Wieslaw Mysliwski - Stone Upon Stone

They baked their own bread. The loaves were big and round as cart wheels. One alone must have weighed fifteen pounds or more. Though why would anyone want to weigh it. You never weighed stuff when you loaned it to someone, or when they gave it back. It was your own bread, your own people, no one needed to know how much a loaf weighed. A loaf is a loaf, there’s a half-loaf, a quarter, an eighth, a slice, those were all the measures you needed. She’d brace the loaf against her stomach, putting her left arm around it like it was a pregnant belly, lean back, and her right arm would bring the knife through the bread toward her like it was moving downhill. It looked like the bread was rolling toward her, straight into her arms, huge and happy. Though sometimes I’d get gooseflesh thinking she might not feel where the bread ends and her body begins, because the loaf was like a part of her body. Even her father, however carried away he was talking about the war or about his bees, he’d fall silent and watch her cut the bread.

“Those slices are too thin, cut thicker ones. Bread, you have to feel it in your mouth.”

I was worried about something completely different, though it was about the bread also.

“Don’t cut it that way, Małgosia,” I’d say. “Lay it down on the table. The knife’s sharp, it might not be able to tell between the bread and your body.”

“We keep reminding her,” said her father. “But these days, you know, Mr. Szymek, children won’t listen to you. With me, it would’ve been enough for my mother or father to say something once.”

“Give it here.” I couldn’t take it any longer.

“I’m fine.” And she’d hunch over, like she was protecting the bread and the knife, almost afraid.

“Come on, give it to me, you can never be sure.”

“Give it to Mr. Szymek if he’s asking,” her mother put in. “Better a man do the job.”

I took the bread from her belly and the knife from her hand and I cut in the air over the table, holding the loaf in one hand, the knife in the other.

“You catch the slices.”

“You’re a strong one,” Małgosia’s father said in surprise. “I never saw anyone cut bread like that. Except maybe store bread. But not homemade.”

It was a Saturday. Małgosia’s father and mother had gone to their godson’s wedding in Zarzecze and they weren’t going to be back till noon the next day. I walked her home and we stood outside her house like we didn’t know what we were supposed to do with ourselves without her parents. She didn’t invite me in and I didn’t hold out my hand to say goodbye. We were mumbling something or other, glancing to the side so as to avoid looking at each other, and every moment made us feel more uncomfortable. The sun was already dropping toward the west, and we stood in its rays as if we were at an open fire, so on top of everything else we were hot. I was just about to reach out my hand and leave, but she must have sensed it, because she looked into the sun as if she wanted it to blind her and she said:

“Won’t you come in?”

“Maybe another time,” I said. “I promised my father I’d run the lister plow over the potato field.”

“As you like. But by the time you get home it’ll be starting to get dark. And it’s Saturday today.” After a moment she fluttered her eyes and said: “We’d be alone.”

“Maybe for a little while,” I said, as if I’d let her talk me into it, though there was no truth in what I’d said about helping father with the potato field. “I can do the job on Monday. Maybe I’ll take the day off work, that way I could get started in the early morning.”

But we’d barely gotten through the door when she exclaimed:

“Oh Lord, how dirty it is in here!”

I couldn’t see any dirt. It was like it always was. Pots and plates were drying on the stove top. The bread on the table was covered with a white cloth. The bucket with soapsuds had been carried out to the hallway. The floor was swept.

“Where is it dirty?” I said.

But she insisted it was dirty.

“I have to tidy up a little at least. It’ll be nicer to sit together when it’s tidy.”

She immediately tied on her apron, kicked off her shoes and put her slippers on. It was as if she’d suddenly taken fright at the fact we were alone. Because up till now, whenever I came by her parents were in, or at least one of them, like they were waiting for us, watching for us, like they’d stayed back from their jobs because of us. And really, the only time we’d been alone was on the road. But the road isn’t home. There are trees, the sky, someone might always be coming. And here all of a sudden we had the whole house to ourselves. Plus, it was like the house was half asleep, not even the cat was mewing, they must have put it out as they were leaving.

“I don’t see the cat,” I said. And I bent down to look under the bed, here kitty kitty, because I felt odd too that her parents weren’t there, just the two of us. “Well, if it’s dirty then you should clean,” I said, no longer putting up an argument. “Your mother was probably in a hurry, she mustn’t have had time to clean. When you have a wedding to get to, that’s how it is. You want to leave the place tidy, but you don’t know where to turn. You’ve got to get yourself ready, but on top of that you can’t let the animals go hungry. The chickens and the geese have to be rounded up and put in the shed. You have to check every nook and cranny. Close it all up. Otherwise you never know what you’ll find when you come back home. The Kukałas in our village, one time they went off to a wedding, they came back the next day and their place was just a smoking ruin. The house, the shed, the barn, everything burned to the ground. Luckily they were all so drunk they didn’t cry as much as if they’d been sober.”

“Szymek, what’s wrong?” She looked at me almost frightened.

“Nothing. I’m just saying what can happen sometimes.”

“Are you angry at me for cleaning?”

“Course not. Clean all you like. I’ll just sit here.”

She carried the pots out into the passageway. She took the bread from the table and put it away in the dresser, then she gathered the crumbs and threw them into the firebox under the stove. Though I hadn’t seen any crumbs on the table. The table stood by the window, the sun was shining in and you could see every smallest speck on the tabletop. She swept the floor. Then she opened the door and the windows. I thought to myself, any minute now we’ll be chasing flies, but she let the flies be and just aired the place out. Then she started wiping the plates from the stove and putting them away in the dresser.

I sat there watching her and looking out the window, but I didn’t say a word about her cleaning, I didn’t tell her to hurry up. When she asked me to put the chairs back in their usual places, I got up and did it. She thought Jesus in the Garden of Olives was hanging crooked, so I raised it a bit on the left like she wanted. Though if you asked me, it was straight to begin with. Then she told me to check if the kerosene in the lamp was low. I checked. It wasn’t. She didn’t want anything more after that, so I lit a cigarette and started blowing smoke rings, watching them float away and break up and disappear. Maybe I wasn’t even waiting for her to finish the cleaning. It was like it was always going to be that way. Me at the table blowing smoke rings, her drying dishes by the stove. Every now and then she said something, asked me something, nothing much, but for her it was like she’d almost become talkative. Or maybe she was just annoyed that I’d agreed so easily to her doing the cleaning, that I wasn’t even asking if she’d be done soon. A couple of times she laughed, and it was such a joyful laugh I was taken by surprise, she never laughed like that. Maybe she wanted me to laugh with her. Except I wasn’t much feeling like laughing, and I didn’t completely believe in that laughter of hers.