Wieslaw Mysliwski - A Treatise on Shelling Beans

“No, never,” he responded brusquely, almost as if he were brushing my question away. “Pity they don’t allow smoking in here,” he said. “I don’t smoke, but there are moments when I feel like a cigarette. Do you smoke?”

“No,” I said. “I used to. Gave it up.”

“Good for you. Really. It’s not good for your health.” He suddenly stared at something with a fixed gaze.

I wondered if maybe he’d seen one of those people who’d come there over the previous two hundred years. Maybe he’d even seen the man who used to sit at our table, standing in the doorway. I expected him to jump up in a moment and say, excuse us, we’re just leaving. Then, in a quiet, blank voice he said:

“My father was there.”

“Oh, then maybe you went with your father one time,” I put in encouragingly, pleased at the chance to contribute more to the conversation.

“During the war,” he said, breaking in.

His words had a strange effect on me. Perhaps because I was already immersed in what I’d been planning to say, since I had the opportunity, and as if speaking over his words I said:

“It’s always nicer to go with someone who’s been there before. Especially your own father.”

“My father is dead,” he said, cutting short my enthusiasm.

“I’m sorry. I had no idea. Please accept my condolences.”

“But you didn’t know my father,” he said, almost bridling. “Still, thank you.”

I felt uncomfortable. I sensed a slight pressure beneath my ribs on the right side, the pain in my duodenum was showing signs of flaring up again. That was how it usually began, initially just a faint pressure under the ribs on the right. Sometimes it went away, like a moment ago after the coffee and cake. But now it seemed more substantial, it was starting to spread around my side to my lower back. I began to worry that if it kept increasing, in a short while it would be unbearable. I’d turn pale, start sweating, and it would be hard for him not to notice.

“Are you not feeling well?” he’d ask. And what on earth could I say to him then? That it was because of the coffee and cake? The coffee was excellent, the cake was delicious, I’d said so myself. No, no, please continue, it wouldn’t have been right to say that either, because it wouldn’t have been right in general to admit I was ill. Especially at such a moment, he starts telling me about his father, and I respond that I have a duodenal ulcer? You have to admit it would be awkward to say the least. One pain should never be pitted against another. Each pain is unique to itself.

I was wondering how I could slip my hand under my jacket without him noticing, so I could put some pressure on the rising pain, because that sometimes helped. I often saved myself in company in such a way. Or in the night, for instance. The worst pain would usually come in the night. When I couldn’t take it any longer, I’d get out of bed, squat down, and kind of push the pain into myself with my hand, pressing on it with my whole being, my chin doubled over to my knees. Sometimes I spent all night like that, it was the only thing that brought relief. And that was how I lived with it. Since when? It started on one of the building sites. At first it was only in spring and fall. Once in a while I thought about going to a doctor. But in summer or in winter it would pass and I’d forget. I got skinny as a rake. Everyone kept asking me, what’s up, you look awful. Are you sick? No, I’m not sick, this is just how I look.

I couldn’t stand anyone’s sympathy. If I happened not to be in pain, and someone expressed sympathy, it would start to hurt right away. I did take flaxseed oil, you bet. I did just like you said. I’d dissolve a tablespoon of it in lukewarm water in the evening, then drink it on an empty stomach in the morning. It helped a little. I hardly ever drank vodka anymore. And I tried to eat only boiled food, nothing greasy. Later I went on a very restricted diet. On the advice of a buddy, the pianist in the band. He’d had the same thing. Though he’d gone to the doctor.

You’ll find this hard to believe, but when I played it never hurt. We’d play till late at night, often into morning, and it never hurt. Can you imagine, for a guy of my height I weighed forty-five pounds less than I should have. My jawbone jutted out from my face like it had no flesh on it, my cheeks were hollow, my nose grew longer. Later, much later, when I got over it and put on some weight, my wife confessed to me one time that as she looked at me she thought there’d come a time when my jaw and my cheekbones would grow level with each other.

When I had a tuxedo made for my wedding, the tailor took all my measurements and after a pause said:

“Pardon the comment, but you’re awfully slim. Oh well, I’ll leave some room in the seams if you should ever want to alter it. When you make a tuxedo it’s not just for a single occasion.”

I guessed that he’d been going to say “skinny,” but used the word “slim” out of professional courtesy. Besides, how could I not be skinny given how little I ate. Whenever I ate anything at all, right away it hurt. I’d already stopped drinking wine and beer. At a party for instance, everyone else would be eating and drinking and I’d ask for a glass of milk. Milk was the only thing I could still drink. No one could understand. He’s healthy, there’s nothing wrong with him, and here he’s drinking milk. They’d try to persuade me, give me advice, they made jokes at my expense, raised a toast to me, and I’d raise my glass of milk in return. All I wanted was for them to leave me alone, forget I was there.

It was through the milk that I met my future wife. The double bass player in the band was having a birthday party, and I asked for my usual glass of milk. The milk attracted her attention. I hadn’t noticed her till that point. Besides, when you’re in pain you don’t even see beautiful women. It was another matter that there was a big crowd at the party. I was standing to one side, and she emerged out of the mass of people and came up to me.

“You like milk? Me too.”

“I can ask for another glass,” I said.

“No,” she said. “I’ll have a sip from yours. Can I?” After that we danced together.

Subsequently I went to various doctors, I spent six months in the hospital, they examined me and in the end they declared that an operation was the only thing. I refused. So they gave me injections and tablets. I still remember one of the medications was called “Robuden.” For a year I felt better. But then I had a relapse, it was worse than before. I thought it was all over for me. My wife cried, in secret, though from her eyes I knew right away she’d been crying. With some eyes, you can’t tell they’ve been crying. You just need to wipe them. But with others, the tears linger long after the crying. Hers were like that.

I pretended not to have seen anything. But one day I came home late from the club and she was still awake. She looked at me, and I had a suspicion.

“You’ve been crying,” I said.

“No I haven’t. Why do you say that? I have no reason to.”

“With me you’ll always have a reason,” I said. “You made a bad choice. That glass of milk let you down.”

“Don’t make jokes.” She burst into tears.

A short while later she took me to an herbalist. He was a doctor, but he treated people with herbs. In those days doctors didn’t believe in herbs. I don’t know how she found him. She made an appointment and went with me. He was an old man, when I told him my symptoms and how long I’d had them he mumbled to himself. Then he gave me a big sack of herbs. My wife prepared infusions and made sure I drank them regularly, three times a day at the same times, morning and midday twenty minutes before eating, in the evening twenty minutes after eating supper. Though the evening one she’d put into a thermos for me to take to the club.