by Frank Wynne
So far he had not experienced any particularly onerous physical symptoms, but now sheer torment had set in. His emaciated body ached from lying down, but he couldn’t move, for every movement cost him a huge effort and ended in pain, spreading from his back into his limbs. He couldn’t eat at all. Katarzyna brought him clear soup or milk, and every other day she mixed ice-cream for him and from early morning he was disturbed by the noise of the machine grating at the ice with a great clatter. Although it disturbed him, this sound from the hall outside was also a source of joy. The clattering of the ice-box was the only sound that could reach him, bearing witness to a great big life still going on beyond his reach. He lay like a tree stump flung onto the riverbank by the current. He was like one of the withered branches he was always noticing on spruces and pines. Now he was just waiting for the final break with life.
He did get up again for a couple of days, with a very great effort indeed, though he managed to move about normally. He went down from the porch, crossed the road and went for a short walk into the forest. The next day he whistled and hummed as he shaved, just as on the day of his arrival at the lodge, and Bolesław even smiled as he listened to him whistling. ‘Maybe he’ll get better again?’ he thought.
But once he had been up for a couple of days, Staś had that stupid sensation of having lost something, which he couldn’t shake off. He felt like someone who has worn a ring for years and years and leaves it on the wash-stand; he was dogged by the feeling of having lost some very ordinary, everyday object, and he couldn’t think about anything else. It wasn’t the lack of the piano, because he had managed to deal with its absence. It was some other, more serious loss, the loss of the element that until now had combined everything he saw and felt into one organic whole.
Now everything around him seemed to have scattered, like the beads of a rosary, like the glass pearls Miss Simons used to wear around her neck. He was still aware of the green light in the windows of his room each morning, but it no longer shone from the inside, it wasn’t coming from within him, and on waking he would push it away resentfully; it did nothing to enlighten him, nor did it embody the essence of what he had so joyfully recognised earlier as a new discovery. The pines and lime trees, the rain and fine weather had all disintegrated, they were somewhere else, somewhere separate, tucked away rather nonsensically on another wavelength of his thoughts and senses.
It caused him intense suffering. Neither his illness, nor his lack of strength, nor his incapacity to consume any sort of food at all caused him quite so much pain as losing the entire world, which was turning into chaos and inertia before his very eyes.
He was still whistling and crooning, just as on the first days after his arrival, but even then the whistling had been a way of clouding over reality, from which some new shape for the world was supposed to emerge. But now, as everything went spinning to the rhythm of the song he was humming, he knew that nothing of the kind would ever surface, that it had all collapsed and this was the end – and that made him burn with a worse pain than in his sickly lungs and bowels.
Whenever he stopped humming there was a fearful hush. All of a sudden the house, the forest and the veranda were filled with an emphatic silence. The rustle of pine needles was the only backdrop to his fear and suffering. He got into bed, and each thing that wounded his heart, each thought of loneliness, of the end, of fear, came separately, wildly stabbing him at random – in the head, in the heart, and then at once moved off to make way for another.
This was so terrible that he summoned all his strength just to keep moving, to hum, or to sit on the veranda with the others. Once when he entered the kitchen, the smell of boiled potatoes made him feel violently sick, nor could the murmuring flames catch his attention. He retreated to his bedroom, but he was starting to overcome the fears and weaknesses. Time and again Bolesław noticed a smile on his lips (it really was a smile, not a grimace), but suddenly the smile would vanish, and the expression left on Staś’s face was a dreadful mess. Bolesław followed these changes with dismay.
Staś was sitting at lunch with them, but Bolesław could see from his face that he wouldn’t get better now. He was horrified by the deadness of his drooping eyes, which didn’t even liven up when laughing. They were eating lunch on the porch. Staś was sitting with his back to the light, and Bolesław kept casting short, searching glances at his shaded face. It had slipped away into a vague shadow, it had ceased to represent a person; his brother was dying. Clearly they all sensed it, for even little Ola sat very quietly, making large round eyes at her uncle. But Staś didn’t notice their stares; he kept looking around at the forest behind him, and then a gleam would shine in his blue eyes, like a smoky reflection in two dust-caked mirrors. He laughed and, God knows why, started telling them about Miss Simons again. He had had a letter from her that day; she was in Davos again and described everything that was going on at the sanatorium. He remembered a dress she used to wear, and described it in detail to Ola, who listened, staring intently at her uncle and finding it hard to swallow her stale bread; Staś ate nothing and drank only milk. The dress was green, edged in green fur, with a short green velvet jacket to match, with golden stripes. Just like the lake in the forest.
‘Just like the lake in the forest,’ said Staś, and suddenly glanced at Bolesław, who turned away. This simple comparison reminded them of bitter scenes, and at the same time proved how utterly meaningless they were in view of the change of situation.
When Ola had left the table, Staś asked Bolesław to bury him in the birch grove beside Basia. It might not happen immediately – today he felt fine. He didn’t want to mention it to his brother again as there was something rather affected and pompous about it, all very unpleasant; pure showing off. But surely he didn’t fancy a twentysomething kilometre trek after all that, for what? Better to bury him right here. ‘Won’t it be painful for you to have me so near?’
Bolesław said nothing throughout, but after the final question he felt that indeed it would be very painful for him. A new grave beside Basia’s would be a great burden for him. He would prefer to take Staś somewhere far away, and then not to have to think about it; he would rather not have those graves constantly in sight. But it occurred to him that he could easily transfer to another job, somewhere round Suchedniów, for example, or to Szydlów. Then he would leave the graves here, and it would be hard for him to come and visit them. He would come once a year, or once every two years, perhaps. Yes, Staś could be buried in the birch grove.
Meanwhile Staś was sitting at table opposite him smoking a cigarette; a grey thread of smoke was escaping like breath and dissolving on the heated air, against the backdrop of the trees across the road. For a short while they were silent, then Staś smiled and said, ‘And after my death do help yourself to Malina.’
At that Bolesław slammed his fist on the table, but then restrained himself, frowned fiercely, turned away and started stuffing his beard into his mouth, which, recently trimmed by Janek, was too short and he couldn’t chew it. This made Staś laugh heartily but he said nothing more. He could feel the afternoon sun warming his back, and the sensation of warmth filling him with bliss.
That day he saw Malina again, and the next day too. A couple of days later he lay down for good and all.
Malwina never came into the room where he lay; it wasn’t appropriate. As soon as he took to his bed all contact between them ceased. This did not cause Staś excessive pain; he didn’t need Malwina’s actual presence – he could imagine her perfectly, and spent days on end thinking about her. Not even thinking, just comparing everything he remembered with everything he had learned from this strong, quiet, loving girl. He knew she was telling lies and that Michał was really her man, that she would marry him and live to a great age, untroubled and robust. He imagined her in old age, common and ordinary, with none of her beauty left. ‘Now that’s what a life should be,’ he said to himself.
Each day now he just lay there getting weaker and weaker, amid the hu
mming of the imaginary hive, in the light of the veiled windows, and he could see it was beautiful sunny July weather. He felt rather abandoned now, as Bolesław was out all day, Katarzyna rarely looked in on him, and Ola preferred to play outside; she was bored with her sickly uncle’s smile. One day towards the end of July, when he was already very weak and only felt like looking out of the window as sunset approached, he sat up a bit and propped the pillows higher, which took him a great deal of effort. Sitting up at last, he gazed at the sunlit window frame. The leaves of the nearest trees dangled down the glass and beyond stretched the same never-ending scene: tree trunks, greyness, forest. There wasn’t a soul in the entire house or courtyard – everyone had gone off somewhere, and it was very quiet. Yet Staś didn’t find the summer silence oppressive; it was full of warmth and benevolence. He was lost in thought, about what he didn’t know himself; his bones no longer ached, which brought him a sense of well-being, as amid the dormant silence he melted into the summer afternoon.
Then he heard footsteps crossing the road and coming up to the porch. The steps kept coming nearer and then moving away again; he recognised the tread, which he had so often waited for over this summer: it was Malina. His heart thumped like a hammer, there was a roaring in his temples and cold sweat coated his brow, his back and shoulders. But she didn’t come into the house; instead, she withdrew and he could hear her departing footsteps running down the side of the house and off into the forest.
Then a high-pitched voice rang out – Malwina was singing. It was the first time he had ever heard her sing, but he knew at once that it was her. She drew out the long, droning notes with trills. She sang better and finer than is typical of our country folk, but lost none of the pure simplicity of sound. The top five notes came downwards, then rose five tones again and soared on a high note at the top, persistently repeated with the full force of her lungs. From the very first phrase an echo went ringing around the forest, blending in with the singing and acting like an accompaniment with choral undertones, creating a harmony.
The primitive passion of this song sent a shudder through the invalid. His strength gathered as he strained to listen. He knew Malwina was singing for him, and that her song was an alternative for everything she had to say to him. This was what she really wanted to say, not those monotone answers to his meaningless questions.
The first close of day
Is my look that’s to say
I don’t want to know you no longer …
Among the high-pitched, drawn-out notes he recognised these words. His mouth fell open, all at once he could hear and see so many things. His childhood came to mind, and his mother; they were sailing along on a broad silver river, then everything went into a dream. He was kissing his mother, though he knew she was long since dead, and then he was caressing her fingers, soft and plump. The silver of the river mingled with the light coming from the windows opposite his bed, and with the song of his unseen lover.
She repeated the first verse twice, then broke off abruptly, and for a long time there was silence. Staś thought she wouldn’t sing any more. He leaned back against the pillows, turning slightly on his side, so he could see the entire world float past his eyes slantwise, a tangle of greyness, coolness and greenery. In vain he sought his mother’s eye, just as on his first day at school, but he could see eyes everywhere, half-veiled beneath leaflike lids. No, his mother’s eyes were different – these were the dejected pupils of Malwina.
Suddenly the stream of illusions was torn apart as the simple song began again; Malwina had come up closer, she was very near by, and the notes and words of her song were almost tangible, physically entering Staś’s room, though he didn’t have the strength to get a grip on them.
The second close of day
Is the vault far away
About which I ever must wander …
She repeated each verse twice without stopping, shifting into a slightly higher key, but returning towards the end to that persistent, high-pitched note.
The setting sun permeated the woods, flashing among the pine trees and the forest aisles, lining them in rosy vapours. Staś saw his own figure in the forest, tall as in a fairy tale, and knew that his judgement had come. It was a bit like the uprising in which his grandfather took part, and a bit like a dream. The rosy clouds were filling the forest and changing into birds, singing in Malina’s voice, ‘… the vault far away, the vault far away’, and Staś saw the forest transform itself into a sky-high wooden structure, over which he went leaping, nimble as a squirrel, while Malina was a tiny little figure, as if far off in the mountains, moving along the very bottom of the wooden tower, and it was impossible for them to come together.
Suddenly, from beyond the woods the silver river appeared, and he felt extraordinary relief as he gently slid across its steely expanse, glassy tracts of water unyielding to his touch.
Malina fell silent. He became aware of the room again; the empty corner where the piano had stood now weighed on him like a bereavement. On his lips a salty-sweet taste, a sickening odour struck his palate. Another haemorrhage on its way, he thought.
He heard steps right by the front door and someone leaning against the lime tree that grew beneath his window. He was afraid he wouldn’t be able to bear the singing so keen and raw, right under his window. Pressing both hands to his pounding heart he cried out, ‘Malina, Malina …’
But it wasn’t a proper shout, just a plaintive, dried-up whisper. Malwina couldn’t hear him, and she might have thought Master Stanisław couldn’t hear her singing at all. But it was clear she did think he was listening, for she checked her voice and didn’t sing as loud. Yet this made her singing even more intense, like a plaintive lullaby.
At the first note Staś went floating out onto the river again, as it ran around a bend. As she went on singing the banks of the river contracted, folding on top of each other, trying to smother him. He struggled to draw breath.
The third close of day
Is the stone slab so grey
Beneath which I ever must slumber …
Before she had finished singing the same verse twice, her breathing ever softer and deeper, all the illusions had gone. The longest to linger was the sensation of his mother’s presence, but even that passed. He woke up leaning against the pillows with the taste of blood on his lips, his eyes fixed on the carmine spaces between the trees. He was deeply struck by the words, ‘the stone slab so grey, beneath which I ever must slumber’. And for the first time with heart and soul he could feel death within him. It was as if his entire essence had clouded around him in the form of a damp, reddish mist and was slowly dissipating, leaving a terrible void.
… and the stone slab so grey
Beneath which I ever must slumber …
With the last of his strength he called back his departing life, and this time it did return. But he knew it wasn’t for long; he calmed down a bit as he heard the footsteps retreating. He didn’t see Malina. Then, as he repeated the words about the stone slab, he felt childish resentment as he imagined really having to sleep for long, long years in a dark vault beneath a grey stone slab. And he began to weep like a child, until his pillow was wet with tears.
When Bolesław came home that evening, he told him for the first time that he didn’t want to die so young. Bolesław was alarmed, but soon got used to it, as Staś kept repeating these words until the very end.
XII
After Staś’s death Bolesław realised that finally his own life had sorted itself out. With his brother’s absence came peace and quiet, a feeling of harmony with everything around him, which he hadn’t had before. All the stopping and starting had finally come to an end, and above all he felt great relief – it was easy to work, and with very little trouble he wrote a letter to the administration asking to be transferred to another forest; he knew he was well regarded and that they wouldn’t move him to a worse post. The autumn days were fine, the sun shone relentlessly, the leaves were yellow and the colour itself had a war
m and calming effect. The lake, so black in summer, had now changed colour, becoming much more pleasant and alluring ever since it had started to reflect the pale trees, now dying, but destined to regenerate. Now Bolesław was meeting regularly with Malwina by the lake; there was nothing passionate about their meetings, but with every passing day they brought Bolesław greater fondness for life. Not that he was distressed to hear the news she had just given him, namely that Michał wanted to marry her in October. ‘That’s good,’ he said, and bit at his beard, which had grown again. ‘That’s good. In any case I’m leaving for a new post. I’m to have it from the first of November or from Christmas, and you’ll have your wedding before then, so I’ll see you married before I go. Are you going to live in Michał’s village, or will you both live here?’
She didn’t know where she would live; either way, somewhere in the forest, for sure – whether here or there, it was all the same to her. Then she added, ‘It’s a pity you’re leaving, sir, it’ll be sad without you and Ola. Only Master Stanisław will be left.’
Staś had in fact been buried in the birch grove, as he had requested, though there had been more than a little difficulty with it. This time there was no excuse of floods – he had died on a fine summer’s day after rain, when the road to town was at its most passable. But Bolesław had stuck to his guns. There were no outsiders at the funeral apart from the priest, and the whole thing had passed off with remarkable speed and simplicity. Janek and Michał had carried the coffin on a stretcher, the priest had sprinkled holy water and consecrated the ground alongside Basia’s burial mound, then they had buried him, vigorously heaping up the earth; next day, with the help of Olek and Edek, they had made a birchwood fence and a short, stout birchwood cross. No one had wept at the funeral, not even Ola, and everyone had gone straight back to their occupations, because it was high summer and they all had work to do. The priest had harvests on his patch, and Bolesław was busy with autumn fellings. Malina was doing the laundry for her mother, Janek and Michał. Only Ola had nothing to do, and sat all alone in the empty room her uncle had been carried out of, which hadn’t yet been cleaned. The little room seemed quite large now that neither the piano nor her uncle’s body were in it, and Ola found it rather unnerving. To build up her courage she started talking to her doll. That was how Bolesław found her when he got home; she insisted that from now on she would live in her uncle’s room, so the next day Bolesław ordered the floor to be cleaned with lye, the walls to be freshly whitewashed and his daughter’s bed to be placed where the piano had been. A new, rather intense but quiet life began to flourish in the dead man’s room.
