was I doing here? Why had I even come? How did I even know I'd meet her? Maybe I didn't know, and I was counting on it like anyone playing the lottery counting on a six?

And suddenly, surprising myself, I interrupted my thoughts with a question stranger than undiluted beer on tap.

"Did you know that Tolkien invented his own languages ​​and wrote poetry in them?

" "Oh, I wonder who'll read that now." As she said this, she giggled to herself like a child who'd just played a trick. "And how do you know? Do you like Tolkien too?"

"Well, even so," I thought to myself, "it's better to talk about Tolkien than politics or the weather.

" "Have you read 'The Lord of the Rings'?" she asked, placing a glass of beer in front of me.

"Yes, all the parts. One of my favorite books, although I didn't like the ending. It could have been more original. After all, Frodo...

" "Hey, don't tell me the ending. I'm only halfway through. What do you think about..."

I threw down a fiver, and a long, informative conversation about fantasy literature began. And then philosophy. Not about the weather.

Sometimes you're only seemingly happy. You think you have everything you need, and yet an inner voice tells you that one or two pieces of the puzzle are missing. You don't know which ones. Go out and look for them, maybe you'll find them. You'll go on a long, long hike, hoping you might stumble upon something. And when you finally do, it turns out the next piece doesn't fit and has to be thrown away."

I was looking at the box containing my puzzle, which read "n pieces with n approaching infinity." The box was empty, and next to it, a little boy was trying to put the pieces together, having fun. I approached him and was about to ask who he was, why he was touching my property, when suddenly a young brown-haired girl appeared in front of me and shouted,

"Hello, we're closing!"

"Uh, what's up?

" "It's two o'clock, Master Philosopher. Too much fantasy and beer, perhaps?"

It was the bartender. She watched with amusement as I sat in a chair against the bar, rubbing my eyes. The music had already stopped, and I couldn't hear any voices or laughter behind me. The place was empty.

I felt foolish. Master Philosopher? I guess I really had a few too many beers and was reconsidering the liar's paradox. Or I was trying to figure out which was better—an evening stroll through the old town or a picnic outside the city.

"Philosopher?" I asked, even though I knew what she meant.

"Marek might be a possibility.

" "My name is Jacek. "

"Nice to meet you, Magda.

I thought some guy from TV would barge in any minute and say, 'You're on Candid Camera.'"

"Okay, Jacek. Come by tomorrow. It'll be another day."

Slightly dazed, I stood up and started to leave. The rotten green and gray decor irritated me even more than before. As I approached the door, I turned back briefly to say goodbye and saw the barmaid Magda's green eyes smiling pityingly at me. I must have looked like an idiot.

"Did you leave the kettle on?" she asked.

"I don't know, maybe... Would you let me take you out for coffee sometime?

" "I don't know, maybe..."

I had only one thought on my mind: going to bed.

I opened the door and stepped out onto the street. Fresh, cold air hit me. The cloudless sky and night lights would normally put me in a poetic mood, but right now I didn't feel like it. I didn't bother with things I'd forget tomorrow morning. So I kept my eyes on the ground and watched my shoes race against the sidewalk.

After a few minutes, during which my feet took steps of their own accord without my even noticing, I stood before the stairwell and saw a black-and-white cat watching my movements to my left.

"Hey, kid," I whispered. He didn't respond.

The next day, while eating breakfast with Radek, I pondered many things. I was interested in why the birds hadn't flown away to warmer climes yet, when the leaves would start falling from the trees, and what subjects would be added to my third-year English studies. I thought of everything I could, just to avoid digging up yesterday's memories from beneath the thick layers of memory, as I was wont to do after a night out. Radek's curiosity, whom I considered a gossip worse than those women in TV soap operas, made me even more irritated.

"What? Did you have a good time last night?" he asked.

"Well, you could say that.

" "Look, it's great that you're having fun, but you could let me sleep at night instead of slamming doors.

" "I didn't slam them. You know perfectly well they always make noise.

" "Exactly, you have to go to the landlord eventually.

" "Then go, who's stopping you?

" "Just so you know, I'm going. But first, tell me who you spent the evening with last night. With those idiots from the journalism department?"

"With one friend," I said after a moment of hesitation.

"Do I know her?

" "I don't think so. Do you have to know all my friends?

" "I should. I like to be well-informed.

" "Seriously? I wouldn't suspect you of that.

" "So? How was it?"

I'd had enough of his questioning. I thought a visit to the "journalism idiots" would be a good idea. Their dorm was about fifteen minutes from our room. So I took a quick shower, put on some clothes, and left the building, which reminded me of gossipy Radek. Stepping out of the cage, I saw yesterday's black-and-white cat. This time, it was lying under the van, sleeping. "I won't speak to you again," I thought.

Walking along the route I had permanently etched in my memory, I tried to take in all the splendors of the departing summer. The sky was as beautiful as can be in late September. White, fluffy giants wandered aimlessly across the blue backdrop, and the sun broke through easily, taking advantage of the fact that it could still be at a higher altitude. The streets were coming alive again after the night's madness. I glanced at my watch. It was a few minutes after 2 p.m.

The thought struck me that on my way to the dorm, I'd see the Stasiek pub, which I'd actually preferred to avoid. Despite all my efforts, I still remembered the humiliating smile of the barmaid Magda and her voice, more irritating than a flock of mosquitoes. "Master philosopher... Did you leave the kettle on?... Come over tomorrow..." Come over tomorrow? Yes, I will!

But later.

Against my will, I passed the place I'd disliked since yesterday, relieved to find it closed.

As soon as I entered the room, I was gripped by the fear that the axe hanging in the air would fall and decapitate me. A mixture of sweat, men's perfume, tobacco smoke, and steam from instant noodles assaulted my nostrils like a prickly monster. The dim sunlight, despite the open blinds, startled me. How is it possible that the academic year hasn't even started, and I'm seeing images of the aftermath of the exams? I thought. "I guess I don't appreciate enough that I'm living in a boarding house in normal conditions. Almost normal. If it weren't for that gossipy Radek.

" "Sorry for the slight mess," Jarek said, as if it were indeed a small mess. A jumble of men's clothes, beer cans, candy wrappers, and something I completely didn't expect—books—littered across the two beds, the floor, and the table.

"Can your lungs breathe this air?" I asked, knowing full well they were.

"They've already adjusted." "Sit down," he said, brushing some of the killer composition off his bed. After a moment, to my delight, he half-opened the window.

"Thanks. How are you?

" "As you can see, I'm studying." He grinned from ear to ear, as was his habit when he was in a good mood, which was almost always.

"Oh yes, I see," I replied, looking around the room again. Everything looked even worse than before. "Too good."

At that moment, Michał appeared in the doorway, a bald, fat guy smashing beer cans against his forehead. He was good at it. He'd probably have something to show his grandchildren in his old age. For reasons unknown to me, he hated my roommate Radek, and the hatred was mutual. Just like the other "journalism idiots," only on a larger scale.

"Hi Michał," I said.

"Hi Jacuś, what brings you here?

" "I wanted to visit some old friends. Besides, I was fed up with your favorite Radek.

" "That idiot and gossip?" And rightly so. Come with us to the next room. I'll introduce you to our new classmate.

"Good idea," Jarek added. "She's a nice girl. I'm sure you'll like her."

I happily left the air, which was too thick for me, and followed them into the hallway. A moment later, we stood in front of door number 257 and entered without knocking. I was the last to cross the threshold.

"Good morning, Miss Magdalena," said Michał, glancing at the figure hidden behind the open wardrobe door. "Miss Magdalena? Let me guess, that's...

" "Hey," she replied, still standing. Although all I could see were a woman's feet in pink flip-flops, I knew immediately it was her. "Master philosopher... Nice to meet you, Magda... Hi." Yes, it's definitely her. "

We have a guest from English Philology. Will you join us for a beer?"

The mysterious figure poked her head out from behind the wardrobe and, seeing me, said with a smile,

"Hi, Jacek.

" "Hello."

"Oh, I see you two know each other," Jarek said, surprised.

"Well, sort of," she replied.

"So what about that beer?

" "Why not. Give me an hour.

" "An hour? What are you planning to do in that time? Watch the Fashion Show?

" "No, Oprah.

" "Okay. In an hour at your place."