Constructing this imaginary defence of a passenger trying to hitch a free ride brought him no relief, however. On the contrary, it exacerbated his nervousness. Instead of forgetting about the bus company and concentrating on matters of much greater and more pressing concern (how to win the favour of Mademoiselle Legris, what questions to ask, in what direction to steer the conversation), he stared intently at the back of one of the supposed guardians of the Urban Transport Vehicle, waiting in suspense for his suspicions to be confirmed.
They were. For presently the two men, without looking at each other, reached under the lapels of their coats and displayed the gold-coloured round tin badge that each wore on a short ribbon pinned to his breast, like some sort of mountaineering decoration. Placing themselves solidly, feet apart, in front of the passengers sitting closest to them, they simultaneously intoned the sacred formula: ‘Tick-ets-please.’
You’d think after this he could have relaxed: the tension had been released; he had sniffed them out, he had guessed correctly, his intuition was good. But for some reason he couldn’t. He was still filled with nervous excitement and continued, in spite of himself, to give free rein to his anger and irritation.
Look at him, the rotten creep – look at that shifty mug! All the nasty deeds you could imagine written on it in great big letters. And yet he goes around blithely demanding things of people! Inspecting their tickets! Expecting me – me, a free monad, proud and untamed like the Rhine, on my way to pay a visit to the French Embassy – to submit to his insolent will, to sacrifice my time for him, to make a move because he wants it! Outrageous! Unacceptable! It’s beneath my dignity! An intolerable constraint on my freedom. Insufferable! I will not submit to it! But how can I not? Refuse to show him my ticket? Ignore him? Then he’d only assault me physically, poke me, shove me around, shake me and finally grab me under the armpits and haul me off the bus at the next stop. No question that’s what he’d do. And that would be worse – far worse. Is there nothing to be done? But . . . that’s force! oppression! terror! Help, Rousseau!
The spirit of the author of the Discourse on the Sources and Principles of Inequality Among Men (a work regrettably not distinguished by the Academy in Dijon) and of the better-known Social Contract must have heard his plea, for the yoke of oppression which had seemed imminent was spared him. The manner of his deliverance was morally somewhat dubious, however, for it was accomplished at the expense of another. What happened was that the ticket inspector working the front of the bus, after checking the elderly gentleman with the package, did not move on but instead eyed the package and observed, ‘Big, that.’
‘Space heater,’ the passenger explained. ‘Electric. Just back from the repair shop.’
‘I don’t care where it’s from,’ snapped the inspector. ‘It’s luggage. No different from other luggage. And luggage you pay for.’
‘What are you talking about? This isn’t luggage!’ the traveller objected. ‘Luggage is a suitcase. Or a pram. Or a bicycle.’
‘It takes up space just the same,’ insisted the inspector.
‘What space? Whose space? It’s on my knees! And anyway, the bus is empty!’
‘So what if it’s empty?’ replied the inspector, unmoved, and added, looking aside, ‘another ticket for the luggage, please.’
‘All right, all right, I’ll punch one,’ said the elderly gentleman, rising and reaching into his pocket.
‘Now?’ snorted the inspector. ‘Too late for that now!’ he said, barring the man’s way.
‘What are you doing?’ The man with the package was visibly losing patience. ‘Let me punch the damn ticket!’
‘Should’ve done it before. I gave you a whole minute. You didn’t take it.’
This cold observation set off an avalanche. The exchange, which until then had been fairly calm, became heated. Insults and ad hominem remarks flew back and forth. The argument degenerated into a slanging match, and it wasn’t long before the other passengers, who until then had been silent observers, leapt into the fray, united in staunch defence of the owner of the heater. At the head of this chorus of outraged citizens was an invalid – a stocky, elderly man with a stiff leg who occupied a seat reserved for war veterans. His ticket had already been inspected, and he had been forced, despite his manifest disability, to show the certificate that entitled him to a half-price fare. This had probably rankled, and it may have been why he now took upon himself the role of chorus leader.
‘You lazy slob,’ he thundered in a stentorian voice, ‘why don’t you do some real work, instead of making people’s lives miserable! Like herding cattle – or cleaning pigsties! You’d look better with a pitchfork in your hand. You think we don’t know why you’re doing this? You think we don’t know you get a commission on fines?’
‘Hey, hey!’ snarled the inspector. ‘Don’t you talk to me like that!’
‘You were crapping in your pants when I was fighting for Poland, you little shit!’ The worthy Veteran, having delivered himself of this opinion, drew himself up and raised his walking-stick as if it were a sword.
‘What did you say, you pathetic legless gelding?’ growled the inspector through his teeth, approaching the Veteran.
‘You heard me, you prick,’ declared the Battle-Scarred Hero. Then he rose and began to make his way to the front door of the bus.
‘You’ll regret this,’ promised the inspector, and muttered something to the driver.
‘You know where you can shove it!’ announced the Righteous Patriot and Defender of His Land with a grimace of scorn for this threat of vengeance, and positioned himself by the fore gangway.
The inspector, meanwhile, returned and demanded an identity card of the passenger with the heater, who laughed in his face (actually he said, ‘You can whistle for it, you fat hog!’) and, clutching his box, made his way to the door to stand beside the General, whom he thanked for his support –
At this climactic moment my narrative unfortunately came to an abrupt end, for events swept me up and sucked me into their whirlpool. (You can’t write an epic when you’re fighting for your life.)
What happened was this: the stop at Alliance Square, my own destination as well as that of several others of my socii malorum, had now been happily reached. But the captain – that is, the driver – did not lower the ladder; that is, he did not open the front doors, before which those of us who were intending to disembark stood expectantly in an orderly file, with our Commander-in-Chief proudly at the head. He opened only the rear doors, which in principle were reserved for embarking passengers.
The initial reaction to this was purely verbal: several voices, among which that of the General was prominent, shouted, ‘Well, get on with it! Open the doors!’
There was an ominous silence as the driver continued to sit there, motionless. When it dawned on the owners of the voices that his action, or rather lack of action, was not the result of sluggishness but a deliberate refusal, tumult and confusion erupted. A panicked stampede for the rear exit ensued, with much cursing and swearing, as everyone tried to shove his way to the back door, through which the last of the embarking passengers were coming.
‘Close the door!’ yelled the inspector guarding the fore gangway to the captain at the helm.
The pneumatic mechanism of the doors hissed as they swung into action. But their compressive force was blocked by the figure of a large, aggressive-looking youth who was just clambering on board – having managed, in one elaborately determined movement, to place his huge foot firmly on the first step, wedging it in the door and keeping it from closing.
‘Move!’ commanded the inspector at the aft door.
Time to jump overboard, I thought. Hoping that the youth would catch on and display his solidarity by continuing to hold the door open, I shouted, ‘Insects!’
He didn’t disappoint me. Wedging his great bulk firmly in the door (the foot having been followed by the rest of the body) and leaning his back against it, he made a narrow passage for me to squeeze
through. By then, though, the bus was already moving.
‘Jump!’ urged the youth with kindly insistence, and, observing the chaotic desperation of my efforts to do so, added helpfully, ‘Sideways, you oaf, not head on!’
The advice came too late: I was already in mid-air. Having blindly jumped as I did, perpendicular to the pavement, I not only fell flat on my face as soon as I hit the ground but rolled for some distance from the force of the impact, with unfortunate results for my clothes.
‘Poor fool, why did you run?’ The phrase (where had I read it? heard it, perhaps?) flashed through my mind as I picked myself up and with mounting dismay surveyed the extent of the devastation. The sleeves and front of my anorak were scuffed and smeared with mud, a seam under the arm had ripped, and there was a huge and conspicuous tear in my right trouser leg, just above the knee, where a triangular shred of cloth hung limply down, exposing the flesh beneath.
I can’t see Mademoiselle Legris like this, I thought desperately. How can I even show up at the embassy in this condition? They’ll probably refuse to let me in; I must look like some sort of homeless lunatic. And would it be right to bandy about references to the silver-haired Marianne in this wretched state? I’d damage her reputation, sully her aristocratic name! No, I can’t do it. If I still mean to go there, I’ll have to get cleaned up first.
Ignoring the stares of passers-by, who stopped to gaze at me in outrage or fascinated horror, I began to plod slowly in the direction of the Sawa Cinema, which had a bathroom where I could effect the necessary adjustments to my toilet. As I crossed the street I glanced back at the bus, now disappearing in the distance and bearing with it into the unknown my companions-in-arms: the General, the ancient woman and the owner of the heater, foully and treacherously kidnapped in revenge for their refusal to submit to the will of the oppressor.
Saved from the Transport! was the title I gave to my abandoned epic.
The challenge of returning my clothes to a state of approximate decency in the conditions that obtained in the Sawa Cinema’s lavatories proved considerable but not insurmountable. In one of its three cubicles I found deliverance in the form of shreds of newspaper (clearly recognisable as the People’s Tribune), which hung, in lieu of toilet paper, from a nail stuck into the wall like a bit of barbed wire. With these, and some of the rust-coloured water that roared in an icy torrent from the broken tap, I scrubbed most of the mud off my anorak. Next I took a grey rag that lay on the ribs of the broken radiator and used it to wipe off my Czech shoes, even managing to give them a bit of a shine – not a dazzling shine, perhaps, but better than nothing. Finally, with the aid of two small safety pins which I always carried with me (a scout’s habit picked up from Constant) I closed the gash in my right trouser leg. As I did so I practised in my head, just in case Miss Legris noticed this new seam and was horrified by it, the explanatory phrase, ‘J’ai eu un accident.’
Having done all I could with my clothes, I turned my attention to my body – specifically, my hands and face. Here the need for repairs was equally urgent. But soap was evidently an extravagance to which the munificence of the management did not extend. Undeterred, I made my way to a nearby kiosk, purchased a bar of the most expensive kind they had – Lilac Flower, manufactured by the firm Beauty – and, returning with it to the cinema, completed my ablutions.
Clean, fresh and smelling of fleur de lilas, I set off slowly in the direction of Zakopianska Street.
The young man who loved Conrad’s Victory strode along Victors’ Street to the conquest of Victoire.
The glass militia booth in front of the embassy was manned by a moustachioed sergeant, deeply absorbed in an issue of Sports Weekly. I bid him a silent adieu as I passed. Then I crossed the frontier of the state and entered foreign territory.
And indeed, as soon as I crossed the threshold I felt I had stepped into another world. The building that housed the French Embassy was a massive, two-storey villa with a tiled roof, probably dating from the 1930s; its interior stood out from even the grandest and most splendid interiors I had had occasion to see anywhere in the People’s Republic of Poland. It was no longer merely a question of the smell or some other detail of the kind that had struck me at the Centre; here everything was radically different. From the hallway floors carpeted with crimson-and-pale-blue runners, through the snow-white walls and the pictures (reproductions of paintings, photographs of Paris and posters) ingeniously lit with little spotlights, to the modern furniture in pleasant colours and graceful shapes – on and on, wherever the eye rested, it met beauty and richness of a kind it had never encountered. It was as if these things were made of stuff that came from a different planet.
Awed by the sight of these surroundings, and acutely conscious of the presence of the safety-pins in my trousers, like a thorn (albeit one that pricked the mind rather than the flesh), I approached the reception desk and presented myself. The receptionist (a Pole, and superficially not unlike the silver-haired Marianne, but without the breeding) had clearly been warned to expect me. She took up the phone to inform someone, no doubt Mademoiselle Legris, of my arrival, and then, smiling pleasantly, entertained me with conversation. She knew my French was fluent, but was I sure it was fluent enough? If not, she was at my disposal for any help she could give me. She wouldn’t want me to be nervous. I thanked her politely; it wouldn’t be necessary. She was pleased to hear it, but if at any time I did find myself in difficulties, I mustn’t hesitate . . . she’d be right there. I nodded regally: thank you, I can manage.
In the meantime, quite noiselessly (those carpets!), Mademoiselle Legris had appeared at my side. She was the model of the office divinity (Western variety, of course): slim and shapely in a tight-fitting suit, very soignée, with chestnut-brown hair and greenish eyes. A secretary straight from the glossy pages of a French fashion magazine. We exchanged greetings (without shaking hands) and she invited me to follow her upstairs to the offices of the Service Culturel.
Her voice was gentle, pleasant and melodious, and she spoke calmly, in simple clear sentences. As she spoke she also gazed into my eyes in a slightly inquiring way, as if to make sure I understood. She was probably just doing her best to make things easier for me, but taken together, these elements of her behaviour – the careful enunciation, the velvety tones, her expression and in particular her way of gazing deep into my eyes – made it seem as if she was . . . exerting her charms on me. Someone who didn’t know the language or the subject of our conversation, seeing us together and hearing only the tone of her voice and the sounds issuing from her lips, might have been forgiven for thinking she was trying to entice me, to draw me into her net, to woo me with the sweet magic of her words.
A siren, I thought, gazing entranced as the cooing chatter of French flew from her lips. Why hadn’t the silver Marianne warned me to tie myself to the mast?
In reality the song of this green-eyed temptress was perfectly innocent and matter-of-fact, indeed rather official-sounding. Its gist was more or less as follows:
France, represented here by the ambassador, the director of the Service Culturel and finally herself, the humble secrétaire, was of course gratified that the programme devised to present modern French culture in Poland, which the Service Culturel had the honour of directing, the fruit of a happy collaboration with a number of important institutions, the Ministries of Culture and Foreign Affairs chief among them, should have met with such lively interest and ready acceptance on the part of the Polish people. They were pleased that so many Poles were drawn to French culture and art, and that tout le monde seemed eager to participate in the events they organised – especially, it appeared, gallery openings with cocktail receptions. But everything, alas, had its limits; even the largest auditorium or reception hall had a fixed number of seats and couldn’t hold more than a given number of people. And the embassy had many obligations, to various people – matters of protocol, in most cases. Places at the openings, spectacles and other events to which admission was restricted wer
e reserved first of all for members of the government and holders of various high offices, and for the diplomatic corps. Next on the list were prominent figures in the arts and sciences. The milieu connected with Romance studies, alas, came at the very bottom of the list, and by then – she would like to make this quite clear – there were very few places left, and they were all taken. So elle regrette, elle est désolée, but there could be no question of putting me down on the list of permanent guests. But please, I was not to worry, because she had already thought of a way around this. People on the so-called A-list (government representatives and members of the diplomatic corps) were often unable to honour these events with their presence; there were always a few people who failed to confirm or who just didn’t turn up tout court. And that’s where there was hope for me. I could fill in the gaps: take the place of a no-show. I’d be given a special pass, a sort of admission ticket, that would allow me to get in; after that I’d have to find myself a place wherever I could. Compris? Eh bien, c’est parfait.
Well, then, a few words about upcoming events. I must have either extraordinary luck or remarkable powers of intuition (or perhaps someone had mentioned something to me?) to have approached them just now, at this particular moment, because the programme of events the Service Culturel had scheduled for the near future was truly stunning – they would be real événements, productions of the highest quality, of which France was justly proud. First of all there was an exhibition of Picasso drawings; the opening was a week hence at the Zacheta Gallery – Zashetà, as she charmingly pronounced it. It was, tout simplement, spectacular; and – here her carmine-red lips paused for an instant in an enticing, mysterious smile – très scandalisant – for the bourgeoisie, she meant, not for her, of course. Then, after the New Year, the Comédie Française was coming to Warsaw with their much talked-about production of Racine’s Phèdre. There would be only two performances – at the National Theatre. Finally, on the twenty-seventh of January – this was probably the biggest sensation of all – there would be a screening of this year’s Grand Prix at Cannes: the internationally acclaimed A Man and a Woman, by the brilliant Claude Lelouch. Just one screening, for a restricted audience – by invitation only! At the Skarb Cinema on Traugutt Street. That was it for the time being. Pas mal, I had to admit. And here was her card. Que je m’amuse bien. Voilà! Any questions?
Madame Page 28
