The wait dragged on endlessly, and the thought of having to spend several more hours there was cruel. We sat at a large, square table, nervously awaiting the interrogation. There were three of us – Rudy, Stefan, and I. We completely failed to understand why they'd made us stay for five hours when the interview with the investigator was supposed to last two. They offered us stale tea and cigarettes. At first, it seemed like a good laugh, but in the end, we were the ones who saw the whole thing; we felt truly important. They invited us into a strange room with no door handles, neither on the window nor the door, and besides, the window and the ceiling lamp were barred. They left the door ajar. The room's furnishings consisted of three chairs, a table, and a mattress. After an hour, our excitement slowly began to turn to boredom. Three o'clock passed, and we were still staring at the open door. Rudy couldn't take it anymore – he announced that either we would be interrogated or he would leave, and indeed he did... but he soon returned. He explained that for unspecified reasons, we couldn't leave the building, and besides, we were witnesses, and even if the sky fell on us, we would still have to stay and wait. We were slowly becoming weary, and I concluded that if we didn't think of something, we would die here, but what could one do in a barred room with no doorknobs? Surprisingly, we agreed that anything would help pass the cruelly slowing time. Stefan, always full of ideas, suggested that everyone tell a story. Given the circumstances, it seemed like a good idea. I was to tell the story first. But my mind was blank, filled with hundreds of numbers, transaction data, phone numbers, accounts, numbers, charts… I realized that my entire life now was about work and constantly repeating activities, rituals I knew well but no longer understood.
I was reminded of a story that happened almost ten years ago.
It was probably September. Ola came to see me because she had a job interview, stayed overnight, and the next day we were supposed to go to Tulczyn together. Her town was about thirty kilometers away, and the ticket wasn't very cheap, but luckily, Ola's brothers finished work at noon, so we went with them. We were supposed to pick up their mother, but not until two o'clock – so we wasted some time wandering around the shops.
We checked in at the bakery before two. The sun was gorgeous that day, and there was something refreshing in the air; it was a special day, the kind that only comes around a dozen times a year.
We were sitting in the car, the wind gently caressing my face. We were talking about trivial things, and it was quite pleasant. Suddenly, the bakery door opened and a young man stepped out. He was wearing a green cap, looked sly, and quite handsome. His sideburns and a bold beard gave him a serious air. He was dressed in slightly too-large trousers and a bit sloppy. He didn't realize we were watching him; he was completely at ease, as if he were humming something; it looked like a nervous tic. We concluded he must be drunk. He walked past us a few meters away, swaying slightly, and we couldn't help but laugh. He stood for a moment in front of the building, arranging something. Unfortunately, his back was turned, so we couldn't see much, but it still looked really funny. Finally, I couldn't hold it in and burst out laughing, as did Ola and her brothers. Worst of all, the windows were all rolled down. The man must have heard everything, because he looked in our direction, embarrassed. He stared at me for a moment; I had the impression he was looking right at me. His gaze held something strange, hard to describe, like regret and anger. I was genuinely scared, but I kept laughing anyway; I was safe in the car. When he returned, he kept looking at me until he disappeared through the door.
"Who is that?" I asked, smiling, trying to hide my embarrassment.
"I don't know, I haven't seen him here before, maybe a new employee?" Ola's older brother explained.
"Strange," I added.
"Strange?" He was clearly tipsy. Besides, we'll ask Mommy."
"Good idea, I'm sure she'll know," I replied. "He looked like he wanted to fight or something, maybe he saw us laughing?
" "I guess..." he laughed.
We sat in silence for a while, and I noticed I wasn't the only one impressed. But after a while, no one remembered him; we were talking again, and it was quite pleasant again.
"Oh, Mommy's coming." "Ola rejoiced.
As she got into the car, I said, "Good morning." I wanted to be nice, but maybe it stemmed from a rather unhealthy habit of mine, because from childhood I'd been taught to greet neighbors. When my parents came home and said that so-and-so hadn't said "Good morning," it meant much more to them than just two simple words. Besides, when I saw the withered faces of neighbors I didn't like, who treated the lack of a "Good morning" as an insult to their majesty, I had no choice but to humor them ironically. They were like jellyfish, whose gaze might not turn to stone, but whose tongues were particularly sharp, and after a while, you could expect to be labeled a drunk, a thief, or even a drug addict.
A moment later, we were on the main road and finally driving home. No one said a word; I had the impression that everyone was reveling in this beautiful day and trying to hold on to as much of it as possible.
"Mommy, who was that guy in the green hat?" asked the younger brother.
"What guy in the green hat?" she replied.
"Well, the one with the beard, he looked drunk.
" "And the one who's unstable?
" "I think it's that one."
"The manager hired him, he's walking around with a broom, he's tidying things up. He wasn't drunk, he's a little sick, he only graduated from special education and doesn't have a job, and they took him in to earn some extra money. It's terrible poverty there. That Janusz, who delivers bread, used to give him money, saying the boy was so sad he didn't have anything..."
When we heard this, we were literally crushed in our seats; no one said a word, only Ola said she felt really bad now. In reality, we felt much worse, but how could we have known? I wanted to go back, but why, to tell him how sorry I was? I felt regret, and to this day, when I recall that event, I feel sorry for that poor boy. I know that his eyes expressed not anger or regret, but sadness.
Stefan liked my story because, as was his habit, he said little, essentially limiting himself to one word: "nice." He always did this when he liked something; he was extremely reserved, but that one word revealed so much that I felt satisfied. Rudy, on the other hand, was dozing peacefully, leaning against the table. He probably would have continued sleeping, but it was his turn now, so I shook him gently. He raised his head, still half asleep, and yelled,
"What now?
" "Yes now," I replied, and started laughing.
"Well, yes... it'll be a short but meaningful story..." I got the impression he'd been planning everything in his head the whole time—about high-tension lines.
When I was younger, my three friends and I had a group called GD, which stood for Destruction Group. Today, when I think back on our actions, I'm honestly surprised I only made it to the police station twice, as there were plenty of opportunities. Our organization had one goal: destroy something and then run away, no matter where or from whom, just run away. We were sixteen or fifteen years old then. We used the pseudonym Grzesiek, and everyone had the same name. The only difference was a secret designation: we were assigned numbers from I to IV, and only we knew who was who. We were famous at one time; I remember in eighth grade, the entire schoolyard turned out when they took us to the children's ward in two police cars. We said we were going for a kick, the most important thing was not to plan anything; the ideas just came to us. Standard activities included setting fires, breaking bottles, and playing with firecrackers—heavier ones, of course. A regular, but somewhat less frequent, activity was playing with chains. We'd buy saw blades, wrap them in paper, and go hunting in the evenings (raking sidewalk posts). Soon everyone had their own weapon. The chains often went missing, so we had to replenish our arsenal periodically. They were primarily used for breaking bottles, but one day, by accident, one of us threw a chain into the air, and it got tangled in the high-tension cables. We had incredible fun as the chains touched each other and hundreds of glowing blue and almost white sparks erupted every few seconds, falling gently to the ground. Usually, the chain would fall, but I remember one occasion when it didn't. It was a warm summer evening, we all went out on our bikes, and the idea was to go to a familiar spot and see whose throw would cause the biggest shower of sparks. At first, there were only minor clashes, but the view was magnificent, as each spark produced a bright glow in the evening. Finally, it was my turn, and I threw with all my might. The chain wrapped around two ropes and refused to fall to the ground. Blue rain began to fall, we weren't entirely sure what was happening, but the tension must have been truly intense. After the incident, I learned from IV that I had stood under the ropes for a moment, completely enveloped in a blue glow – it must have looked incredible (unfortunately, I was facing away). Luckily, he managed to escape in time, because the chain wouldn't let go, and the lighting effects and strange buzzing seemed to intensify until the rope finally gave out – it broke and hissed, hitting the road. We quickly mounted our bikes and fled as quickly as possible to a nearby forest, where it was relatively safe. We chatted excitedly for a while about what had just happened. A suppressed conscience told us that we couldn't leave it like that and that we had to somehow remove the old ropes from the road. We dressed in dark clothes and went to investigate. III was watching the road (there were a few insiders with us at the time,(who weren't part of the GD), and we were repairing the damage. We wanted to do it as quickly as possible and get it over with. I didn't think about details like insulating gloves. I picked up a rope lying on the road and felt a cramp that shot through my entire arm. I realized I was being electrocuted. I pulled the rope and threw it onto the lawn, while someone else took care of the other end. I remember being afraid that a child or passerby might get electrocuted, because part of the wire cable was hanging from the pole and touching the ground, tempting curiosity. Fortunately, two days after the incident, the power company workers cut the ropes. This event marked the beginning of the end of the Destruction Group, but not because we felt fear or thought it was too dangerous; we simply found another pastime.
Rudy's story was quite interesting, and I think it's true, because his capacity for destruction and destruction cannot be denied. Once, he burned four computers at work, another time, my carpet, and his ceiling at a St. Andrew's Day party.
Then came Stefan's turn, and only I was supposed to listen to him because Rudy had perfidiously fallen asleep on the table. We generously decided not to wake him, because the poor guy was surely tired of this story.
"I don't know if what I'm saying now will make any sense," Stefan began trivially, "but nothing else comes to mind, and I don't think it will, and that musty smell of lime—where does it come from? What is it anyway?
I didn't smell any lime, I don't know what was happening to Stefan, but everything was normal. I'd gotten used to his strange behavior by now, like, 'I have to do it again' or 'this elevator is too small.'"
"I remember when I was still in elementary school," he continued, "when, for some reason, I had this stupid idea that all the people around me were fake. I didn't question who they were, but it seemed to me they weren't real. I lost all meaning then. I was haunted by the thought that I was incredibly lonely, and it depressed me deeply. I had nowhere to escape; even at home I couldn't feel at peace, because it seemed to me that my parents weren't real either. I wanted to sleep, sleep brought peace, but another problem arose – morning. Morning made me realize that I had to fight myself again. It was a difficult fight, difficult because it was doomed to hopeless failure, because the harder I tried to find people around me, the stronger the conviction that I was alone became. I don't know how it disappeared; it seems I woke up one day and forgot about it. It wasn't happiness, though; rather, I had regained reality, but the problem kept coming back in many guises. I'm almost certain I can't live without problems, that I'm addicted to them. Although everything is incredibly relative, I know one thing – people underestimate reality, they accept it as something ordinary.
Just as Stefan was finishing, a very unpleasant woman in a bun and an unfashionable green sweater arrived. She announced that the investigator had arrived and that we should report for questioning in the room at the end of the hall. I didn't care anymore; I could sleep, eat, and live there. I didn't care about interrogations or any other matters, and everything else mattered to me as little as possible. Evil people enslave people in a proven, effective, and yet simple way – by making them wait. Forced waiting is the best way to achieve honesty, with minimal investigative effort.
As I left the room, I smelled a strong smell of lime. Stefan followed me, repeating over and over: "Like something ordinary, like something ordinary..."
