If only she had eaten one of those apples, after all; she might have had the strength to fight back.
* * *
Tymon Zinda grew up in Gdansk, a coastal city in the north of Poland. Despite living in such a pleasant spot, Tymon did not have a happy childhood, largely because his horrid teacher left him petrified. The shy boy hoped that as soon as he turned ten and entered double digits, he would be able to stand up for himself once and for all, but, if anything, things only got worse. It seemed to him that Pan Malak became even more threatening the older he became. Instead of one clip around the ear every time he missed an answer, Tymon now received two. Instead of getting two detentions for being late for school, Tymon would now get three. (Not that it was even his fault—his father had a van that “broke down more often than a menopausal woman,” as Pan Malak would often joke).
When the school inspector visited one Thursday afternoon, the class was under strict instructions to be on its best behaviour, leaving twenty-four young pupils terrified that they would let Pan Malak down. Tymon Zinda did not sleep for a full week leading up to the arrival of the special guest.
On the big day, as the class smiled and recited their poetry in front of the surprisingly sweet inspector, Tymon felt a pressing need to go the toilet. Being diabetic, the young fella had this urge a little more often than most, but even though he was about to burst, he knew that would be a better outcome than the punishment Pan Malak would dish out for interrupting the poetry presentation. And so, Tymon crossed his legs and squeezed them together for dear life.
He probably would have gotten away with it if the inspector hadn’t asked Tymon to write the name of his favourite poet on the blackboard, because as soon as Tymon stood up, the floodgates opened—the results of which were seen by all. Seconds after the inspector left, Pan Malak marched a mortified Tymon around every classroom and forced him to describe to his peers the dirty deed that he had just done. From that day forth, Tymon was mocked, ridiculed, and taunted by the entire school. With no friends, Tymon depended on his pet rat, Wiga, for any companionship.
About a year following the unfortunate classroom incident, Tymon’s father moved the family to Warsaw, where he and Tymon’s uncle opened a hardware store on Plac Defilad, one of the city’s central squares. Delighted to be able to start anew, Tymon and Wiga packed their belongings and jumped in the back of his father’s new and improved van, and set off for the bright lights of Warsaw.
Things at his next school proved more successful than his last, but it can take a while for even the most confident of newcomers to find their voice so, for the first few months, instead of playing football with the boys in his class after school, Tymon just helped out in the hardware store, and soon found himself thoroughly enjoying the banter that took place between his father and uncle and their customers.
That was until a tall and po-faced hotelier popped in looking for some rat poison. (His building was overrun with the damned pests, and there was a pre-wedding drinks reception planned that evening for the city’s most famous A-list couple, Edyta Balinski and Pawel Dragon, so he needed the place to be rodent-free!) Tymon couldn’t believe his ears: why on earth would anyone want to kill a rat—what if they were a mother, father, or sibling to his beloved Wiga? After this horrible monster had received what he needed, Tymon decided to take it upon himself to protect his little furry best friend and his kin.
As his father and uncle enjoyed some pierogi that Tymon’s mother had prepared for dinner, the little animal activist crept downstairs into the store. Here, he emptied all the containers of rat poison down the sink and then filled them with rice that he had coloured green instead.
The next afternoon, Tymon, along with Wiga, sat in the store with one eye on his homework; the other on the door. When an elderly nun entered, looking for some poison, Tymon held his breath, fearful that she and his father would notice that the boxes had been tampered with. He closed his eyes shut and said a prayer that, for once, luck would be on his side.
When the boy opened them again, the nun and her little packet of non-poisonous rice were gone, and no one was any the wiser.
* * *
When Sister Agatha realised the poison that she had been sold in the hardware store was nothing more dangerous than uncooked rice dipped in some green colouring, she was in a good mind to return there and demand her zloty back. Instead, she decided to cut her losses and get the hell out of Poland as quickly as she could while she could.
Of course, she had no intention of letting Benedykta Balinski off scot-free (how dare she attempt to poison me!), but now that her cover was blown, she needed time—and space—to put together a more thorough plan. With Benedykta’s cronies at every corner, Warsaw was not a friend of Sister Agatha’s at present—as charming as the city appeared to be. No, she needed to take care of herself before she could take care of others, so to speak.
Now there was just the small matter of freeing herself from this decidedly uncomfortable chair and disappearing before Kacper or those rotten apple-suppliers realised that their captive was still ripe for picking! With the one remaining ounce of strength that she had left, Sister Agatha tugged and pulled at the rope that stood in her way of freedom, with no success, alas.
She rattled off a list of objects in her mind that she wished she had at that very moment: a sharp knife; a fire lighter; garden shears—anything! But as she looked around the sparse space, she couldn’t find anything of use.
She then contemplated saying a few prayers, but as forgiving as the good Lord tended to be, she doubted that they would be answered considering her antics over the past few days.
Sister Agatha looked at the window in front of her. Could she hobble over, shatter the pane and, possibly, get the attention of some kind passer-by? Of course, she didn’t want to be impolite to her hostess by vandalising the place, but seeing as said woman had tried to murder her, etiquette was out the window—which is where she now hoped her elbow would soon go.
Slowly but surely, the nun inched her way forward, resembling an extremely disorientated and slow-moving grasshopper. It was far from an enjoyable exercise, but if Jesus, bruised and battered, could walk all the way to Calvary with a cross on his back, then she, too, could make the short distance to where she needed to go.
“Look lively, Butsy Miller! Look lively!”
As the sweat and tears cascaded from her, Sister Agatha valiantly ploughed forward, one step at a time. After what could only be described as an eternity, she was finally at arm’s length from the window—only that her arms weren’t available to her on this occasion. Her shoulders and her right elbow were, however; so with one final heave, she lined the right side of her body against the pane and prepared herself to smash it.
“One, two, three, and—”
Following a couple of valiant but failed attempts, Sister Agatha thought it would be far more appropriate for the sheet of glass to be called a window pain, for that’s exactly what she felt as she tried to break it. Biting her lip, she persisted, but as her efforts continued to flounder, she stopped, eventually admitting defeat.
Taking a moment to catch her breath, the detainee racked her brain for an alternative method—if only she were in her prime, she would shuffle out the door, hop down the stairs and escape out the front entrance. But she wasn’t; she was one-hundred-and-eighteen years old, with only a few days left to live. She let her heavy head fall in front of her. A multitude of thoughts ran through her mind, with one, in particular, haunting her.
She had failed in her quest to be the oldest person in the world.
Just as distressing was the realisation that the Order of Saint Aloysius would now need to fundraise from here until doomsday for that new kitchen, seeing as she had ransacked their kitty in order to fund her expedition. And all for nothing.
The world’s third oldest person shut her eyes—it was game over. She took a long series of laboured breaths; she could feel her body was slowing down, readying itself for the off.
> Darkness.
Then suddenly, Sister Agatha’s eyes flickered open and caught sight of something rather radiant and gleaming—an object that possessed more strength than a hundred hectares of spinach: her emerald ring.
“Don’t be such a naysayer, Butsy Miller!” she bellowed. “If all of these years on this earth has taught you anything, it’s never to give up. Now, dust yourself off and get the hell out of here!”
The combatant released a deep, guttural roar, and with the energy of a grizzly bear, she doubled over, and with the chair now on her back, she shuffled towards the opened door at a miraculous speed and continued out onto the landing. The stairs in front of her looked tricky but Sister Agatha—with her new lease of life—was now game for any challenge. Taking one step at a time, she edged closer and closer to freedom. A deluge of sweat continued to pour from her brow; the muscles in her legs felt like they were ablaze. Sister Agatha had never borne a child but, at that moment, she had something of an appreciation of the excruciating agony mothers were forced to endure.
Finally, the magnificent and unyielding warrior landed on the hallway below, but when she was just metres away from the front door, she heard the sound of a car pulling into the back yard. She had suspected that Kacper had chauffeured Benedykta back to Lazienki Park in time to accompany the blushing bride down the aisle, but now the back-stabbing, double-dealing scoundrel had returned to dispose of her body, she deduced. No time to hang around, so.
With fists of fury, Sister Agatha made one final push forward, down the hallway and towards the exit—almost putting her head through the wall in the process, such was the force in which she moved. Having reached the door, she lowered her mouth towards the lock and attempted to prise it open—but it wasn’t being too obliging. She could see that rust had set in from infrequent usage—a point that was proving most inconvenient, seeing as she had only seconds left to succeed in her breakout.
Recognising that the key was determined to be her Waterloo, she abandoned any designs of convincing it to do the one job it was required to do, and instead, returned to her feet. She hobbled a few paces backwards and stopped. There was no time for deep breathing or motivational talks—she had just seconds to liberate herself before Kacper entered the hallway.
“One, two—”
And without waiting for “three”, Sister Agatha shut her eyes, charged across the hallway, and smashed through the rickety door before thrusting herself out into the daylight.
Free at long last! (But how her body ached!)
With the help of her new pal, adrenaline, she scurried over to her old pal, the Mermaid of Warsaw, and placed her chair onto the ground, lolled her head to the side, and took a much-deserved breather.
When Sister Agatha eventually returned to the land of the living, she looked around, expecting to see a throng of people lining up to free her from the chair. While a cluster of curious tourists had indeed formed around her, they were under the impression that Sister Agatha was some street-performer about to entertain them with a quirky routine—and not the victim of a brutal kidnapping.
Moments later, looks of disappointment crossed their faces when they saw that the headline act had fallen fast asleep, understandably exhausted from her great escape.
* * *
THE WARSAW POST, 14 MARCH, 2016
Poland will hold a state funeral for the country’s oldest citizen, Benedykta Balinski, who finally succumbed to death on Sunday at the glorious age of one hundred and twenty-one. She will be laid to rest in the Alley of Honour at the Powazki military cemetery in Warsaw on 18 March.
Balinski was attending her great-granddaughter’s wedding to a platinum-selling rock star, Pawel Dragon, and surrendered to a massive heart attack following the evening reception.
As the Polish legend was making her way to her car, witnesses reported that three French dancers insisted that she join them in their can-can routine. Never one to say no, the much-loved figure removed her high-heels and joined them on the stage.
At first, Balinski proved a natural, completely capable of keeping up with the three exotic professionals. However, as the music suddenly sped up at an alarming rate, it soon became apparent that the former Olympic medalist was struggling for breath.
Even more tragic, it appeared that the three dancers were dedicating the lively routine to their own late great-grandparent. At one stage, they turned to the crowd and shouted: “Ceci est pour la mort de notre arrière-grand-père, Oliver Guinot!” (“This is for our great-grandfather’s death, Oliver Guinot!”)
Rather poignantly, The Warsaw Post can now confirm that this deceased relative was, like Balinski, a war hero, who was murdered near the Seine in Paris by a German Nazi during the Second World War.
Balinski was widely respected in her beloved Poland both as an athlete and a war veteran. Working as a spy, the fearless patriot was known to have played a vital role in the Allies’ victory over Nazi Germany.
Following Balinski’s death, the Polish President wrote on Twitter that the news had left him deeply saddened. He tweeted: "It's a tremendous loss, a great Pole has departed our great country "
The Balinski family has asked for privacy during this sad time and invited the Polish people to make donations to the Warsaw War Memorial, of which Balinski was a proud patron.
Chapter Ten
AUCTION NOTICE:
The prestigious Il Cappello Del Doge will hold its monthly auction at 10am on Wednesday, 23 March, in its private showrooms on the foot of the Rialto Bridge. Turnout is expected to be grande, so interested parties are asked to arrive early to avoid disappointment.
Among the exciting lots on offer include early sketches from Venetian artists Bellini and Canaletto, not to mention vast collections from local working artists, including Gabrielle Ciccone, as well as Riccardo Trentini who has the added boast of not only being the world’s oldest living artist, but also the world’s most elderly person.
There shall be light refreshments prior to the event, although we advise that anyone who chooses to consume the alcoholic beverages provided does so at their discretion. Should the bubbles lead you to make a spontaneous bid for any of the pieces on auction, however, it is expected that you will honour that commitment. We would regret being compelled to take legal action, as was the case following last month’s event.
It is also worth mentioning that foreign investors are eligible for tax deductions, so should your accountant be up to speed on such matters, you could almost make money out of the whole affair!
Ciao for now!
* * *
If someone were to ask either Butsy Miller or Sister Agatha where in the world they would most like to visit, Venice would have been their replies. From what she had read over the years, Butsy—and later, Sister Agatha—thought the one-time maritime dynasty, with its meandering canals, delicate bridges, and bobbing gondolas, sounded only otherworldly. As she took a sip of her rather expensive cappuccino outside the celebrated Caffè Florian and watched the throngs of tourists beaver about the ornate and remarkable Piazza San Marco—a square that a certain diminutive French emperor is said to have christened the “drawing room of Europe”—she knew her instincts about the city were well founded.
The much-admired café that was currently playing her host didn’t just refresh weary souls; it also entertained them, thanks to their large and lively house band that helped in a small way to justify the prices the customers were being charged.
Despite the exorbitant cost, the elderly patron wasted no time in ordering a second coffee, not only because she was desperate to cling on to this spellbinding experience for another few moments but also because she was in dire need of a caffeine fix. Having fallen asleep in Warsaw’s Old Town, Sister Agatha didn’t awaken until six o’clock in the morning—and that was only on account of the fact that some pesky street cleaners were so unaccommodating and inconsiderate. The slumber didn’t rejuvenate her the way she thought fourteen hours of sleep should have done.
&n
bsp; It was en route to the airport whilst attempting to iron out the creak in her neck and remove the ants from inside her veil that she discovered the fate of Benedykta Balinski (she knew those French dancers would prove to be allies!). The excitement of the news that she was now only a whisker away from being the oldest person in the world equipped her with enough energy to make it to her final destination: the Queen of the Adriatic Sea.
However, Sister Agatha had soon found herself exhausted once again. After alighting the airport vaporetto at San Zaccaria, it had taken her close to two hours to walk the short distance to where she now sat in Saint Mark’s Square. The majesty of the Doge’s Palace, along with the loftiness of the Bridge of Sighs, the grandeur of Saint Mark’s Basilica and the monumental authority of the Campanile, left her overwhelmed and overawed—and in desperate need of as much coffee as she could get her hands on. (And yes, she was on a budget, but given the news concerning Benedytka’s downfall, she felt that she deserved a little treat or two.)
Earlier, as she passed the aforementioned Doge’s Palace, she noticed that two of the pillars on the balcony were not the same off-white colour as its neighbouring counterparts but, instead, a faded red. She started ear-wigging into the explanation that a tour guide was giving to a group of Americans.
“The blood-like colour you see there marked the spot where convicts were publicly hanged in the years gone by,” he announced to a suitably horrified group of tourists. “Apparently, it was a common undertaking that also served as a reminder to the city’s residents that there were repercussions for all transgressions!”
Sister Agatha Page 15
