“I can’t believe you’re getting married, Marchewska. I didn’t wanna say it back there, but it’s about fucking time.” Jola snickers, reapplying her bright pink lipstick.
“Joluṡ, please don’t call me by my last name. ‘Marchewska’ wears a kerchief and brings jars of cabbage to the bazaar every Sunday, okay?”
“You’re so fucking funny, Marchewska—I mean, Mrs. Ludek!” Jola laughs.
“No. I’m so fucking nervous,” Kamila whispers, as the bathroom attendant does her best to appear occupied.
“It’ll be superosko, kochanie. You have to come back here to buy your dress, obviously. You won’t find anything couture in Kielce. Who’s gonna be your maid of honor, huh?” Jola widens her eyes theatrically. “Okay, don’t answer that now, but keep in mind, kuzynko, that I’d throw a fucking dynamite bachelorette party. There’s this place that opened last year called Fantom. It’s like a gay nightclub where you can watch guys go down on each other! There’s no sign or anything, you just ring a little bell. And some of the guys paint their balls with glitter!” Jola scoops and rearranges her breasts. For a moment, Kamila doesn’t know what to say, about any of it.
“I’m nervous about tomorrow,” Kamila corrects her cousin.
“Oh my God, Kamila, Norbert’s the best there is. You’re gonna love your new nose! Let’s face it”—Jola titters—“the nochal you’ve got doesn’t do you any justice. Out with the old, honey, and in with the new. You’re in Warsaw now.”
“My nochal. Right.” She wonders what her father will think next time he sees her. She is getting rid of his nose, his genetic stamp. All her life Kamila has dreamed of transformation, of physical metamorphosis, because beauty was not just skin deep; it burrowed underneath tissue and muscle. Kamila liked her personality just fine, thought of herself as insightful and enterprising; but ever since Maciek Toboszycki told her she was ugly, calling her brzydula in front of the whole fourth grade, Kamila has wanted to erase her face and start over. And now, she is going to do just that. She thinks about the picture she has had tucked in her wallet for weeks now—a close-up of Michelle Pfeiffer’s tiny, button-sized nose. When she nervously showed it to Norbert last week, he smiled. “Well, I’m not a miracle worker, Kamila, but I’ll try.”
Jola straightens up and looks at herself one last time in the bathroom mirror. “We better get back, Kamila, they’ll think we drowned.”
“Would you marry Norbert, if you could?” Kamila asks. Jola stares at her for a minute, before bursting out in a peal of laughter.
“Are you kidding, dziewczyno? He’s like a hundred years old.” In that moment, Kamila realizes that she’s underestimated her cousin. Jola’s dalliance with Norbert is dirty and wrong, and it will all probably end quite soon, but that’s why it is so good. Kamila briefly tries to imagine a life where nothing else matters but the thrill of living.
By the time Norbert and Jola drop them off at the villa, Emil is sloppy drunk, falling into Kamila’s lap in the car and groping her. It’s all for show, and it’s what Emil does best. Whenever they get behind closed doors, Emil curls up on the couch and complains about headaches or bellyaches. Kamila is used to it, and yet she is still constantly disappointed.
“We’ll stay at a hotel tonight, kochanie. You two can have the house to yourselves.” Jola winks at Kamila.
“Let’s not reschedule tomorrow, Norbert. The idea of a party is tempting, and we appreciate it, but I just want to get this over with, okay?” Kamila asks, lightly tapping the tip of her nose before getting out of the car. Norbert concedes quickly, his hand already somewhere under Jola’s dress, and then speeds off into the night.
The villa is dark but Kamila refrains from flicking on any lights. She’s suddenly feeling lost and worried, wishing that she could just flop into her bed back home.
“I should shower. I can still smell those cigarettes,” Emil says and makes his way toward their bathroom.
Kamila helps herself to some whiskey from the bar and goes out onto the terrace. The night sky is speckled with stars. She listens to the sound of the cicadas chirping and the running water upstairs, and somewhere underneath all that noise, she can hear the sound of her own pounding heart. On the eve of what she has dreamed of for years—a marriage proposal today and a new face tomorrow—she feels uncertain.
In the hushed night, she can hear Anna’s and Justyna’s voices, she can see their sixteen-year-old faces, on the cusp of real life but not quite there yet. The last time she saw Justyna was months ago, randomly ran into her on Sienkiewicza Street. She had Damian in tow, but she had stopped and grabbed a beer with Kamila. Pamiętasz, pamiętasz?, they laughed and sipped their piwo. They didn’t talk about Justyna’s mother or Kamila’s problems with Emil. They talked about the only thing that they had in common now: the past. The conversation was nice but in the end neither of them mentioned meeting up again.
Kamila pours the rest of her whiskey over the balcony and walks back inside. She finds Emil in their bedroom, reading a book. Kamila undresses quietly and slips under the covers, naked, shivering. She can’t even remember the last time they made love. It was months ago, maybe years.
She finds Emil’s penis with her left hand and with her right she begins to fondle herself. Emil turns a page of his book.
“You have to. We have to. What will we tell our children about the night we got engaged?” Kamila pleads.
“Children? We won’t be telling our children anything about this sort of thing,” Emil answers.
“Well, then, it would be a personal travesty, my husband-to-be, if you left me yearning on the night of our betrothal. Don’t make me go hunting through this castle for a banana.” Kamila laughs, hoping to lighten the mood.
“Fe, Kamila.”
“You know, they say sex goes out the window once you’re married. So I guess we’re ahead of the game,” and then she dissolves into a fit of laughter. Emil sighs and puts his book down on the nightstand.
“Kamila, Kamila,” Emil whispers, and his fingertips trace the contours of her nose with its dips and valleys. When he parts her lips and leaves his finger in her mouth, she stops laughing.
“Kamila, you are my soulmate. Let’s not debase that. In the second grade you stood up for me and I knew then that we were destined to be together. I didn’t need a blow job as proof of that then, and I don’t need one now. Animals fuck for the sake of their existence. But we are more than animals. We are beyond skin, beyond flesh. And if that isn’t enough for you, then I don’t know what to tell you.”
Kamila feels her heart hammer in her chest. She thinks back to the spectacle in the square earlier that day. Emil was grinning like a fool, flailing as he spoke, the sweat flowing down his face in torrents, as he clownishly exclaimed, “Marry me!” Kamila had always imagined him proposing during a private moment, because Emil was most truthful and most himself when they were alone. She had imagined him quiet and focused, vulnerable in his desire to make her his wife. She imagined happy tears, and a kiss. She never imagined a gaggle of Saudi tourists snapping their picture as he got down on one knee.
She wants to flat out ask him if she is signing her life away to celibacy. Is that what he means? That they will never have sex again? But Kamila is afraid to ask, afraid to know more. Emil strokes her forehead.
“I’m nothing without you, I want you beside me forever, and I can’t imagine not having you as my wife. And I’m sorry I called your hands paws tonight. That sounded callous because it was callous. But your hands, Kamila …” He reaches under the covers and retrieves both of them and places them on his face, till she is cradling his head. “Your hands are my armor, my comfort, my everything. And they are meant for better things than that,” and he smiles.
“Okay, kochanie. Another night.” She sighs and closes her eyes.
In the morning, Kamila wakes up to the smell of coffee and sausage. Emil is in the kitchen, already dressed.
“Sweetheart, I can’t eat or drink before the surgery, remember? Bu
t thank you.” Emil serves himself a big helping and chews his food in silence. She can tell he’s jittery too.
“Turns out I can’t eat before the surgery either. But I sure could use a drink.” He laughs his giggly, high-pitched laugh.
“Kamila, I’ll say this once and I’ll say it here because I’ll be too anxious at the clinic, but listen, I love you the way you are. I love your face. And I know you aren’t doing this for me, that this is something you want for yourself, but I want to reiterate that I will not be more attracted to you afterward and therefore …” And he lingers, leaving things unspoken, but she hears him, loud and clear. A better nose will not guarantee better sex. And for a minute, Kamila just wants to go home.
On the cab ride over to the clinic, Emil calls their friend Wojtek, who is staying at Kamila’s while they are away, watering plants and such. Emil gushes to him about the coolness of the capital, the racy nightclubs and the swanky restaurants, already planning a mini vacation for the three of them, perhaps in October.
“Mówię ci, superosko! And maybe Norbi will let us stay in the villa again. Brachol, and when I say villa, I mean castle … tak! A freaking turret and everything … Now? Now, we are off to see about a new nose for my gal here.” Emil turns to Kamila and winks exaggeratedly.
“For my fiancée, you mean.” Kamila corrects him and Emil’s hand flies to cover the speaker as he shakes his head vehemently and mouths, Not now. “Wojtus, I gotta go, we’re almost there. I’ll call you after … I’ll tell her. Buziaki.” He hangs up and sits back. Kamila stares at him.
“It’s strange that you say buziaki like that. Buziaki for him from who? From me? Kisses from us? I don’t get it. It sounds—weird.”
Emil glances at Kamila from the corners of his eyes.
“I want Wojtek to be my best man. So I didn’t tell him because I want to tell him in person. Because I know that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Nothing gets past you.”
Immediately, she feels remorse.
“I’m sorry. It’s my nerves. I’m all twisted with them, kochanie. I won’t say another word.” And she doesn’t, until they get to reception, where Jola greets them with a giant grin.
“Norbert is taking me to Ibiza!” she whispers giddily to Kamila and then continues full voice. “Now get started on this paperwork, it’s a fucking bitch, but we gotta do it. After that Kinga will take you in the back and prep you. You didn’t eat or drink anything, right?”
Kamila nods as Emil drums his knuckles on the front desk. She wishes he could be stalwart, but he’s even more nervous than she is. She places her hand on his to calm him but he flinches.
“Chłopie, you’re not the one going under the knife. Settle down,” Jola orders and directs her next question back to Kamila. “So nothing, right? Not even a little liquid protein.” Jola winks at Kamila, who turns red.
“Nothing.”
Jola laughs and hands Kamila a clipboard and pen. She sits down in the empty waiting room and Emil plops down beside her, peering over her shoulder. After a few minutes of trying to concentrate, Kamila feels like swatting him away like a fly who is buzzing in her face, and suddenly Emil jumps to his feet, as if she had.
“Hey! I’m gonna go grab a herbatka from next door. You want one?”
Kamila glances up from the papers, incredulous. “I can’t eat or drink—”
“Right. Sorry. Right.” And with that, he pecks her cheek and sprints off, giving her a preposterous thumbs-up before he disappears through the front doors.
“Ibiza, Kamila! We’re staying at a nude beach resort!” Kamila smiles as she continues filling in the blanks: name, age, date of birth, allergies, sign here, sign there, sign away your life on the dotted line, please print. Her head spins.
Jola smiles and presses the intercom. “Kinga, Pani Marchewska is ready.”
Fifteen minutes later, lying on a metal slab, dressed in a paper gown with a hairnet on her head, Kamila waits. She wants the drugs already. She wants to close her eyes and be done with it.
Norbert walks into the room, in his scrubs, fussing with a pair of beige latex gloves.
“Kamila! On your back and ready for action! Just like your cousin!” Norbert laughs uproariously. “Gotowa?”
Kamila nods her head weakly. “I’m ready.”
“Okay, Doctor Gniazdo will be here soon to pump the juice. Once you’re out, the whole thing should take about forty-five minutes, depending on how compliant your cartilage is.” Norbert smiles.
“Here’s the spiel, and I gotta give it to you now, because afterward you’ll be too drugged up to comprehend any of it. Jola will give you an after-care packet. You’re gonna clean your nose with Q-tips soaked in hydrogen peroxide about three times a day. Apply Vaseline because everything will be dry and sore. I’ll give you saline spray; use it with abandon. Sleep elevated, on your back, for about a month. And for the first few weeks—and you can give my apologies to Emil in advance—you should sleep alone, in case he elbows you or something.” Norbert futzes with his gloves. “And no sex. No sex of any kind. Once again, apologies to the mister. No bending over, no lifting. No tweezing eyebrows, no lipstick. No excessive grinning.” Norbert grins and plows on. “No sneezing. No alcohol, no caffeine, no nicotine. There will be bruising and swelling and some bloody nasal drip. If there’s a lot of blood, call me. A week from now, I want you to get that splint off, but you can do that in Kielce. Typically you’ll see results in about two weeks, but it takes up to a year to see the full effect. Oh, and you might experience some depression, but God knows why because you’ll look a whole lot better than you do now.” Norbert flashes Kamila another fulsome grin. “You got all that, Pfeiffer?”
“No sneezing?” Kamila feels stunned. She’s waited for this her whole life and now, it’s happening too fast.
“No sneezing!? No sex, Kamila! That should be your concern. Four weeks is a long time to go without.” Kamila cracks a smile. Four weeks is a drop in the bucket for her. The anesthesiologist walks in, nods politely, and starts turning dials. He injects Kamila, and instantly her eyes roll back. She’s aware of her breathing slowing down, and it feels so nice, this momentary awareness of one’s own spiral into complete and total darkness.
Justyna
Kielce, Poland
“It’s your turn,” Justyna grumbles.
“But I did it yesterday,” Paweł groans back.
“Yeah, but I got up twice during the night.”
“Whattya mean?”
“What do I mean? I mean, twice, last night.”
“Twice when?”
“At one-thirty and again at four. He wanted water. So, it’s your fucking turn.”
Paweł mutters, “Kurwa mać,” as he heaves his body upright, and sits on the edge of their bed for a moment, postponing the inevitable. He rolls his neck, cracks his back, and shakes his head as if he’s got water in his ears.
“Paweł!” Justyna growls and tries to kick him in the behind. He pulls his sweatpants on and grabs his crying son from the middle of the bed.
“Ah, goddamnit, he peed through the diaper again.”
Justyna silently points toward the door and rolls over. She hears Paweł ripping off the wet diaper while Damian squirms.
“You gotta hold your pee till the morning, synku! You’re a big boy now, okay?” His voice turns stern and he prods Justyna with his foot. “No more Pampers at night, Justyna! We’re sending mixed messages.”
“Mama! Maaamaaa! Wstawaj!” Damian screeches, trying to wriggle free from Paweł’s arms.
“He wants you.”
“And I want a Lamborghini and a deep-tissue massage. But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna fucking get it.”
“Next time he crawls in here in the middle of the night, we take him back to his room. He’s three, for fuck’s sake. He needs to be sleeping in his own bed. ’Cause I can’t take this. I have work in an hour, kurwa mać.”
“I have work in an hour too. It’s called motherhood, cwaniaku,
and it doesn’t pay shit.”
Shaking his head, Paweł grabs a change of clothes for Damian, and walks out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him quietly. Justyna gets why he’s angry with her. She shouldn’t let Damian get in their bed like she does; but at three A.M., it’s easier than listening to him throw a tantrum.
Justyna makes sure that Paweł and Damian are out of the room before she opens her eyes. There is no way she’ll fall back asleep now, but she’ll sure as hell lay here till 6:55—five minutes before Paweł has to leave. Sometimes, on days when Justyna feels close to strangling Damian, she will deposit him in his room, toss him a sippy cup and a smoczek to suck on, and lock the door behind her. Her son will wail for an hour, but if Justyna is downstairs and turns the TV up high, she can just about drown out his misery, and she does.
Before Damian, Justyna would sleep till noon if she felt like it. Now, Justyna lives for every Friday, when she throws some shit into a backpack and they take the bus to Babcia Kazia’s apartment in Szydłówek, where Damian spends the weekend. She milks her freedom for every fucking last drop, till Sunday at three P.M., when she has to get back on the bus and retrieve the snot-nosed, overeager toddler who throws his fat little arms around her neck as if she’s been away for weeks and months instead of seventy-one-and-a-half sublime hours. Thank God today is Friday.
Last weekend, she and Paweł loaded up in a van with some friends and drove to Kraków where they partied their asses off till Sunday morning. Justyna and Paweł couldn’t keep their hands off each other on the ride back, and as they drove into Kielce, Justyna whispered into Paweł’s ear, “Don’t you wish we could go back?”
“We’ll go back next weekend, myszko.”
Justyna shook her head. No, no, she wanted to say. Not back to Kraków, but back in time, all the way to sixteen.
The Lullaby of Polish Girls Page 17
