Wieslaw Mysliwski - A Treatise on Shelling Beans

Then my heart nearly stopped, because one of the civilians asked the other:

“Was there supposed to be a saxophone?”

The other one immediately went through into the next room. He stayed there for a really long time, or so it seemed to me. True, when it’s fear measuring time instead of a clock, even a moment can drag on forever. He came back and nodded, but I didn’t feel the slightest relief, I was bathed in sweat. They examined all the instruments closely. They shook the violin to see if anything rattled inside it, tapped on the drums to make sure the sound was clean, looked into the bell of my saxophone. Then they asked if we’d brought a list of the tunes we were going to play. Of course we had, since beforehand they’d required us to bring a list. We gave it to them. Had we brought the music to go with the tunes? Did any of it have words? We hadn’t been told that anyone would be singing, so we were taken aback. They explained that that wasn’t what they meant. Of course we had the music with us, though we knew by heart all the pieces we played regularly. We always had the sheet music with us anyway, since it looks more serious when a band plays from sheet music.

They spent more time on the sheet music than on anything else. One of them went through it all, then handed it over to another guy. The other guy, it looked like he knew music because he studied each page in turn, and from his eyes you could tell he was reading everything from top to bottom. He even took out two or three pages and held them between his fingers, after which he went into the next room again and stayed there for a long while. This time it really was long. We thought there must be something they didn’t like, though we’d only chosen tunes that we’d played before at all kinds of parties and functions.

Finally he came back. He handed the music over. He said, It’s fine. It turned out he hadn’t held on to any of the tunes. But when we checked to make sure he hadn’t put things in the wrong order, we saw that at the top of every page there was a handwritten note saying, Approved, and an illegible signature.

The soldier with the stars said, Let’s go. He led us down one corridor then another one, to the ballroom. At the doors he told us to wait, while he went in first. I don’t know why. Perhaps he had to report to someone that the band was at the doors. They were reporting to each other at every step. You couldn’t move unless one of them reported to another one that you were there.

When we’d been getting in the truck to go there, one of the soldiers that later sat in the back to watch over us had first made us line up, after which he reported to another soldier sitting in the cab next to the driver that the band was ready for departure. Only after that did he drop the tailgate and tell us to climb in.

The one that had gone into the ballroom came out again and arranged us in a line according to our instruments, violin, viola, clarinet, trumpet, trombone, percussion, and me, saxophone. I didn’t know if it was because I was the youngest, or because of the saxophone.

We were supposed to play something as we entered, then only after that make our way to the place for the band. Imagine walking into a huge, brightly lit room, there are streamers, balloons, but you don’t see any people, there’s nothing but masks. Someone called out:

“Bravo, the band is here!”

There were a few more bravos, and someone added a double one:

“Bravo! Bravo!”

It came out that we were late. Though not through any fault of our own, of course. Let me tell you, I didn’t know what to think of it all. Here the people who were supposed to be enjoying themselves were waiting for us, while the other guys were checking us over like they didn’t give a hoot about the first lot. I thought to myself, could it be that the second ones are more important than the first ones? It was because of the second ones we were late, they’d kept us back for such a long time. Maybe that was why they weren’t wearing masks, while the first lot had masks on.

The ball was nothing special. It wouldn’t have been any different from a regular dance if it hadn’t been for the masks. Some people were dancing, others were going through to an adjoining room where there must have been food and drink. We couldn’t actually see, there was a civilian standing by the door and he closed it every time someone went through. But when they came back, virtually every one of them was unsteady on their legs. They alternately danced and went out. Whether they kept their masks on to eat and drink, that I couldn’t tell you. They didn’t even let us through there for supper. They took us to a different room where again they reported that we’d come for supper, seven count. And they brought seven portions.

It was the first time I’d seen a party with masks. I couldn’t get over it. Plus, all the masks were the same, like they’d all been given one, the men and the women alike. They covered their faces from forehead to chin, with holes for eyes and nose and mouth, as if instead of faces they only had those holes.

Later on, abroad, I played at many a masked ball, but there everyone’s mask was different. Even in a mask each person was trying to stand out. Not to mention that every mask glittered with various colors, silver and gold. And there were all kinds of shapes, stars, moons, hearts. Some were so narrow they only covered the eyes, others revealed the eyes and nose and mouth while the whole of the rest of the face was hidden. Also, everyone’s costume was different. Here everyone was dressed the same, or in any case the differences were small. And all the masks were black.

I wondered how they could dance in those masks. You couldn’t smile at the other person, or show surprise, or make a face, through the holes. Maybe they could talk, but when a voice came through a hole like that you couldn’t even tell whose voice it might be. And when you’re dancing, your faces are next to each other.

Maybe that was why they went out more and more often to the room where the food and drink was. And they were increasingly wobbly when they came back. Some of them were staggering even. At times there were barely two or three pairs on the dance floor, most of them were eating and drinking in the other room. More and more noise came from there, while we played for the two or three pairs. There were moments when no one at all was dancing, but we kept on playing.

During one of the last breaks, I think it was, I went to the bathroom. I heard someone in the next stall. It wouldn’t have been at all unusual, except that I heard what sounded like someone talking to someone else. I listened closely, whoever it was was speaking indistinctly, mumbling, I figured they must be well oiled. I was only surprised that the other person wasn’t saying anything. The partitions of the stalls didn’t reach the ground, so I bent down and got an even bigger shock, because I only saw one pair of shoes. Not patent leather shoes, just regular lace-ups.

“So, are we going to build a new and better world, what do you think?”

Who on earth was he talking to? True, sometimes you might say to yourself, What do you think. You’re right, people like to talk with themselves more than with anyone else. If you ask me, even when you’re talking with someone else, when it comes down to it you’re really talking with yourself.

In any case, I could barely breathe from curiosity. Especially because he was talking about a new and better world, something I believed in too. All at once he raised his voice, he almost shouted:

“It’s nonsense! Not us, not them. It’s all nonsense, pal.”

I climbed up onto the toilet, grabbed hold of the top of the partition, pulled myself up carefully till my chin was over the top, and what did I see? Someone was standing at the toilet, but alone. His mask was pulled away from his face onto the top of his head, so from above all I could see was the mask. All the more so because he was stooping over and rocking, with one hand on his fly, looking downward, and muttering downward so it seemed: