Wieslaw Mysliwski - Stone Upon Stone

He managed to find a lamp and light it, and he looked around. His Wandzia was asleep in bed with someone else. They were sleeping so soundly that when he held the lamp right over them, neither of them so much as stirred. The quilt was kicked off and the two of them were naked as the day they were born. The man at least had enough modesty to be lying curled up on his side, he must have been cold, or it was because he wasn’t sleeping in his own bed. Sad Man recognized him as Felek, the head groomsman at his wedding. But her, she was lying belly up, her legs gaping wide, all crumpled and spattered, one breast one way and the other the other, the only thing she had on was the red bead necklace he’d bought her at a church fair when they were courting.

On the table there were two bottles of moonshine, one completely empty, the other half finished, and slices of sausage and pickled cucumbers and bread that was cut like for an engagement party. They’d also made themselves scrambled eggs and they’d evidently both eaten from the same pan, because there were two spoons resting against it. And their clothes were scattered all around the room. Her skirt was all the way over by the stove, it might even have been that she made the scrambled eggs without her skirt on.

He made the sign of the cross over them, pulled out his pistol, and shot her and then him right where they lay asleep. The cat mewed in the stove corner, so he shot the cat as well. Jesus was hanging over the bed with his heart on the outside, and he shot the heart. The chicks got out from under the brood hen, he stomped on the chicks and shot the hen. He shot out all the windows in the house. He shot all the pots and all the plates. He even shot at the water bucket. When he’d had his fill of shooting he sat down at the table and drank what they’d left him, then he sang a little. At my wedding they were breathless all, for my wedding party was an all-night ball, yes indeed, oh yes indeed, death was all around and pain was near, but I was smiling from ear to ear, and may the good Lord be with us here, yes indeed. Then he dragged Felek the groomsman’s body off the bed, he lay down in his place next to his dead wife and he shot himself as well.

Rowan got up from the table to buy another drink, because for some reason Birchtree wasn’t giving us the signal, and it could have looked suspicious to sit there with empty glasses. The pub was crowded, everyone was drinking, so there must have been spies there as well. All of a sudden someone grabs me by the elbow.

“Aren’t you the Pietruszkas’ kid?”

I don’t look round, but the voice is somehow familiar.

“What, you don’t know your own godfather?” He sits down in Rowan’s seat, and he’s pie-eyed. “You know, the Pietruszkas, that live past the co-op? You had storks on your barn. I mended your stove years back.”

“Go away, you’re barking up the wrong tree.” The whole time I kept looking in the other direction. He turns around to the rest of the room, beats his chest, and says at the top of his voice:

“This is my godson!” And he claps his hand on my shoulder. “Except he won’t own up to his godfather!”

At this the whole place went quiet and I felt everyone staring at me in disapproval, what kind of louse would deny his own godfather.

Rowan comes back with a half-bottle and says, who’s this? I say, I’ve no idea, some guy’s latched on to me, claims he’s my godfather.

“What are you talking about, latched on to you, I’m your godfather! And you’re my godson, the Pietruszkas’ boy. Bring a drink for my godson!”

I could hardly control myself inside, I didn’t know what to do. Finally I leaned forward and said in a friendly way:

“Shut your trap. I’m not any Pietruszka, the name’s Eagle.” The other guy ups and yells:

“What are you talking about, Eagle? You’re the Pietruszkas’ son, I carried you to the altar in these arms. Are you denying your own mother and father?”

“I’m not denying anyone, but these are different times, understand?”

He smashed his fist on the table so hard the glasses jumped.

“I don’t care what times they are, you’re a Pietruszka! And I’m your godfather!”

“If he’s your godfather, ask him if he ever bought you anything,” said Rowan, all riled up. “I bet you didn’t get squat from him! Just like mine! Nothing, ever! They’re all the damn same, those godfathers. Want me to slug him for you?”

“Give it a rest. Let him be my godfather.” I even poured him a drink in my own glass, thinking he might calm down. But he got even more excited and started shouting again, blathering on about the Pietruszkas. I couldn’t take it anymore, I grabbed him by the neck like a goose and shouted in his face:

“Eagle!” And I squeezed till his eyes almost popped out. A few folks jumped up from their tables, but Rowan blocked their way, watch it, he put his hand in his jacket and they sat back down.

“Pietruszka, you two-faced bastard!” He could barely breathe, but he grabbed hold of my coat and clung on like a drowning man.

“Eagle.” I was so mad I lost it, I squeezed harder and harder. The barmaid screamed and threatened to call the military police.

“Smack him one. Let the godfather have it,” said Rowan, egging me on.

At this moment Birchtree ran into the pub and signaled to let us know the bailiff guy was at the market.

“Let go of me, godfather!” I shouted. But he wouldn’t. Without a second thought I punched him between the eyes. His nose started bleeding and those eyes of his went all cloudy.

“Pietruszka,” he wheezed.

“Eagle.” I whacked him again.

“Don’t hit me. Don’t hit me any more. You can be Eagle.”

I don’t know if God died, if he rose again from the dead, if any of that is true, but blessed eggs taste different than eggs that haven’t been blessed. And nobody’s going to tell me it only seems that way to me. Ordinarily I’m not that wild about eggs, but blessed eggs, I can eat ten of them and still keep going. I don’t need to even have them with bread, just a little salt, of course salt that’s also been blessed. Best of all is with horseradish sauce, that ought to be not just blessed but so strong it knocks your socks off.

Mother would bake babkas for Easter. They were famous, those babkas of hers. The whole time before the next harvest there could be the worst shortage of flour, there could be no flour even to make the base for żurek , but when the harvest was done and the new flour was bolted she’d always set aside enough for her babkas , then the rest had to last as long as it could. And when she brought one of those babkas down from the attic, because that was where she kept them after they were baked, father and Michał and Antek and Stasiek would sit around the table like foxes round a henhouse, and their mouths would be watering as mother cut the babka . Me, I preferred blessed eggs even over babka . And usually we’d swap, I’d give someone my slice of babka and they’d give me their egg.

If it wasn’t for the blessed eggs I could have done without Easter at all. Because what kind of holiday is it actually? It’s neither in wintertime nor in spring. Also, you never know when it’s going to fall. You have to look at the calendar every year to see where it’s marked. So you have to buy a new calendar every year if you want to know, like you couldn’t just get used to the same day once and for all. I was born on Good Friday, but I can’t say it was on Good Friday, because Good Friday is different each year. So maybe Jesus didn’t die and rise from the dead after all, if it’s a different time every year?