Wieslaw Mysliwski - Stone Upon Stone

When you get there, you still have to find the door, and find the handle in the door. There were times it was like searching for a needle in a haystack. I’d be looking and looking, and father would stand on the other side of the door and not open it.

“Open the door, father, it’s me, Szymek.”

“Open it your self, you drunken lout.”

“I can’t find the handle.”

“You hear that, mother? He can’t find the handle.”

“Come on, Józef, open the door for him, he’s your own son.”

“He’s a devil, he’s no son of mine. Do you hear him scraping his claws on the door? I’m not letting any devil into my house, not while it’s still mine. Keep scraping, Antichrist, scrape till your claws are worn away.”

“Open the door, Józef,” mother would plead with him.

“Get up and open it yourself.”

“I would, but I can’t get up. Open the door, Józef. Even a prodigal son is still a son.”

“I had sons, but they all left. Anything that’s good, it either dies or it goes away, only what’s bad stays behind.”

One time when he refused to open the door for me, I somehow managed to find the handle, but it turned out he’d put the hook on inside. I started hammering with my fists, I knew he was standing right there, and in the end I was so furious I kicked at the door and I shouted:

“Soon as mother dies, I’m out of here! Nothing’s gonna keep me!” And I walked off and sat on a rock outside the house. The night was maybe halfway through. I’d barely sat down when someone joined me.

“Shift up there a bit.”

I looked, and it was Grandfather Łukasz, the one that had run away to America before the first war. The moon was bright as a shiny coin, the stars were like grains on the threshing floor, I couldn’t fail to know him. It even made me sober up a bit. They say that in such cases you have to ask what their soul needs. But what can a soul from America need? It’s only village souls that are always in need of something. Is it you, grandfather, I ask. Then greetings to you. How are things over there in America? They said you made a fortune, now I see you’re back. Maybe it’s true that when a person dies, his soul goes back to where he was born. Though why did you have to take it all the way to America in the first place? You paid its passage, and now it’s back. You should have left it here when the Cossacks came looking for you, they wouldn’t have harmed it, and people would have comforted it somehow or other. Then you wouldn’t be drawn back here after you died. Was it so bad for you over there in America? If it makes you feel any better, you wouldn’t have had it any easier here. Here it’s the same as America, just on the other side of the world. Because America is anywhere we’re not, grandfather. Tell me at least, what’s it like in the next world? You killed the overseer, you know better than other people. You did the right thing, whether or not he was a bastard. A man often feels like killing someone, but these days there aren’t any more overseers. It’s a different system now. You probably don’t know what a system is? You know, like a government. You killed an overseer and you had to run away, and your grandson’s a government worker. You must have dreamed of having someone like that in the family? Here you are, he’s sitting right next to you on a rock. He’s a bit drunk, but that’s because of you, grandfather. With you grandparents, whatever popped into your head you lost yourselves dreaming about it, and because of that, afterwards your grandchildren have to drink. You’re all in the next world, your grandchildren are still in this one, and it’s all one big circle. And circles can’t be straightened out. So it’s better to go to the pub than go away, because it’s the same thing, just closer. Though sometimes, when there’s a full moon like tonight, I feel like tying myself up on a chain and howling. I’d be a better dog than our Twisty. I’d smell thieves, and I’d smell your soul, grandfather. You wouldn’t have to worry that no one would recognize you. Did you ever see a moon like that in America? You only ever get them here, over the village. Like someone took an ax and cut a hole in the sky. You could toss in a fishing net and catch yourself some fish. Do you know if fish from the sky are the same as fish from the river, grandfather?

We talked on and on, almost till sunup. He didn’t say a word, while I talked about this and about that. In the morning father came outside and gazed up at the sky.

“This is quite some weather. I don’t know why the sky looks so high up or so deep? Imagine having a farm like that sky. On a big plain. All you’d need to do would be pray, and everything would sprout and grow and flower. Not the tiniest cloud in sight. A sun like Jesus’s eye. So then, maybe you could come do some work in the fields?”

“No way, not when I haven’t slept. I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, tomorrow, how long has it been tomorrow. Everyone else’s fields are all plowed and harrowed, some folks have even done their sowing, and our fields haven’t been touched since harvesttime. People are starting to ask if we’re selling up, because the land’s not being worked, and he keeps saying tomorrow. Tomorrow’s good for the next world, in this one you have to plow and sow as long as the land’ll produce. Because when it stops, you won’t be able to beg it to start again. The land is good while it’s good, but if it sets its mind to it, it can be stone.”

“Grandfather was here with me all night,” I said to try and change the subject. “He just disappeared a moment ago.”

“So did he tell you where he buried those papers?” father asked, perking up.

“Not that one. Grandfather Łukasz from America.”

He waved his hand.

“Him, he was a good-for-nothing. What did he want?”

“Nothing. He just came to talk.”

“He must have needed to do penance. Was he barefoot?”

“I didn’t look at his feet.”

“He probably was. You always have to do penance barefoot.”

One time I came back drunk, it was almost nighttime. For some reason I’d thought to slip a bottle in my pocket as we were leaving the pub. You might have said I had a premonition. But I didn’t, it was just that I’d gotten paid that day, and when you got paid you sometimes took an extra bottle for the road. It came in handy in the morning when you couldn’t get yourself together. I was a bit surprised to see a light still on in our window. But I thought, father’s probably just soaking his feet. He had varicose veins and sores and when they were bothering him more than usual, he’d brew up herbs and soak his feet in them. He’d sit on a chair and put his feet in a pail till the cold woke him up or I got back.

I went in and I thought I was seeing things, it looked like Michał was sitting on the bench by the window. Except he seemed kind of sleepy, because he didn’t even raise his head when I came in. But it was him all right. Maybe he’d been traveling a long while and he was tired? He never did have much staying power. One time he came back from market with father and the wagon kept bouncing up and down, it made him throw up. Or if he stayed up late one night, the next day he’d be all pale and have rings under his eyes.

“You’re here, Michał,” I said. And though my head was spinning, I was pleased to see him. “It’s been years and years, we’ve been waiting all this time. Let’s have a drink, brother. As it happens I’ve got a bottle on me. I took it because I had a feeling. How about that.” I pulled out the bottle and stood it on the table. “Where are some glasses?” I ask. Father’s sitting on a chair with his head down, like he’s dozing. All of a sudden he jerks his head up and says to me: