Andrzej Bursa - Killing Auntie

I stood turning over Granny’s teeth mindlessly in my hand, unable to decide how to deal with this new situation. Did the old fogies know they were eating a corpse? Would it impair their weak health? Would they want to report me to the authorities? If they did, I would have to kill them without delay — but what would I do with two new corpses when I could hardly cope with the old one? So, the old corpse, again. It was clear that forgetting it was pure illusion. All these apparently unconnected incidents sooner or later led to trouble with the corpse. I could lock the bathroom door and pretend the whole thing never happened. But what to do with the teeth? Granny would certainly feel the loss of such a precious object very acutely.

At noon I escorted the women to the station. They said their good-byes affectionately, even effusively. I found them seats in a compartment and helped with the suitcases. They left for starvation in a small mountain town. I gave them half of the money I had. I consoled myself with the thought that with their thriftiness it should last them a good few months. At any rate, I calculated that I still had a few months before the next wave of desperate letters, telegrams and then maybe another visit. By then Auntie’s disappearance would be officially accounted for. The thought of this official explanation was very unpleasant for me and I kept pushing it to the back of my mind.

IN THE EVENING I MET WITH TERESA. IN A CORNER OF A cheap café we sat talking, delighted and joyful. Then we went for a long walk, wandering the streets. It was warm. In the air one could feel the breath of coming spring. We laughed a lot — at the lights in the puddles, the snowy lampposts, fantastic silhouettes of old houses. Now and again I brushed my lips lightly against my girlfriend’s cheek. We wandered into the cloister of a little old church. It was empty. Below flowed a noisy, sparkling street. A red light flashed at the crossing, tiny but clear. I thought, “red elf,” but didn’t dare say it loud, afraid my voice would sound harsh under the vast dome of the sky. Teresa knew it and whispered into my ear:

“Penny for your thoughts?”

The red light disappeared and the outstretched gesture of my hand toward the light was late and pointless. I embraced Teresa and we started kissing. For the first time we felt the insufferable burden of clothes. We walked holding hands in silence, embarrassed by the fact that we still hadn’t become lovers. We both knew that a lively conversation now would be a fraud. When we came to Teresa’s house, she stopped.

“Go home, darling.”

“I’ll walk you to the gate.”

“No, there’s no need.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want … You know what I mean.”

“Is it embarrassing?”

“Of course not. But what’s the point?”

It was the third time we were having this conversation. Nevertheless, we conducted it solemnly, repeating our lines without interrupting each other. The thought of going to bed alone, always an unpleasant one, today was simply terrifying.

“Yes, you are right, no point …” I said slowly and bent to kiss Teresa’s hand.

I headed home but when I looked back and saw Teresa’s small figure disappearing in the distance I turned around and ran after her.

“Teresa,” I said. “Teresa, come with me.”

Without a word Teresa slipped her arm under mine and firmly took my hand. She was serious and calm. Feeling consecrated, almost canonized by our love and our decision, we got on the tram. Now and again, behind the rooftops, we saw the moon racing along. We were focused and silent. Only once, when I smiled at my girl, Teresa quickly put my hand to her lips. Our short journey along familiar streets, the elopement from a tram platform paid for with a discounted student fare, all that was so strangely beautiful I couldn’t find any room to think or feel anything else but the thrill of flight filling my soul to the brim.

Only when we got off the tram did I begin to worry. The remains were well covered and I was not unduly worried that Teresa might discover them, even when she wanted to use the bathroom. I was more afraid that Teresa would start asking me questions usually asked by a new friend on their first visit, and force me to tell lies. Until now, when the conversation had drifted on to domestic arrangements, I’d offered some generalities and changed the subject. Teresa was too much in love and too happy to notice anything. Still, I remembered those petty lies and felt oddly distraught by them. Climbing the badly lit and dirty stairs filled us with cold. But finally … we were alone.

We sat on the bed in the murky light of a small lamp. I looked for Teresa’s hand. She leaned against my shoulder and lowered her head. She was waiting for a kiss. The seeming ease with which I could continue this simple game, the conducive atmosphere and the surroundings, began to make me feel uncomfortable. Teresa noticed it and became gentle and protective. I wanted to tell her to go away, that she couldn’t even guess how I was deceiving her, but instead I kissed her. When our embraces grew longer and more ardent my fear and scruples receded. I surrendered to the caresses with the full inertia of my senses and will. Everything else, this whole bloody business, became so irrelevant and distant that talking about it now would have been simply rude.

I woke up early. Teresa was still asleep. The room was filled with the gray light of dawn. I sat up in bed and felt cold. We were both naked. The night, during which I was heroic and tender, lascivious and exalted, had passed. Teresa looked unattractive. Her mouth was open. I got up and walked to the bathroom to the sink. I took the mirror off the nail and looked at myself for long time. I cast a sweeping glance across the room, my eyes settling on Teresa. I burst into tears. My body was convulsed with sobbing. I tried to suppress it. I pressed my lips, rubbed the eyes — nothing helped. I poured water into the sink bowl and began splashing it over my face and shoulders, crying. I deliberately made a lot of noise, trying to drown out the sobs, while worrying I might wake up Teresa. But she slept soundly. At last I dried my face with a towel and began to dress, looking for my clothes and stifling the last spasms.

When I returned from the bathroom fully dressed, Teresa had already gotten up and put on her dress. I greeted her with a joyful smile. We exchanged a few words. Smoking my cigarette, I observed Teresa brushing her hair before the mirror. The morning dishevelment added to her charm. The beauty of youth, which needed no adornments, moved me deeply. Suddenly I was gripped by another attack of crying. Dressed, with shoes on, holding a cigarette in my fingers, I threw myself on the bed, weeping. The killing gave me my tears back. Teresa put away the brush and crouched by my knees.

“What is it, love? What is it?”

I couldn’t calm down. Wiping the tears away, I was trying to take a puff of my cigarette, but with every attempt, more tears only fell on my sweater. Teresa sat next to me and rocked my head in her arms. I was slowly calming down, listening to the gentle murmur of her words, feeling the warmth of her hands on my face. I felt better. I cried out all my tears, which I’d hoarded inside for all those long years. And again I felt unable to cry. I pushed Teresa gently away and sat opposite her.

“Listen,” I began. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something, something I must tell you. I must, even if you will hate me for it, or even destroy me.” I noticed on her face an expression of sympathetic understanding, which confused me. “I have to ask you first however,” I continued in a quiet, serious tone — “don’t interrupt me. I want to tell you this because I love you, and because I feel you are the only person I want to tell it to.”