Wieslaw Mysliwski - Stone Upon Stone

He can’t do it. Why not, it’s only going for scrap, the workers told me, and I’ll pay however much I have to. He can’t because it’s government property, and government property isn’t for sale. If it was his he’d give me it for free. But everything on the railroad is government owned. Even the red cap he’s wearing isn’t his, it belongs to the government.

“So what can I do? The ceiling won’t hold without rails. What do you suggest, Władysław?”

“Hang on, just wait till this freight train’s gone through. For a tomb, you say?”

“That’s right. I’ve had the walls up a long time now, it’s all partitioned off, there’s only the roof left to do.”

He took off that red cap of his and scratched behind his ear.

“Well everyone has to die sooner or later, that’s a fact. And they have to be buried somewhere. Go talk to one of the switchmen, slip him something and he’ll turn a blind eye, then you can bring your wagon in the night and take it away. Just remember, I wasn’t the one that told you.”

That’s how it was with almost everything. Nothing would come easily. I had to have a pit dug so Chmiel could get in to do the building, ten feet by ten and five deep, and I lost a good few months on that. Time was I wouldn’t have asked anyone, I’d just have dug it myself. But how could I do that with these legs of mine, and the walking sticks, and me just back from the hospital. I needed to hire someone for the job. So I got that swindler the Postman, because it’s not so easy to hire a decent worker. His name’s Kurtyka, but they call him the Postman. He lives with his sister, she’s an old maid, they have three acres. The sister works the land while he gads about the village from morning till night, making some money here, stealing there, or someone’ll buy him a drink. He’s always drunk. And even when he’s not, he pretends to be. He’s so good at it that if you don’t know him you can’t tell he’s not really drunk. But evidently he prefers living like that to being sober. Or maybe he’s forgotten how to not be drunk. We’ve all gotten used to him always being drunk, he wouldn’t be the same person if he tried to be sober. Because what is he, some Jasiek with three acres that he shares with his sister. As it is the other farmers laugh at him, the women feel sorry for him, the children chase after him down the street and shout at him: Postman! Postman! Postman!

I met him early one morning by the shrine. I was heading out to the fields to dig potatoes. He was standing there with his hands in his pockets. He was squinting in the sunlight like he was already drunk, or to fool someone into buying him a drink.

“Whoa.” I stopped the horse. “Listen, Jasiek, maybe you could dig a pit for me for my tomb?”

He looked up and eyed me, smelling a half-bottle.

“What, are you planning to die?”

“One of these days I’ll have to.”

“They’ll dig you a hole when you go, why worry about it ahead of time.”

“I’m planning to build a walled tomb, the kind of thing you need to get done in advance.”

“Do you think you’re not going to rot in a walled tomb? You’ll rot in there just the same.”

“So will you do it?”

“I can dig you a pit, for a tomb, for potatoes, for slaking lime. Makes no difference to me, a pit’s a pit. Just buy me a half-bottle.”

“I’ll buy you a half-bottle and pay you as well.”

“But buy it now. A man’s at his thirstiest in the early morning.”

I gave him money for a bottle and we agreed that the next day we’d go to the cemetery and I’d show him where to dig. But the next day came, then the day after that, and three more days, and there was sight nor sound of him. I went down the village to look for him. I called in to see his sister. Is Jasiek in? He was here this morning but he went out. He might be at the pub. I went to the pub. Yeah, he was here, but he only had the one beer, no one would buy him a drink, so he left. He said he was supposed to go pick apples at Boduła’s place, maybe look for him there. I hobbled over to Boduła’s. Yeah, he was picking apples here, but that was last week, he barely picked any at all, no more than a basketful, and then he hits you up for a half-bottle.

In the end I saw him, he was walking up the road toward me, but the second he spotted me he started reeling like he was half gone.

“You were supposed to come the next day, god damn you! And don’t even try to act drunk in front of me.”

“There’s no need to shout, I’ll be there. There’s always a next day.” And he leers at me with his supposedly drunken eye.

“Don’t make me take this cane to you! Get a spade and come with me!”

He didn’t even try to resist, and he stopped staggering. I got him a spade and we went to the cemetery. I showed him the place, I marked off from where to where, and I told him how deep it needed to be.

“Is that all? I thought you wanted something three times bigger. It’ll be dug by sundown. Just have that half-bottle waiting, and a couple of pickles.”

While I was still there he took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, then as I was leaving he even spat on his hands.

“Come by when you’re done,” I said.

I bought a full bottle instead of a half and I was planning on giving him the whole thing, because I thought he might come in handy again. I didn’t have any pickles so I went over to Mrs. Waliszka’s and she gave me almost a whole canful. But of course he never showed up that evening or any of the next days. It wasn’t till a week later he came by, in the early morning. I could see he wasn’t himself, or he was still sleepy or something.

“So did you dig the pit?”

“Sort of.”

“What do you mean, sort of?”

“Well, it’s not completely finished.”

“Weren’t you supposed to keep digging till the evening?”

“I would have, but I hit some roots. Must have been from that elm by Kosiorek’s tomb. One of the damn things was thick as my leg. And the smaller ones, there were so many of them you couldn’t even count them. I needed an ax. I was going to get my own, but I can’t find it. You wouldn’t have anything to drink, would you?”

I thought to myself, Kosiorek’s tomb is over thirty yards from mine, and where is there an elm there? The elm’s way over in the corner of the cemetery. Could its roots reach all the way across? He’s pulling the wool over my eyes, the son of a bitch. But if I don’t give him a drink he won’t finish the job.

“Here, have one drink.” I poured him out a quarter cupful. “Come back this evening after you’ve finished the job, you’ll get the rest.”

His face lit up like a little sun.

“The job’ll get done. I’m telling you, there’s no one in the village I respect like I respect you. Your health.” He drank the vodka, made a face and shuddered.

“Off you go then,” I said.

“What’s your hurry? My word is my word. Let me have one more. After the work I don’t need to drink. To tell the truth, after work I don’t even like to. After work all you want to do is sleep.”

I poured out another drink. He drank it. I poured another one. He didn’t leave till he’d seen the bottom of the bottle.

“Right, now I’m gonna go dig your pit. Just hand me that ax.”

And again he didn’t show up for several days. I was all set to go looking for him. I thought to myself, I’ll rip his arms off, the shit, because I had a feeling that once again he’d not finished the job, otherwise he’d have come for his money, and of course his booze. Then one day Michał and I are eating breakfast and he walks in.

“How long are you gonna string me along, damn you! Are you done or not?”

“Almost.”