House of Day, House of Night

by Olga Tokarczuk

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

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  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

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  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

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  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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  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,

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  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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  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

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  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?'