Wieslaw Mysliwski - Stone Upon Stone

Sometimes I didn’t even have to take it out. All I needed was to unbutton my jacket and flash the watch chain, fear did the rest. It was the same at the buffet — because of the knife I barely spent a penny. Anyone who wanted to see, it cost them a half-bottle of vodka. If you wanted to see it with the blade open, it was a half-bottle and a beer. And to handle it, a half-bottle, a beer, and something to eat. And if some wise guy pretended to want to know what time it was, you told him it’d be eternity when he found out, and he preferred to stand you a half-bottle as well.

Four strings of garlic that knife cost me. I bought it off this guy that went around the villages selling needles, thread, safety pins, head-lice lotion, various stuff. They called him Eye of the Needle, because he could talk all day about the eye of the needle, who’d passed through it and who hadn’t. Afterward mother went on and on about how someone had stolen some of her garlic from the attic. I told her to count again, that maybe she’d made a mistake. But each time she counted she was missing those four strings. It was only when she was dying and I wasn’t young anymore, and it had been so long ago that those four strings had shrunk to four heads of garlic, as you might say, that I confessed it had been me. By then the knife was long gone as well, missing or maybe stolen. There was no shortage of folks that had their eye on it. A good few tried to buy it off me. But at that time I wouldn’t have sold it for all the tea in China. I could have gotten ten strings of garlic for it, or a hundredweight of rye, a necktie or a pair of gaiters. One of them even offered his watch. No one had a knife like that in those parts. They usually fought with regular bread knives, sometimes a butcher’s knife, most often with penknives.

But a penknife, at the most it’s only any good for killing frogs or whittling a pipe while you’re minding the cows. You can’t even cut tobacco with it. Its blade is weak as a willow leaf and the handle’s like a twig. When you’re up against someone in a leather jacket, what use is a penknife, it won’t even cut through the leather. Also, every dick in the village carried a penknife since they were knee-high to a grasshopper. You could buy one at any church fair or win it at one of the stalls with a fishing pole or an air gun. But as for taking it to a dance, you’d be better off with your bare hands.

So then, after you’d been to the buffet you went and danced. To begin with you were nice and polite. You’d take a young lady that was free and sitting on one of the benches or standing with her girlfriend. You’d bow to her and kiss her hand. And you wouldn’t hold her too tight, because what you’d had to drink was only enough for first courage. Besides, it was still light out. The sun was only just setting, it was shining straight in through the windows. And all the old women were sitting like crows on the benches around the edge of the barn with their eyes burrowing into all the couples like woodworms. There were small kids all over the place like it was a nursery. The band hadn’t had their supper yet and they were only playing slow numbers. All the dancers were still following the emcee’s instructions. In pairs, form a circle, one pair to the left, one to the right, make a basket, girls in the middle, girls choose their partner! And the firefighters in their golden helmets would still be sober as judges, standing there by the door like it was the entrance to Christ’s tomb, making sure no one drank too much. And if anyone did get drunk and went looking for a fight they’d haul his ass out the door. So a young lady could easily tell you you were a pig.

It wasn’t till later. Once the sun went down and the ceiling lamps were lit. When the old women round the edge of the room went off for the evening milking, and the mothers took their kids and put them to bed. When the first dew broke out on the foreheads of the band, and the party really started to get going. Then, sure, you could drag a young lady to the buffet. And at the buffet it would be a first and a second and a third and, what’s your name, honey? Zosia, Krysia, Wikcia, Jadwisia. I’m Szymek. So listen, Zosia, Krysia, Wikcia, Jadwisia, will you have a drink with Szymek? I’ve been going to one dance after another looking all over for you, and finally I’ve found you. Are you lying? Why would I lie? Come on, they’re playing our number. And in that dance she’d let herself be held close. You could run your hands over the embroidery on the back of her blouse. Some of them had blouses like a flower garden, covered in cherries and rosebuds and raspberries and rowan. A good many of them would like it so much they’d show their teeth when you tickled their cherries and rosebuds and raspberries. Others would look at you reproachfully, like you were trying to pluck the fruit off of them.

Then it was back to the buffet. Then back to the dance floor. And not for a kujawiak or a waltz this time, but for the oberek! That was a dance and a half! You’d tap your foot, and spin faster and faster. To the left, to the right. Hey! And your partner would be clean off the floor, with only you holding her up. And you’d throw her way up to the ceiling. Her skirt would be flying and her blouse would be bouncing. And her braided hair would spin around as you danced across the room. Oh my Lord! Szymek! My head’s swimming! She falls into your arms all out of breath. This time she’s the one holding you tight. The devil’s in her eyes by now. Szymek, I have to take a break. You’re something else, Szymek. Come on then, Zosia, Krysia, Wikcia, Jadwisia, let’s go get some fresh air. Or maybe she’d suggest it even, come on Szymek, let’s get some air, it’s hot in here. And once you were outside you’d go as far as you could away from the dance. Not here, Szymek, farther away or someone might see us and afterwards there’ll be talk. And you might come to the next dance, but then again you might not.

Because the dance meant that all sins were forgiven. Even if one of them asked, will you take me for a wife? You could promise you would, sure, why not, but not right after tonight’s dance. Come on, get up, the music’s playing again.

If you took a liking to one of the young ladies, then whoever she was dancing with it didn’t matter, you treated her like she was yours and you didn’t ever have to apologize for cutting in. Hey, come have a dance with Szymek. Szymek’ll show you what dancing’s all about. And you, beat it, loser! If he was meek he’d go sit on a bench and watch or get drunk at the buffet. If he put up an argument the watch chain would get dangled in front of him. And if that didn’t do the job, he’d get a fist in his face.

Quite often that was how fights would start. Someone would shout, they’re beating up on our guys! The young lady would scream. Someone would jump forward. Someone would step in, try and separate them. Someone would charge up waving a stool. Someone would already be reaching for his knife.

Though real fights usually started without any reason. When the dance was in full swing, and everybody was well watered. And whoever was going to stay had stayed. Whoever still had the strength to sing was singing. And whoever had lost their singing voice was reeling about and yelling. The young ladies would be squeaking like mice in the corners, and everything would have gotten good and mixed up. Dresses and shirts, souls and bodies, sweat and blood, and the ceiling lamps were hidden in a dark mist. And there was nothing but noise and crush from wall to wall. And no one knew anyone anymore. People’s feet would be making merry all on their own, the entire barn felt like an apple tree that someone was shaking with all their might. It was dusty as a dirt track in summer. Because by then every dance was a fast one. Obereks and polkas, polkas and obereks.