Stone Upon Stone

by Wieslaw Mysliwski

  So I come up with my third load, and here old Kuś is parked by the road, loaded up with sheaves and waiting. And the cars are speeding by one after another after another, both ways, there’s not a single gap between them. It was like a cloud had opened up and it was raining cars, and there they were pouring down the road.

  “What, are they not letting us across?” I asked the old man.

  “Sure aren’t.”

  “You been waiting here long?”

  “Sure have.”

  “Did you try to drive out?”

  “Sure did.”

  “And?”

  “Sure didn’t work. I’m still here.”

  “You could wait here till you goddam drop dead!”

  “Sure could. What can you do?”

  “Drive out!”

  “Sure, then go.”

  “Goddammit! We should just take the shaft out and give them hell!”

  “If waiting doesn’t work, you won’t do any good with a shaft either. You’ve got a rosary there, pray awhile and you’ll stop being angry. Always works for me. Whenever I need to get anything done, at the district administration or the co-op, I take my rosary along and say it one bead after another, and however long I have to wait, it’s like I didn’t have to wait at all. How about it?”

  “You know where you can put your rosary!”

  “Don’t blaspheme or you’ll turn God against us as well. And he’s all we have left.”

  I was madder at old Kuś than at the cars. For getting to the road before me. He was sitting there now without a care in the world, up on his sheaves, his whip between his legs, saying his rosary with his hands, and he probably felt like he was sitting on the bench outside his house. And when you’re on your bench outside your house, time lies like a dog at your feet, warming itself in the sun or thinking about the next world. Besides, he was over eighty, his woman had long since died and his sons had gone off to the town, where did he have to hurry back to. Me, on the other hand, I was planning to make another trip after this one, even two more if I managed. Since I’d already given up my Sunday, let there be a good few loads to show for it. And the sky looked more and more like rain. There were twice as many dark clouds over to the west.

  After a bit Wicek Marzec came along, his wagon was full also.

  “You’re waiting?”

  “Yep.”

  “Whoa!” He pulled his horse up, the shaft almost poked into my sheaves. “Looks like we’ll be here awhile. Where are all those damn cars going? People don’t even know how to sit on their asses these days. Sunday’s no good for a day of rest anymore, evidently – they’ll have to pick another day.”

  “Then there’d have to be another God,” said Kuś, bristling.

  “Let there be, if that’s how it has to happen!”

  Then Heniek Maszczyk drove up with his Terenia. And he says the same thing:

  “You’re waiting?”

  “Yep.”

  I liked that Terenia. Couldn’t I have been born twenty years later? I felt sorry for her that all that beauty was going to waste in the harvest. When she saw us all waiting there she slipped down off the sheaves.

  “Heniek, I’m gonna walk back, the kid needs feeding. There’s no telling how long you’ll be here.” She set off on foot across the fields.

  There was no break in the cars. It was one long string of them. Syta and Barański and Franek Jędrys came along and each of them repeated:

  “You’re waiting?”

  “Yep.” It was like they were saying a greeting, “God bring you fortune,” and we were answering, “God give you thanks.”

  In the end there was a line of maybe ten wagons, with Kuś at the front like a lookout.

  “Bartłomiej, keep your eyes peeled! The moment you can, whack your horse on the backside and get out there!”

  “I am keeping my eyes peeled,” he said, annoyed. “Can’t you see the cars keep coming and coming? Is it my fault they’ve had enough of staying home?” Then a moment later he says in a good-natured way: “Hey there, Szymek! Any idea why those cars are all painted? Green and red and heaven knows what all else? I mean, horses are different colors as well. But horses are born that way. Though one time, you know, thieves stole four horses from the manor and they colored two of them black and two of them chestnut. They went to market and they might even have sold them, they already had buyers. But it began to drizzle. People saw a miracle, a horse changing color. The black ones become duns, the chestnuts turned into grays. On a fair day like today they surely would have sold them. But tomorrow, who knows. Looks like rain. Though in one of them cars it makes no difference whether it’s raining or not, they’re all nice and cozy in there. They’re just riding along seeing the world. Not like when all you’ve seen of the world is when you were in the wars. Or when you went to market. But back then you’d have to wait till your cucumbers grew. You’d pick a whole lot and your woman’d put on her fancy clothes, and you’d be off to Karasin, cause the money was better there. And if you sold what you had you could go to the pub. That Waleria of mine was quite the lady. You’d never catch her drinking plain old vodka. It was always only rum. The Jew knew her, he didn’t even have to ask. Then when she’d had a bit to drink she’d start singing. She had a lovely voice. There were times everything we made on the cucumbers would go. And you know, she could cook cabbage like nobody else. She’d chop up black turnip and garlic and onion, sprinkle on some caraway, then she’d chuck in some lard or bacon fat. Then once it was cooked on the stove, in the wintertime she’d put it out in the frost for the whole night. Next day she’d light the stove and put it in the oven. We’d be eating it the whole week. When she died she said to me, all your clothes are washed and ironed, Bartuś. I even whitewashed the inside walls for you. I was going to cook you up some cabbage as well, but God didn’t let me. You’ll have to do it yourself.”

  “Don’t talk so much, Bartłomiej. Watch the road,” I said, but in a way that wouldn’t make him take offense.

  He stopped talking and kind of hunched over, and from behind you couldn’t tell if he was watching the cars closely, or he was praying.

  “Hey, Bartłomiej! Are you asleep?”

  “Why would I be sleeping,” he said angrily, turning toward me. “You think I’ve never done guard duty? Let me tell you, I was a soldier long before you were even a twinkle in your mother’s eye.”

  But a moment later he pointed to the road with his whip and shouted almost pleased:

  “Szymek, look how that green one’s chasing the red one. And the red one won’t let him past. He’s a feisty little devil, even if he’s small.”

  All of a sudden Franek Jędrys called from behind:

  “Hey, you there up front! Watch out! There’s a gap after the red one! The second he passes, Kuś needs to get out there. And you after him, Szymek!”

  You could already see the first bigger gap from around the bend. Behind a black car the next one was only just entering the curve, and the black one was almost on a level with us. I tightened the reins on the horse and lifted my whip, all ready to flick it and shout, gee up! and follow right behind Kuś. I called to the old man:

  “Lookout, Bartłomiej! Come on, now! Off you go! Gee up!”

  But instead of tugging at the reins right away he had to sit himself up straight, switch the reins from his left hand to his right, and he didn’t even give a decent tug, he just twitched them like he was setting off from home, and at first his mare didn’t even know what he wanted. It was only when he said, “Gee up!” But even the gee up was like when you start plowing. So there was only time for the horse to strain forward a bit, the wagon jerked and he had to stop because it was too late. The car from the other side of the gap was almost there, and behind it there was a snake of cars so long you couldn’t see the end of it.

  “Goddammit!” I said, furious at Kuś, especially because I’d moved off quicker than him and my shaft got stuck in his load and twisted my horse’s neck. “The hell you were in the
army! You wouldn’t have survived a day in the war at that speed! You’d have been pushing up the daisies long ago! Why you had to be at the goddam front of the line instead of the back I don’t know. All you needed was to get your horse’s front legs on the blacktop and you’d be on your way! You should’ve used the whip, not the reins! Give her a good lash instead of being gentle on her!” I was so furious I yanked my horse back as hard as I could, and the trace almost ripped the creature’s head off. I used the whip on both sides, it’s not easy backing up with a loaded wagon.

  “Fucking hell!”

  “Shit!”

  “He had to go and straighten himself up!”

  “He forgot to cross himself as well!”

  “You get a guy like that up there and all he’ll do is wait! You can’t go around him, you can’t go over him!”

  “He ought to be saying his goodbyes to the world, not bringing in the crops!”

  “Or haul his sons’ asses back from the town and let them do the job!”

  “He’s got one foot in the grave and he can’t leave the earth alone! You’ll have enough of it when you’re six feet under!”

  “He should give his land to the government, let it be!”

  “The countryside’s supposed to be moving forward, but how can it with old farts like him standing in the way!”

  Curses and insults stormed down on Kuś’s head. All he did was hunch up, his head tucked in, and wait till it all passed. Or maybe somewhere there in his lap he was saying his rosary, like he was waiting his turn at the district administration or the co-op. In the end I felt sorry for him. I’d stopped being angry, because what was the point of being angry at the wrong person, and I called out to him:

  “Hey, Bartłomiej! Maybe you could take my wagon and I’ll drive yours?”

  I had no idea he’d be so upset.

  “Why should I take your wagon? What’s wrong with mine? I’ve been a farmer longer than you have. I’ve got more acres than you. No one plows or sows for me, and no one else needs to drive my wagon for me either. Eighty-two years it’s been, that’s long enough to know how to farm.”

  At that, one of the other men shouted:

  “Eighty-two years and he’s still clinging to life, goddammit!”

  Someone cracked his whip and it made all the horses twitch. Kuś turned around oh so slowly to the other wagons, gave us this strange look, and said:

  “It’s not my life I’m worried about, it’s the horse’s.”

  Everyone suddenly felt foolish. No one said another word one way or the other. Someone tugged quietly at the reins, whoa! but not because his horse was uneasy, the reins were maybe just stinging his hands. No one even reached into his pocket to have a smoke. And that’s always the best remedy when you can’t think of anything to say or you’ve got a bad conscience. But Kuś seemed to be kind of overcome by bitterness, maybe not at the other farmers but just in general:

  “She’s eighteen years old, you know, and it’s good she can still pull. Because that’s like a dog being ten, or a person, however old they’re meant to get. Only ravens live longer. But you won’t find any ravens these days! It’s all crows and rooks, though people call them all ravens. You know, she already almost died on me one time. I was plowing the potato field and she started playing up, so I give her a flick with the tip of the whip and I shout, gee up! All of a sudden, you know, she goes down on her knees, then she falls on her side. I run up, I think, maybe she’s got a touch of the colic. I grabbed her by the bridle and pulled, get up now. I think, I’ll try with the whip. I gave her a good crack, but you know, I look and I see it’s death, not colic. She turned her head but she couldn’t get back up. What could I do? Tell me what to do, Lord, my mare’s dying. But not a peep from up there. All you can hear is crows and rooks cawing away. So I squatted down, I took her head on my lap, I held it and I said to her, get up, are you going to leave me with the potato field half done? We can die together. You know it won’t be long. Get up. We’ve worked so long together, why should we die separately? We’ll plow this field next year again, maybe the year after as well, and that’ll be that. Or maybe God’ll only let us finish this field, nothing more. Get up. And she did.”

  He sighed and coughed so hard he had to hit himself in the chest with his fist because something got stuck, then he coughed it up and spat it out and he turned back around to the wagons and carried on:

  “One time, you know, my grandfather Mikołaj told me how long ago God was handing out riches. He called all the people that lived on earth because he wanted to give things out fairly. But first there came the princes and judges and merchants and other rich folk. They arrived in all different kinds of carriages. And, they were racing each other, the drivers were lashing the horses so hard their whips snapped. And the peasants, like you’d expect, even if some of them had a horse they didn’t want to tire it out if they didn’t need to, so they came on foot. And even though it was God they were visiting, it was still a ways. So when they got there God had already given everything away to those other folks. God was really upset that there were still some other people, because the rich men had told him that was everyone. Also, he could see the peasants were dressed in rags. They had shoes made of linden bark, and coarse shirts with rope belts. They didn’t even have caps to take off when they came into God’s presence. And so God was even more troubled.

  “ ‘What have I got for you, my little golden people?’ he says. ‘I’ve given everything away. All I have left is the crown of thorns on my head and this cloak you see me in. I’m as poor as you are.’

  “He sat there, he rested his chin on his hand, lowered his head, and thought and thought. The peasants reckoned nothing would come of it and one of them says:

  ‘ “All right, we’ll be on our way, God.’

  “But God says:

  ‘ “Just a moment. I’ll give you a little of my patience. If you take it, you’ll be able to put up with anything. Because people are going to have more need for patience than for riches.” ’

  Kuś fell to thinking and stared at the passing cars. All of us on our wagons followed suit and stared at the cars like he was. And maybe they were even a bit less mad at them. All of a sudden Kuś pointed at the road with his whip and shouted:

  “Hey, two hundred!”

  “What about two hundred?”

  “That’s how many have driven past.”

  “What are you counting them for? It’s a waste of time. They’re not worth it.”

  “Well, when there’s nothing else a fellow can do, he can at least count. My old father, God rest his soul, he’d always tell me, count, son, keep counting, you never know when it’ll come in handy. One time, you know, in the summertime we were lying under this apple tree in the orchard of a Sunday. I was already grown up. Father wasn’t saying anything and I wasn’t saying anything either. Father let his hat slip down over his forehead, I thought he was asleep. So I closed my eyes a moment too. Then all at once he says:

  ‘ “Three thousand five hundred and eighty-three.’

  ‘ “What do you mean, three thousand five hundred and eighty-three, dad?’ I ask, I thought he was dreaming.

  ‘ “That’s how many apples there are on the tree.’

  ‘ “How do you know?’

  “ ‘I counted them. I always count things when something’s bothering me. You should too. Start with raspberries. There aren’t that many raspberries on a bush, so it won’t be too hard. After that, try counting the sloes on a sloe tree. Then break open a poppy head and count the seeds. Go up on a hill and count the fields and meadows and field boundaries. Count whatever you see in front of you, pigeons, clouds, people at funerals, posts in a fence, rocks in the river. Just never be idle. And if one time you can count all the stars in the night sky, then you’ll be able to say you have patience and you can overcome anything. I never was able to, but you should try. Maybe you’ll manage it.’ ”

  “Hey there, Bartłomiej!” someone called from one of the wagons down
the line. “I think there’s a gap, get going now!”

  But there wasn’t any gap to be seen. The cars were closer and closer together. They were starting not to have enough space, they were honking at each other and flashing their lights and braking.

  “The bastards won’t even let you take home a wagonload of sheaves!” said Wicek Marzec behind me. “Not that it’ll stop them eating the stuff. They can’t get enough of it!”

  The men on the wagons started getting riled up again.

  “They’re breeding like reptiles!”

  “You know what, Wincenty, they’re not reptiles, they’re germs!”

  “Can’t God do something?”

  “What can God do? God made the world without cars! Cars must have been made by the devil.”

  “Never mind the devil. I wish a big tree would just fall across the road and kill them all, damn them.”

  All of a sudden Stach Brożyna, who was standing up astride his sheaves, started waving his whip in the direction of the road.

  “Hey, you there! Stop for a minute, you sons of bitches! We’ll get across and you can all be on your way!” He was jumping about so much his horses took fright. They jerked forward, and Stach toppled over and landed on the sheaves. Everyone roared with laughter. Stach didn’t let up though. He got back on his feet. “Hey, you!” But he realized shouting at the cars wasn’t going to do any good, and he started firing up the other men:

  “Come on, guys! Are we sheep or what? Someone ought to go up onto the road and wave his arms. Maybe they’ll stop!”