‘Why is it dead?’ I asked.
‘Please don’t think I’m one of those amateurs who kill insects just to make them into specimens. It was dead when I found it.’
I cast a glance at Boros and tried to guess what his particular illness was.
He searched dead tree stumps and logs, whether they’d been felled or were rotting naturally, looking for Cucujus larvae. He counted and catalogued the larvae, and wrote down the results in a notebook entitled: ‘Distribution in the Kłodzko County Forests of selected species of saproxylic beetle, as featured on the lists of annexes II and IV of the European Union Habitat Directive, and proposals for their protection. A project.’ I read the title very carefully, which saved me from having to look inside.
Just imagine, he told me, the State Forests are totally unaware of the fact that article 12 of the Directive obliges member states to establish a rigorous system to protect reproduction habitats and prevent their destruction. But they were allowing the removal from the forest of timber in which the Insects were laying their eggs, from which the larvae would later hatch. The larvae were ending up at sawmills and wood-processing plants. There was nothing left of them. They were dying, but no one was taking any notice. So it was as if no one were to blame.
‘Here, in this forest, every log is full of Cucujus larvae,’ he said. ‘When the forest is cleared some of the branches are burned. So they’re throwing branches full of larvae onto the fire.’
It occurred to me that every unjustly inflicted death deserved public exposure. Even an Insect’s. A death that nobody noticed was twice as scandalous. And I liked what Boros was doing. Oh yes, he convinced me, I was entirely on his side.
As I had to go on my daily round anyway, I decided to combine the useful with the interesting, and went into the forest with Boros. With his help, the tree trunks revealed their secrets to me. The most ordinary stumps turned out to be entire kingdoms of Creatures that bored corridors, chambers and passages, and laid their precious eggs there. The larvae may not have been beautiful, but I was moved by their sense of trust – they entrusted their lives to the trees, without imagining that these huge, immobile Creatures are essentially very fragile, and wholly dependent on the will of people too. It was hard to think of the larvae perishing in fires. Boros scooped up the forest litter to show me other rare and less rare species: the Hermit Beetle, the Deathwatch Beetle – who’d have thought it was sitting here, under a flake of bark? – the Golden Ground Beetle – ah, so that’s what it’s called; I had seen it so many times before, and always thought of it as shiny but nameless. The Clown Beetle, like a lovely drop of mercury. The Lesser Stag Beetle. A curious name. The names of Insects should be given to children. So should the names of Birds and other Animals. Cockchafer Kowalski. Drosophila Nowak. Corvus Duszejko. Those are just a few of the names I could remember. Boros’s hands did conjuring tricks, drew mysterious signs, and lo and behold, an Insect appeared, a larva, or some tiny eggs laid in a cluster. When I asked which of them are useful, Boros was outraged.
‘From nature’s point of view, no creatures are useful or not useful. That’s just a foolish distinction applied by people.’
He came by that evening, after Dusk, because I had invited him to stay the night. As he had nowhere to sleep…I made up a bed for him in the dayroom, but we sat and talked a while longer. I fetched out half a bottle of liqueur left over from Oddball’s visit. Once Boros had told me about all the abuses and vile acts committed by the State Forests, he finally relaxed a bit. I found it hard to understand him, for how can one have such a very emotional attitude to something called the State Forests? The only person whom I associated with this institution was the forester, Wolf Eye. That’s what I called him because he seemed to have oblong pupils. He was a decent Person, too.
And so Boros settled in at my house for a good few days. Each night he announced that his students or volunteers from Action against the S.F. were coming to fetch him in the morning, but every day there was a new problem: either their car had broken down, or they’d had to go somewhere on urgent business, or they’d stopped off in Warsaw on the way, and once they’d even lost a bag full of documents. And so on. I was starting to worry that Boros was going to infest my house, like a Cucujus larva in a spruce log, and only the State Forests would be capable of smoking him out. Though I could tell he was trying hard not to be a nuisance, and was actually being helpful. For instance, he cleaned the bathroom from top to bottom with great care.
In his backpack he had a miniature laboratory, including a box full of small flasks and bottles, apparently containing some chemical Substances which, though synthetic, were deceptively similar to natural insect pheromones. He and his students had been doing experiments with these potent chemical agents, to be able in case of need to induce the Insects to reproduce in a different place.
‘If you smear this substance on a piece of wood, the female beetles will rush there to lay their eggs. They’ll come running to this particular log from all over the area – they can smell it from several kilometres away. All it takes is a few drops.’
‘Why don’t people smell like that?’ I asked.
‘Who told you that they don’t?’
‘I can’t smell anything.’
‘Maybe you don’t know you can, my dear, and in your human pride you persist in believing in your free will.’
Boros’s presence reminded me what it’s like to live with someone. And how very awkward it is. How much it diverts you from your own thoughts and distracts you. How another Person starts to irritate you without actually doing anything annoying, but simply by being there. Each morning when he went off to the forest, I blessed my glorious solitude. How do people manage to spend decades living together in a small space? I wondered. How can they possibly sleep in the same bed together, breathing on and jostling each other accidentally in their sleep? I’m not saying it hasn’t happened to me too. For some time I shared my bed with a Catholic, and nothing good came of it.
XI
THE SINGING OF BATS
A Robin Red breast in a Cage
Puts all Heaven in a Rage.
To the Police,
I feel obliged to write this letter, in view of my concern at the lack of progress by the local Police in their enquiry into the death of my neighbour in January of this year, and the subsequent death of the Commandant six weeks later.
As both of these grievous incidents happened in my immediate neighbourhood, you will find it no surprise that I feel personally Saddened and Disturbed by them.
It is my belief that there are many obvious pieces of evidence to imply that they were Murdered.
I would never venture to make such an extreme claim if not for the fact (and I realise that for the Police facts are what bricks are for a house, or cells for an organism – they build the entire system) that together with my Friends I was a witness, not to the actual deaths, but to the situation immediately after the deaths, before the Police arrived. In the first case my fellow witness was my neighbour, Świerszczyński, and in the second it was my former pupil, Dionizy.
My conviction that the Deceased were the victims of Murder is based on two kinds of observation.
Firstly: in both instances Animals were present at the scene of the Crime. In the first case, both the witness Świerszczyński and I saw a group of Deer near Big Foot’s house (while their companion lay butchered in the victim’s kitchen). As for the case of the Commandant, the witnesses, including the undersigned, saw numerous deer hoof prints on the snow around the well where his body was found. Unfortunately, weather unfavourable to the Police caused the rapid obliteration of this most important and unusual piece of evidence, which points us straight towards the perpetrators of both crimes.
Secondly: I decided to examine certain highly distinctive pieces of information to be gained from the victims’ cosmograms (commonly known as Horoscopes), and in both cases it appears obvious that they may have been fatally attacked by Animals. This is a very rare confi
guration of the planets, and thus I have great confidence in commending it to the attention of the Police. I am taking the liberty of enclosing both Horoscopes, in the expectation that the police Astrologer will consult them, and then support my Hypothesis.
Yours sincerely,
Duszejko
Boros had been staying with me for three or four days when I saw Oddball trudging over to my house, yet another special event, considering he never came to see me. I thought he may have been slightly put out by the presence of a strange man in my house and had come to investigate. He shuffled along bent double, resting a hand on the small of his back and wearing a pained look on his face. He sat down with a sigh.
‘Lumbago,’ he said by way of greeting.
It turned out that while building a new, dry path to his house from the courtyard he had mixed the concrete in buckets and had been on the point of pouring it, but when he’d leaned to pick up the bucket something had cracked in his spine. So he’d been stuck in the most uncomfortable position with a hand stretched out towards the bucket, for the pain wouldn’t let him straighten up at all. Now that it had eased a bit, he’d come to ask for my help, as he was aware that I knew all about construction – last year he’d seen me pouring concrete in a similar way. He cast a very critical glance at Boros, especially at his pigtail, which he must have found highly pretentious.
I introduced them to each other. Oddball offered his hand with noticeable hesitation.
‘It’s dangerous to wander the neighbourhood – there are strange things going on around here,’ he said ominously, but Boros ignored this warning.
So we went to save the concrete from solidifying in the buckets. Boros and I worked while Oddball sat on a chair and gave us orders disguised as advice, starting each remark with the words: ‘I’d advise you to…’
‘I’d advise you to pour a little at a time, now here, now there, topping it up once it evens out. I’d advise you to wait a while until it settles. I’d advise you not to get in each other’s way or you’ll have confusion.’
It was rather annoying. But once the work was done, we sat down in a warm patch of Sunlight outside his house where the peonies were slowly coming into bloom, and the whole world seemed covered in a fine layer of gold leaf.
‘What have you done in life?’ Boros suddenly asked.
This question was so unexpected that I instantly let myself be carried away by memories. They began to sail past my eyes, and typically for memories, everything in them seemed better, finer and happier than in reality. It’s strange, but we didn’t say a word.
For people of my age, the places that they truly loved and to which they once belonged are no longer there. The places of their childhood and youth have ceased to exist, the villages where they went on holiday, the parks with uncomfortable benches where their first loves blossomed, the cities, cafes and houses of their past. And if their outer form has been preserved, it’s all the more painful, like a shell with nothing inside it any more. I have nowhere to return to. It’s like a state of imprisonment. The walls of the cell are the horizon of what I can see. Beyond them exists a world that’s alien to me and doesn’t belong to me. So for people like me the only thing possible is here and now, for every future is doubtful, everything yet to come is barely sketched and uncertain, like a mirage that can be destroyed by the slightest twitch of the air. That’s what was going through my mind as we sat there in silence. It was better than a conversation. I have no idea what either of the men was thinking about. Perhaps about the same thing.
But we did agree to meet that evening, when we drank a little wine together. We even managed to have a singsong. We started with ‘Today I cannot come to see you…’, but softly and shyly, as if beyond the windows opening onto the orchard the large ears of the Night were lurking, ready to eavesdrop on our every thought, our every word, even the words of the song, and then submit them to the scrutiny of the highest court.
Only Boros wasn’t bothered. It’s understandable – he wasn’t at home, and guest performances are always among the craziest. He leaned back in his chair, pretending to be playing a guitar, and started to sing with his eyes closed:
‘Dere eeez a hooouse in Noo Orleeenz, dey caaal de Riiisin’ Sun…’
As if under a magic spell, Oddball and I picked up the words and tune and, exchanging glances, surprised by this sudden mutual agreement, sang along with him.
It turned out we all knew the words more or less up to the line: ‘Oh mother, tell your children’, which says a lot for our memories. At that point we started to mumble, pretending to know what we were singing. But we didn’t. We burst out laughing. Oh, it was lovely, touching. Then we sat in silence, doing our best to remember other songs. I don’t know about the other singers, but my entire songbook flew straight out of my head. Then Boros went indoors to fetch a little plastic bag, from which he took a pinch of dried herbs, and started to roll a cigarette with them.
‘Good heavens, I haven’t smoked for twenty years,’ said Oddball suddenly, and his eyes lit up; I looked at him in amazement.
It was a very bright Night. The full Moon in June is called the Blue Moon, because it takes on a very beautiful sapphire shade at this time of year. According to my Ephemerides, this Night only lasts for five hours.
We were sitting in the orchard under an old apple tree on which the apples were already fruiting. The orchard was fragrant and soughed in the wind. I had lost my sense of time, and each break between utterances seemed endless. A great gulf of time opened before us. We chattered for whole centuries, talking nonstop about the same thing over and over, now with one pair of lips, now with another, all of us failing to remember that the view we were now contesting was the one we had defended earlier on. But in fact we weren’t arguing at all; we were holding a dialogue, a trialogue, like three fauns, another species, half human and half animal. And I realised there were lots of us in the garden and the forest, our faces covered in hair. Strange beasts. And our Bats had settled in the tree and were singing. Their shrill, vibrating voices were jostling microscopic particles of mist, so the Night around us was softly starting to jingle, summoning all the Creatures to nocturnal worship.
Boros disappeared into the house for an eternity, while Oddball and I sat without a word. His eyes were wide open and he was staring at me so intensely that I had to slip into the shadow of the tree to escape his gaze. And there I hid.
‘Forgive me,’ was all he said, and my mind moved like a great locomotive trying to understand it. What on earth would I have to forgive him for? I thought about the times when he hadn’t responded to my greeting. Or the day he’d talked to me across the threshold when I’d brought him his post, but refused to let me inside, into his lovely, spick-and-span kitchen. Another thought was that he’d never taken any interest in me when I was laid up in bed by my Ailments, breathing my last.
But why would I have to forgive him for any of these things? Maybe he was thinking of his cold, ironic son in the black coat. But we’re not answerable for our children, are we?
Finally Boros appeared in the doorway with my laptop, which he’d been using before now anyway, and plugged in his pendant, shaped like a wolf’s fang. For a very long time there was total silence, while we waited for a sign. Finally we heard a storm, but it didn’t frighten or surprise us. It dominated the sound of bells ringing in the mist. No other music could have suited the mood better – it must have been composed specially for this evening.
‘Riders on the storm,’ the words echoed out of nowhere.
Riders on the storm
Into this house we’re born
Into this world we’re thrown
Like a dog without a bone
An actor out on loan
Riders on the storm…
Boros hummed and rocked in his chair, while the words of the song repeated over and over again, the same ones every time, never any others.
‘Why are some people evil and nasty?’ asked Boros rhetorically.
‘Sa
turn,’ I said. ‘The traditional ancient Astrology of Ptolemy tells us it’s down to Saturn. In its discordant aspects Saturn has the power to make people mean-spirited, spiteful, solitary and plaintive. They’re malicious, cowardly, shameless and sullen, they never stop scheming, they speak evil, and they don’t take care of their bodies. They endlessly want more than they have, and nothing ever pleases them. Is that the sort of people you mean?’
‘It could be the result of mistakes in their upbringing,’ added Oddball, enunciating each word slowly and carefully, as if afraid his tongue was about to play tricks on him and say something else entirely. Once he had managed to utter this one sentence, he dared to add another: ‘Or class war.’
‘Or poor potty training,’ added Boros, and I said: ‘A toxic mother.’
‘An authoritarian father.’
‘Sexual abuse in childhood.’
‘Not being breastfed.’
‘Television.’
‘A lack of lithium and magnesium in the diet.’
‘The stock exchange,’ shouted Oddball, with incredible enthusiasm, but to my mind he was exaggerating.
‘No, don’t be silly,’ I said. ‘In what way?’
So he corrected himself: ‘Post-traumatic shock.’
‘Psychophysical structure.’
We tossed around ideas until we ran out of them, a game we found highly amusing.
‘But it is Saturn,’ I said, dying of laughter.
We walked Oddball back to his cottage, trying hard to keep extremely quiet, for fear of waking the Writer. But we weren’t very good at it – every few seconds we snorted with laughter.
As we were off to bed, emboldened by the wine, Boros and I embraced, to say thank you for this evening. A little later I saw him in the kitchen, taking his pills and swallowing them with water from the tap.
It occurred to me that he was a very good Person, this Boros. And it was a good thing he had his Ailments. Being healthy is an insecure state and does not bode well. It’s better to be ill in a quiet way, then at least we know what we’re going to die of.
Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead Page 14
