Jerzy Pilch - My First Suicide

All evening — telephone calls. From Krakow, and to Krakow. There and back again. Through the intercity exchange. Except that Mrs. Gertruda — who had been the telephone operator forever, and who had been hopelessly in love with Grandpa forever — connected us without our having to wait our turn, and quickly. But what good are quick connections when there is nothing to talk about. They aren’t there, and that’s that. Are they there? No. An hour later — are they there? No. All night long — are they there? No. In the morning — are they there? No.

Before noon, Grandma locked herself in the back room, and there resounded the creaking of a wardrobe that was almost never opened. I was afraid. I was afraid that funeral dresses were hanging in the never-opened wardrobe. I feared preparations for Father’s funeral. I didn’t want him — once they had finally found him — to lie in an open coffin in the biggest room. I didn’t want Grandma to wipe his parchment face with spirits. I didn’t want to sleep under the same roof with his corpse. Of the two evils, it would be better that he never be found; that he land — together with the special truck driven by the special driver from the Academy of Mining and Metallurgy — in America, or on the Moon.

Today, when the most diverse attacks on long-distance freight trucks are our daily bread, when almost on a daily basis entire columns of trucks or entire segments of train cars disappear without a trace, as if they had evaporated — this causes no sensation whatsoever. But back then? A gigantic Star loaded to the hilt has vanished without a trace? Impossible. In any case, the militia didn’t believe it. Neither the Wisła nor the Krakow militia officers believed it. They shook their heads doubtfully, they observed us with a flicker of compassion, and they continually asked whether Father perhaps had had some plans. And whether, before the current disappearance, it had previously happened that he would disappear? And whether, before the current ill-fated trip, he had also recently taken a trip somewhere? Where do you have in mind? That’s just it, where? Perhaps he had taken some unusual business trips lately? Perhaps he had made some calls? Using the intercity exchange? Perhaps international? Perhaps he had submitted the paperwork for a passport? Do we understand correctly that you have acquaintances in London? Were there any letters from them recently? We aren’t suggesting anything. Nothing at all. But whenever someone vanishes with all his belongings, he usually knows what he is doing. And usually, after a certain amount of time, he turns up. In London, or in Munich, or in West Berlin. Absolutely not? Are you sure? Well, in that case, let’s hope for the best. Patrols are on the road, and as soon as we know anything, we’ll let you know. Sooner or later he’ll turn up. After all, he’s not a needle. If he isn’t on a ship sailing for America, he’ll turn up. He’ll turn up. The ill-fated vehicle will turn up. The unlucky Star will turn up. It will turn up. In the middle of the road, in the middle of life, in the open field. Covered by a yellow hill and a hazelnut grove. With an almost entirely burned tarp.

On the morning of the third day, Master Sztwiertnia will drive down in his famous Willys that still remembers the war, he will take Grandpa, without a word they will set off, and, after not quite three hours of careful driving, they will find the place as if drawn straight to it. Suddenly, from the right-hand side, some sort of stench will come to them, the smell of burning, barely perceptible smoke, and they will turn, although there won’t be a road there. Only after a moment will tire tracks appear in the grass. Father, unshaven and battered, will be sitting on a ripped open box, which had been removed from the back of the truck, and out of which were pouring dictionaries and encyclopedias; his face covered in his hand, elbows resting on the little chess table.

In the first moment, they didn’t even notice the crack, because the base and the table top were incredibly strongly and intricately bound with twine, and it seemed that those pieces of twine still came from the packing, that the innumerable layers of The Worker’s Tribune had been removed, but the pieces of twine had been left. Only later did it turn out that he must have spent the entire three days that he had been in the field attempting every which way to put the severed table back together.

Master Sztwiertnia’s masterpiece had been precisely — absolutely precisely — split in two, as if from the blow of a blade that was incredibly forceful and precise. On the split chessboard: a greasy paper that had once contained the cutlets, a gnawed-at apple, a partly burned scrap of The Worker’s Tribune . Besides, everywhere around there were burnt pages of The Worker’s Tribune —was he sending signals with the lit newspapers, or what? Of Tolstoy’s son-in-law — it goes without saying — not a trace, which perhaps was only for the better.

Suddenly, it was swarming, the local inhabitants were running through the fields, the militia Nyska drove up with bravado, a firetruck with the siren going, with its crew ready to act, neared from the horizon, from the nearest cottage a woman was bringing bread and milk, the heavens were parting.

The keys — left behind by Tolstoy’s son-in-law, as it turned out — were in the ignition. With the exception of the burnt tarp, the vehicle was lacking nothing; the things were completely untouched by the fire, even the ties and the reinforcements were still there; there would be no problem in setting off for Krakow with everything. With a parade, to the accompaniment of car horns, escorted by the highway patrol, volunteer escort cars at the front. The triumphal entry upon the Dębnicki Bridge was in preparation. With everything, perhaps even with an orchestra. With everything, with the exception of the little chess table, which had been split in two and was tied up with pieces of twine.

XI

What cataclysms had come upon them? What storms? What apocalypses? What was their sequence? Had Tolstoy’s son-in-law suddenly felt faint and decided to take a bit of a nap on the shoulder of the road? Had the earth opened up beneath him? Had he dashed off for the next, this time irrevocable, cold lemonade? Had they decided to arrange an eccentric picnic with cutlets and chess pieces in a meadow at the side of the road? Had a phenomenal Syrena with shining arms suddenly appeared before their hood and lead them astray? Had the Star caught fire out of the blue, and, in the panic of the flames, had they turned off the road wherever they could? Had the mysterious driver set off for help, but hell had swallowed him up somewhere on the way? Had a lightning bolt of mysterious vengeance fallen out of the sky and sliced the chess table in half? All these possibilities and all these events mixed up together at once?

Father remained silent. “You’ll never find out,” he would answer Mother’s pesterings, which went on for years. “You’ll never find out. By my word, never.” And indeed — he never breathed even a word.

Then, in the middle of the road, in the middle of life, beyond the yellow hill — when it came to the little chess table, what to do with it, whether to take it to Krakow, or rather have Master Sztwiertnia take it back with him to Wisła and try to salvage it — not so much did he not say anything as, simply, he couldn’t say anything. Even when he wanted to, he couldn’t get a word out — his throat had entirely stiffened. Was he crying?

Moreover, the Master was not inclined to attempt to salvage it. He didn’t like this story. He examined the suspiciously even break — it looked as if it had been made by a scroll saw — he studied it precisely, and he shook his head with a sense of the absolutely unfathomable. He glanced at the sky, as if only up there could there be saws that cut so diabolically.