Stone Upon Stone

by Wieslaw Mysliwski

  But I hadn’t said a word. I’d just been sitting there listening to his advice. I even regretted telling him they had so many acres. Where did I come up with that number? No one in our village had that much land. I should have said eight or ten tops, and leave out the brother with the consumption. Or there could have been a brother, but maybe a cripple that had to be looked after for the rest of his life. Mother would still have said what she said, but the most he’d have said would be:

  “The Wronas have got that much. And they want you for their daughter as well. That way you could stay here in the village, you wouldn’t have to move all the way out to Łanów. A person should die where they were born. They’ll never get as used to a different place. Jagna’s a hardworking girl. And they’ll probably give her a cow, cause they have two.”

  I didn’t think he’d believe they had so much land.

  “That many acres,” he’d say, “you’d have heard about it. Winiarski in Boleszyce, he has thirty-five and everyone knows him. And he was a councilman before the war. The priest and the squire would always be visiting him. At the harvest festival it was always Winiarski made the speech. He sent his son to study to be a doctor, and his daughter was a schoolteacher. Those people wouldn’t want anything to do with you if they had so much land. The drink’s making you imagine things. Keep drinking and you’ll end up like Pietrek Jamrozek. He calls his own mother a whore when she won’t give him vodka money. And his hands shake like leaves in the wind. The priest is always on at him from the pulpit. They take him away but then they bring him back and he starts drinking again.”

  But maybe it wasn’t so much that he believed me as that he believed himself. And when he asked me how many acres they had, he only wanted me to agree with what he was saying. And I did, I said fifty acres, let him have that many if that’s what he wants, let him at last have his fill of land, let him get dizzy from it at least once. I got carried away. I wanted to needle him, but the way it came out it seemed like God had finally answered his prayers.

  In the end, though, he must have realized it was all made up, because from that time on he never once brought up those fifty acres. And he never asked once if I was getting married. Nor even if we were still seeing each other. Besides, it looked like he was starting to get a bit confused in the head, and after mother died he stopped talking almost completely, he’d only say something every once in a while. He didn’t even worry about our fields anymore, what did he care about me getting married. There was just one time, when I’d stopped working at the administration, I came back from mowing and I was sitting there exhausted on the bench, and suddenly he asked:

  “Is it harvesttime already?”

  “Sure is.”

  “Are the children old enough to help yet? You should bring them one day. I’d forgotten they’re my grandchildren.”

  And just like the time before, I had to nod and agree with him:

  “Yes, I’ll bring them.”

  People keep asking me, when are you finally going to get that tomb finished? You might at least roof it with tar paper, keep the water out. Well I would have finished it, I’d have finished it long ago, if that was all I had to worry about. But as if I didn’t have enough on my plate already, here one of my pigs went and died. She was getting up close to her weight, she would have been a good three thirty, three fifty pounds. I figured, when I sold her I could get some more work done on the tomb. The walls have been up for a long time now, the partitions were ready even, all it needed was a roof and push comes to shove, people could be buried in it even if it was unfinished.

  Chmiel was patient, waiting for when we’d start again, though he was getting old and bent over. Just one time he sent his old lady over to say his aches and pains were getting worse and worse, and by the way how were things with that tomb of mine, because he’d like to finish what he began. When I met him from time to time in the village he’d just nod back and walk on, or at the most he’d ask: so when? But like he wasn’t asking about my tomb, just in general. He was content with any old excuse, it’s because of this or that, Chmiel, though mostly it was, once I’m done fattening the pig. Everyone knows a pig’s the fastest way to make a bit of money. So long as it doesn’t get sick, you wait your eight months then it’s off to the purchasing center. Fatten her up then, fast as you can, he’d say, cause you might run out of time. The fact was, whenever I did fatten a pig there were always more urgent things that needed paying. First it was taxes, next it was quilt covers, then winter clothes for Michał, one thing or another, or I had to order a supply of coal, and the tomb could wait, luckily no one was dying. Besides, I didn’t rear that many pigs, one or two, as the chance came along. Because if you want to fatten a pig you need a woman at home, a guy on his own can’t handle it. Though sometimes I thought about taking out a loan, building a pig shed for a hundred or so pigs and starting to raise them for money like some folks do around here. If it’s not pigs it’s something else, but only for money. Take Ciamciaga for instance, the man can’t add three plus three but he started keeping sheep. No one had sheep in the village before. There were sheep once, but it was at the manor before the war. He even learned how to shear them. The first time he did it the poor creature was so cut up it looked like wolves had been at it. But now he shears, his old lady spins, his daughters knit sweaters, and everyone wears sweaters made of Ciamciaga’s wool. Or Franek Kukla, he started an orchard and now he sells apples by the cartload. He’s got apple trees all in long rows like cows in a big cattle barn. Plus each row is a different kind of apple. All the rows are straight and neat, all the trees are the same height. They’re all as clean as if he combed them every day. I think they even all have the same number of branches, because where there used to be more, you can see they’ve been sawn off. And on each one it’s like there’s nothing but apples growing, no leaves, no branches, no trunk, no earth even. Except it’s kind of quiet in his orchard, you don’t hear bees buzzing or birds chirping, it’s nothing but apple trees as far as the eye can see. I said to him one time:

  “So you’ve got your orchard. But it’s kind of sad in there.”

  He laughed:

  “Ha, ha! What do I need a happy orchard for. All it has to do is make me money.”

  Maybe that’s how things ought to be. Sometimes I’ve even seen myself going into that pig shed for a hundred pigs, inside it’s white from all the animals and the only thing you can see is the rise and fall of fat bellies. And it’s all mine. But I soon get over it. What do I need all that money for. I’m not planning to build anything. I don’t have anyone to leave it to. So one or two pigs is enough. Pigs take work. You sometimes don’t have time to cook your own dinner, you’ll grab a slice of bread with milk or with a piece of sausage, but a pig has to have two meals a day. I might not even have reared the one or two, but someone’s sow in the village would have piglets and they’d say, do you want one? Take it. They’re a healthy size, they’ll fatten up nicely. Or when I rode to market, coming home with an empty wagon seemed wrong somehow, so I’d ride back with a young pig at least.

  One time Felek Midura convinced me to take one, he didn’t even want the money right away but later, whenever I had it. Or we’d figure something out, I’d lend him my horse for plowing in the spring, because it was difficult for him with one horse on that hillside of his. Or I could pay him back in hay in the winter, since I had a meadow and he’d sold his. Or if not in hay then in potatoes. Come on, take one, they’ve got little short snouts and tiny ears, they’ll be good eaters – even now I can barely pull them off the teat. So I took one.

  But it had some kind of sickness in it. It ate enough for two piglets but it didn’t get any fatter. A whole year I fed it and it never grew bigger than a cat. A pig like that is the worst, you don’t have the heart to kill it but keeping on rearing it is a waste of time. Besides, what was the point of slaughtering it, you could hold the thing in your hands like a baby, why even bother. After a year I got used to having it around. I called him Squeals �
�� the name just came to me. I kept saying to him, stop squealing, stop squealing, so he became Squeals. Besides, I’d started to feel he needed a name, I couldn’t just keep calling to him, come and get it, especially as the eating didn’t do any good. If I’d had more of them they wouldn’t have needed names. But when there was only one, and there he was all alone between the horse and the cows, he had to be called something. Oftentimes I used to sit myself down in the shed and watch him feed. And however angry I was that he wasn’t growing, I forgave him, because just watching him eat so healthily was a pleasure. Though one time I got so mad I grabbed him up away from the trough and hauled him over to Midura’s.

  “Here, take your crappy pig back, damn you. You knew, that’s why you didn’t want any money. Yours are all fattened up and sold, look at this one.”

  But the next morning I step outside and I see my Squeals running around the farmyard and grubbing about for food. It touched my heart.

  “Squeals!” I called, and there he was trotting towards me at full tilt. It made me think. He was just a piglet, but he was capable of getting attached to someone. There had to be some intelligence there. Though it could also have been that Midura dropped him in my yard in the night to make it look like the pig had gotten attached to me. But I didn’t take him to Midura a second time. Just so he’d come back or be brought back yet again? Luckily I’d not gotten around to thinking what I’d do with the money once he was fattened up, so it wasn’t such a big disappointment. Because the one that died, ever since it was small that one had been meant to pay for the roof on the tomb. The moment I brought it back from market I put it in the shed, poured food in its trough, and said:

  “Eat up and get big, you’re going to pay for the roof.”

  Every time I fed it I repeated to myself that it was for the roof, that I needed to make sure it didn’t go on something more urgent this time. And it was like it understood, because you could almost watch it getting fatter. Though for my part I never scrimped on the potatoes or the coarse-ground flour. And the whey was all for the pig. When there wasn’t any whey I’d even give it milk. Sometimes I’d go pick nettles to fill it up even more.

  Eight months hadn’t gone by and it was ready to be taken down to the purchasing center. But I decided to hold on to it a bit longer, it ate like the devil and every day was a gain, every pound meant more money. Besides, a pig has to be at least three twenty, three forty, mother always reared them that big, it’s only then that it’s a real pig. After it’s slaughtered there’s less waste, with one that’s not been properly fattened a good third of it can go to waste. Plus, when you take a big pig like that down to the center everyone wants to guess how much it weighs, everyone pats its back to see what kind of bacon it’s going to give, sometimes the guys even get into an argument about whether it’ll be three fingers or four. It makes your heart swell to think you’ve reared a pig like that.

  It was almost there. I even stopped Chmiel of my own accord at the co-op one day:

  “Not long now, Chmiel. In two, three weeks I’m driving that pig down to the center and we’re on for the roof.”

  “You do that, make sure you’re not too late.”

  Then one day I go in the shed and I see there’s hardly anything eaten from the trough, and my pig’s lying there like it’s sleepy. I prodded it with my foot, come on, get up. It did, but it was kind of sluggish. I grabbed it by the tail and it didn’t jerk or squeal. I pulled the trough closer and shoved its head in it, eat now. But it was like it didn’t have the strength to open its mouth. I thought, maybe it’s eaten a rat. Often when a pig eats a rat it can’t eat anything else for a bit. Except that if it had eaten a rat it’d be thirsty, rats burn like fire. But when I brought it some whey it didn’t even look up. I ran to the vet, but when he came all he could do was tell me to slaughter it and bury it.

  The next day they came and sprayed my whole shed with something smelly. I had to take my cows and calf and horse and put them in the barn. Because when you went in there it made your eyes water. Even any of the chickens that got close to the cattle shed, their eyes watered too. And the dog, I thought he’d go mad. He sneezed and gagged, he foamed at the mouth and he clung to my feet so much I couldn’t get rid of him. Have a bark and you’ll get over it, I said, go on, bark like you were barking at a thief.

  I even had a railroad rail ready to use for the ceiling, all I needed to do was go grease the right palm and drive up in my wagon. Because obviously you don’t buy rails like that in the ordinary way, you need a special opportunity. And opportunities don’t stand there waiting for you, you have to go after them yourself. I needed three lengths of about ten feet each. I went all over the place asking around, with no luck at all. Then one day I’m walking along the tracks and I see they’re switching out the old rails for new. I started talking with the workers, were those old rails so used up they weren’t any good anymore, or were they changing the railroad? No they weren’t, but there was going to be an express train on this route. What’s going to happen to the old rails? They’ll be sent for scrap. Well, I’d buy one of those, I could use it for the roof in the tomb I’m having built. It could be cut into three pieces and there’d still be some left over. They didn’t know about that, I should go talk to the stationmaster. I go to the stationmaster, I know him well, of course, and I say:

  “Listen, Władysław, sell me one of those rails they’re changing out, I need it for the tomb I’m having built. I hear the express train’s coming through here. It can be the most worn-down one.”

  He can’t do it. Why not, it’s only going for scrap, the workers told me, and I’ll pay however much I have to. He can’t because it’s government property, and government property isn’t for sale. If it was his he’d give me it for free. But everything on the railroad is government owned. Even the red cap he’s wearing isn’t his, it belongs to the government.

  “So what can I do? The ceiling won’t hold without rails. What do you suggest, Władysław?”

  “Hang on, just wait till this freight train’s gone through. For a tomb, you say?”

  “That’s right. I’ve had the walls up a long time now, it’s all partitioned off, there’s only the roof left to do.”

  He took off that red cap of his and scratched behind his ear.

  “Well everyone has to die sooner or later, that’s a fact. And they have to be buried somewhere. Go talk to one of the switchmen, slip him something and he’ll turn a blind eye, then you can bring your wagon in the night and take it away. Just remember, I wasn’t the one that told you.”

  That’s how it was with almost everything. Nothing would come easily. I had to have a pit dug so Chmiel could get in to do the building, ten feet by ten and five deep, and I lost a good few months on that. Time was I wouldn’t have asked anyone, I’d just have dug it myself. But how could I do that with these legs of mine, and the walking sticks, and me just back from the hospital. I needed to hire someone for the job. So I got that swindler the Postman, because it’s not so easy to hire a decent worker. His name’s Kurtyka, but they call him the Postman. He lives with his sister, she’s an old maid, they have three acres. The sister works the land while he gads about the village from morning till night, making some money here, stealing there, or someone’ll buy him a drink. He’s always drunk. And even when he’s not, he pretends to be. He’s so good at it that if you don’t know him you can’t tell he’s not really drunk. But evidently he prefers living like that to being sober. Or maybe he’s forgotten how to not be drunk. We’ve all gotten used to him always being drunk, he wouldn’t be the same person if he tried to be sober. Because what is he, some Jasiek with three acres that he shares with his sister. As it is the other farmers laugh at him, the women feel sorry for him, the children chase after him down the street and shout at him: Postman! Postman! Postman!

  I met him early one morning by the shrine. I was heading out to the fields to dig potatoes. He was standing there with his hands in his pockets. He was squinting in the sunlight lik
e he was already drunk, or to fool someone into buying him a drink.

  “Whoa.” I stopped the horse. “Listen, Jasiek, maybe you could dig a pit for me for my tomb?”

  He looked up and eyed me, smelling a half-bottle.

  “What, are you planning to die?”

  “One of these days I’ll have to.”

  “They’ll dig you a hole when you go, why worry about it ahead of time.”

  “I’m planning to build a walled tomb, the kind of thing you need to get done in advance.”

  “Do you think you’re not going to rot in a walled tomb? You’ll rot in there just the same.”

  “So will you do it?”

  “I can dig you a pit, for a tomb, for potatoes, for slaking lime. Makes no difference to me, a pit’s a pit. Just buy me a half-bottle.”

  “I’ll buy you a half-bottle and pay you as well.”

  “But buy it now. A man’s at his thirstiest in the early morning.”

  I gave him money for a bottle and we agreed that the next day we’d go to the cemetery and I’d show him where to dig. But the next day came, then the day after that, and three more days, and there was sight nor sound of him. I went down the village to look for him. I called in to see his sister. Is Jasiek in? He was here this morning but he went out. He might be at the pub. I went to the pub. Yeah, he was here, but he only had the one beer, no one would buy him a drink, so he left. He said he was supposed to go pick apples at Boduła’s place, maybe look for him there. I hobbled over to Boduła’s. Yeah, he was picking apples here, but that was last week, he barely picked any at all, no more than a basketful, and then he hits you up for a half-bottle.

  In the end I saw him, he was walking up the road toward me, but the second he spotted me he started reeling like he was half gone.