Last month, she and Lidka had taken the train to Kraków, and found the Coco Erotik Butik. Kamila and Lidka giggled like schoolgirls at the dildos and vibrators, but Kamila felt excited surrounded by all those rubber cocks. “Maybe you should just get one of these,” Lidka had suggested. But Kamila shook her head and headed toward the back of the store, where she found exactly what she wanted—a red lace body stocking with two silken tassels attached to the bustier. It was flamboyant, expensive, and most important, it was crotchless. For weeks, the outfit lay hidden underneath her bed.
Kamila got off the toilet and stood in front of the mirror. She had abused her newly dyed hair into an impressive bouffant and shellacked it into place with a can of Elnett. She’d lined her eyes with kohl, smeared glitter on her lids, and painted her lips blood red. She looked like a fucked-up version of Cleopatra. Glancing down at her auburn bush, she wondered if she should have listened to Justyna and shaved it off. “Guys like it when you look like a little girl down there, Kamila, trust me.”
Kamila takes a deep breath and stares at her reflection. “All right, Kamila Marchewska. Look at you. Look at you! Men are visual creatures and I bet you Emil’s out there right now at full mast.” But when she comes out of the bathroom, Emil is sitting on the floor, Turkish style, his shoes off, one black sock in his hands.
“And don’t stop there.” She motions to his bare feet, her arm outstretched, her pointer finger rising up, toe to head. She stands above him like a warrior, but she’s a bit wobbly in her three-inch heels.
“Are Lidka and Irek here yet?”
“Look at me, Emil! This is for you. And I don’t care if you don’t make love to me tonight. I don’t care if you don’t have sex with me. But you are going to fuck me, Emil. Once and for all.”
Emil’s voice actually cracks when he speaks. “And if I can’t?”
“Then you will never see me again.” With that Kamila struts into her bedroom, throws herself on the folded-out wersalka, and splays her legs open. When Emil finally toddles into the room, there is nothing left to his imagination.
Kamila worked all year for this moment. She dieted like mad, finally lost those last fifteen pounds thanks to the tiny heart-shaped appetite-suppressing pills. The results were impressive—she had a twenty-six-inch waist and even her toes had slimmed down. My God, she had actual ankles, for the first time in her life! Of course, the steady intake of Dexatrim had caused some of her hair to fall out, and she experienced odd palpitations every now and again, but it had all been worth it. She felt like a model.
Emil perches on the edge of the wersalka and doesn’t say a word. She wants him to tell her that she looks beautiful, that he too has been waiting years for this moment, but he sits motionless and silent, so Kamila reaches for his fingers and guides Emil’s hand to her clitoris but it sits there, motionless. Kamila joins her fingers with his and shows him how.
“You should kiss me, Emil. Don’t you want to kiss me?” He leans down obediently and kisses her lips with his closed mouth. Kamila has to blink back tears, but Emil hasn’t run off screaming, and she takes that as some kind of victory. She gets down on her knees in front of him, arches her back, and unzips his trousers. His penis is soft in her palm, like a wounded animal. “Hello, stranger,” she whispers. Emil’s apprehension is natural, she tells herself; they are about to cross the boundary between friends and lovers. She works hard for a long time, flicking, sucking, tracing elaborate circles on his shaft with her tongue, just like the videos taught her, until finally, she gets on top of him and instructs him to close his eyes and picture anything he wants, anything at all.
Emil’s eyes squeeze shut and his face contorts with concentration. He manages a few deep prods before slipping out of her. He sits up, hangs his head in embarrassment, and asks her if she is okay.
In the bathroom, Kamila peels the lace stocking off her body and stands there, naked and clammy from head to toe. She wipes away the bit of blood, sits on the toilet, and quickly masturbates. She feels accomplished; it isn’t every day that one loses her virginity to her soul mate.
Now, Kamila figures she just has to wait for him to get on his knees and ask her what she has been dying to hear all these years. She tells herself that as awkward as the sex was, she and Emil will get better at it with time, and that eventually they will marry.
Kamila wakes up the next morning, fully sober. She doesn’t have to roll over to know that Emil is not in bed with her. She is suddenly aware that the night before was a catastrophe. She all but forced Emil to have sex with her. She behaved like an animal, and treated Emil likewise. She doesn’t even know when he left the apartment. In fact, the last thing she remembers is sitting on the shitter, playing with herself.
The phone rings and Kamila leaps toward it, praying it is Emil calling to forgive her, but it is Anna, asking if they are still going to Justyna’s.
“I guess so. But I need a few hours here. Can we do it in the evening?”
“Yeah, sure. You sound tired.”
Kamila hangs up, and the phone immediately rings again. Kamila lets it ring.
“Kamila! Get out of bed. Ciocia Frania died. Pick up the goddamn phone! Hello?? They’re gonna go over the testament in the afternoon and then I’m back on the bus. I want you to go to the masarnia and get a pound and a half of beef and some vegetables, but only if they’re fresh. Don’t let Pan Tadek talk you into yesterday’s produce, I don’t care about any discount. Kamila?!” Zofia lets out an aggravated sigh. “She died screaming in pain. You should have been here with me.” Her mother breathes heavily for a few seconds. “And, cholera jasna, wash the sheets!”
Kamila stuffs the remains of the bloodied bedsheet into a plastic garbage bag, but not before tearing off a pinkish swath, tucking it in the back of her underwear drawer.
When Kamila arrives at the bus stop, Anna is already there, looking effortlessly beautiful. Anna doesn’t need diet pills and she doesn’t need to bully boys into bed. Tonight, for the first time ever, Kamila feels acutely jealous of her.
Anna jumps to her feet. “Kamila! God, you look so different.” For a minute Kamila panics, perhaps the old superstition is right, that you can tell a woman’s had sex just by looking at her.
“It’s such a drastic change every time I see you. I miss the carrot top.” Anna reaches out to touch Kamila’s black frizz.
“I don’t. Orange isn’t pretty and you know it.”
“It was pretty on you.”
“No, it’s pretty on a cat, Anna, but not on a person. Can’t you be honest for a change?”
“At least your red hair was natural. This looks fake. It’s so black it looks blue. And it just doesn’t suit you.” Anna smiles. “How’s that for honest?”
When they board the bus, Anna takes two prepaid tickets and slides them in a slot, punching out the holes, in case kontrola comes. Anna smiles when she returns to the seat, waving the little tickets.
“Someone graffitied kurwa on my babcia’s mailbox,” Anna blurts out. “I assume it was Kowalski, or one of his cronies. Maybe it was that fat fuck.”
Kamila doesn’t say anything. Obviously something happened between Lolek and Anna, but Kamila doesn’t know when it happened or what it was, and she’ll never ask.
“When was the last time you saw her?” Anna changes the subject.
“Justyna? A month ago, I think. Pani Teresa was still in the hospital then.”
The topic of Justyna’s mother’s impending death is too much; they simply avoid the subject.
“The baby’s cute. Small. But I’m not surprised. You couldn’t even tell she was pregnant. It just looked like someone snuck a beach ball under her sweater.”
“Lucky bitch. I bet I’ll blow up like a balloon.”
“Me too.”
“You’ll look beautiful.”
Kamila sighs. “Why do you always do that?”
“Do what?”
“Tell me how pretty I am, when we both know it’s just not true. I’m ugly,
I was always ugly, but I didn’t care. I only started to care when you started telling me otherwise all the time.”
“Kamila—”
“I had sex with Emil last night.”
Anna’s mouth falls open.
“I wanted to come here and tell you how magnificent it was. I wanted to lie, but I can’t. Let’s stop lying to each other, Anna. Last night was the worst thing that ever happened to me. I got so jealous of you, griping about Kowalski, I thought, What a spoiled brat—someone eager to love her, and she’s boohooing about the lack of conversation? So I got drunk, dressed up like a whore, and basically forced him. I told him I would never see him again so he better fuck me. I made him do it. And do you know the worst part?”
Anna shakes her head.
“He could only get an erection—and it was just a partial one, just enough to make it work—when I told him to close his eyes and think of something else. Just pretend it’s not me.”
“Kamila …”
Anna doesn’t say anything more, and Kamila is grateful. They get off the bus and walk in silence up the street toward Justyna’s. When they get to Witosa Road, Kamila stops in her tracks and grabs Anna’s arms.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you I thought you were a spoiled brat. You’re not; you’re my best, closest friend.”
“Don’t be sorry. Life’s too short to always be sorry. The first time always sucks, Kamila. Trust me, mine was no picnic either. One day I’ll tell you all about it.”
Kamila nods, relieved.
“You took the initiative. That’s ballsy, Kamila. That’s the goddamn stuff of life.”
Anna’s right. Anna’s always right. There had been one moment last night, when Kamila had stopped bucking under Emil’s weight, clenched the length of her body against his, and kissed him on the cheek. “I love you,” she had whispered. They lay like that for a brief minute, before Emil whispered back, “Me too.” Emil will forgive her, because he’s Emil. She’ll just wait it out, and if there’s one thing she’s good at, it’s waiting.
They walk up to Justyna’s house at a quarter past seven. The lights are all on and the windows are open. They can hear clearly the cries of an inconsolable baby.
Justyna
Kielce, Poland
When Anna and Kamila ring the doorbell that night, Damian is deep in the throes of his nightly tantrum. Justyna opens the door to the sight of her best friends, one of whom she hasn’t seen in three years, standing side by side like frightened Girl Scouts.
“Dziewczyny, meet Damian Paweł Strawicz, jerk extraordinaire. He’s just taken a steaming dump. Follow the smell of sraczka, and make yourselves at home.” Kamila and Anna clumsily take off their shoes and smile blankly. Justyna chuckles at their unease. She is a mother now, and Kamila and Anna, God bless them, had better get used it.
They follow her into the living room as Justyna plops down on the floor and places Damian in front of her, stretching his legs out and making them bend in circles, like he is a tiny bicyclist. “Wipes!” she shouts and Paweł appears in the doorway with a tub of Bambino wet wipes. He is dressed in a black wife beater that shows off his muscular arms, and his long hair is tied back in a ponytail. He throws the baby wipes at Justyna, who sets to work, popping the snaps, scooping the shit, and fastening a fresh diaper onto the baby like she’s been doing it her whole life. Kamila and Anna look on, stunned.
“It packs a wallop, right?” She tosses the dirty diaper to Paweł, who catches it with one hand, brings it to his nose, and inhales, an exaggerated, delighted aaaah. This is their routine and Justyna loves it. They perform best in front of an audience. Behind closed doors, when they realize Damian needs changing, they spend a few moments bickering about whose turn it is. In front of people, they work in mutual, tacit accord.
“We need some beer. Here”—Justyna thrusts Damian toward Paweł—“make yourself useful.” He holds Damian in equal measure of watchfulness and adoration. Justyna notices the way her friends stare at Paweł, and she smiles to herself as she walks toward the kitchen. Let them see; let them see just how happy she is.
She opens the fridge. From the living room she hears Paweł’s voice, an octave too high, aware that she’d be eavesdropping.
“You don’t know love till you watch your wife shit herself and you think it’s kinda cute. And then the head popped out and I nearly shit myself.”
Justyna walks back from the kitchen, four beer bottles expertly balanced in one hand, and she passes them out quickly.
She hands Paweł his Żywiec and he grabs her waist, kisses her on the mouth, and then takes a swig, with the baby between them.
“Maybe I should tell them how when you saw his little dick, you started bawling like a girl.” Paweł turns red and lovingly kisses the top of Damian’s head.
“See this? My man’s turned into a complete pussy,” Justyna proclaims, grinning from ear to ear.
“I can’t get over how quickly you changed his diaper. Did your mom teach you?” Anna speaks up, in awe.
Justyna rubs her eyes and takes Damian into her arms. He has calmed down, and his eyelids hang heavy.
“Dobranoc, kotku,” she whispers and covers his face in dozens of small kisses. When she’s finished she lets Paweł take him.
“Good night, girls. Don’t let Mamuśka stay up too late. We’ve got a four A.M. dinner reservation.” As soon as Paweł is out of sight, Justyna flops back onto the floor, digs in her front pocket, and fishes out a flattened pack of cigarettes.
“My mother hasn’t gotten out of bed in months, Anna,” she says after her first drawn-out drag. “We have to change her diapers now.”
“I’m sorry,” Kamila murmurs as she holds the Żywiec between her bony thighs.
“I bring Damian upstairs every day and when I lay him down next to her she thinks he’s Elwira.” Justyna frowns; she had forbidden herself to talk about her mother tonight. Who the fuck wants to go into the heinous specifics of cancer in its fourth stage? This is supposed to be a happy reunion.
They make small talk for a bit, and Justyna brings out the wedding album to show Anna.
“You looked like a princess or something,” Anna says, closing the album, smoothing her palms over its cover.
“I know. Some fairy tale, right? Baran, you look good. Your hair looks ekstra long. Every time I try to grow out mine, I end up cutting it,” Justyna says, touching her closely cropped hair, still worn in a pixie like Mia Farrow. “But I’m not even gonna comment on yours, Kamila. What’d you dye it with, tar?”
Kamila pats her head self-consciously. “It’s so nice to see that motherhood’s softened you.” The girls erupt into laughter.
“Let’s get out of here.” Justyna stands up. Upstairs, she can hear Elwira, who is on Mom duty tonight. Neither sister takes particular pleasure in spoon-feeding their mother, changing her underwear, or injecting her with morphine, but they make do.
By the time the doctors had done all the ultrasounds and biopsies, the cancer, which had originated in her mother’s left breast, had metastasized to Teresa’s spine and lymph nodes. It was in her pelvic tissue and liver, and heading north to her lungs. Women didn’t die from breast cancer like they used to, except the ones who ignored lumps and bumps and blisters. About a month ago, the hospital had discharged her because there was nothing they could do and there were other patients in line for her bed—other patients who were sick but whose recovery was still a possibility. They couldn’t afford a hospice aide, so Teresa was sequestered to the guest room on the third floor, where she’d been about to take her last breath for weeks now.
Every time Justyna walked in to see Teresa, the smell made her gag. When people talked about death they talked about the sadness of it, the waste, but they never talked about the things that made you want to shut the door on the dying. Justyna would sit on the edge of the bed, talking nonsense while she clipped her mother’s toenails. Teresa was unresponsive, teetering between sleep and God knows what.
“Sh
ould I see your mom before we go?” Anna sheepishly asks.
“She weighs forty-eight kilos, Anka. Have you ever seen bedsores?”
Anna shakes her head slowly.
“Well, if you’re remotely curious, now’s your chance. Otherwise …” Talking about a person’s death was easy; coming face-to-face with it was a whole other gambit.
“Fine, let’s just go,” Anna answers.
Ten minutes later, Justyna stands in front of Marex Bar and whistles three times. Moments after, Jacek Szuler comes downstairs. “Fucking fifteen minutes and you’re out. I gotta get up at five and go to the bazaar for my old man.”
“Sure, sure … and turn the music on.” Justyna smiles and waltzes past him, Kamila and Anna follow. On Sunday night most pubs in Kielce are closed. The people who want to get drunk on God’s day of the week are the kind that brown-bag their liquor. But Justyna has connections.
Jacek rests his head on the bar; after a half hour of shuffling shots over to their table, he’s given up. “I used to date him.” Justyna leans in conspiratorially. “Massive siur, I mean it fucking hurt, which further proved my theory that’s he’s half black.”
Kamila and Anna laugh in disbelief.
“I’m not kidding. Jacek used to do this clicking thing with his tongue, it was like Tourette’s or something, but it might have been Swahili.”
“You’re fucking crazy, Justyna,” Kamila shouts. “Forever Young” starts playing and the girls all chime in. “Let’s dance in style, let’s dance for a while, heaven can wait, we’re only watching the skies …”
“Remember how we used to force you to translate all those lyrics? You hated it!” Kamila recalls.
“She didn’t hate it, she loved it. You loved it, right?”
Anna smiles and shrugs her shoulders.
“Hey! Do you remember when Lolek stole that Russian motorcycle? How old were we?”
“Fifteen,” Anna answers, looking into her empty glass.
“Fifteen. My God. He drove us all over town on that fucking thing. Remember, you burned your calf on the exhaust pipe, Kamila, and we put honey on it? And we sat on the bench in front of your klatka and all of a sudden these bees appeared and this one”—Justyna points to Anna—“had like a full-blown panic attack. God, we were stupid.” Images fly at Justyna, swarming her head. She sees it all like it was yesterday, her whole wasted youth.
The Lullaby of Polish Girls Page 12
