In any case, when I saw the light I knew right away where I was. The more so because when we shelled beans in our house, mother would always turn up the lamp to almost the full wick. Before she did it she’d always remember to ask father whether she should make the flame bigger. Though she knew full well he’d say: “Yes, turn it up. It’d be fine like it is for everyone else, but for your eyes it needs to be brighter.” Then she’d spread a canvas sheet on the floor, put a stool in the middle of it, stand the lamp on the stool, and father would go bring the bundles of beans.
So when I saw the light get brighter and come to a stop, I knew mother had put it on the stool and father had gone to fetch the beans. Though I paused a moment outside the door, because I didn’t know what to say when I went in. So many years had passed, no one expects you anymore, what should I say, what had I come for? I kept weighing it up, whether to go in or not, and what I should say when I crossed the threshold. As you know, crossing the threshold is the hardest part. In the end I thought to myself, it’s best if I just go right on in and ask whether they might have any beans for sale.
They were all sitting in the circle of the kerosene lamp, father, mother, granddad, grandmother, my two sisters Jagoda and Leonka, and Uncle Jan, who was still living. He was the only one who got up when I came in, he went to get a drink of water. He drank a lot of water before he died. The rest of them, the bean pods were motionless in their hands. I stood beyond the circle of light, just inside the door, while they sat in the ring made by the light, I could see them all clearly. But no one smiled or showed surprise or even frowned. They looked at me, but their eyes already seemed dead, it’s just there hadn’t been anyone to close their eyelids. It was only the pods in their hands that showed they were shelling beans. And they didn’t know me.
Did you want a lot in the way of beans? That much I think I might have. Though they’re unshelled. But if you helped me we could shell them. You’ve never shelled beans before? It’s not so hard. I’ll show you. After a couple of pods you’ll figure it out. I’ll go fetch some.
2
So did you come here of your own accord, or did someone send you? Well, I don’t know who it could have been. I thought maybe it was Mr. Robert. But you keep saying you don’t know Mr. Robert. I just wonder in that case how you knew where to find the key to his cabin.
No, not like that. See here, watch my hands. You hold the pod in your left hand, not flat, like this, then with your right hand you split it open with your thumb and your index finger. Then you put your thumb inside and slide it down to the bottom. See, all the beans pop out. You try. Wait a minute, I’ll find you a better pod. Here, this one’s even and it’s nice and dry. That’s it, use your thumb. There you go. You see it’s not so hard. The next one’ll be easier. And every one after that will be easier still. You just need to keep your thumb straight, with the nail pointing forward. The thumb’s the most important thing in shelling beans. Like a hammer when you’re putting in a nail, or a pair of pliers when you need to pull one out. When we’d shell beans grandfather would often say the thumb ought to be the finger of God. The left thumb’s also important for playing the saxophone, it operates the octave key.
Of course we did, the children took part in the shelling as well. Ever since we were tiny. They started to teach us how to shell beans even before we could properly hold our drinking cup by the handles. They usually put Jagoda by grandmother, Leonka would sit by mother, and me, I was the youngest, I’d be between mom and grandmother. The drier pods were too hard for us, so mother or grandmother would take our hands in theirs and shell the beans with our fingers, and use our thumbs to slide the beans out. So it looked like we’d done it ourselves.
I have to admit, when I was a child I hated shelling beans. My sisters too, they were older than me but they hated it as well. We’d always try to get out of it. My sisters would usually say that one of them had a headache or a stomachache. For me, I came up with different methods. One time, I cut my thumb right here with a piece of broken glass. Then later, when we started school in the order of age – first Jagoda, then Leonka, then me – we’d usually use our homework as an excuse, we had to study for tomorrow, we had a whole ton to do. It wouldn’t get done if we were shelling beans. My mother’s heart would always soften right away when we mentioned homework. You go get your schoolwork done, we’ll manage here on our own. On the subject of schoolwork grandmother would always mention God, she’d say if God wasn’t going to allow something, no amount of studying would help. Uncle Jan would usually just get up and go get a glass of water, so it was hard to figure out whether he was for homework or for shelling beans. Father, on the other hand, he would say that shelling beans was one of the lessons we should be learning:
“And not just any lesson. It’s one of the most important ones. Not just math or Polish. It’s a lesson to last you your whole life long. Math and Polish, all that’ll vanish from their heads anyway sooner or later. And when they’re left on their own it’s not math and Polish they’ll be drawn to. No sir.”
Grandfather would usually refer to the war, because he liked to use the war to make his point. Once he told a story about how a long long time ago, so long that his own grandfather had told the story, there’d been a war and the family was shelling beans. All of a sudden there’s a hammering at the door. “Open up!” It’s soldiers. Their eyes are all bloodshot, their faces are twisted in fury. They would have killed everyone dead just like that. But when they saw that everyone was shelling beans they put their rifles in the corner, unfastened their swords, had stools brought for them, and they sat down and started shelling beans with everyone else.
As for Mr. Robert, I can’t say I knew him that well either. For some reason we never were able to open up to one another. We never went to the informal ty, even though we’d known each other for years. He had a store in the city, he sold souvenirs … What sort? I couldn’t tell you, I was never there. The one thing I can say is that in the letters he wrote me he’d always make fun of those souvenirs. He’d say that he himself would never in a million years buy the kinds of things he sold. And that if souvenirs like those were supposed to help you remember, it was better not to remember at all.
The first time I met him we were abroad. One evening a group of men and women came into the place where I played in the band. It was a Monday, and on Mondays there were usually free tables. Other days you’d have to make a reservation ahead of time. Though we’d still play every evening, even if there was only one table occupied.
They took two tables close to the little stage. I might not have noticed them, but I heard them speaking Polish. They were acting in a deliberately nonchalant way, as if they were trying to draw attention to themselves. They talked loudly from one table to the other, and I heard that they were part of a bus tour. They spent a long time looking through the menu and equally loudly discussing the prices. At the more expensive items they’d say, look how much this is! Wait a minute, how much is that in Polish money? Good grief! Back home you could live for a month on that. Not to mention if you ate in a cheap cafeteria. But being at a place like this in a foreign country, it’ll be a tale to tell. Instead of just endless castles, cathedrals, museums, scenic views. Come on, let’s order the most expensive thing. What if we don’t like it? At that price we’ll have to. And maybe some vodka too. Why? We have our own. Well, at least one shot each to kick off. I mean, we’re going to need glasses anyway, right? We have our own glasses as well. But what if someone sees? What’s there to see? Vodka looks the same wherever you are.
They called the waiter, and each of them in turn ordered by pointing at the menu. And it was all the costliest items, the waiter bent double under the weight of all the prices. There was something impetuous in that scramble for the most expensive dishes, and at the same time it was disarming. But I had no intention of talking to them. I avoided those kinds of meetings.
There was a break. When the next set was about to start, one of the Polish group – Mr. Robert, as i
t later transpired – got up from his table. He came up to the band and started saying something in a mixture of words, but no one could understand him. I couldn’t decide whether to let on or not. He was trying to request a tango and he was asking how much a request like that would be. They understood the tango part, but not the bit about how much it would cost. Whether I liked it or not I spoke up, I said we’d play a tango, and it wouldn’t cost anything.
“You speak Polish?” He immediately held out his hand. “Robert’s the name.”
But I already had the mouthpiece between my lips so I didn’t reciprocate. We started up the tango. He went to each of their two tables in turn and said something, pointing at me. The people at both tables began watching me with a smile. He asked one of the women to dance. He didn’t lead her into the middle of the dance floor; instead they danced as close as possible to the band, as if he didn’t want to lose sight of me. He held her close, the way you do in a tango, and he kept smiling at me over her head as if we were good friends. I was mad at myself, I knew he wouldn’t leave me alone.
And he didn’t. During the next break he dragged me over to his table, just for a minute, so he could at least exchange a word or two with a fellow countryman. I didn’t let myself get drawn into any toasts to lucky meetings. All the same, from both tables they showered me with questions and I regretted giving myself away when he was trying to ask for the tango. Do you live here permanently? Since when? What brought you here? How did you manage to get a place in a band in a club like this? Was it right away, or did you have to start by washing dishes? So you must have known someone. Normally everyone begins by washing dishes. Even for that you need to have good luck. Then if you’re really lucky you might get to wait tables. But this is something else! I bet it’s so great living here. Working in a place like this. Dance parties every evening. And they pay a decent wage, not like … One of them even asked:
“You can be honest with us. Did you leave for political reasons? Did you escape?”
“No,” I said.
“Oh, then I know!” cried one of the women as if she’d finally hit on why I’d found myself there. “I bet it was because of a woman. Well? Was that it?” They crowded in to hear what I’d say.
Another woman, who was sitting at the next table and up till now hadn’t asked any questions, gave a sigh and said:
“The things love can make you do.”
“The hell with love,” Mr. Robert retorted in irritation. “Who can afford love these days. It’s all about going to bed, nothing more.”
“Don’t say that,” the woman protested. “Love is the most important thing in life.”
Fortunately the other musicians waved to say the break was over. But the matter didn’t end there. You might say that was only the beginning. A few days later, a postcard arrived addressed to me at the club, in which Mr. Robert thanked me for an unforgettable evening. He said he was glad to have met me and that he’d write a real letter soon. With no idea of what might come, I wrote a postcard in return to say I’d also enjoyed the evening and I was glad I’d gotten to know him. But you know, it’s not good to be too polite. You can never be sure that even with common courtesy you’re not setting a trap for yourself. It was just that his postcard had kind of touched an unhealed wound in me. I’d never gotten a postcard from anyone back in Poland before.
Some time later the promised letter arrived. It was long and cordial. He invited me to come take a vacation. He wrote that he had a summer cabin on some lake. All around there were woods. It was secluded, quiet, peaceful, in a word a magical place, as he put it. Even if it was true that some woman had left me, like we’d been saying that evening, in this place I’d be able to forget her. Because here you could forget anything. Here you went back to being a part of nature, without any obligations, without memories. Besides, if it was women I was after, there were any number of them here, and he’d find one who’d be right for me, cheer me up after the other one. Pretty young things, they come here on the weekends, or for their vacation. Some even spend the whole summer here, so there’s no need to try very hard even, they fall into your arms of their own accord. You won’t be disappointed, especially as you’re coming from abroad.
In the next letter, which arrived right on the heels of the first one and was even longer, he invited me to at least come for mushroom picking. They were expecting a big crop that year. He had a battery-driven heating device for drying the mushrooms. Because he was sure I liked picking mushrooms, who doesn’t? He loved it. Apart from women, there wasn’t much he enjoyed more than picking mushrooms. He’d get crazy jealous when someone else found a boletus and he had nothing, or maybe just some slippery Jack. He’d hope the other person’s mushroom was maggoty. But was there any deeper way of experiencing nature? It hurts to even think about what people can be like. Mushroom picking’s also the best form of relaxation. You don’t think of anything, don’t remember a thing, all your attention, all your senses are concentrated on the search for a mushroom. You might say the entire world shrinks to the proportions of that mushroom you’re looking for. So if someone wants true relaxation, it’s actually better when there aren’t that many mushrooms. Him, he said, when he needed to relax he’d head off into the woods even if there weren’t any mushrooms. Take his basket and his penknife and go looking.
It would be a source of great pleasure to him if we could do that together. I took a liking to you, he wrote. On that very first evening I had a feeling we could become friends. I value people who I can tell in advance are hard to make out, impossible even. I’d really like you to come. The cabin has all the amenities. Fridge, radio, TV. There’s a bathroom with a shower, a water heater, you just need to turn it on and in a short while you have hot running water. Upstairs there are two bedrooms, we won’t get in each other’s way. If you wanted to bring someone along I can sleep downstairs on the couch. Or I’ll take my vacation at a different time and just visit on Saturdays and Sundays. I have a boat, we could go out on the lake. And if you like kayaking, you can borrow the neighbor’s kayak. You could even go with his wife. She’s good-looking and she likes to go kayaking. He’s some director or other, he’s had two heart attacks and spends all his time indoors because the sun bothers him. No wonder she gets bored. And the bored ones are always the most willing. You really must come. Write and let me know when.
I wrote back to say thank you for the invitation, but for the moment I wasn’t able to take him up on it. As he knew, I played in a band, I wasn’t a free agent. And in those kinds of clubs the musicians rarely have much time off. Only when the club is being renovated or redecorated. I thought that would discourage him.
But a short time later he wrote another letter. And it was the same thing all over again. He was inviting me, when would I come. I replied with a postcard saying thank you, I send my best wishes, but let’s wait till I have more free time. But he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He wrote one letter after another, and in every one he kept repeating his invitation.
In one of the letters he gave me his phone number and asked for mine, saying he often wished he could call me up. I could hardly refuse, but I made a point of saying it was hard to catch me at home. Rehearsals in the morning, gigs in the evening, and life in general kept you busy, as he well knew. He rang on what turned out to be the same day he’d gotten my letter:
“I’ve been calling and calling since morning. You’re right, it’s hard to get a hold of you. But there’s nothing like the sound of an actual voice. Letters are fine, but they don’t speak. There’s no comparison with a live voice. Hearing you, it feels like we’re meeting again. Have you decided yet when you’re going to come visit?”
This went on for years. I would always put off replying to his cards and letters as long as I could. Then I’d apologize, saying it was for this or that reason, I hoped he understood. He understood completely. In the next letter he’d send me an even more enthusiastic invitation. One time he wrote to say he’d gotten a color TV to replace the old bla
ck-and-white one in the cabin, he told me what kind, how big of a screen it had. Another time he said something else was new there. And with each letter he painted an ever more vivid picture to convince me to come. While I for my part felt an increasing distrust toward him. To be honest, I even started to be afraid of him, suspecting him of something, though I couldn’t have said exactly what. He was trying to drag me into something, that much I was sure of. Or maybe it just seemed that way to me, because distrust toward other people was the defensive wall I’d built around myself.
With every letter he grew more heartfelt, almost poetic, and so open toward the world that it terrified me. In one letter he said, you can’t imagine how the smell of sap from the woods fills this place, especially in the early morning. It’s a pleasure just to breathe. There are even crayfish in the lake, that’s the best proof of how clean the water is. The deer have gotten so comfortable with humans that they come and graze among the cabins. You can even stroke them. One time an owl perched on his windowsill, he wrote. One sultry night he opened the window. When he opened his eyes, there it was, right on the sill. He thought he was dreaming. He got up and shone a flashlight in its eyes, I’m telling you, he wrote, they shone like two diamonds. Another time he was lounging about on the deck and a squirrel came up to him. It stood on its hind legs, and they just stared at each other. He was mad at himself for not having any nuts around. This was the only place I’d be able to see a proper sunrise and sunset. It wasn’t at all the same as where I lived, in the city. It might not be the same anywhere else at all. If he didn’t have a cabin here he might never have known what sunrises and sunsets really are, what humans have lost for good. Because what can they see in their cities? What can he see from his souvenir shop?
A Treatise on Shelling Beans Page 4
