Jerzy Pilch - The Mighty Angel

It’s true, in between his final stays on the alco ward Don Juan exclusively drank denatured spirit, but it was denatured spirit prepared in a precise and masterful way. This was no vulgar dilution in tap water, this was no technologically horrific neutralization of the episcopal purple with the aid of Ace brand bleach, nor the addition of three containers of mint essence so as to lend the concoction a passing resemblance to mint-flavored vodka.

Don Juan the Rib began by making ersatz coffee. He used a large amount of coffee and brewed it for a long time; at the end, so as to give it the thickness of tar, an ebony hue, and the strength of a steam locomotive, he would add a single spoonful of honeydew honey, four spoonfuls of instant coffee, and two sachets of vanilla sugar. This mocha he mixed with the denatured spirit, in other words he poured a bottle of denatured spirit into the pan containing the ersatz coffee, which, already enriched by the extra ingredients listed above, had to be chilled to freezing point. (To the trivial question of why the coffee had to be chilled to freezing point, I will not respond.) Using a wooden ladle, he would stir the cocktail for such a long time that he would enter a sort of stirring trance, and he began to think he would never stop stirring. When Don Juan the Rib realized he might never stop stirring the denatured spirit, he would break off his stirring, remove the wooden ladle from the pan, touch it with his tongue and taste the ever more arid taste. Then he would place a colander, from which the enamel had almost completely worn off, over the pan, and he would line the inside of the colander with sterile gauze. The season of citrus fruit was beginning. Don Juan would take two handsome lemons, chosen with great care at the market, and with a precision that was quite natural in a hairdresser and musician, yet at the same time quite surprising in a drunkard with trembling hands, he would slice the lemons in two. This operation brought him satisfaction, and for a long while (though not to the point of entering a trance) he would stare at the four identical lemon halves. Then he would squeeze the juice out of each half in turn, with extreme thoroughness, over the gauze-lined colander. He would press out the gauze ever so gently and then toss it away casually — for the time of extreme thoroughness, in fact the time of any thoroughness whatsoever, was over. Even so, Don Juan the Rib faced one more round of stirring (the last, thank goodness), and he faced the job, demanding the utmost attention, of transferring the nearly ready beverage (with the aid of a funnel from which the enamel had almost completely worn off) into an old Johnny Walker bottle that Don Juan the Rib kept for sentimental reasons. (It reminded him of a certain high school senior who had debuted in his arms.)

And still he faced a wait. A dramatic wait, as the drink, with its outstanding and incomparable taste, was placed in the refrigerator till it became as dark and profound as an ocean overgrown with mouldering vegetation.

And it was the final sip of this very beverage that Don Juan had just taken when at a certain moment he came to and still did not believe that he was seeing what he was seeing, or smelling what he was smelling. He fell asleep for a moment, and when he woke up again the thing in the corner was even more distinct, it was so distinct Don Juan thought that he could see cankerous innards pulsating beneath a skin covered in pig-like stubble. And there was a stench, an unbearable stench. But when Don Juan the Rib finally understood that what he was seeing (he clearly saw a beckoning claw-shaped finger) was not a hallucination, he showed courage and decided to defend himself. Since he knew for sure the bottle was empty, he decided to fling his keepsake at the diabolical creature lurking in the corner. Yet when his hand began (with a cautious, lizard-like motion) to grope about on the floor, instead of his memento it encountered a house slipper, and Don Juan the Rib flung first one house slipper, then the second, at the diabolical creature. And it was then that fear and trembling made his hair stand on end. It was then that he was overcome by a true fury, because after he threw the second slipper at the diabolical creature he began to feel like a soldier who has run out of ammunition, and he was horrified that he had no more slippers to throw, because he had deluded himself into thinking that the first two slippers had had some impact, that it was only with slippers he could overcome the evil, that slippers alone were the only effective projectiles, that the diabolical creature would only succumb to an artillery barrage of footwear. With a superhuman effort he crawled from the bed and reached the closet, which was filled with various sorts of footwear, and he began convulsively flinging slippers at the diabolical creature, and when the slippers ran out he threw sandals, and when the sandals ran out he threw mules, and after that he resorted to any kind of shoes that were in the closet, and there was an extraordinary number of these shoes, so many that in the end they brought about victory for Don Juan, though it was quite literally a last-minute victory. At the last minute the last shoe covered up the last fragment of pulsating skin covered with pig-like stubble. Don Juan the Rib felt a slight relief, and his quaking heart may even have known a brief moment of calm; he was panting terribly and his awful physical exhaustion may at least for a moment have made him forget about his fear. He closed the door to the room in which the evil was breathing its last beneath a pyramid of shoes; either it was no more, or at least it was entirely hidden. He went into the kitchen, lit a cigarette, and looked around. Everything was where it belonged, nothing was moving, nothing was crawling, nothing was making a scraping noise. The refrigerator, the dresser, the dishwasher, and the gas stove were all where they had stood for centuries. On the dresser, just as in the days under the Muscovite yoke, there stood a small black-and-white Yunost television. Don Juan the Rib raised his hand and turned it on; a moment later the screen lit up like a mercury mine, and the voice of the singer who was immensely popular that season was heard. Amid flashes of mercurial lightning, on the unseen stage she was singing a song about a silken scarf. A terrible sadness transfixed Don Juan’s heart.

He still could have saved himself, he still could have gone to the all-night store, he still could have called one of his current women, he still could have summoned an ambulance; but he must no longer have wanted to. He turned off the television and sat in the kitchen, smoking. I know that he was afraid, and I know that he was in pain. Maybe he searched his medicine cabinet for diazepam or aspirin? It was bare; there was nothing but an empty packet of Rutinacea tablets and two Vitamin C capsules, insufficient medication for the purposes of a resurrection. He drank cold tap water, that much is certain; he turned the faucet on, drank greedily, and wiped his mouth. Maybe he felt hungry? But in the refrigerator there were only three bone-dry chicken stock cubes and a single (though almost untouched) jar of strawberry jam. Maybe he suddenly believed? Yes, he believed that if he drank a mug of nutritious bouillon and replenished his reserves of mineral salts, he would feel better. Yes, he believed that gradually, spoonful by spoonful, he would eat the jar of strawberry jam, and the sugar and glucose and vitamins would bring back his strength. And he put out his cigarette and set about preparing his last supper, and the people who broke down the door found him like that: lying on the floor, his mouth stopped up with a white-and-strawberry seal.

THE SUGAR KING — in civilian life a wealthy businessman — had announced to the alcos gathered in the smoking room that in the emotional journal he kept he had included the emotion of relief he had experienced at passing a stool. This confession caused great consternation among the female alcos in particular. Male snickers of recognition mingled with female murmurs of indignation.