Wieslaw Mysliwski - A Treatise on Shelling Beans

We sat there, both silently immersed in those last words of his father, because what can you say after all that, I’m sure you understand. The cafe was slowly filling up, it was getting more and more crowded and noisy. At some point he nodded to someone, or returned a nod. I didn’t look, thinking that at such a moment it would have been wrong even to show curiosity. Then, greeting someone again, he said:

“But no one could have predicted what would happen soon after. And while he was shaving, with a razor.”

After these words it was as if the life went out of him. Or perhaps he’d come to the conclusion that after what he had said, our meeting could return to being pure chance. And he no longer felt like talking. As for me, nothing came to mind to keep up the conversation. I only noticed to my own amazement that the pain in my right side under the ribs had gone away. I hadn’t even noticed when. It had ceased, just like that. So I’d have gladly had another slice of cake and another coffee. I was about to ask him if he felt like having more, but at that moment he glanced at his watch and said:

“I didn’t realize it was so late. I’m deeply grateful to you. Unfortunately I have to be going.”

He brought out his wallet, counted out the money and stuck it under the sugar bowl. As he was putting the wallet back in his pocket he suddenly hesitated and took it out again.

“Just a minute, maybe it’s in here somewhere.”

He began rummaging through the compartments as before. I thought that maybe this time he wanted to give me his business card. I put my hand inside my coat to get my own wallet and give him mine.

“No, don’t bother looking, you won’t find it in your wallet. It ought to be somewhere in here. I’m certain I have it.” He was rifling ever more anxiously through the wallet. “I wanted to show you a really interesting photograph. Extremely interesting. The person who took the picture captured the exact moment when my father was standing in front of me. Where on earth is it? I refuse to believe it’s not here. The most extraordinary thing about it is that we’re looking into each other’s eyes. My terrified eyes looking at my father, and father’s face fixed in a grimace, his eyes staring at me. Both our faces can be seen together en face . It’s hard to credit, but you must believe me, both faces are opposite one another and both are en face . The place the picture was taken from seems physically impossible, to have two faces opposite one another and both at the same time looking at the camera. I’ve tried to figure out where that point must have been — so far without success. Because it was somewhere, the picture itself is the best proof of that. If I manage to find it it’ll be quite a discovery. Who can say if it won’t be a new dimension of space that for the moment is inaccessible to our senses, our imaginations, our consciences.”

His hands were trembling, again he began tipping out the contents of the various sections of his wallet, emptying them to the last slip of paper.

“Take a look.” He handed me a photograph. I thought it would be the one he was looking for. “My mother.”

“A beautiful woman,” I said. She really was beautiful. But he didn’t take after her. Except perhaps for something in the eyes, the mouth.

“That was how she looked before father came back from the war,” he said absentmindedly, busy looking for the other picture. Now he was searching for it among all the things he’d tossed out onto the tabletop. “Perhaps it isn’t possible to find that point in our everyday space. Especially as we’re overly used to it, we’ve become one of its dimensions. But after all it’s space that determines who we truly are. Just as it determines everything else. Not only in the physical meaning of the word. To judge from the photograph it may not be a physical space. That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Sometimes, indications of that space can be seen in the old masters, in their most perfect paintings. The usual laws of physics would never have allowed such a place. But that’s the thing with great art. I mean art as a world, unfortunately one that includes humans. Oh, if only I could find that point. Too bad, I don’t seem to have the photograph,” he said resignedly, as if he’d let himself down. “I’m sorry.” He began gathering up all the things he’d scattered from the wallet and putting them back unthinkingly, without worrying what had been in which compartment. “I’m really sorry,” he repeated. “I was certain.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “You can show me the next time.”

“You’d like to meet again?” he said, surprised.

“Of course. It could even be here, in this cafe. And if this particular table happened to be free …,” I added hurriedly, to assure him I wasn’t just being polite.

“The thing is, though,” he said as he put his wallet back in his pocket, “I’m not sure that would be possible. In fact, I don’t think it would be,” he repeated emphatically. “We’d have to not know each other again, and again say hello to one another by mistake on the street, convinced that we’d already met someplace, some time before. But where, when? Otherwise you’d be right in saying it was just an unfortunate chance.”

You know, I wonder whether he just didn’t mention it, or whether his father hadn’t told him, that when he ran up to the door there was a pig standing in front of it. It had clambered out of the pig shed when the sheds began to burn. The sheds were a little off to one side, I could partly see them through the crack in the door. It walked slowly, it was old. Usually you don’t hold on to pigs as old as that, but this was an uncommon pig. It so was fat it could barely support itself on its short little legs. You could barely see its feet under its flabby sides. You had the impression it was moving along on its sides alone. It headed straight for the potato cellar where I was and started grunting, rubbing its snout against the door. Probably it could smell me. Plus, I was the one it was most attached to. Wheezing and snorting, it plopped down right by the door. He kicked it, and it struggled to its feet. Then, after he slammed the door shut and shouted to someone that there was no one there, out of rage he let loose with a burst of shots at it. He kept firing, though it was dead already. Till his last bullet. Flesh spattered everywhere. How do I know it was his last shot? He had to switch out the magazine.

You can’t imagine what that pig was like. Right from when she was little we called her Zuzia. And from when she was little she wasn’t like a pig. I don’t know if you know it, but pigs are the most intelligent creatures. Even when she was still suckling she stood out from all the other piglets. Whenever you came into the shed she’d just up and stand in front of you with her snout in the air, wanting to be picked up. She was most comfortable around people. We’d often bring her into the house so she could be with us. She knew each of us: father, grandfather, grandmother, Uncle Jan, he was still alive when she was little, Jagoda, Leonka, and me. Me, she’d always nudge on the leg with her little snout. She never confused me with anyone else. It was easy to see she liked me best of all. She went everywhere with me. Many times I didn’t know how to get rid of her. I’d go graze the cows on the pasture, and here she’d be following behind. I’d be going to school, I’d look behind me and there she was. I’d have to turn back and lock her up in the pig shed. I’d often be late for school because of her. The teacher would ask why I was tardy, but I couldn’t say it was because of a pig. So I’d get a D for behavior that day. I got so many Ds because of Zuzia that by the end of the year I was bottom of the class in behavior.