Wieslaw Mysliwski - A Treatise on Shelling Beans

The other man said he envied grandfather. True, he didn’t know how to shell beans, but he’d rather shell beans than do what he did for a living, especially as it didn’t serve any purpose for people. So grandfather asked him what he did. The other man introduced himself to grandfather, saying he was a philosopher. He gave his name. Grandfather repeated the name to himself all through the war, so as not to forget it when he got home. He wanted to at least repay the man with his memory, for the can of food he’d shared. Unfortunately though, he forgot. Who do you say that was? Are you sure? Did you know him? It’s too bad grandfather’s no longer with us, you could have reminded him.

In any case, grandfather could talk forever about wars. And especially during bean-shelling, it was like his memory opened up completely. I don’t know if it was the wars that had that power, or whether it was the beans that could open any memory right to the bottom. You actually had the impression that war and beans got along together.

You know, I sometimes wonder whether grandfather really did kill those three men. Maybe he just imagined he’d killed them, hoping that because of that at least they’d appear to him in dreams. It could have been his way of doing something about the fact that he never had dreams. Like I said, in everything he nearly always turned to wars for support. Even when he wanted to offer comfort to himself or other people. He’d always bring up something from one of the wars. Not necessarily the one he’d been in. Sometimes it was another one, a more recent one or an older one, one when he hadn’t yet been born.

One time when we were grazing the cows on the meadow, I heard the other boys whispering that Uncle Jan wasn’t grandfather’s son, because he’d been born too soon after grandfather got back from the war. Though I never noticed grandfather treating his two sons differently in any way. And Uncle Jan never gave any indication he didn’t feel like grandfather’s son either. When he hung himself, it affected grandfather more than anyone.

“How was he not my son, how?” he kept repeating. Then another time he said: “No one can even imagine their son might hang himself. It’s too bad I had that burst of strength back then and didn’t let those three guys stick their bayonets in me. Three bayonets, I wouldn’t have had to live to see this. Oh, son, son. If you’d at least died in wartime it wouldn’t be so sad.”

Who knows how it actually was. Grandfather’s gone, grandmother’s gone, Uncle Jan’s gone. At times it seems to me that everyone’s gone. Maybe I’ve gone too? I sometimes try and figure out whether I’m here or not. Except you can’t be a witness to yourself. Someone else has to testify on your behalf. People are too easy on themselves. When they can, they protect themselves from themselves. They dodge and twist, anything so they don’t have to go further, deeper, to where they have something hidden. Everyone wants to appear to themselves the way they look in their wedding picture. Neatly combed and shaved, in a suit and tie, well-fed and smiling, looking like a decent guy. And as young as possible, of course. And they believe that’s them. Though if they really took an honest look …

Every wedding photo is a happy one, as you know. Heads close, shoulder to shoulder, like two poppy seeds that found each other in a tub. If you believed in destiny you might think this was a photograph of destiny. But what happens afterwards, that you won’t see in any photograph. The camera doesn’t exist that can do that job, or the photographer. Maybe one day there will be one, who knows. But so far, all wedding photos are always happy. Think how many happy pictures there are like that hanging in people’s homes. Though honestly, I sometimes wonder if happiness can only ever be found in a wedding picture.

There was a wedding photograph in that guy’s cabin too. Oh, I never finished the story. So when I got woken in the night by that shout, I decided to go see what was up. It was a dark night, the stars were hidden behind clouds. It was so quiet that my own steps sounded like I don’t know how many pairs of feet walking. I could even hear the dogs’ footsteps. I went between the cabins, put my ear to various walls, stuck my head in where there was an open window. But everyone was sound asleep, some of them I could hear snoring. I was starting to think I must have dreamed it. Then all of sudden the dogs start pulling me. What is it? But I let them lead me. And by one of the cabins I see a white body. A woman. Naked as the day she was born. I lean down, there’s no sign of life. When I shine my flashlight on her face I see it’s all bloody.

I picked her up and brought her back to my place. I laid her down through there in the living room and cleaned her up. She had so many bruises that even today, telling you about it makes me mad. I wrapped her in a blanket and held her, because she was shivering all over. I made tea for her but she couldn’t drink, her lips were too swollen. I had to feed her the tea on a little spoon, propping her head up with my other hand because she couldn’t hold it up by herself. When she opened her eyes she looked semi-conscious. She started to talk, I leaned over her but the only thing I could make out was a frightened whisper:

“Who are you?”

“Get some sleep,” I said. “Sleep’ll do you good.”

But I don’t think she slept, because I kept being woken by a sobbing sound through the wall. Or maybe I was just dreaming she was crying through there, and the dream kept waking me up. Early in the morning I went to get her clothes from the guy whose cabin I found her by. To begin with he denied it, swore blind it was nothing to do with him. No way. I mean, I’d often seen his wife. She hadn’t come with him this time because she wasn’t feeling well. Here, that’s our wedding picture, you recognize her, right? He had no idea who the other woman was. Plus he took a sleeping pill last night, he hadn’t even heard any shouting. Must have been one of the other cabins, you must be mistaken. I found her outside your cabin, I say. Then someone must have dumped her there out of spite. You ought to know the people that come here, what they get up to, he says, you’re the one keeping an eye on it all.

If it hadn’t been for the dogs he’d have kept denying it. But the dogs dragged some women’s clothes from under the bed, underwear, blouse, skirt, house slippers. And can you imagine, he wasn’t at all shamefaced about it. All he did was laugh.

“Come on, buddy, what kind of world are you living in? Don’t be so old-fashioned. If you feel so sorry for her you can have her. I was going to get someone else anyway.”

He tried to offer me a beer. The dogs had their hackles up, I had to quiet them down, easy Paws, easy Rex. They were only waiting for me to give them a sign.

“Maybe I am old-fashioned,” I said. “But if anything like this ever happens again I’ll burn this place down. And you’ll never know who did it because you’ll be inside.”

“Keep your nose out of things that aren’t your business, mister!” he said, getting angry.

“Everything’s my business,” I said evenly.

“We pay you to keep an eye on things!”

“Exactly.”

This time of year, the off-season, one day is pretty much like all the rest. In the morning, like anyone getting up, I wash and I put my clothes on. Though I’ll be honest with you, when I think about the fact that the whole world is getting up with me, washing, getting dressed, I sometimes feel like going back to bed and just this once not getting up, or not getting up ever again. It’s like some curse hanging over you, making you get out of bed, wash, dress every day. From all that you’d be justified in losing interest in the whole day, even though it’s only beginning, losing interest in anything that may or may not happen that day. Now imagine feeling that through your whole life. How many times have we gotten up, washed, gotten dressed — and for what?