I wiped my face and thanked her.
She stood still, looking down at me.
“You love him, don’t you?”
She said it softly, neutral, almost as if it wasn’t a question. I closed my eyes to say yes and looked at her, saw that she’d understood. Then a shadow flickered across her face, a trace of doubt. The moment I’d been sure would come. She remained still and looked at me intently, scanning me for reassurance, begging me for it with her eyes.
“You and Janusz—” she began, but I interrupted her.
“He doesn’t know,” I said, slipping the wet ball of tissue into my pocket, trying not to tremble, to keep my voice steady. “Don’t say anything to him.”
She nodded, her fear dissolved. “Of course not,” she said, trying to cover her relief. “I won’t.”
She offered me brandy again, asked me whether I wanted something to eat. I shook my head and thanked her. It was time to go.
She accompanied me to the door, hugged me. “I’ll call my father now,” she said, and assured me they’d do what they could.
“Thank you,” I said again.
She hugged me, this time for longer.
“Come back soon.” Again, she sounded as if she meant it.
“I will,” I said, almost believing it myself.
* * *
This morning I awoke and listened to the gentle traffic outside, the horns of the ships gliding past. Then I got up, took my coat, and walked outside. The snow on the pavement was powdery, shimmering in the sun like shredded glass. It’s Sunday, and people were out in the streets, taking their families for a walk. I looked at all of them. It’s an impulse I can’t seem to shake, to look at everyone I pass, hoping to recognize a face in the crowd, yearning for the familiar.
I went toward the water—past the brownstones, their solid broad stairs leading up to the angels and stars and Santa Clauses in the windows; past the decorations, the abundance.
They buried the miners this week. They didn’t even say anything about it on TV—Jarek told me. He’d heard about it from home. It seems hundreds of security forces were there to prevent riots—a funeral procession lined by men in helmets, in honor of those who were killed by men in helmets. I felt more sadness than anger. Maybe because the year is drawing to an end. There is only so much hatred you can produce, only so much resentment you can hold inside of you.
Yesterday I tried calling Granny again and the unthinkable happened: the signal went through. Someone picked up the receiver.
“Hello?” I couldn’t believe my luck, as if I’d thrown a rope across the ocean and she’d caught it. “How are you?” I asked, again and again, clutching the receiver until my palms turned oily.
Her voice was the same as ever. She was fine, she insisted, a little too much. She had enough to eat. She stayed in, mostly. She tried not to read the news or listen to what the neighbors said. Of course I knew that the line was tapped, that somewhere, in some sad, cramped radio room, someone was listening to us and that Granny was trying to say the right things.
“And you, Ludzio?”
“I’m all right,” I said quickly. And then I told her that I was thinking of coming home. That—
“Don’t,” she said, interrupting me, her voice becoming urgent. “There is nothing here. Your suffering won’t help us.”
“Granny—” I tried, to stop her from incriminating herself, but she interrupted me again.
“Stay where you are,” she said. “At least it gives me hope. And now hang up, my love,” she added. “This call must be costing you millions.”
I put down the receiver and buried my head in my hands.
Part of me still wanted to return. Even though I knew that, once there, they would never let me leave again. Even though I knew it was a folly, that I’d be a prisoner. But at least I’d be there. Inside.
I walked to the waterfront, to the broken-down piers. Across the foamy river the skyline of Manhattan was drawn against the sky, a hundred glistening Palaces of Culture assembled next to one another, absorbing the December light. And looking at that light, I thought of Christmas at home, the way we used to spend it. I thought of Granny and Mother and me buying a carp from the man in the street, picking the fattest one from those swimming around in the metal basins standing on the pavement, pointing our gloved fingers at the same one. We would take it home, let the bathwater run, and make it swim in the tub. That was my favorite part. I would give it a name. I would tell it that I’d take it to the Oder and release it. And I’d mean it. But then Christmas Eve would come and I’d be hungry, and Mother would be ready. She’d take it out of the bath like she’d taken me out when I was small, careful not to drop it. Then she would cut its head off. She would slice open the body and scoop out its organs like the seeds of a grape, her hands as red as the devil, blood trickling down her wrists and forearms all the way to her elbows.
* * *
The day after I saw Hania, I didn’t return to the Bureau, like the man in the glasses had made me promise. I sat in my room, stared at my watch, and imagined him at his desk, growing agitated. Every minute after that, I expected a knock on the door, militiamen taking me away or a representative from the housing board handing me a notice of eviction. But none of that came. Not the next day, and not the following one either. The week drew to a close without anything unusual happening at all. Except that it began to snow. Snow tumbled from pillow-white clouds all over the city, dancing, giddy flakes, freshly born, covering streets and houses and cars with a sparkling crust, bringing everything to a halt for a moment.
One morning, soon afterward, Pani Kolecka knocked on my door and handed me a big brown envelope. Inside was a passport with a visa.
A couple of weeks later I saw Karolina for the last time. She was waiting for me outside in the snow, a large fur hat on her head, her breath visible in the cold. She smiled when she saw me.
“Why didn’t you go inside?” I asked, nodding toward the door of the bar.
“I wanted to go in with you,” she said, kissing me on the cheek, wrapping her arm around mine.
Inside, we were hit by the warm air, the looks of the patrons. Men, young and old, eyed us with barely concealed curiosity. Like last time, we sat near the bar and ordered two beers. They were playing Donna Summer’s latest song, “Bad Girls.” I tapped along with my fingers.
“Funny you would ask me to meet you here,” said Karolina, smiling. “I thought you didn’t like this place.”
I laughed. “I changed my mind. That’s allowed, right?”
“Encouraged,” she said, enjoying herself.
The beers arrived, and we toasted. Karolina started telling me about the last few weeks, about her dates with Karol. They were in love.
“I am so glad for you,” I said, and meant it. “So glad.”
We ordered another round, toasted again.
“What about you?” she asked. “What was it you wanted to tell me?”
I took a long sip and began to tell her about you and me and Hania. The uncensored truth, for the first time. She gasped throughout but didn’t seem too surprised. Until I told her about the passport.
“So you’re . . . ?” Her eyes began to shimmer.
“Yes. Next week.”
“That’s great,” she said, her voice breaking with emotion. She looked at her beer. “And can’t you . . . wait?”
“I think it’s time for me,” I said. “And now that you’re the one in love, I’m not going to ask you to come with me.”
She looked up. Tears freed themselves from her eyes, drawing black paths of mascara down her cheeks. She cried noiselessly, and I took her into my arms. When she was done, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror behind the bar and wiped the traces of mascara with the back of her hand. “Look at me,” she said, breaking out into a smile. “I’m a mess.”
“Yes, you are,” I said. “And I will miss you. Maybe you’ll come and join me one day?”
“Maybe,” she said, smiling, wiping
away the rest of her tears.
The day before my plane departed, I went to a bookshop to find an English language manual. Walking into the shop, I saw you—your arm around her waist, looking at the table of books by the entrance. You were wearing a new leather jacket, brown, with a beautiful fur collar. And there was a moustache above your upper lip. I froze. It was Hania who looked up and saw me and smiled, and I had no choice but to walk over and say hello, my body numb. The air was impenetrable between us. She kissed me on the cheek; you and I shook hands solemnly. I could feel her looking from you to me with a quiet sort of concentration. Then she excused herself, said she was going to pay for the books. And there we stood, the two of us. You watched her go, avoiding my gaze. Finally you put your index and middle fingers toward your lips.
“Wanna smoke?”
We stepped outside under the awning of the bookshop, looking out onto the street. It was cold and sunny. Frost covered the pavement like icing. You took a packet of Marlboros from your pocket and handed me one.
“Nice moustache,” I said, nervous, when you lit my cigarette, and you saw my eyes flicker over your face, your fingers grazing mine as you cupped your hands to protect the flame from the wind. You ignored my comment, its platitude. Instead, you lit your cigarette without looking at me and blew the smoke through your nostrils like you couldn’t wait to get it out of you. Then you turned your head in my direction. Your eyes measured me. I sensed that you wanted to say something, readied my body for whatever it was that you needed to come out. Then the shop door swung open and Hania appeared, with a bag filled with books. We stood for a moment, uncomfortable, mourning the missed opportunity. We searched for words, each one of us, trying to say something that meant anything. In the end, we just said goodbye. We said it casually, like we would see each other again soon or maybe like people who had never been much more than acquaintances. You two walked off, arm in arm, and I watched you, the burning cigarette still in my hand, the last thing you’d ever given me.
* * *
I come back home from my walk, take off my coat, and rub my hands. I sit down on the couch and stare at the TV without switching it on.
I remember how I left our country and how I thought my nightmare of loneliness would return. The nightmare of fossilized time, where I walk through the desolate landscape of overgrown gravestones, not a soul around, condemned to a life among the dead. But it didn’t. I came to a new country, a new city, and decided to leave my loneliness behind. America is good like that. Even if it isn’t true, even if you can’t ever completely shed your past, no one here will tell you that. It makes it easier. Easier to fool yourself. You, of all people, must know what that feels like.
And yet, it occurs to me now that we can never run with our lies indefinitely. Sooner or later we are forced to confront their darkness. We can choose the when, not the if. And the longer we wait, the more painful and uncertain it will be. Even our country is doing it now—facing its archive of lies, wading through the bog toward some new workable truth.
Six months after I arrived here, Karolina sent me a letter about the wedding. That Hania had been pregnant during the ceremony, how it had already been visible. And I cried, despite myself. All this time I’d meant to ask you whether you loved her. It was the one thing that I regretted not asking. I realize now that it never mattered. Because you were right when you said that people can’t always give us what we want from them; that you can’t ask them to love you the way you want. No one can be blamed for that. And the odds had been stacked against us from the start: we had no manual, no one to show us the way. Not one example of a happy couple made up of boys. How were we supposed to know what to do? Did we even believe that we deserved to get away with happiness?
I go to the bookshelf and take out Giovanni’s Room, run my fingers over its worn cover. I think of all the eyes that have passed over these pages, all the hands that have felt its weight. And I remember the day my plane was leaving, when Pani Kolecka came into my room for the last time, an envelope in her hand, with Giovanni’s Room inside. I clutched it to my chest like a treasure long lost and now found again. When I opened it with a beating heart, a piece of paper fluttered out, landing gently on the floor.
“I adored this book more than you knew,” it read there in your stocky, right-leaning script. “I wanted to keep it . . . but it’s yours. Bring it back one day if you can. I’ll be here. J.”
All this time, I realize, I’ve lived like my departure was temporary, your words preventing me from ever really leaving or arriving. Despite Karolina’s letter, despite the marriage, I’ve held on to the idea of us, scanning faces for a scrap of something known, searching for the familiar in the alien. When really, the familiar had already turned alien, and home had ceased being home. Both have gone on living and changing without me.
I close the book and place it back on the shelf, reach for my coat again, leave the apartment, and walk out into the street. The wind sweeps into my face, and I brace against it, walking toward the grocery stores on Eagle Street. My belly rumbles. I am hungry, suddenly, as if I haven’t eaten in weeks. I want borscht and pierogi and warm poppy-seed cake, and I feel this as a vast, cavernous emptiness inside me, a yearning for warmth. But it isn’t painful at all. It feels like a promise.
Acknowledgments
The making of Swimming in the Dark was a seven-year journey, and it would have been impossible without the generosity and love of the following people:
Tanja Stege, Elizabeth Stephan, and Dr. Louis Monaco, who believed in me long before I did; Season Butler and all the members of our London writing group, who encouraged and nurtured Ludwik’s world from the very start; my friends Hanaa Hakiki, Lottie Davey, Ella Delany, Manon Moreau, and Leila Brahimi, who gave me invaluable advice on the first drafts; my amazing agent, Sam Hodder; and my wonderful editors, Alexa von Hirschberg and Jessica Williams.
Without my parents—their courage, their resourcefulness, as well as their passion for storytelling—I would have never had the tools to write this book. Dziękuję wam z całego serca.
Lastly, I want to thank my best friend and husband for his unrivaled patience, support, and sense of humor: Laurent, je t’aime.
About the Author
TOMASZ JEDROWSKI is a graduate of Cambridge University and the Université de Paris. Born in Germany to Polish parents, he has lived in several countries, including Poland, and currently lives outside Paris. This is his first novel.
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
swimming in the dark. Copyright © 2020 by Tomasz Jedrowski. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Originally published as Swimming in the Dark in the United Kingdom in 2020 by Bloomsbury.
first u.s. edition
Cover design by David Mann
Cover photograph © Folio Images/Alamy Stock Photo
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
Digital Edition APRIL 2020 ISBN: 978-0-06-289002-3
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-289000-9
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