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 it 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 black-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?

Of course, from all those letters over the years I could easily have figured out where the place was, but it never entered my head that it might be here. Thankfully, after a while he stopped writing so frequently. His letters got shorter and his invitations were less eager, I thought our chance acquaintance would eventually dry up. So all the more I’d no reason to wonder if this might be the place. The whole business had come and gone, the way things often happen. And if he’d been playing some kind of game, maybe he’d finally understood that I wasn’t the kind to play along.

By now our correspondence was limited to cards with best wishes and season’s greetings. He’d sometimes just scribble a few words in tiny handwriting in the margin to ask if he could hope I’d come visit one day. Or, Think about it, time’s passing and more and more plans come to nothing. Soon even the cards stopped coming. What I found worrying, though, was that the phone calls also ceased.

I started to wonder if something might have happened to him. Perhaps I should at least give him a call? I couldn’t muster up the courage. But whenever my phone rang, I’d pick up in hopes that it might be him. Previously, I’d never felt like answering his letters and cards, it was always an effort to do so; now, whenever the telephone rang I wanted it to be him. I came up with all kinds of explanations for his silence, despite the fact that I barely knew anything about him. For all the effusiveness of his letters there were never any confidences apart from the fact that he had a cabin by a lake in the woods and a souvenir shop in the city. It was as if he’d set firm boundaries on what he could write to me about. And in fact it was the same with me. Though of course I was supposedly the put-upon one in the relationship.

A year went by, and another. Then out of the blue he wrote me — a long, cordial, enthusiastic letter just like before, filled with the same efforts to entice me out there. You can’t imagine what a wonderful crop of mushrooms we have this year, he wrote. Ceps, birch boletes, chanterelles, slippery Jacks, milk-caps, parasols — you name it. Parasols fried up in butter — makes your mouth water. Better than a veal cutlet any day of the week. Or milk-caps with onion in sour cream — delicious. And the best place to find them is where the graves are. No one picks them there. What are they afraid of? It makes no difference to me whether they’re from around the graves or not. They’re just mushrooms. Who cares what’s in the earth underneath? If you started thinking about that you’d have to stop walking, driving, building houses, you couldn’t even plow or sow, because the whole world till now is down there. We’d have to fly above the earth or move away from it completely. But where to?

Everyone’s picking, drying, preserving, frying. In the evenings there are mushrooms everywhere. Pints, quarts. You can’t imagine how much fun it is. Did you ever eat pickled wild mushrooms? They’re a real delicacy. There’s a woman here who’s a dab hand at pickling. Though for pickling, tricholomas are the best. And they’d be right in season if you came for a visit. Please let me know. Come try the pickled ones at least. I talked with her, she’ll pickle some for you if you come.

Where the graves are, that struck me. I picked up the phone impulsively to call him and say, I’m on my way. But I put it down again at once. And almost every day from then on I did the same thing. I’d pick up the phone and put it down again, telling myself I’d call the next day. Though each time something seemed to whisper to me that if I didn’t do it now I never would. But still I’d put it off till the next day. One time I actually dialed his number, waited till the second ring, then hung up. Another time I even heard his voice:

“Hello? Hello? Goddammit, someone’s having trouble getting through again. The hell with these telephones!”

I could barely keep from saying, it’s me, Mr. Robert. Then one time I had the day off. I poured myself a glass of brandy and drank it. Then a second, a third. Mr. Robert? It’s me. I’m coming. There was a moment of silence, I thought he must just be taken aback. Then I heard a kind of sigh:

“Finally. What made you decide?”

“I couldn’t resist those pickled mushrooms, Mr. Robert. I’ve never had pickled mushrooms.”

“I just wish you’d have let me know sooner. I don’t know if the woman’ll have enough time to do the pickling. I mean, she has to pick them first. I don’t even know if there are any tricholomas this time of year.”

“Don’t worry about that. I was only joking. Sooner or later I had to make up my mind, and I did.”

“I’m glad. I understand. I’ve been inviting you all these years.”

Yet I didn’t hear in his voice that he was as pleased as I might have expected from all those letters of his, especially the last one.

I arrived at his home towards evening on the Saturday. Because you don’t know where the place is, he said over the phone. You wouldn’t be able to find it on your own. So Sunday morning we set off together for the lake.

“This is a nice car. Must have cost a pretty penny. Me, I drive a baby Fiat, as you see.” His little Fiat was parked outside the building. “I just had the bodywork all redone. It was rusting away. And I work like a dog. All day long in the store. I don’t even break for lunch. In this country you can never earn any real money. Even selling souvenirs.” Then, when we got into my car: “I see you have a stereo as well. You’ve got all sorts of things.” He was so taken with the car that it brought on a whole litany of gripes. In fact, he forgot to give me directions for the lake. It was only when we were already in the woods, on the last stretch, that he suddenly snapped out of it:

“How do you know the way?”

“From your letters, Mr. Robert. And the map.”

“You must have looked at an ordinance map, the lake isn’t on the regular road maps. Good thing too.” A note of doubt sounded in his voice: “From my letters? I don’t recall describing the way.”

“All these years, there were so many letters, Mr. Robert. You can’t remember everything. Me, I tried to learn something from each one of them. It just goes to show how carefully I read them. All the more because for a long time now I’ve wanted to come visit.”

“It’s true, I wrote endless letters.” He relaxed a little. “You didn’t always reply. You’d write back once to every two or three of my letters. And usually only a few lines. Or just a postcard, thanks, greetings, best wishes. I often used to think you weren’t interested. That it got on your nerves. Though after all …” I could tell he was upset. So I jumped in:

“The thing is, Mr. Robert, I hate writing letters. I’d much sooner call, or even just come, as you see.” I gave a laugh.

“You hate it?” He thought for a moment. “But it’s like talking with someone, confiding in them. Except on paper.”

“That’s exactly it — the paper.”

“What about the paper?”

“The letter’s on paper. All we’re doing is leaving unnecessary traces.”

“In that case why didn’t you let me know I should stop writing to you?”

“You were the only person who wrote to me from here, Mr. Robert.”

“How is that possible?”

“Let’s drop it.”

“We can drop it.” He didn’t say another word till we reached the lake.

But in his silence I could sense a growing mistrust. When we arrived, all he said was:

“Park the car over there.” Whereas he ought to have at least said, Here we are, take a look around. It’s like I said in my letters, just like I said. I didn’t need to make anything up.

He took our things from the trunk and with a jerk of the head as if to show where his cabin was, he said:

“Come on.”

He’d written so much about that cabin of his, yet he didn’t even suggest a tour.

“Let’s sit out on the deck awhile,” he said. “Should I put the parasol up or do you prefer it like this?” He carried out a little wicker table, two wicker armchairs, two cans of beer and a couple of glasses. “See the logo? I bought these glasses that evening, as a souvenir.”

“How about that,” I said.

“Are you hungry maybe?” he asked. “Fine, then let’s just have a drink. I’ll make something to eat later.”

Something was clearly bothering him. As we drank our beers he hardly said a word, he just mumbled some triviality or other every so often. As for me, I was overcome by a feeling of helplessness in the face of everything that was happening to me. I couldn’t think of anything worth saying. So we sat there sipping our beers, and the sun rose and rose, as if it meant to reach the top of the sky and then, instead of starting to drop toward the west, it was intending to keep on rising upwards till it disappeared in the distance, breaking the age-old laws. So that even the sun seemed to have changed from those earlier years when it would set every day beyond the hills that could be seen in the distance. Nothing here looked like itself anymore. The smell of sap did still come from the woods, but I somehow couldn’t even believe in the sap. Its scent seemed no more than a faint trace, not as bitter as it should be. Back then it would make your nose wrinkle up and your eyes water, especially when sap was collected from the mature trees. Except that those trees grew only before my eyes, because as I gazed at it all I was looking inside myself. But I wasn’t able to retrieve much from my memory. Not even the old course of the Rutka. Maybe because the new lake dominated everything — earth, sky, woods, memory. All the more so because it resounded, it made a din — it fairly shook from all the shouts and cries and squeals and laughter, as if it was showing me how it was able to change the world. Its shores seemed to push deep into the woods. Or perhaps the woods had retreated before it of their own accord, making room for the sunbathing bodies that kept spilling from the cabins and the incoming cars, or emerging from the water. The water in turn was strewn with boats, canoes, floating mattresses, and with heads, heads in colorful caps, that looked as if they were crawling unhurriedly across the surface in every direction, without rhyme or reason. They would disappear only to pop up again a few yards further on, or rise suddenly above the surface of the water as if they were trying to break loose of their bonds. There were multitudes of them. They reminded me of the water lilies, the ones called white lotuses, when they’d bloom in one of the broad bends of the Rutka. In the midst of all this I felt like a thorn able only to inflict pain, because I was evidently incapable of anything else. I decided to leave that same afternoon.

I was just about to let Mr. Robert know when he spoke first, breaking our silence.

“I think I told you in one of my letters that I’m planning to sell this place.”

I swear that in fact he’d never mentioned this. Why on earth had he invited me in that case? As a farewell to the cabin?

“Then I’m going to move. Away from here, away from the city, the whole nine yards. I don’t yet know when. I’m waiting to find a buyer. There is one guy, but he wants to pay in installments. And you know what that’s like. He’ll pay the first installment and the second, then after that he’ll start making excuses. With installments that’s just the way it is, there are always more important things, the payments can wait.”

“Maybe I could buy it?” I said jokingly. I immediately regretted the joke. The words had bypassed my will, my intentions — they’d come out by themselves. Especially that at that very moment I’d meant to say to him: I’m sorry, Mr. Robert, but I have to leave today, this afternoon. I’ve a long drive ahead of me and tomorrow I ought to be at work. I have commitments, you understand.

“You?” He laughed, I didn’t have the impression that he’d taken what I said as a joke. “You?” he repeated with a hint of mockery. “That’s a good one. You live in a different country, miles and miles away. And here you’d have your summer house. How would that look, you’d drop by for a day or two at the most?”

“Sometimes it’s good to visit another country even just for a day or two,” I said, blundering ahead as if to spite myself, to spite him for not having understood that it was a joke.

“And you’d visit often? I don’t think so. All those letters for so many years and I couldn’t get you here. Now you say you’d come often. I don’t think so. Exactly how often?”

“It would depend.”

“On what?”

“The circumstances.”

“What circumstances?”

“All kinds. There’s no predicting circumstances.”

“The thing is, a cabin like this can’t just sit there waiting for circumstances to be right for you. It needs looking after. Aside from the fact that something’s always in need of repair. Plus, crime is getting worse. Not a week goes by without a break-in somewhere. We tried forming a neighborhood watch, but then one person would come, another would forget, for the third person something would come up that night. Best of all would be to hire somebody to mind the place, but they’d have to live here.” Then after pondering for a moment, calmly now, as if finishing his thought: “And you could only come here maybe once a year …”

“Maybe twice,” I said, testing him further, because I couldn’t fathom his resistance.

He looked at me dubiously.

“Even twice. But what for? What for?” His voice rose in irritation.

“The same thing everyone comes here for,” I said. Though I’m not sure I wasn’t testing myself also. “To breath fresh air. Rest up a bit, get away from it all.”

“What on earth are you saying?” He shifted angrily in his seat. “Where is there fresh air these days? There’s no fresh air, no clean water, nothing. And who’s aware of what kind of air they’re breathing anyway? They breathe because their organism tells them they have to. And even if you’re right, does it really do anyone any good to breathe a little fresh air on Saturday or Sunday? Or even for a month or whatever, on their vacation? None of it helps anyone. You think they come here to rest, to get away from it all?” He pulled the glass of beer abruptly away from his mouth, a little of it splashed onto his shirt. “Don’t you see this place has gotten more crowded than an apartment building? In an apartment building, even if it’s ten stories or more, I don’t have to know anyone. Good morning, good morning, that’s it. And not even with everyone, I don’t have to talk to the downstairs neighbor, or the person upstairs. A week can go by without seeing the guy next door. If the two of you go out and come back at different times you don’t have to see him at all until they carry him out when he’s dead. Whereas here, you have to whether you like it or not. The moment you arrive they’re all over you like ants. They itch, pinch you, bite you. After a week of vacation I no longer know whether I’m me or someone else. I mean, tell me how many different people can fit inside someone till he stops feeling that he’s himself? People, they’re like this glass, you can’t pour more into it than’ll fit. I have a shop in the city, but I know almost the whole city not from there but from here. And if it were only their first and last names, job, address, phone number, that I could handle. I already have a whole drawerful of business cards. So what? They’re just lying there lifeless. I don’t know how many times I’ve copied out my address book to at least weed out the ones that have died. But it keeps getting thicker and thicker all the same. Still, even that would be bearable. But that’s not what I wanted to say. The point is that here I feel like I’m in an ant’s nest, and I mean, who wants to be an ant? They won’t spare you in any way. The most intimate things come spilling from them as if they were going to the bathroom. There’s no worse place than somewhere where everyone has to be together and it’s all during the season. Who’s with who, who’s against who, who’s on top of who, who’s underneath who, who does what for what reason, who’s hiding one thing or another, who’s being given away to who — you hear all different kinds of things. You want illnesses, you got them. So-and-so has one thing, another person has something else, one of them’s had something removed, with another one it’s some other thing, a third person has something else again. Who’s constipated, who has diarrhea, you name it. Even orgasms, you’ll find out. One woman has one every time, another one’s never had one. They sit or lie there, sighing away. You have no idea how sound travels around the lake. Plus, the cabins are all close to each other, and if it’s a hot day like today all the doors and windows are open, as you see, so it’s not just your neighbors you can hear, it’s everyone. On the shore you hear what’s being said on the water, on the water what they’re saying on the shore, everything can be heard somewhere. You can’t get away from hearing things. You can’t get away from seeing things. However much you want to. It goes into your ears and your eyes of its own volition. And of course no one comes here just to lock themselves away in their cabin. The faintest whisper gets magnified here, the tiniest detail is blown up. Whether you like it or not you have to know every stomach, every belly button, backside, all the veins on their legs, the scars from operations. Your eyes and your ears have nowhere to hide. Even your thoughts become a trash heap for other people’s thoughts. And here you’re considering …”

I didn’t recognize him. He was a completely different person than I’d imagined from his letters. Could something have happened to make him change so dramatically? I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why he was so hell-bent on turning me off this place. He’d been inviting me, luring me even, all those years, and now I was finally there … Aside from anything, he should have realized I was just joking about buying the cabin. But maybe even before, on the way, when we were still in the car, he’d started to suspect that I wasn’t the person he’d imagined from my letters either. And the thing with the cabin merely confirmed it for him.

“And here you are considering …” he repeated, this time as if only to his own thoughts. “Believe me, when I return home I have to get used to myself all over again from the beginning, collect myself, from all the way back in childhood, from my first words, my first thoughts, my first tears, feel once again that it’s me. Here it’s like living on a screen. And what’s a person without secrets, eh? You tell me.” He was practically boiling with anger: “I’m going to sell this place, I swear to God! And move away.”

He poured the rest of the beer from the can into his glass and, gazing at the noisy lake in front of us, he fell silent again. I ought to have spoken, he may even have expected it of me. But nothing came to mind aside from saying that I had to leave that afternoon. I decided, though, that it wasn’t the right moment to bring it up. So I asked him as if casually:

“So where are those graves where you told me the mushrooms grow the best?”

“You want to go mushroom-picking? Not now though, not now.” He jumped up from the table. “Let me fetch another beer. Should I make something to eat? Are you hungry yet? OK, I’ll make something later. I brought some grilled chicken, all we need to do is heat it up.”

A moment later, returning with fresh cans of beer he stopped halfway:

“See over there? I think she’s new. I’ve not seen her here before. I must find out who she is. That one there. See?” He put the cans on the table, opened them, poured for me and for himself. “You know, that’s the only thing keeping me here. If it weren’t for that I’d have sold up long ago.” He took a mouthful of beer and started looking around again, with completely different eyes it seemed — they glittered, they were almost predatory. From time to time he’d glance at me with something between a smile and a mocking twist of the mouth. “That one over there’s not bad either. The one getting into the boat. Her I know. She really likes it, and the things she knows how to do! I’ll show you another one also, she lives close by, two cabins away. Except I don’t think she’s here yet.”

I tell you, I was listening to him but I couldn’t believe this was Mr. Robert. The same Mr. Robert from all those letters and cards and phone calls. I wondered what was true in him, as I compared what he was saying now with what he’d written me all those years. Maybe nothing at all. But I didn’t let it show.

“Or that one over there, check her out. The one walking along the shore. She’s even looking our way. That’s the only good thing, with all of these irritations here. Because with a woman like that, here it’s as if you found her in her natural state. And finding a woman in nature isn’t the same as finding her on the street or in a cafe. Ah, nature. It straightens out the most crooked person. What’s she wandering around like that for? Oh, there you go, she’s lying down. She’s going to sunbathe. She can lie in the sun for hours on end. Even at the beginning of summer she’ll look like a black woman. To be honest I don’t really like it when they’re tan like that. Though the tanned ones are a lot easier. They can’t bring themselves to let all the torment of lying in the sun go to waste. And obviously they wouldn’t go through all of that just for the chumps they’re married to. They make those guys go try to lose weight on their boats and canoes. I mean, how long can you put up with one of those oafs? A year, two, then so much for being faithful. It’s a good thing the world has set aside all those superstitions and habits and customs. These days no one can afford to have a longer relationship. Everyone’s chasing after something, reaching for something, being with someone else is like having your legs in chains. You have no desire to talk, but here you have to. There’s nothing left to talk about, but you’ve got to talk. True, there are marriages that last till death. But they’re relics of the past. Before long you’ll be able to visit those kinds of people the way you visit castles and museums and cathedrals. The truth of it is, these days marriage is a corporation. One fails, you start another. Then you do what you can just so as to keep going somehow or other, to make it to the end. This life of ours isn’t worth a damn, I’m telling you. All these dreams and hopes we have.” His eyes suddenly flashed. “See over there. She just arrived. You know, the one from two cabins away. Wait till you see her in her bathing costume. You won’t be able to keep your eyes off her. She sometimes sunbathes topless. Sure, that’s reached Poland also. Why wouldn’t it. In that respect there aren’t any borders, languages, all that nonsense. I’ll have to invite her to go boating one of these days. Maybe there’ll be an opportunity. I mean, we know each other enough to say hello. But something’s holding me back. I’m all set to do it, then I lose my nerve. Maybe to begin with it’d be better just to suggest going berry-picking? The blackberries should be ripe by now. Next Sunday I’ll go check in the woods. Though she might not want to do that, because of the thorns. Too bad there aren’t any more wild strawberries this year. That’s the only thing that keeps me here. I mean you tell me, what do people really get from life? All that effort, the maneuvers, the sleeplessness, the worries, and what do they get? Then you add in the illnesses, other misfortunes, what do they get? Try sitting like that all day long in my shop. With the souvenirs. Ha, ha! I’ll sell the shop as well, the hell with it!”

He took a sip of beer. A moment ago his eyes had been glittering, but all of a sudden it was like they’d lost their color and been extinguished. After a moment of silence, in a voice that was just as colorless and extinguished he said:

“And if you knew what happened here once. Unless you’re the kind of person that can live anywhere.”

“I know, Mr. Robert.” I’d decided to finally tell him. I’d come to the conclusion that it wasn’t right to keep it a secret. Especially since he’d gotten suspicious of how I knew the way here when we were driving.

“How?” A look of consternation came over him. “Not from my letters, surely? I never wrote you about that. Ever.”

“I was born here.”

“What do you mean, here?”

“Here.”

“Here? What do you mean, here?!” I was taken aback by the vehemence with which he was trying to reject my confession. “Unless you weren’t around at that time. No one survived from here. No one.”

“Except that as you see, I survived, so to speak. In one sense it wasn’t just me, but you, and all these people on the lake — we all survived. All of us who are still alive.”

“But back then no one did. No one.” He was almost angry. “You see those hills. We lived over there during the war. Then one day, all of a sudden we heard they were burning whole villages around these parts. My mother grabbed me by the hand, I was a kid then, and we ran to the highest hill. Winnica it was called. There was already a crowd up on top. I couldn’t make out very much aside from the sea of smoke over the trees. But the grownups saw everything. Burning houses, barns, cattle sheds, frantic animals, people being shot at. At one point my mother picked me up, but I still couldn’t see anything beside the smoke. Then she knelt down and told me to do the same, because everyone was kneeling. She told me to cry, because everyone was crying. Except that I felt like laughing. My mother was wearing makeup, and her tears were making dark streaks that rolled down her cheeks. I couldn’t help myself. People turned to look at me, and someone said:

‘Look at him laughing his head off, and over there people are being killed.’

My mother was embarrassed. She pulled me to my feet and dragged me after her. ‘Don’t look back.’ We walked down from the hill.”

“The graves are over that way.” He pointed in the direction of the woods. A moment later he said abruptly: “I have to do it … Maybe I’ll go with the installment guy. Five payments, ten, it’s all the same to me.”

To tell the truth, when I saw you coming out of Mr. Robert’s cabin I thought you might be the guy that was going to pay in installments. Though you must have already paid the last installment. Otherwise you wouldn’t have gone into his cabin. How would you have known where to find the key? Not till I have the last installment in my hand, that’s what he said back then on the deck.

Oh, he’s still alive. Why wouldn’t he be? Who else would be sending me money to mind the place. One time I raised the fee for each cabin, and the next envelope that arrived had the new amount. Though I hadn’t intended for Mr. Robert to pay more. No one lives in the place, none of his friends ever visit, why should he have to pay extra? The only thing was that last fall the roof started leaking a bit. It began at the end of summer, the leaves were already off the trees and it just kept on raining. The sun was nowhere to be seen all day long. It chucked it down day and night. I don’t remember a fall like it. The lake rose all the way up to the closest cabins. Fortunately they’re built on concrete pillars, like you saw. I like the rain, but that time it went on way too long. The leak was upstairs, in Mr. Robert’s bedroom. I figured I’d wait for the rain to stop then go mend it. But it didn’t ease up even for a moment. So I had to do it in the rain. I put some new tarpaper down on a part of the roof. Not long ago I replaced a couple of rotten planks in the deck. I oiled all the locks in the doors, the hinges of the windows, I checked all the outlets and switches and cables. They can just as easily go wrong in an unoccupied cabin. If I’d had his address I would’ve written to him. I often think of him, please let him know. I know, I know, you said you don’t know him. But maybe one day, you can never tell.

The thing that worries me most is how he’s doing after his operation. That’s right, he was going in for an operation. No, it wasn’t then that he told me. It was during my next visit, the one with all the fog I was telling you about before. I didn’t see him in person, we just talked on the phone. But he was still living in his old place. As to whether he still had the shop, that I couldn’t tell you.

After he moved I made inquiries with his neighbors. They told me he’d first sold the shop, then the apartment. But where he’d moved to, no one knew. Everyone said they didn’t really know him that well. And more from the shop than from the neighborhood. In general, though, they didn’t see him that often, sometimes just as he was leaving or coming home, good morning, good morning, that was all. He wasn’t a big talker.

The guy that bought the shop from him had no idea either. He even seemed to resent it when I asked if he maybe knew anything.

“How should I know? I paid what he was asking. Didn’t even haggle. It’s a good location. What do you want from me, mister? I don’t sell souvenirs. Fruit and veg, like you see. He moved away and now he’s gone, that’s all there is to it.”

It was the same at the lake, no one knew a thing. Some of them hadn’t even noticed that his cabin had been standing empty for a couple of seasons already. They raised their eyebrows as if they were surprised he’d stopped coming. Mr. Robert, you say? Wait, what season was that? What season was it? Oh yes, I remember now, you’re right. And you say he also left the city?

I called him up before he moved to say I wanted to come for a visit. He didn’t seem the least bit pleased.

“Now, in the fall?” His voiced sounded dry, irritated even.

“Is it a bad time for you?”

“No, it’s just I wasn’t expecting it. You should have come in the summer.”

“I couldn’t make it in the summer, Mr. Robert. Also, I wanted to see what it’s like in the fall.”

“Winter’s right around the corner. The leaves are almost all off the trees. It’ll be snowing before you know it. Why are you so drawn to the place, eh? You might end up regretting it.”

I wondered if there was maybe something the matter with him, and I asked:

“How’s your health?”

“What you’d expect for my age,” he answered tersely. “I have an operation coming up.”

“Is it anything serious?”

“That remains to be seen. For the moment I’m waiting for an available bed in the hospital. They’ve promised me there’ll be one. It could even be tomorrow or the next day. They’re going to let me know. I already have a bag packed. I wouldn’t be able to drive down there with you. I haven’t sold the cabin yet. You can stay there.”

He told me where to find the key. Under the deck, on a nail in one of the beams. He said I should just put it back there when I left. He told me where to turn the electricity on so I’d have light and hot water. And heating of course, since it was already cold there. Where the bedding was, towels, this and that.

“When do you reckon you’ll be back from the hospital?” I asked.

“How should I know?” he retorted almost rudely, as if he wanted to bring the conversation to a close.

“Maybe I could come visit you if you’re still …?”

“What for? A hospital’s no place for a visit. Besides, I don’t like that sort of thing.”

“Perhaps I could be of help in some way?”

“You, help me? How do you like that.” His tone was so ironic it left a really unpleasant impression.

“Still, I hope we’ll meet again some time.”

“We already did meet.”

Those were his last words.

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