Jerzy Pilch - A Thousand Peaceful Cities

“I loved her,” Father lied. “We wanted to flee together to the ends of the earth. We imagined that some day, some sweltering year, we would drive with all we possessed into a city full of ginger-haired dogs, grimy children, and mysterious women wrapped in veils and turbans (with whom, after several years — such is life, gentlemen — I would doubtless betray her), and an outdoor festival, Mille villes tranquilles , would be in progress there. She will speak with rapture, with amazement, and we will live in a house with a view of the ocean, or with a view of meadows, or with a view of a girls’ dormitory, and we will live there forever, and every night we will dream of a thousand white architectural constructions, a thousand downtown commons, a thousand sleeping streetcar sheds, and a thousand rivers crossing downtowns that are as crusty and dark as rye bread.”

Everything in Father’s story was invented, even the dreams were invented, which isn’t so bad — dreams are always invented. But he lied even at the very beginning of this imagined romance. He even lied when he said that he didn’t speak any languages. Father already knew French before the war. In those unfortunate papers he left behind, in addition to Petitions, Appeals, Pleas, Verdicts, and Accusations, there is also his Postal Practicant’s Certificate, which is brittle and yellow like his buried bones: 4 May 1933, having passed the examination before the Commission of the Head Office of the Post and Telegraphs in Katowice, he received the following grades: Postal Transport — good; Postal Service — good; Bookkeeping Regulations — good; French, Speaking and Writing — very good. Mille. Villes. Tranquilles .

“All the same,” Mr. Trąba said, “we have to kill him and go back home. The holidays are coming in a month.”

A light rain was falling. The sky over Warsaw brightened. The first snows were lurking in the heavens. My head was adorned with a colorful headdress. I labored under the weight of the crossbow. I had a Finnish knife in my belt. On my breast sparkled a plastic sheriff’s star. We wandered past prospect after prospect, we went from one end of Marszałkowska to the other, Nowy Świat, Aleje Jerozolimskie, we rode up to the top floor of the Palace of Culture. And not a soul looked at us even once.

“I hadn’t realized the extent of the slavery. It’s different at home in Silesia, after all.” Mr. Trąba didn’t bother to hide his distaste.

The tension rose. What I saw as the fiasco of our operation drew near with giant steps.

“The innocent child disguised as an Indian, and only roughly disguised at that,” Mr. Trąba patted me on the headdress, “this innocent child, even this innocent child arouses fear. Why, Jerzyk looks like a colorful magic bird, like a firebird that has flown out of the pages of a fairytale onto the grey streets of this wolfish city — people should be spellbound. And here you have the opposite. Instead of slowing down, passersby speed up. Instead of casting friendly smiles, they become gloomy. Instead of nodding their heads amicably, they turn away with repugnance.”

“What a hypocrite you are, Mr. Trąba. And it’s likely you’re entirely wrong in your social diagnosis.” Father was peculiarly relaxed. “Why, this innocent child is taking part in the penultimate phase of an assassination attempt on the life of a Communist satrap, and perhaps our nation senses this with its characteristic historical intuition. .”

“Chief!” Mr. Trąba cast a withering glance at Father. “I call you to order. Please adhere to the official version of events, even in your thoughts. After all, it’s clear that in this city not only the walls have ears; this city is one giant ear. .”

“Once again, you are guilty of moral incaution,” Father laughed, “moral incaution plus desecration. Warsaw isn’t a city of snitches. Warsaw is a city of heroes.”

“A city of heroes has to be, at the same time, a city of informers,” Mr. Trąba impatiently waved Father off. “And besides, you know, Chief, that if it were indeed as you say, that is, if our nation indeed sensed our intent with its characteristic historical intuition, it would certainly join us. .”

“It doesn’t join us. On the contrary, it scurries away, because it also senses the grotesque nature of the entire undertaking. .”

“The grotesque doesn’t exclude the spilling of blood,” Mr. Trąba venomously measured out maxim after maxim. “The grotesque doesn’t exclude death, the grotesque doesn’t exclude shooting Władysław Gomułka with an arrow from a Chinese crossbow. On the contrary: it is precisely the grotesque that offers such a chance for reality in its entire fullness. The nation knows this. .”

“The nation knows this from childhood, Mr. Trąba.” It seemed for a moment that Father was seized by a sudden and fundamental rage, but his good humor didn’t abandon him. “The nation learns, by heart, from childhood ‘Get away from me! I am the murderer of tsars!’ and similar thoroughly grotesque hogwash. ‘It’s time for me to kill. . someone holds me by a hair.’ Or even better:

‘Pale, silent phantoms, weak of heart,

Like a hundred-eyed peacock sentry

They watch the door behind which lies

The sleeping Tsar in his bedroom. .

Tell me, do you want to know

The color of his blood?. .’”

“I agree with you, Chief, that, as far as our Romantics were concerned — well, that was, for the most part, a gang of hundred-eyed peacocks, which is to say unpunished graphomaniacs endowed with the useless art of rhyme. I exclude Adam Mickiewicz, of course. But let’s not go too deeply into literature, it always condemns one to intellectual sterility. I want to ask you about something else.” Mr. Trąba was terribly anxious. “Just why are you in such good spirits?”

“I like to travel,” replied Father. “In fact, I’m in a pretty decent mood because I like to travel. Traveling soothes me. That’s in the first place. And in the second place — don’t be angry, Mr. Trąba — but in the second place, I’m in a good mood because I am awaiting the inexorably approaching moment when we finally throw in the towel. Strictly speaking, I’m waiting for the moment when you finally rip the Red Army flask out of your breast pocket, the one that you’ve been warming there from the beginning, take a healthy snort, treat me to a sip, and maybe Jerzyk too, and then all of us, relaxed, will set off for the mythical Kameralna bar, for example, in order to have a small banquet before the return trip.”

“I don’t feel like moving my head, so allow me once again to limit myself to waving it off.” Mr. Trąba raised his arm and executed the elegant gesture of negation with nothing but his hand. “There’s no turning back, Chief,” he said with a voice that was horrifying, because it was absolutely credible in its helplessness. “There’s no turning back, and as you know there’s only one penalty for desertion. I hope Mrs. Chief didn’t file the little ball off of the souvenir sugar bowl, and Grand Master Swaczyna’s people didn’t use their lathe to make of it a death-dealing dart, just so that I will now have to sink that piece of silver into your skeptical brain.”

Father silently observed Mr. Trąba. For a moment, perhaps, he still wondered whether there were some way to turn everything into a joke. I began to feel afraid. Terror, true terror, came upon me. A tallowy half-moon rose in the empty prospect of Nowy Świat Street. As usual in those situations, I sought solace in guessing what was about to be said. I concentrated and strained, and I came to the conclusion that Father would remain silent for the time being, and that Mr. Trąba would soon say: “a cream pastry, and that’s all there is to it.”