by Jerzy Pilch
“You’ll get half a glass of Becherovka in just a moment”—the voice I heard was also incontrovertibly real, nor did it contain any ambiguous tonality, any ruffianly harshness or high-pitched devilry; it was the deep, agreeable voice of a reputable physician. The materiality of this almost-baritone brought nearly as much relief as the promise it had uttered. That’s right, with a drunkard’s obstinacy I repeat once again: the materiality of the situation was a relief to me, for I had been excessively tormented by an incessant onslaught of fictitiousness.
“You’ll get half a glass of Becherovka in just a moment. I’m sure there’s no need to remind such a seasoned master of the art of imbibition that you have to drink cautiously and very slowly, otherwise you’ll bring about what in Old Poland they used to call an ignoble vomitation, and that would be, first, an irreparable disgrace in the presence of a lady, and second, the permanent loss of a significant quantity of life-giving substance.”
It was true, there was no need for him to instruct me. Knowing that in a few minutes a subtle reconstruction of body and soul awaited me, I raised myself to a sitting position; with the greatest caution (not devoid of an element of worship) I took in both hands the glass that had been promised and that, in accordance with said promise, was indeed half full, and I set about moistening my lips and wetting my throat, and, restraining my need for immediate salvation, I settled for a salvation that was gradual. And slowly, slowly the unbearable burden lifted from my heart, my dark thoughts brightened, and my soul was cheered.
“Is that better?” asked my savior, and I, like a receptive apprentice instantly grasping the teachings of the master, replied:
“That’s better.”
After a few minutes, when I was sufficiently improved that I could finally discontinue the hysterical overuse of biblical phraseology to myself, I looked at them all with absolute lucidity and asked the most natural and thoroughly sober question in the world:
“Pardon me, gentlemen, but to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? Where in heaven’s name did you come from, and how did you get in?”
“It’s better, but that doesn’t mean it’s good,” said the one who seemed to be my only interlocutor, a matter-of-fact solicitude in his voice. “First of all, it’s not only gentlemen. Actually, it’s very odd that you of all people, with your reputation as a supposed connoisseur of the fair sex, haven’t noticed there’s a girl present. Alberta, show the gentleman your femininity.”
The most spectral member of the trio rose wordlessly from the armchair and with the unhurried movements of an experienced stripper started unbuttoning the mysterious garment—upon closer inspection it lost much of its mystery and turned out to be something between a light coat and a heavy gown with a hood. In a moment there stood before me a beautiful, graceful, tall brunette in a melodramatically scornful pose; she was wearing a yellow dress with spaghetti straps.
“Alberta Lulaj, poetess,” came the introduction, though who the speaker actually was I could not figure out. The chief intruder? Master of an inscrutable ceremony? My benefactor? Or maybe some reprobate wanted by the police?
“We’re here about her, about her under-appreciated poems. As for the other matters, first, we entered with the aid of the key that you in your drunken abandon left in the lock, and second, we’re old acquaintances. That is, you may not recognize us, you’re entitled not to remember, but I recognize you and I remember. The name’s Józef Cieślar and once, once, forty years ago or more, we were at Sunday School together. I hardly need add that after we left Sunday School our paths diverged. You went to the big city and got an intellectual education, while I stayed in our native region and earned a living in various occupations, none of them of an intellectual character.”
At this juncture it would have been beautiful if a gate, overgrown with dark weeds of forgetfulness, had opened up in my mind, if I had suddenly remembered flaxen-haired Józef Cieślar, who was incapable for love or money of memorizing even the shortest Lutheran psalm—it would have been not just a beautiful but also a classic scene. I, however, I confess frankly, drew a blank. I looked at this alleged Józef Cieślar and no gate opened in my mind, I did not remember anything, nor did I recognize him in the slightest, to the point that everything he said seemed to me a manifest pack of lies serving a purpose that for the moment remained hidden but was without a doubt of a criminal nature. As it happened this impostor, this stealer of biographies, evidently knew rather a lot about me; he even seemed to know certain details of my soul. He evidently knew, for instance, that when I heard about Sunday School I’d be sure to get all emotional in my drunkenness, that I might even burst out in drunken tears. Yet I kept my emotions in check and did not burst out crying; I gave no sign of what I was feeling, while he too did not intensify the incitement he had begun, he did not look at me expectantly, and he continued his introductions with an unchanging matter-of-factness.
“My associate, on the other hand”—with an almost elegant gesture of his hand he indicated the second gangster, who was standing a few feet away—“my associate, on the other hand, doesn’t know you personally but is a great admirer of yours. He read your article in the newspaper.”
My alleged admirer nodded and with feigned eagerness confirmed this:
“That’s right, I’m not someone who is generally inclined to fascination, but in this case I was fascinated.”
I decided to probe the matter more deeply and, partly out of cunning, partly out of vanity, I asked:
“I’m most curious—that is, I’m flattered, but at the same time I’m most curious—which of my pieces made such a very favorable impression on you?”
The other man shrugged his shoulders in a familiar gesture of helplessness and said with a straightforwardness that was equally familiar:
“I don’t remember what it was about, but I remember I almost split my sides laughing.”
I flinched as if struck by a whip. The chief intruder gave me a sympathetic look, the poetess Alberta Lulaj pretended to be absorbed by an over-tight or perhaps over-loose spaghetti strap, and there was an embarrassing silence. When the embarrassing silence passed, the cordial voice sounded once again.
“You continue to impress me with the extent of your ruination; you ought to know you should never quiz your readers on their knowledge of your work, you should be pleased at even the most general existence of readers, and leave it at that. Though that’s not important. Let’s get back, or rather let’s get down, to the heart of the matter. Before you stands the beautiful and wise Alberta. Not only is she standing before you; over the next few hours, and if need be over the next few days, she will remain with you. My associate and I will withdraw in literally a minute; aside from everything else, as usual we have urgent business in town. We are going, Alberta is staying. I’m leaving you the bottle too. That’s right,” repeated the purported Józef Cieślar with emphasis, “I’m leaving you the bottle. In other words”—here he raised a finger in a meaningful, schoolmasterly gesture that was uncannily reminiscent of Christopher Columbus the Explorer—“in other words, you are being left with a woman and a bottle; observe that it’s as if you had entered paradise without remotely deserving it. Later on Alberta will help you recover yourself; she’ll soothe your troubled nerves, make you some nourishing broth, feed you fruit juice rich in vitamins, and in the last resort will pop down to the store for the last two life-saving beers. You in return . . .”
“What in return? What in return?” I interrupted, on the one hand overwhelmed by the excessive number of fairy-tale kindnesses and, on the other hand, terrified at the inner certainty that in my present state I was incapable, utterly incapable, of doing anything whatsoever in return, and would have no way of repaying my unsavory benefactors.
“I’m about to tell you. In return you really don’t have to do very much at all. All you need to do is listen to Alberta’s poems. Naturally I have no wish to influence you in advance, but in my modest opinion Alberta not only writes beautiful poems but
also recites them beautifully, it’s as if she were singing; just listening should calm your nerves. After you’ve heard them, you’ll carry out an in-depth analysis and an honest appraisal, after which, making use of your extensive network of contacts, you’ll enable Alberta to publish her work, preferably in the Catholic intellectual weekly Tygodnik Powszechny.”
“But it’s been years since I wrote for Tygodnik Powszechny,” I said, or rather whined quietly. I whined not because I felt a sudden drunken nostalgia for Tygodnik Powszechny; I whined because in the depths of my soul I knew that all my reluctance and resistance was a sham. I whined because I knew I’d agree to everything.
“That doesn’t matter, you still have contacts there. Besides, it doesn’t have to be Tygodnik Powszechny, it could be some other influential and prestigious publication, Polityka or Gazeta Wyborcza. Though Tygodnik Powszechny would be best. Do you know why?”
“Yes, I know why,” I muttered unwillingly.
“You know?”
“I know.”
“What do you know?”
“I know what I need to know,” I retorted wearily, because in this case I actually did know.
“If you know, then say it”—there was something undeniably childish in his insistence (a lingering vestige of Sunday School?).
“It’s because Tygodnik Powzechny is read by the Pope.”
“Excellent! Bravo!” beamed the alleged companion of my childhood Bible lessons. “I can see I underestimated you. I took you for an unhinged virtuoso of the word, but you’re quite the cunning fox. You understand what it would mean: John Paul II reads Alberta Lulaj’s poetry in Tygodnik Powszechny, the profoundly metaphysical nature of the poems makes a huge impression on the Holy Father, he sends Alberta a momentous letter or even a papal bull, and the world, the whole world is ours. I’m sure you understand that’s the only thing that interests us, only that: playing for the highest stakes. So Tygodnik Powszechny would be best, but if it can’t be done, never mind, it can be done somewhere else. In the end it makes no difference, you know everyone, you’ve drunk with everyone, and when you recover yourself you’ll think of something. The girl deserves to be helped; she writes wonderful things that, because of the intellectual and personal inertia which, as you well know, dominates those circles, don’t get published. Yes, the woman needs to be enabled to publish her work, because having her hopes unjustly thwarted could cause her to take to whoring. When you hear Alberta’s poems you’ll understand that they have to see the light of day. All right, there’s nothing more that needs to be said. You can surely do this much for an old Sunday School friend.”
He had given himself away, he had given himself away beyond the shadow of a doubt—no one who ever attended Sunday School would have called the Pope “Holy Father.” Not even the worst Lutheran would say such a thing. He was unmasked, but since he did not know he was unmasked he went diligently on with his job. He removed the empty glass from my hand, took it into the kitchen, came back, and placed the scarcely touched bottle of Becherovka at my bedside. Then he dug around in the pockets of his leather jacket and took out a small, thick-sided shot glass wrapped in a scrap of newspaper.
“Alberta will measure it out for you,” he said. “Alberta will measure it out for you, and you’ll drink slowly, in small sips, from this glass. Come to your senses, my friend”—his voice took on the tone of a full-scale admonition—“you’re one of the biggest drunkards in the world, and you haven’t had a shot glass in your hand for ten years or more. How on earth can that be?” he said with considered sternness. “How can that be?” he repeated, this time directing the question to himself, and quickly answering it himself: “My question would seem purely rhetorical in nature. You’ve not had a shot glass in your hand for ten years or more because for ten years or more you’ve been swilling vodka exclusively from tumblers or straight from the bottle. The technique of drinking, as Christopher Columbus the Explorer would say, has grown utterly sloppy. Come to your senses, my friend, use a shot glass and listen to the poems. Be well.”
Both gangsters saluted me mockingly and moved toward the door of the apartment, and a moment later the door of the apartment closed behind them.
•
I looked at Alberta. She smiled gently and took the first step in my direction.
“I saw you at the ATM,” I said in a feeble voice. “I stared at you and I was certain you were the last love of my life.”
“At the ATM?” Alberta raised her eyebrows most fetchingly. “That’s entirely possible, I often use ATMs. When was it?”
“I don’t know how many days ago—maybe forty, maybe a hundred and forty, maybe just a few. In any case it was an uncommon July afternoon.”
Alberta came up to me and leaned over me, and I caught sight of the outline of the most beautiful breasts—I was just about to think, the most beautiful breasts in the Warsaw Pact, but the world had changed and I was now looking at the most beautiful breasts in the North Atlantic Treaty Organization or the most beautiful breasts in the European Union, or rather the most beautiful breasts in the candidate countries in line for membership of the European Union. Alberta leaned over me, placed her hand on my forehead and said, almost in a whisper:
“You can’t possibly have been gone for so long. It’s winter now. Snow is falling, there’s a frost. Christmas is around the corner.”
Chapter 12
All the Washing Machines in the World
THE ETERNALLY POSTPONED notion of repairing my old washing machine or buying a new one eventually perished of its own accord, to a large extent independently of my foibles. In my life I’ve drunk away a vast amount of money, I’ve spent a fortune on vodka, but the reprehensible moment of drinking away a sum set aside for the repair of my washing machine has never occurred. I make this confession not with pride in my heart but with a sense of abasement. For the fact that I never drank away a sum of money set aside for the repair of my washing machine arises from the fact that I never set aside any sum of money for the repair of my washing machine in the first place. Before I ever managed to set aside a particular sum for the repair of the washing machine, I drank it away along with all the other sums of money not yet set aside for any special purpose. I drank away the money before I’d had time to set it aside for something else; therefore I can say, seemingly contradicting myself (yet only seemingly, for in the former case there was only a small quantifier, while in this case there is a large one), I can say then that in fact I did drink away the money for the repair of the washing machine. I drank away the money for a whole series of repairs, I drank away the money for all possible repairs. What am I saying, repairs? I drank away the money for an entire new washing machine, I drank away a whole series of new washing machines, I drank away a thousand new washing machines, I drank away a million new automatic washing machines, I drank away a billion state-of-the-art washing machines. I drank away all the washing machines in the world.
What kind of soul does a man have when he knows he has drunk away all the washing machines in the world? My answer is this: He has a winged soul, and his mind spins like the rotating drum in the final stages of the spin cycle. When you sense upon your heart the burden of a thousand drunk-away washing machines, it is unbearable. But when you lift your tormented gaze and see flocks of white-winged washing machines soaring across the watery heavens like squadrons of papal helicopters, you understand that you have been given more than others. You have been given an uncommon gift, and if you manage to survive, if you do not perish beforehand, you can begin a voyage in search of all the lost washing machines, and even—yes indeed—in search of all lost objects in general.
The gates of worldliness may open wide before you, yet if they do you must pay special attention, you must concentrate hard, because the gates of worldliness may open for good. They will not slam shut behind you, but if you are weak, if your step is unsteady and if sleep is upon you, you will be neither willing nor able to return. Often, after the hundredth drunk-away washing machine
, or in the case of frailer individuals even the tenth, one loses for good one’s interest and pleasure in worldly matters. And things of the mind that have been completely freed from the bonds of worldliness are nothing but pure graphomania. Drinking away all the washing machines in the world leads inexorably to a complete neglect of worldliness; in writing, a complete neglect of worldliness leads to graphomania, and so anyone who writes and drinks is in a tough situation. I drank and I did not neglect writing, and now, with a drunkard’s tear in my eye, I am writing about a washing machine that has been neglected through drink. Oh, if I had found within myself not so much a curiosity about the worldly fault in its workings, but if I had simply found a free moment, a moment of free will, then naturally I would have had the appropriate person repair the washing machine. But I found within myself neither the one thing nor the other. Neither our, nor daily, nor bread, nor amen. My first wife eventually got used to the permanently unrepaired washing machine and stopped nagging me, and she left me without nagging. My second wife left before she had gotten used to it and before she started to nag.
