Andrzej Bursa - Killing Auntie

We were smoking cigarettes in the empty corridor. In a distance, far from the tracks, passed the lights of some settlement.

“When I was little,” said the girl, “I believed that those lights were elves’ lanterns. During the day the elves slept and no one knew about them. But at night they would come out onto the hills and light their lights. The oldest elf, their king, lit a red a lantern. Me and my brother were always looking for the red lantern of the king. Did you believe in elves?”

“Of course.”

“Your answer lacks conviction. I sense the irredeemable influence of a rationalistic upbringing.”

“But you are still very young.”

“Ah, you old men … I see you have acquired the arcane art of old-fashioned gallantry … Never mind, let’s look for the red elf.”

“So far we haven’t been very successful.”

“So what. The greater the effort, the sweeter the reward. O look, there … the green one. He is also an important elf. Though he is far below the red king.”

“I understand that the kingdom of elves has its own bureaucratic hierarchy. I wonder who is in charge of the elven field workers?”

“Boring realist. It’s clear you never believed in elves.”

“I assure you, I did, but …”

“But?”

“But I stopped. I simply grew up and started thinking seriously about the future.”

“Very commendable.”

“Very. And by the way, I’d gladly give a big part of my life — I don’t have any other capital — to someone who could convince me there is a future.”

“Hm, a Hamlet too.”

“Yes. A Hamlet. But unlike thousands of other native Hamlets, I have at my disposal a real skull.”

“Strongly put.”

“I’m sorry, I won’t bore you any more.” Suddenly my spirits flagged.

“Hey, what’s wrong …?”

“Nothing. Nothing worth talking about.”

“But why? We can talk. It’s high time …”

I smiled bashfully.

“I’m very pleased we met. I hope we’ll meet again.”

“Well, I’ll live in hope.”

We stood in silence. I was focused, filled with blossoming joy.

“It’s really great …” I mumbled after a while.

“What?”

“That I’ve found the red elf!” I cried out, pointing quickly at a red light glowing in the distance.

We both burst out laughing.

IT WAS A CLEAR, STARRY NIGHT. I WAS RETURNING FROM MY date with Teresa. I walked with my head high, listening with pleasure to the sound of my steps echoing off the pavement. “Teresa, Teresa,” sang my youth. Barely four days had passed from our first meeting and I was already riding the high crest of my love. With the submissiveness of a weak character — which I’d been told I had — I allowed Teresa to take over all my thoughts and imagination. Even when I was thinking about other things somewhere through the back of my mind’s eye passed the images of her face, her smile, her eyelashes with snowflakes on them or her hands in old leather gloves, which had became a holy relic to me.

We saw each other every day. We both had no doubt it was love. “Love, love,” I kept saying to myself aloud when alone in my flat. I hadn’t neglected the corpse. Fortunately the cold weather held fast so the regularly replenished ice kept the body from decomposing. Only once during the last three days had I wrapped some innards up in paper and discarded them on the suburban rubbish dump often visited by ravens and cats. That trip cost me a lot of time and effort and the result was rather measly. Once more I had to admit that the corpse was a tough opponent and fighting it required a lot of willpower, courage and ingenuity. I hadn’t given it much time lately but I wanted to bring it to an end as soon as possible. I was getting bored with it.

I was slowly coming to the conclusion that the period when the struggle with the corpse filled the void in my life was over. The corpse had been replaced by Teresa. Yet I could not accept this conclusion without reservations. I knew that a woman could not fulfill or replace all the various longings and desires that tore at my soul; I knew that nurturing my love for Teresa would mean killing it, too. And yet, under the influence of this girl I was beginning to recover my faith in life. I knew it was an illusion, and I kept telling myself so. I had wasted too many years dreaming about traveling, adventures and the exciting life that awaited me. (Too many times I had been punished for my dreams by everyday objects in our flat, by the lecture hall, by all that machinery of terror that closed up on me, seemingly forever.) Yet when I was with Teresa I felt calm and believed, against all reason, that I was still destined for great things.

These fanciful musings seemed to be confirmed by my recent experiences. After all, killing Auntie and struggling with the corpse was definitely something. And my situation as a man standing between the gallows and an unknown adventure was not devoid of a certain dramatic grandeur. Nevertheless, it’s not exactly the kind of drama I had in mind, not the sort of deed that Teresa’s knight should be famous for. Such and similar thoughts crossed my mind in those days. Those thoughts and reflections were rather superfluous, unable to affect the great lightness that filled me. The pangs of fear still happened. I was aware that I was pushing my luck, dragging my feet about reporting to the police while doing nothing about getting rid of the remains.

In such moments my head would explode with brilliant ideas of annihilating the corpse. Once, as I was falling asleep with the image of Teresa under my eyelids, I was gripped by a spasm of fear. Any attempt to talk myself out of it and stay in bed were in vain. I dragged myself out from between the sheets and went into the kitchen. I rummaged through the sideboard and found the meat grinder. With some difficulty I clamped it to the edge of the table, picked out a few chunks of dead meat and began to mince. My plan was terrifyingly simple, with the simple ingenuity of a perpetuum mobile. I would mix the minced meat with the ash from the stove in the bucket and then take it out as usual in the morning and dump it in the rubbish bin. As I earnestly turned the crank the work brought me peace, as it usually did. I thought of Teresa. Of our walks in the spring, which was just round the corner. Of alleys lined with young birch trees, of orchards, of those little white-and-yellow flowers which blossomed on the shrubs in spring. I was smiling and muttering to myself. Suddenly my bliss was shuttered by an excruciating pain. I had caught my finger in the meat grinder. I yanked my hand out and put it to my mouth, but dropped it immediately as the odor of the meat hit my nostrils. I picked up the crank again but without the previous enthusiasm. The work slowed. The grinder was getting jammed. I gave up. I was a picture of pathetic horror: standing in my pajamas working a bloody meat grinder in the cold kitchen in the middle of the night. Now my brilliant idea seemed idiotic. My mind drifted over to the question of how to disinfect the grinder. I threw the minced meat in the bucket and after some hesitation, the other two pieces, as well; after I stirred it all up, the ash covered the pieces so thoroughly they could not raise any suspicions. I went back to bed. The moment I closed my eyes the image of Teresa appeared before me to guide me into sleep.

I managed to get home just before the gates were locked. I was pleased I didn’t have to struggle with the massive rusty key. I ran up the steps and saw before my door two small human figures. Light shock gave place to amused annoyance. I recognized my granny and her daughter, Auntie’s sister. They both lived in a small town in the mountains, a good dozen miles away from the railway station. Auntie, and what she sent them, was their only livelihood. Granny, who was pushing eighty, suffered from chronic eye pain and smeared them with an iridescent white paste. It made her look like a strange bird. Seeing her, I always thought that if the biblical term “whitewashed tomb” actually existed, she would be it. Her daughter, a fifty-year-old virgin, was handicapped and wore very thick glasses, without which she was practically blind. Apart from that she suffered from a serious stomach disorder, and played the violin. I remember a visit we paid them a few years ago in their hometown. It was a warm September evening. A golden stream of sunshine flowed through an open window. It was a golden, lyrical moment. Aunt Emilia stood by the window, hidden from the courtyard behind the curtain, and played. I can’t remember the melody except that it was old and sad. When we entered the room she stopped and blushed like a schoolgirl. We had to plead with her for a long time to play something again. At long last, blushing and excusing herself, she agreed to repeat the concert. I remember vividly Granny’s face beaming with almost lewd pleasure as she listened to the tones of violin, and Auntie’s — approving but unemotional. I remember that I hated her then. Who knows, maybe here I’d be able to find the roots of my deed, if I could be bothered.