Jerzy Pilch - My First Suicide

At the Pospiszils’, the lights are shining in the windows, Grandma walks through the yellow rooms, no one is surprised. It was almost as if Mila had been waiting for her. First they embrace, then they look at each other for a long time. They sit in the living room. There is no question of eating, but a sip of pepper vodka can’t hurt. Mila’s famous pepper vodka. Old Roth buys it all the time and does great business with it. He served it at the wake. After two rounds, the hubbub of voices was louder and louder. Lord Jesus, let me wake up. Lord God, wake me up. After the funeral, they asked to go to Roth’s, because — where else? She didn’t really know where she was. A year ago she hadn’t believed that she was at her own wedding party. Now she is supposed to believe that she is at the wake after Gustaw’s funeral? She drank about three glasses, but she didn’t feel a thing, not even the fiery taste.

“Mrs. Professor, Mrs. Professor,” old Roth bowed and scraped to Mila, “Mrs. Professor. When Mrs. Professor makes her pepper vodka from Wierchy , it is paradise mixed with hell! It is as if you were drinking fire mixed with sky. It is as if a cloud pierced by lightning had passed through your throat! Mr. Professor,” he addressed Pospiszil. “Mr. Professor, you have a genuine Eden in your cellar!” “Eden in the cellar, hell on the ground floor,” responded Pospiszil, who was well known for his splendid ripostes, and the laugh of the funeral-goers rose to the heavens.

Not only Mila’s pepper vodka, not only the other liqueurs, but especially the preserves, jams, cucumbers, mushrooms, home-made wine were delicacies. When the summer or the ski seasons came, Roth made out like a bandit on those delicacies. With Mila’s compotes alone he did better business than with the Brannys’ mutton. Which does not mean that he lost money on the meat.

“I don’t lose on anything,” he used to say. “I don’t lose on anything, because I like the Christian verse that says ‘In the beginning was the Word.’ In my tavern I, too, give the word at the beginning. Before the dill soup, I give the word dill soup; before the omelet, I give the word omelet; before the schnitzel, I give the word schnitzel; before the apple torte, I give the word apple torte — but what words they are ! How they are written, and on what paper! How they are bound! Garnished with what additional words! Officers’ soup! Omelet á la Lisbon ! Emperor’s schnitzel. Apple torte cumulonimbus !”

When, toward the end of the fifties, I found among some old papers a Menu of the Restaurant and Confectionery of Maurycy Roth in Wisła —covered with fossilized dust, but practically without damage — it seemed to me that I had discovered an illuminated Benedictine manuscript or a folio from a biblical papyrus. It was as if my delight was supposed to survive old Roth, murdered in Auschwitz.

Before the pepper vodka was the word pepper vodka, and after the pepper vodka was the word pepper vodka. People were still talking about Mila’s pepper vodka long after the war. And now, as I record this story, pepper vodka from Wierchy is warming the blood of Grandma Zuzanna. She didn’t feel the icy wind during her ride, she was completely numb from the cold, and finally there was a tiny bit of warmth, minimally deeper breaths, a trace of relief. Mila raises the lid of the grand piano. Gustaw had visited them a few weeks before the accident. “‘Sister,’” he said, “for that was how he always addressed me, with strange solemnity and tenderness. I loved him very much, and he loved me too. We were good siblings, even very good, but sometimes when he lost all moderation with that sister of his— sister this, sister that, sister the other thing, when he never said the shortest sentence to me without that sister —you know what I’m talking about, because you often heard it: ‘Gustaw, what time is it?’ ‘Three, sister ;’ when he was often as if completely possessed by that sister , I would lose my temper. Was he making a joke or a mockery of me. But not then, on that occasion there wasn’t time to feel offended, on that occasion there wasn’t time for anything, because he was in a hurry. He said that he was going to Ram Mountain for a sacrificial lamb . He was always joking, not always in an appropriate manner. In any case, he was in a terrible hurry, and he dropped by as if for fire, or rather for water, because he called from the threshhold: ‘ Sister , I need to drink, sister, I’m horribly dry, sister , I will die of thirst before I return home, sister , save me!’” And she ran down to the cellar for a jar of gooseberry compote — gooseberry, when you need to drink, is the best, slightly tart, invigorating; when she makes it, she never overdoes it with the sugar — and she took the biggest jar she could find, and she returned quickly.

He stood by the grand piano, the lid had been raised, and he had a hand on the keys, and she was certain that he would immediately hammer out a few bars of “When the morning stars are rising…” that was all he could more or less play. But no, he didn’t start to play, he turned around to her and smiled, and in his turn, and smile, there was something light — as if that turn were the beginning of flight. That became fixed in her mind. How wouldn’t it become fixed. That’s how she saw him the last time alive, and now it constantly seems to her that he is standing with his hand raised over the keyboard like some sort of composer, but the poor devil didn’t have an ear worth a plugged nickel, just those disastrous notes of “When the morning…” desperately tapped out. He had probably learned while still in school. Not so much to play, as to find the right keys by memory, and whenever he found himself at the instrument, he immediately began to hammer away. All his life, that one and only melody, and barely at that. Even after death, he couldn’t manage any better. Precisely an hour after his death, she heard someone playing, but, after all, there wasn’t anyone at home; the grand piano was closed and covered with a cloth, but she clearly, very clearly — she wasn’t imagining anything — she hears precisely the first bars pounded out by Gustaw’s hard fingers. He had already been killed, he was already a corpse, he already lay, crushed by the accursed motorcycle, already his wings were folded, already blood was flowing from his head as if from a faucet; but he came once more, wanted to play once more, wanted to pound out the melody, as if he were thanking her for the gooseberry compote.

They embrace and cry, and it is a cry of despair, but also a cry of relief, for since both had heard, since both had received signs, there is no mistake, there is no doubt. Perhaps it was even for this reason that God had taken Gustaw, so that, through hearing, and sometimes later even seeing, He might let it be known that He is. He is. It could have been this way: until now, it had been up and down with their faith. They were too young, too fine looking, and too flighty. Zuza and Mila. It was up and down with them, and especially with their thoughts. But now God had poured His Spirit into them.

Grandma Zuzanna drinks off one more shot of pepper vodka and feels the surge of strength and hope. If the Lord God has given these sorts of signs, that means that there is a Paradise, there are angels, and there is eternal life. And Gustaw will be waiting for her there. Lord Jesus, this is all true! Everything she had learned in Sunday School, in religion, in confirmation classes — this is all the truest truth. She will live well — diligently and piously. She will bring up the little one so that Gustaw will be proud of both of them. And when she should, at some point, die, when she should finally die, what is she saying — finally? — right away, in a moment; life is like a spark, time flies ceaselessly, perhaps even when she falls asleep tonight, she won’t wake up in the morning; it will be right away, it will be right away, as soon as she gets to Heaven, and Gustaw comes out to meet her, smiling so lightly, as Mila said, and they go to some corner where no one will bother them, and she will tell Gustaw everything, every little thing, week by week, day by day, how she raised the little one, how she lived. O Jesus, this is all true! O Jesus, how good that You had the baby start to cry in the back room! How good that on the way to Ram Mountain You sent thirst upon Gustaw and commanded him to drop by Wierchy for gooseberry compote.