Primeval and Other Times

THE TIME OF MISIA

For his family and colleagues from work, for the secretaries and lawyers, Paweł gave a name-day party in June, on Saint Peter’s and Saint Paul’s day. But for his birthday he only ever invited Ukleja. Birthdays are for close friends, and Paweł had one close friend.

When the children heard the dull whirr of the Warszawa car, they ran away in panic to the hideout under the stairs. Unaware that he caused terror, Ukleja brought the children a large thermos of ice cream and wafers in a cardboard box.

In a blue maternity dress, Misia asked them to come and sit at table in the living room, but they were reluctant to take their places. Izydor stopped Ruta in the doorway.

“I’ve got some new stamps,” he said.

“Izydor, don’t pester the guests,” Misia scolded him.

“You look lovely in that fur coat, like the Snow Queen,” Izydor whispered to Ruta.

Misia began to serve the food. There were jellied pig’s feet and two kinds of salad. There were plates of cold meat and stuffed egg shells. There was bigos stew heating up and chicken thighs sizzling in the kitchen. Paweł filled the shot glasses with vodka. The men sat opposite each other and talked about the prices of animal hides in Taszów and Kielce. Then Ukleja told a dirty joke. The vodka kept disappearing down their throats, and the glasses seemed too small to slake their bodies’ monstrous thirst. And the men still seemed sober, though their faces had gone red and both had undone their collars. Finally their eyes misted over, as if they had frozen from the inside. Then Ruta followed Misia into the kitchen.

“I’ll help you,” she said, and Misia handed her a knife. Ruta’s large hands sliced the cake, her red fingernails flashing against the whiteness of the cream like drops of blood.

The men started singing, and Misia glanced anxiously at Ruta.

“I must put the children to bed. Take them the cake,” she asked her.

“I’ll wait for you. I’ll do the dishes.”

“Ruta!” the drunken Ukleja suddenly screamed from the living room. “Come here, you floozy!”

“Come on,” said Misia quickly, and took the tray with the cake.

Ruta put down the knife and reluctantly followed Misia. They sat down by their husbands.

“Look what a nice bodice I bought my wife!” cried Ukleja, and tugged at her blouse, revealing a freckly cleavage and a snow-white lacy brassiere. “French!”

“Stop it,” said Ruta quietly.

“What do you mean, stop it? Aren’t I allowed? You’re mine, all of you and everything you’ve got on.” Ukleja looked at the amused Paweł and repeated:

“She’s all mine! And so’s everything she’s got on! I’ve got her all winter. In summer she fucks off to her mother.”

Paweł pointed at his guest’s full shot glass. They took no notice when the women went back into the kitchen. Ruta sat down at the table and lit a cigarette. Then Izydor, who was lying in wait for her, took the opportunity to bring out his box of stamps and postcards.

“Look,” he said encouragingly.

Ruta picked up the postcards and looked at each one for a while. She blew streams of white smoke from her mouth, and her lipstick left mysterious marks on the cigarette.

“I can give them to you,” said Izydor.

“No. I prefer to look at them at your place, Izek.”

“You’ll have more time in the summer, won’t you?”

Izydor saw that a big tear had settled on Ruta’s stiff, mascara-coated eyelashes. Misia handed her a glass of vodka.

“I’m so unlucky, Misia,” said Ruta, and the tear trapped in her lashes rolled down her cheek.