“Please eat, sir. Your food’ll get cold.”
He said:
“I like cold food.”
That was another way he was different from the rest of us, none of us would have said we liked cold food. With us, if something wasn’t hot enough we’d make a fuss about it on the spot:
“Why is this soup cold? These potatoes look like leftovers! What kind of meat is this, it’s bad enough it’s offcuts! Miss Basia, tell them in the kitchen there! Take my plate back, have them heat it up!”
Whereas he’d said he liked cold food. He was on a building site, in the cafeteria, and he liked cold food. I don’t know if anyone enjoyed their meal that day. I couldn’t even tell you what the main course was. Probably meatballs, because we mostly got meatballs. They were more breadcrumbs than meat, but they were called meatballs.
You probably think she drove a dagger into my heart, as they say. Well, it did hurt. I didn’t finish my main course. I went back to work. Though I didn’t much feel like working either. In the end I made myself feel better by saying I’d wait him out. They’d install all the machinery in the cold storage plant and he’d leave, and I’d still be there. I just had to be patient. Besides, I found it hard to believe it could have happened just like that on the first day. She’d given him his soup and his main course, and that was that.
But from that day she changed beyond recognition. She looked and she didn’t see. Even when you said to her, Good morning, Miss Basia, or Basieńka, sometimes she didn’t answer. When she gave us our plates it seemed like it was all the same to her which of us was which. She knew the cafeteria like the back of her hand, she could have found her way among the tables blindfold, but she began to make mistakes. The next table had been waiting longer than us, but she served us first. She’d never gotten the order wrong before. She knew virtually to the second who had arrived first, who had sat where. The opposite happened too. We’d be calling, over here, Miss Basia, or Basieńka, we were here before them. She’d give us a distracted glance and serve the guys who’d come after us. Or she’d bring the main course to a table where they hadn’t had their soup yet, while there were other men waiting for their main course at a table that was even closer to her.
It’s possible to fall in love at first sight, but to that extent? It was enough to see what happened when he showed up in the cafeteria. If she was carrying bowls or plates to some table, the tray would shake in her hands, the plates would clink, then when she served them it was like she wanted to chuck them all down at once. And right away she’d run to the hatch for his soup. He’d still be eating the soup and already she’d be bringing him his main course. While us, when we finished our soup we always had to wait for the main course till she was done serving everyone their soup. Sometimes we’d even tap our forks against our bowls because we’d been waiting too long for the main course. Him, he never had to wait.
You should have seen her when he didn’t show up at the usual time. You’d have thought it wasn’t her that was serving the meals, her hands were doing the job all alone. As for her, she didn’t even see what her hands were carrying. She was just one big tormented waiting mass. Here she’d be putting plates down on the tables, but her eyes would be fixed on the door. I’m telling you, when you ate you could virtually feel that torment of hers in the spoons and forks and knives.
Suddenly he’d appear. We’d be bent over our food, no one was looking at the door, but everyone would know from her reaction that he had come in. Right away she’d perk up, smile. Like she’d come back to life. Her braid would swing. Her eyes would sparkle. She’d almost be dancing among the tables. You had the impression she was all set to tear the braid off her head, put it in a vase and stand it on the table in front of him to make his meal more enjoyable.
And all that was only what you could see in the cafeteria. You’d often meet them walking along, their fingers interlocked. Or he’d have his arm around her, and she’d be pressing against him. When someone nodded to say hello, he’d nod back for both of them, because she wouldn’t see. I have to admit he had good manners. He didn’t put on airs. Whenever he needed my help as an electrician, or someone else’s, he’d always wait till you finished what you were doing, then ask politely. He knew how to make people like him. And honestly, we even did like him.
Her, on the other hand, she seemed to be getting more and more impatient. She’d clear up in the cafeteria, but for example in the kitchen she wouldn’t want to wash the dishes because she was in a hurry. Then later you’d see her waiting somewhere for him to get off work. Mostly she’d pace up and down on the other side of the street from the building site. Or even along the perimeter, right outside the chain-link fence. Though there was no path, just mounds of earth dumped there for the purposes of the site. She just walked back and forth on those mounds, sometimes holding on to the fence. When she saw him coming she’d run so fast her braid would bounce up and down. Sometimes she’d take off her shoes and run barefoot so she wouldn’t miss him. If it was too far to go around by the gate, she’d squeeze through the nearest hole in the fence. There were all kinds of holes, people used them to thieve things from the site.
However long it took him to get off work, she’d wait. Everyone knows you can’t always clock off at the time you’re supposed to. All the more so on a building site like that, especially when you’re behind schedule. Plus, they were on a foreign contract. We weren’t, but even in our case you rarely got off when you were meant to. When things really fell behind, no one counted the hours.
She waited even when it was raining. She got herself a little umbrella, or perhaps he bought it for her. And even when it was pouring she’d wait under her umbrella. Or by a wall under the eaves, or in the watchman’s hut by the gate when the rain was really heavy. You’d sometimes see her in the library too. I’d go there to get something to read, and here I’d see her at a table by the window with a book, and the window would just happen to look out onto the site. But she never glanced up to see who’d come in. Not many people visited the library. So the librarian loved it when anyone appeared. But her, she didn’t look up. She even seemed to sink deeper into her book, so as not to draw attention to herself.
So I would not notice her. Or God forbid I should ever ask what she was reading. That might have embarrassed her, turned her against me, hurt her even. And what for? I knew she was waiting for him. And who cares what she was reading. It was better she was in the library than standing or pacing to and fro in the rain. You know, I often felt more sorry for her than I did for myself.
It goes without saying that people told all kinds of stories about her. I don’t even want to repeat them. For instance, there were rumors that she cleaned his room, did his laundry, washed his shirts, darned his socks. That she spent the night there. See how her eyes are all puffy, what do you think that’s from? It never occurred to anyone it could be from crying. It was like that love of hers was the property of everyone. Like anybody had the right to walk all over her love the way you walked about the site, trampling it, even tossing down your cigarette butt. All because she served in the cafeteria.
No one said anymore, You look nice today Miss Basia, or Basieńka, she couldn’t look nice with her eyes swollen. They said she’d lost her looks, she’d gone to the dogs, that her braid wasn’t what it used to be, or her eyes. Maybe she was pregnant, she moved more slowly now, she wasn’t so brisk when she brought you your meal. They said various things. Someone supposedly even overheard her say to him, You promised. To which he answered, We’ll do it. You just have to understand. She says, What do I have to understand? I’m not as dumb as you think I am. Just because I work in a cafeteria? And she burst into tears.
The librarian, though, she was easy on her, she was an older woman and she’d probably been through a lot herself. Even after it was time to close up the library she’d keep it open if it was raining outside and the other woman was still sitting over her book. She’d tidy the books on the shelves, replace torn slip covers, catalogu
e new items.
Sometimes though, despite the rain she’d suddenly give back her book and leave as if something had agitated her, and at most the librarian would say to her:
“It’s good you have an umbrella, Miss Basia.”
She’d apologize to the librarian, explain that she’d just remembered she had something urgent to do.
“Never mind, never mind, Miss Basia. I understand, it happens. I’ll just put a bookmark at your page. I’ll leave the book over here, it’ll be waiting for you.”
“Oh, please do. Thank you.” And she’d almost rush out, as if she really had remembered some pressing errand.
Then a moment later you’d see her somewhere by the fence, waiting for him. And the librarian would also see her from the window. Or she’d ask the watchmen to let her in to the site, and she’d wait there. She’d sometimes be wandering around till evening, till nighttime if he didn’t show up. When someone came by she’d slip behind a crane or a backhoe, or behind a pile of bricks, some reels of cable, a heap of crates or barrels or used tires, there were mountains of stuff like that all over the main yard. Wherever she could hide.
Why would she hide when everyone knew anyway? Exactly. I wondered about that myself. Especially because I often used to run into her myself on the site in the evening. Though she hid from me too. Maybe that was the nature of her love, that it was somehow at odds with the world. Or maybe she wanted it to be that way.
In the end they got married. It was a strange wedding. It wasn’t a civil one, but it also wasn’t in a church. Apparently he’d so turned her head that she agreed to have the Priest marry them. That’s right, the welder. She had wanted a church wedding. He wouldn’t agree, because as he explained to her, he could lose his job over it. As she knew, he was on a foreign contract, and he needed the backing of important people. He couldn’t even tell her who, it was an official secret. Besides, what difference did it make whether it was in a church or not. The main thing was that they should be married by a priest. A church was just where there was a priest. And she knew him after all. And the fact that he was a welder, what of it? He was a priest. People found themselves in various situations these days, even priests. He had a surplice and stole, and a Bible, he kept them in a suitcase, what could they be for other than to perform services? He’d be sure to agree. He knew what times were like. And he’d certainly keep their secret. Because for the moment it had to be a secret. At most he’d invite three or four of his closest friends. They wouldn’t breath a word of it, he guaranteed. She shouldn’t invite anyone from her side, not her father or mother, no one.
They agreed on a Saturday evening when the site would be deserted, so no one would see it. A lot of people working on the site would leave after work on Saturday to travel to their families. The watchmen at the gatehouse would get a bottle of vodka so they wouldn’t see anything or hear anything. Just in case, he’d tell them it was his birthday. They’d cover the window, the table would serve as an altar, they’d cover it with a white cloth. He’d buy candles. It would be good to have a crucifix, he didn’t know if the Priest had one. Maybe she had one at home, she should bring it. But she should make sure no one saw her. So she did. Do you think she was being gullible? I doubt it. Desire is stronger than suspicion.
She wanted a wedding dress, a white one, because she’d always dreamed of getting married in a white dress with a train. He gave it some thought. No problem, she’d have one, he’d buy it for her. He’d go into town and buy it. She didn’t have to go with him. He’d get her the most beautiful one, the most expensive one. If she went with him someone might twig. She shouldn’t worry, it would be the right size. It’d fit her like a glove. How tall was she exactly? That’s what he thought. And her hips and waist, and here? That’s what he thought. So why did she need to go? What if someone saw them together in the store, and her trying on a wedding dress, then there’d be problems. It wasn’t their fault they were living in such times. He wished they’d met in a different age. But she herself could see it was best if he went alone. White shoes? He’d buy her white shoes. What size was she? That’s what he thought. Just in case, she should draw the outline of her foot on a sheet of paper. That way he’d be more confident. Especially since with shoes it can happen that even though they’re the right size, they turn out to be too tight or too loose. Would she also like white gloves? He could get her some white gloves while he was about it. What else would she like?
How do I know all this? You’ve never worked on a building site? Then you don’t know much about life. On a building site everyone knows everything. You don’t even need to eavesdrop. You don’t need to see, you don’t need to guess. You could say that what happens, what’s said, what someone feels, what they think about, that first off everyone knows it. Then what comes next only confirms it.
Anyhow, she didn’t want any white gloves, because why should he spend more money on gloves. No, she didn’t want gloves. It was it was going to be an expensive enough business as it was. The dress alone, you say it’ll be the most beautiful one, the most expensive one. Then how much will the shoes cost? Plus, she’d never seen anyone get married in gloves. She used to go to nearly every wedding at her church. Every wedding kind of changed her life for a moment. She’d gone since she was a girl. Even when it was total strangers getting married, she’d still go. When old people got married there was never much of a crowd, but she would be there. So what if they were old? It was still a wedding. And when they promised they’d never leave each other she would feel her heart pounding in her chest, tears welling in her eyes. But she’d never seen a bride in gloves. I mean, they had to put rings on their fingers, and what, was she supposed to take off a glove at that moment?
All of a sudden she realized he’d forgotten about the rings. He had to buy rings. He didn’t have to because he already had them. He’d thought ahead. He took them out and unwrapped them, told her to try one on. How did he know it would be the right size for her finger? If it didn’t fit this finger it would go on that one. Try it on. If it’s too big, later on we’ll give it to a jeweler and have it made smaller. If it’s too small, she can put it on her pinkie finger for now. Later on we’ll give it to a jeweler and have it enlarged. He’d bought them some time ago, before he was working on the foreign contract. An opportunity had come along when someone lost at cards and didn’t have anything else to pay with. No, he didn’t play cards, not him. He’d bought them off the guy that lost. He’d figured they might come in handy. And they had. He’d forgotten about them, it was only when he saw her in the cafeteria that he remembered he had them. It was like those rings had chosen her to be his wife. Though they wouldn’t be able to wear them for the moment. After the wedding they’d take them off and he’d keep them safe. Once his contract was over they could put them back on. Maybe they’d go away somewhere. Maybe abroad. He’d try and pull some strings in the foreign company whose machinery they were installing.
Who wouldn’t have swallowed it all, you tell me. Common sense might have made her suspicious. But common sense always loses out to life. She was working in a cafeteria, and bam. Soup, main course, bam. Anyone who wanted could grab hold of her braid, but he lifted it on his outspread palm and weighed it to see if it was maybe made of gold. Common sense tells you to be wary of any love, because you never know where it might lead you. Common sense tells you you should be wary of yourself. But it isn’t people that create common sense for themselves. And what is common sense anyway? You tell me that. And I’ll tell you back that no one could survive in life by just following common sense. Common sense is all well and good … But all it really is, is what you say when you don’t know what else to say.
It’s too bad you didn’t know him, you could’ve warned her. You didn’t know him? Though she wouldn’t have believed you anyway, of that I’m sure. No one can ever be drawn away from love. And if you ask me, they shouldn’t be. When someone’s drawn away you never know where they’ll end up.
I thought the Priest might not
agree. But they made him. Is it so hard to force a man to go against himself? We go against ourselves all the time just to avoid trouble. They forced him to do it by saying they’d put the word out. I told you he kept away from girls. No, that no one knew. There has to be something you don’t know even when you know everything. He’d quit seminary, that much was known. He kept a surplice and stole and a Bible in a suitcase, that much was known. Before he started his lunch in the cafeteria he would cross himself, he prayed every evening before he went to bed, he never missed Sunday Mass, so everyone thought he still kept up his calling. Even I didn’t know, and we’d often had long conversations together when I climbed to where he was working up aloft. How did the other man know? I couldn’t say. I don’t want to make accusations without any proof. In any case, if word had gotten around, his life on the site would have been miserable. It wouldn’t have made any difference that he was one of the best welders, in fact the very best. And it would have followed him to other sites. He would never have gotten his life back.
They covered the window just like he said. What it looked like inside, we only knew from what one of the watchmen said. The other watchmen had sent him from the watch house to ask for another bottle, because they’d finished what they’d been given. But the moment he crossed the threshold they stuck the bottle in his hand and pushed him back out the door. So he didn’t get to see if the table was covered with a white cloth, whether candles were lit, whether there was a crucifix. All he saw was that they were all drunk, especially her. He didn’t see if the Priest was there. Maybe he left right after the wedding. Though it would have been strange if he hadn’t gotten drunk too.
Besides, what could a watchman like that actually see when he was drunk himself, and every drunk thinks that it’s other people who are drunk, not him. The watchmen had supposedly been given a crate of vodka, and they’d drunk the whole lot when they sent him out for another bottle. You can imagine how far gone he was. The watchmen were like that. They had uniforms and rifles, but things were always getting pinched from the site. One time someone even stole a tractor. And they didn’t see a thing. So how could you believe him? But he said what he said, and other people repeated his words after him.
A Treatise on Shelling Beans Page 18
