But their bodies didn't give a damn about these questions or
the war, and went on producing the raw material for children
regardless of their views. Every month incomplete creatures
were born in her ovaries, and millions of potential lives were
produced in his abdomen. Occasionally these elements happened to join together in her womb, but since she didn't want to feed or nurture them , they mysteriously withered and were
washed out by waterfalls of blood; so she sacredly believed that
the world was subject to her will, and that if you don't want
something, it won't happen, but if you do, it will.
In those days time was as volatile as mercury. Every day
strangers arrived in the town and were sent to live in abandoned
flats. The town needed new inhabitants, and there was work for
anyone who wanted it. The schools needed teachers, the shops
needed sales assistants, the pits were begging for miners, and the
town hall for officials. The Blachobyt enterprise had come to life,
a huge complex full of warehouses, railway sidings, administrathT buildings, offices on the marketplace, machine shops and flax mills. Every day the train disgorged more travel-worn immigrants who filled the waiting-rooms in offices, then, documents in hand, went off to their accommodation. It was hard to get to
know them, especially as they spoke various forms of Polish -
with a sing-song Poznan accent, or a highland intonation that
she thought common, or with an eastern lilt that would always
remind him of his childhood.
One day, two women were assigned to live in their house
('temporarily', they said at the office when he phoned in indignation to complain) . They came from the west, straight from a prison camp, and had lost their family somewhere along the
way. The couple knew where these women had been and that
they were coming back to Poland to live a normal life again, so
they made them supper with wine and wore long faces. She put
H o u s e o f D a y, H o u s e o f N i g h t
2 5 3
o n a dark dress, to avoid hurting their feelings b y wearing anything too striking or garish.
But the sisters, identical twins as it turned out, looked quite
all right, though their closely cropped hair, skinny bodies and
poor teeth, like old people's, might have had bad associations.
They wore tailored suits made of striped prison-camp material snug-fitting skirts that went just past the knee and matching jackets with basques and leather belts. Their boots were so well
polished that they shone, and their short hair was combed and
parted with brilliantine, as if they were circus performers who
walked the tightrope in skintight leotards.
She watched them from upstairs as they entered the house
with their cardboard suitcases, and marvelled at their chic. One
was called Lili, and the other something similar. That evening
the couple were afraid they would have to listen to all sorts of
horrors, but the twins didn't seem traumatized or even faintly
dispirited. They never stopped joking, and on their dark faces
their lipstick shone red. She found to her distaste that they
behaved fli rtatiously, as if they had just come back from a pleasant jaunt. She noticed that they had hand-sewn French pleats into the striped material, which had an elegant effect because the
girls were so thin.
Some time later, when she let them use her Singer, in a flood
of gratitude or a desire to be more intimate, they unbuuoned
their blouses and showed her their skin - their bodies were cm·ered in scars.
'Experiments,' said one of them. They did experiments on us."
They thought we shared a soul,' added the other. and they
both burst out laughing.
She felt embarrassed and didn't know what to say.
The girls lived with them for a month, during w h ich t heY
filled out and almost blossomed. They went to the employment
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office and got themselves jobs. In the evenings the couple heard
scraps of their conversations, which were rapid, almost telegraphic, as happens between twins. One of them used to shout in her sleep, or maybe they both did - their voices were indistinguishable. Finally, they set off for Warsaw to look for their family through the Red Cross and announcements posted on
walls.
So they had their house to themselves again. They bought an
old German piano of a good make that didn't even need to be
tuned. Only one key, one of the Ds, was silent, so every tune was
inevitably fragmented because of that empty sound, which upset
him. But she played it anyway, to give her fingers a change from
sticking labels on medicine bottles.
Life was beautiful. All you had to do was take care not to say
anything too loud or too often. It was best not to pass comment, not to make judgements, and not to hear or see too much.
It wasn't difficult, as they had each other and the house to distraCl them, as well as the garden and the piano.
One day, without warning, everything became dark and
unreal. This went on for several hours - one whole day and two
nights of shallow sleep. Maybe the pressure had dropped, or
maybe there was an explosion on the sun that only the
astronomers and people in authority were aware of. Whatever
the reason, from then on they both started forgetting what they
had been doing all day. One day seemed just like another, identical twins, like Lili and h er sister. The only evidence of the passage of time was the growing pile of dirty laundry in the
bathroom. Work demanded total dedication, and you had to
forget about everything else. Nowadays he had to travel with
delegations to the Ministry or to Upper Silesia to see about some
anthracite processing technology, or to attend endless conferences and political training courses. She had begun studying
H o u s e o f D a y, H o u s e o f N i g h t
255
pharmacology, to finish fixing what the war had spoiled, and to
learn how to give each medicine a new, Polish name.
And then a lump the size of a plum was found on her ovary.
They told her, 'You'll have to have cobalt radiotherapy, then you
might also have to have an operation. We'll see.' She felt so miserable with this lump, so handicapped, that she thought about having a child, and felt that she would actually like to have one.
She packed her husband's suit because he had to go away, ironed
his shirts and bit her lip. He didn't notice that anything was
wrong. She made her way to Wrodaw for the hospital test alone,
then came home tired. It was always cold in the house, as if it
were snowing inside, though after Stalin's death everyone said
that a thaw had set in.
One day, she was sitting on the open veranda smoking a cigarette and sunning herself, when she saw a boy walking down the street. He looked quite otherworldly - he had shoulderlength hair, a leather coat almost to his knees and an army knapsack. He must have felt her gaze on him, because he
stopped by the garden wall . They stared at each other for a while
and he moved on. She drew on her cigarette. A few minutes
later the boy was by the wall again, and came up to the gate.
'I could dig your garden for you,' he said.
She got up nervously. 'Sorry?'
'I could dig your garden for you,' he repeated and smiled. He
looked li
ke a girl. He must have been about eighteen .
'All righ t ,' she said.
She showed him where the spade was and watched him take
off his coat and roll up the sleeves of his swea ter. l i e d ug
methodically, and as he t urned the clumps of red eart h it shone
richly i n the sunlight.
She went into the kitchen and made herself some tea. She
turned over a few leaves of the calendar, then went up to t h e
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window - the boy was sitting on the wall smoking. He saw her
and waved. She withdrew into the gloom of the kitchen.
When he had finished she offered him some soup. She leaned
against the sideboard and watched him eating. H is face was
smooth as if he didn't have to shave yet.
'Apparently they've opened the border to Czechoslovakia,' he
said. Tm going to Austria, then to Rome.'
She blinked in surprise.
'Where are you from?'
He laughed, and pushed his plate towards her.
'Could I have some more? I've never had such delicious soup.'
She felt herself blush. She poured him more soup and sat
down at the table.
'So why are you leaving?'
'The war messed my life up,' he said. 'I haven't got any parents. I ran away from an orphanage and I want to get to the free world. I heard that they've opened the border. That's i t.'
'What's your name?'
She noticed him hesitate for a moment, and felt sure he was
lying.
'Agni.'
'That's a strange name.'
'I'm a strange guy.'
'How much do I owe you?'
'You can put me up for the night.'
She glanced at her painted fingernails and agreed. She opened
up the downstairs room for him, the one where the twins had
stayed.
'Good night,' she said.
She always had to dress warmly when she slept alone. She put
on a thin cardigan and woollen socks over her flannel nightshirt,
but even so she had to lie in the cold bed for about an hour
H o u s e o f D a y, H o u s e o f N i g h t
257
before she felt warm. She hugged a hot-water bottle to her belly,
where the lump had settled . She wondered if the boy had fallen
asleep yet. She felt like sneaking downstairs and sticking a hand
into his jacket pocket. What would she fincl? she wondered. A
pistol perhaps, or a wad of dollars, or a plush teddy-bear, some
seeds perhaps, or a prayerbook, or maybe smoo th, naked
skin . . . Her thoughts began to wander, go misty and vanish.
just then she heard a rustling noise and sat up in bed. She saw a
figure standing in the dim light of the open door.
'It's me, Agni,' she heard.
'What do you want? Get out of here.'
The figure floated out of the doorway and stood by the bed. In
panic she switched on the bedside lamp. The boy had his leather
coat on, and his knapsack on his shoulder.
'I came to say goodbye. The best time to cross the border is at
night.'
'You'll get shot.'
He sat down beside her and stroked her neck with the back of
his hand.
'Where's your husband?'
'In Warsaw.'
'When's he coming back?'
'On Monday.'
In shoes and clothing, knapsack and all, he slipped beneath
her eiderdown. 'No, no,' she said, 'I can't, I can't .'
As he entered her she told herself, Tm dreamiug it's all a
.
dream.'
In the morning she saw him through the bedroom window.
digging the garden. She felt weak. She lit a cigarette and ran the
bath, then lay in the wate r and ga thered her thought�
Afterwards she found him in the kitchen, brewing coffee.
'I'm going to work, and you have to disappear,' she �aid.
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O l g a To k a r c z u k
He kissed her on the neck.
That's not what you really want. You want me to stay here
until Monday.'
'Yes,' she said, and cuddled up to him.
And so he stayed. When she came back from work they ate
the rest of the soup and went into the twins' room, where they
spent all evening making love. Then they drank a bottle o f
wine and fel l asleep. In the morning she asked h i m , 'Who the
hell are you? Where have you sprung from? What do you really
want?'
But he didn't answer. On Sunday evening he went on his way,
and she missed him so much she couldn't sleep all night. She felt
as if she had known him for years, since childhood, or since
before being born, if that were possible. If he hadn't promised to
come back she'd have died - she'd have lain down in the twins'
room and died.
On Monday everything was back to normal. Like a scene in a
film, her husband came home on the morning train and sat on
the sofa with his legs stretched out on the carpet. A bit of bare
skin pinched by a sock suspender showed from under his
trousers. His grey, zigzag-patterned socks showed the shape of
his foot. He drank tea from a glass with a metal holder as he
rested after his journey. She sat down beside him, and suddenly
her face crumpled and she began to cry. He looked at her in surprise, then hugged her to his jacket that smelled of the train.
Between sobs she told him that she'd have to go back to
Vrodaw for more tests, as if this were the explanation for her
tears. As he stroked her hair he thought it had got thinner; he
could feel the shape of her skull. He even thought of the word
'skull', and was horrified.
He decided to comfort her, so he stood up carefully, and took
a grey paper bag out of his case. 'Look vhat I've bought you,
H o u s e o f D a y, H o u s e o f N i g h t
259
darling,' he said. 'It was meant to be for your birthday, but let"s
have your birthday today - why wait another month ?'
He opened the paper bag and took out a pai r of creamcoloured shoes, with a handbag to match, made of the same smooth, soft leather. Her tears stopped Oowing as she looked at
them. She put her naked feet into the shoes - they were a perfect
fit. The high , slightly concave heels emphasized her slender
ankles. She kissed her husband on the cheek, rough wi th stubble from the journey.
'You can wear them to the cinema. Let's go and see whatever's
on, just so you can wear those shoes.'
When they went to bed she told him she had her period . I n
the night she thought she could feel the plum-sized lump inside
her.
S i l e n c e
We haven't spoken to each other for days on end . R. has been
away and is now back. He went to do some shopping and sec to
some business. When he left, the dogs saw his car off to the
bridge and came back tired, squinting. The low, cold sun can
only dazzle you now, not warm you.
Sometimes we only say one thing to each other all day long:
Time to call the dogs in.' There's been no need to say anyt h i ng
else, it's all so obvious and has already been said long ago. When
we haven't any visitors, each day is the same as the last; why on
earth make trouble by speaking, why shatter
t his crystal l i ne
order?
Speaking docs harm, sows confusion and weakens thing� that
are obvious. Speaking makes me tremble inside. I don"t think I
have ever said anything really important in my entire l i lr - there
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O l g a To k a r c z u k
a lack of words for the most important things anyway. (I must
make a list of missing words - top of it I'll put a verb that means
something in between 'I sense' and 'I see'.)
Recently, we'd been silent for so long that when some visitors
came to see us, we could only summon up laconic politenesses,
such as 'hello' or 'welcome'. We kept our remarks as clipped as
possible, saying, 'And you?' without 'how are' in the middle,
because that would have been too much for us. Tea?' we asked,
without offering them any other choices.
Then we sat down opposite our guests, in shadow, facing
towards the forest, and said nothing throughout the conversation. R.'s silence is natural and innocent, as smooth as his skin.
M ine is more gloomy, it comes from deep down inside me and
drags me back in; I fall and get irretrievably lost in there. So we
said nothing to the visitors, or to each other, or to anything
around us.
When we made love we did that in silence too. There was not
a single word, not a sigh, nothing.
A s h e a n d a h e
When the time carne for her tests, she had to stay in hospital for
a few days, so he was left alone. He thought a housekeeper
would come in handy, ideally an older lady who would make
hare pate and plateloads of piroshki, and speak in a warm Lw6w
accent like his mother. She'd l ight the stove and dust the piano.
He promised h imself he'd arrange it - then he wouldn't have to
eat reheated chops and potatoes.
Vhen he carne home from work on Wednesday, there was a
girl sitting on the doorstep. She had shoulder-length hair and a
determined look on her face. She was pretty, even, as he noticed
H o u s e o f D a y, H o u s e o f ;; i g h t
261
at once. She was dressed oddly in a pai r of work trousers, the
sort women wore in factories. He stopped in front of her i n surprise, and she looked up at him; her eyes were green and bright.
'Your wife asked me to come and clean and light the stove .
Please would you leave a key for me tomorrow?'
House of Day, House of Night Page 30
