Wieslaw Mysliwski - A Treatise on Shelling Beans

To tell you the truth, it’s only the children that keep me here, otherwise I’d have given up this minding business long ago. Yes, I like children. Children may be the only thing I still like. Myself? Why do you ask that? I’ve no reason to like myself. When they bring their children here, the kids come running to me of their own accord. And whatever they want, I always do it, show them things, explain things. I dig up worms so they can go fishing, put them on their hooks, teach them how to tell one kind of fish from another. Teach them to swim. If they break something I mend it without a word. Sometimes I take a larger or smaller group of them to the woods. With their parents’ consent, of course. We learn about the trees, how to tell an oak from a beech, a larch from a spruce. We pick blueberries, wild strawberries, blackberries, or we collect pine cones or acorns. Learn how to tell poisonous mushrooms from edible ones. Sometimes I give them little quizzes so they’ll remember things better. When we see a bird I explain to them what kind of bird it is and how not to confuse it with other kinds. If we find a nest I’ll tell them what sort of bird lives in it, and what kinds of nests other birds build. Then when they get tired we sit down and I tell them stories. What about? No, not about what once happened here, not that. And I never lead them to where the graves are. They might stop being children, because being a child has nothing to do with how old you are.

I don’t have any children of my own. I was married, but I don’t have any children. That was why my wife and I split up, because she wanted to have children. I liked my friends’ children, though. Whenever I visited I’d always bring them some gift. It pleased me to see how it pleased them. I liked to play with them. But the thought that one of them could be mine would fill me with anxiety. It’s the same now, whenever I think that one of the children here could be mine …

With adults I know at least that nothing much links me to them anymore. And nothing needs to, aside from the fact that here for example, I look after their cabins and insist on order. Not for its own sake, or even because order makes the looking after easier. No. It’s that when there’s order around you, it’s easier to find order in yourself. When they make a fuss, I can always threaten to stop minding their cabins. I demanded a lights-out time in all the cabins. After all, they come here to rest, it ought to be quiet. Do you think they all got it right away? Not a bit of it. Some of the cabins, they’d deliberately leave their lights on all night long. They only began to catch on when I refused to look after certain cabins. Unless someone had a nameday or some other special occasion, then I’d let them have an extra hour or two, but not all night. I marked out firepits for bonfires, at a distance from the cabins and the woods, close to the water. I’ve nothing against people grilling sausages, but only up to such and such a time. Then the regulations say they have to douse the fire. I go around and check.

For instance, the cabins didn’t have numbers. When someone new came they’d get lost. Or come to me and ask which cabin belonged to so-and-so. I’d have to take them there, because they wouldn’t find it even if I gave them directions. I’d even make mistakes myself about who lived in which cabin. You saw for yourself, a lot of the cabins look the same. And in fact pretty much first thing I decided to number all the cabins. Having numbers would make things much easier. You’d think I’d have been given a round of applause. Not on your life. It was nothing but an uphill struggle. To start with, everyone wanted the lowest possible number. Then someone hit on the idea of numbering the cabins in the order they were built. With that kind of arrangement no one would ever have been able to find any cabin. Number one would be over by the woods, say, then number two would be on the far side of the lake. Plus, they’d never be able to agree on whose cabin was built first or second or tenth, because at the beginning the same company put up all the cabins. And not one after another, but depending on who greased the right palms or knew someone in the firm. Then they started discussing which side of the lake the numbering should start from. And they couldn’t agree on that either, because the people on this side wanted the numbers to begin here, then to continue on the far side. While the folks over there wanted the opposite.

What would you have done in my place? I wanted them to decide it among themselves, because I reckoned that if they didn’t reach an understanding on their own, there’d never be agreement. They’d always be bothered by the numbering, that they didn’t live at the number they wanted to live at. Besides, they were their cabins, their numbers. I just said I’d buy the paint, cut out some stencils and paint the numbers on. It almost drove me nuts. I said to them, do you want me to paint the numbers on? Because someone has to. Then in that case they’ll begin here and end here. And both sides of the lake together, not separately.

Do you think that was an end of it? No such luck. When it came down to it, no one wanted to have number thirteen because that’s unlucky. Except what kind of order is it when one number’s missing? Someone could come and be looking for number thirteen. Nothing I could do, I had them draw straws, and it came out that now number thirteen is between number twenty-six and number twenty-seven. But so be it, I guess no order can be perfect.

Another thing, they’d throw their trash out wherever they wanted, they mostly chucked it into the woods. When you went walking there it was an offense to the woods. At one time the woods didn’t even have any sticks left. I made them bring trash bags for their trash, then take the bags back to the city to dispose of. Cities are beyond saving anyway. If I ever find even a beer can or a soda bottle or anything, the dogs will sniff out who dropped it, and bring it back to their doorstep.

Then sunbathing, they can’t just go sunbathing right away or for as long as they want, there’s a warning on the signboards to say they have to do it gradually, and bald people have to wear a cap. One time it happened that someone figured he’d get a full tan on the first day, and we ended up having to call an ambulance.

I made two signboards. I put up two posts, one on each side of the lake, fixed the signboards on the posts, then each season I write what they can and can’t do on the boards. Whenever anyone arrives for the first time they have to read what’s written there, because every season there’s someone new, and also I change some of the wording to make it clearer, so later no one can claim it’s ambiguous.

Would you like to see the signboards? They’re propped up through there, in the hallway. That’s right, I take them down in the off-season. Maybe you could suggest something to add. There’s never any end to order. All right, maybe another time, if you come during the season. You’ll see for yourself then. I’m thinking of making two more. Actually, there really should be one in front of every cabin. Or even better, everyone should carry a sign like that on their back. That way they couldn’t claim they didn’t have time to read it.

Why do I do it? Let me ask you, do you know people? I get the impression you sort of don’t. Would you be able to turn a blind eye to all these things? And what, just let it all happen? That that’s how people are made? Then why were they made at all? They didn’t have to be. It’s easy enough to imagine a world without people. Why not? You say that in such a case the world would have no imagination? Perhaps our imagination is our misfortune, and by the same token it’s the misfortune of the world? Maybe I’m not as strong as you. I can’t say, I don’t know you. But here at least, in this place, it can’t be so. I could be indifferent to all this if I weren’t looking after it. But once I took the job on, even though I didn’t have to, it became an entirely different matter.