Primeval and Other Times

THE TIME OF RUTA

Ruta made bigos stew for Christmas and threw a handful of cardamom pods in it. She threw in cardamom because its seeds were beautiful – they had a perfect shape, they were shiny black and aromatic. Even their name was beautiful. It sounded like the name of a faraway country – the Kingdom of Cardamom.

In the stew the cardamom lost its black sheen, but its aroma pervaded the cabbage.

Ruta was waiting for her husband to come home for Christmas dinner. She lay on the bed and painted her nails. Then from under the bed she took out the German newspapers that Ukleja brought home, and looked through them with great interest. What she liked most were the pictures of faraway countries. They showed views of exotic beaches, beautifully sun-tanned men and slender, smooth women. Ruta understood just one word in the entire newspaper: “Brazil.” This country was Brazil. In Brazil a great river flowed (a hundred times bigger than the Black and White Rivers combined) and a vast forest grew (a thousand times bigger than the Great Forest). In Brazil the cities enjoyed all kinds of riches, and the people looked happy and contented. Suddenly Ruta longed for her mother, though it was the middle of winter.

Ukleja came home late. As he stood on the threshold in a fur coat sprinkled in snow, Ruta instantly knew he was drunk. He didn’t like the smell of cardamom and he didn’t like the stew.

“Why didn’t you make beetroot soup and ravioli? It’s Christmas Eve!” he screamed. “You only know how to screw. You don’t care who you do it with, whether it’s Russkies or Germans or that halfwit Izydor. That’s all you’ve got in your head, you bitch!”

He shakily went up to her and hit her in the face. She fell down. He knelt beside her and tried to get inside her, but his flaccid manhood refused to obey him.

“I hate you,” she drawled through her teeth and spat in his face.

“Very good. Hatred is just as strong as love.”

She managed to wriggle out from under his drunken bulk. She locked herself in the bedroom. Soon after, the pot of stew hit the door. Ruta took no notice of the blood flowing from her split lip. She tried on dresses in front of the mirror.

All night the aroma of cardamom seeped through cracks into her room. The furs and lipsticks smelled of it. It was the aroma of distant journeys and exotic Brazil. Ruta couldn’t sleep. Once she had tried on all the dresses and matched all the shoes and hats to them, she pulled out two suitcases from under the bed and put all her most valuable things in them: two expensive fur coats, a silver fox collar, a box of jewellery, and the newspaper featuring Brazil. She dressed warmly, picked up her cases, and quietly, on tiptoes, crossed the dining room, where Ukleja lay sprawled on the sofa, snoring.

She came out past Taszów and reached the Kielce road. She had a hard time wading through the snow for a few kilometres, dragging the suitcases, until finally in the darkness she recognised the spot where there was a way into the forest. The wind rose, and a snow shower began.

Ruta walked to the border of Primeval, turned around, stood facing north and found in herself the feeling that makes it possible to pass through all borders, locks, and gates. For a while she savoured it inside her. Then the snowstorm really took hold, and Ruta walked into it with her entire being.