Jerzy Pilch - My First Suicide

It was getting toward one o’clock. It was probably the most torrid day of the summer. We washed under a black rubber hose pulled out from the laundry room, from which flowed fantastic water, icy and fragrant of fecund meadows. Grandma was preparing dinner in the kitchen, and it suddenly turned out that Tolstoy’s son-in-law had vanished. Just a moment ago he had been by the vehicle, just a moment ago, naked to the waist, he was pouring water on himself like a maniac and boasting of some sort of infinite knowledge concerning the art of pouring water, just a moment ago he was sitting in the cab, just a moment ago he was bustling about, here and there — and now he’s gone. The guy’s gone. He’s not in the can, he’s not under the tarp, he isn’t in the courtyard, he’s not in front of the house. Jesus Christ! Stung by our laughter, our constantly repeated “ Wet as a drowned rat, and there he goes giving commands ,” he took offense and ran off further than the eye can see! We had gone too far; after all, the guy worked like a dog, was busy as a bee, worked his ass off with the rest of us. So what if he was a bit strange? Better strange and industrious, than normal and a lazy bum. He couldn’t stand it, and he disappeared into thin air. We knew of such reactions. Disappearing without a trace — that was a constant custom of Grandma Pech. Whenever so much was going on all around that she couldn’t stand it, she would up and vanish, hide away somewhere in the depths of the house, and often it was necessary to search for her for a long time, and with our hearts in our throats. Yet another peculiar and complicated story. How were we supposed to know that he had the same habit? But, after all, he didn’t disappear in the house, he didn’t hide away in our loft, he didn’t climb up into the attic. He took off somewhere, and that was the last we saw of him. A fine state of affairs. Mother had been in Krakow for a few days already, getting the new apartment ready, making space between the new super sofa beds for our Wisła stuff, and now we didn’t know whether there is any point to any of it. My old man wouldn’t go by himself — he doesn’t have a driver’s license. In our house, nobody at all has a driver’s license. The Nikandy boys can probably drive anything, but none of them has a driver’s license either. A tragedy. Simply a tragedy. Or rather — as it was to turn out — the subtle prologue to a tragedy.

Because Grandpa Pech had also vanished. He had vanished, but only for a short time. For — let’s say — a quarter of an hour. He returned after a quarter of an hour, leading Tolstoy’s ashamed, and highly abashed, son-in-law. He hadn’t wanted to cause any trouble during the family dinner, which, as he understood, was also in a certain sense a farewell dinner. He hadn’t wanted to cause any inconvenience. He wasn’t a guest here, he was here to work. He had run out to town for a moment for a cold lemonade. For a cold lemonade before the trip, and for strengthening. Grandpa shrugged it all off, especially upon hearing the words lemonade and strengthening , but all ambiguity was immediately hushed up by the peals of laughter and the spasmodic cries of the women. How could he go for lemonade when there is so much compote stored up in the house! Hundreds of gallons! From our own apples! From our own garden! You can drink and drink, and even so, you’ll never drink it all up. And even if — a new batch will be ready in a flash! Or we can open last year’s! Whatever kind you like! Cherry! Plum! Pear! Please, drink, be our guest! And no need to ask — feel right at home and help yourself! But now you must sit down to the table! You’ve got to eat dinner before the trip! Compote is one thing, but dinner is quite another!

Tolstoy’s son-in-law did indeed soak up whole jugs of compote, but the rest didn’t go down so well. Maybe two spoonfuls of chicken noodle soup, the meat barely at all, the potatoes and cucumber salad scattered about on the plate. Basically, this was unfathomable. It never happened in our parts that a grown man wouldn’t wipe his plate clean. So something wasn’t quite right with him after all. Stomach ulcers? Something even worse? God forbid!

He excused himself constantly and in a roundabout way, saying that he was very sorry, but before a trip — especially such a difficult trip — he eats little, because an abundant meal lowers his psychophysical efficiency. It wasn’t very clear what he was talking about. This was the first time we had ever heard about the harmful effects of eating. But it seemed that pangs of conscience were still consuming us, because everyone zealously nodded in agreement with everything he said — besides, what was there to talk about, now that it was time to set off? The bells call us to devotions from the tower, Mother from the doorway to supper. They’re already calling, it’s time. Time to go home, time.

Just before starting out, Tolstoy’s son-in-law announced that he had to stretch his legs, and especially straighten his back, and walk a bit. And again he disappeared beyond the gate; this time, however, he returned lightning fast and in a suddenly fine mood. Grandpa again shrugged it off, but they were already leaving. Father sat on the right. I opened the gate. The Star, as huge as a hill, rolled along over the field rocks, drove out onto the road in a blue cloud of exhaust, turned left, set off toward the center of town, disappeared in the darkening perspective, and vanished for the ages. Like a stone in water. For ever and ever. Not a trace, not a peep. Now you see them, now you don’t.

I traipsed about the house; from the window in the attic you could see everything, as if it were on the palm of your hand. Suddenly, everything became so near and so distinct, like I was staring through binoculars: female sprinters ran around the playing field, frontier guards walked along the border on Stożek Mountain, the cat walked through the garden on a precise diagonal, there was something terrible in the clouds over the Jarzębata, the bridge groaned under a black Wartburg. In the desolate room, I opened the green-bound notebook with my detective/romance novel, but I didn’t have any ideas. I thought that in a couple days — when I finally landed in the new apartment, about which Father told such miraculous things, when I went out on the high balcony and saw Cracovia stadium down below, when, from the other room, I caught sight of the roofs of the city heaped up and overlapping like wings of a biplane — then I would certainly begin to write up a storm. I would go by train on Saturday with Grandpa Pech: Wisła — Goleszów — Skoczów — Czechowice — Chybie — Trzebinia — Krakow Main Station; on Sunday I would look around a bit, and on Monday I would get going with the book. As you can see: at an exceptionally early age, I found myself in the clutches of the old writer’s superstition — that supposedly a change of place will help. And I remained stuck in it for a long time. Until recently, to tell the truth.

I closed the notebook, and I was just about to dash out onto the soccer field. Any day now, Poland’s national team was supposed to arrive, perhaps it was already there and was having its first practice. I laced up my tennis shoes — probably on the way I would come upon the female vacationer in her next incredible long sleeve dress; I was already in the doorway, I was already turning the door handle, when Mother telephoned from Krakow: “What’s going on? When did they leave? They still aren’t here! They left around two, and it’s already seven! What’s going on?”

Grandpa, usually the calmest member of the household, immediately began to swear under his breath that it’s no wonder. It’s no wonder that they haven’t arrived, because if the driver has to have a lemonade in every roadhouse along the way, lemonade, cold lemonade, they won’t get there even by tomorrow. He spoke too soon. They didn’t get there by the next day. They didn’t get there at all. They never got there. A thunderbolt struck out of the clear blue sky, and everything burned up.