The Pole and Other Stories, page 6
‘And at a personal level?’
‘At a personal level? He and I get along perfectly well. He is a bit arisco, a bit dour, but I don’t mind that.’
She is unused to lying, but on the telephone it is not so difficult. And they do not count as great lies. In the end they will amount to nothing. Whatever occurred here in Sóller will be swept into the past and forgotten.
38. On each of the three nights left to them the Pole visits her in her bed. She is reminded of the story of the Greek girl who, nervous that the dark stranger in her bed might turn out to be a monster, lit a lamp and discovered he was a god. Well, she, Beatriz, needs no lamp. The stranger in her bed may not be a monster but he is certainly no god.
Why did the girl need to see her visitor anyway? Was the weight, the crushing pressure of an alien male body, not enough?
The shock of the new. A bright shock, like being electrocuted, not a dark one, like being swept away and buried in a mudslide.
There is a moment on the second night when out of the past there re-emerges the delicious feeling of falling. She had thought it gone forever, that it belonged only to youth or even to childhood: the terror and delight of shooting down a water slide, when the will is abdicated and one is, briefly, pure experience.
What else does she remember? Fingers playing on her skin, drawing music out of her. A musician’s touch.
Sometimes, while he is about his erotic business, her mind drifts idly to the shopping she must ask Loreto to do, to the appointment she has missed with the dentist.
As a lover the man is capable but not quite capable enough. No matter how resolute the spirit, he cannot prevent the creakiness of his physical being, his lack of vital force, from infecting his lovemaking. He covers up for it as best he can, and, each time he takes his departure from her bed, thanks her: ‘I thank you from my heart.’ Her own heart goes out to him at those moments, in pity if not in love. So hard to be a man!
She cannot bring herself to caress him. He is aware, she knows, of this reluctance on her part, this physical distaste. Awareness of it enters into his ritual thanks. Thank you for descending so far.
She ought to feel guilty. One should not go to bed with a man whom one does not desire. But she feels no guilt. I give enough, she says to herself. And it is not forever.
39. Be-a-triz, he whispers into her ear. I will die with your name on my lips.
40. She is in his arms. It is their last night together. She speaks. ‘This is not easy to say, Witold, but tonight we have come to the end. We are not going to see each other again. It makes life too difficult for me. I do not need to explain. Just accept it.’
She is glad they are in the dark. She does not like hurting people; she does not want to see a stricken look of any kind on his face.
‘Don’t think badly of me. Please. There is a bus to Valldemossa at eight-fifteen. I will drive you to the bus station.’
She has rehearsed her speech beforehand, therefore it is understandable that the moment should feel artificial, as though she were standing somewhere outside, or hovering overhead, hearing the woman’s voice, watching for the man’s reaction.
The man reacts by slackening his embrace, which a moment ago was warm but has now turned cold; he reacts by turning away from her, getting up, reaching for his clothes. He reacts by finding his way to the door (with a slight stumble in the dark) and making his exit; if she listens hard she can hear the click as the kitchen door closes behind him.
She allows herself to exhale. She is glad, unutterably glad, that he did not react with anger, with hurt pride, that he did not humiliate himself by pleading. If he had pleaded she would have turned against him forever.
41. He does make a plea, after all, one last plea, on the way to the bus the next morning. ‘After Russia is finished we can fly to Brazil,’ he says. ‘You can swim in the sea in Brazil.’
‘No,’ she says. ‘I am not going to follow you around the world—you or any other man. No.’
They arrive at the bus stop. ‘I am not going to wait,’ she says. ‘Goodbye.’ She kisses him on the lips. Then she is gone.
42. Back home she checks the cottage. He has left no trace behind, no physical trace. A good guest.
43. ‘El señor vuelve?’ asks Loreto.
‘No, el señor ha sido llamado de vuelta a su tierra natal. A Polonia. No volverá.’ The gentleman will not be coming back.
44. For the rest of the day she goes about her routines slowly, calmly, deliberately. She is still in a state of shock, she recognizes, and has been so ever since the Pole first manifested himself in her bedroom. If she can stay calm and allow time to do its work, the state of shock—which she pictures as a sheet wound around her so tightly that she can barely breathe—will lose its grip and life will resume its accustomed orderliness.
A sheet or else a frame, like the one in the Greek story, a bed in which one’s limbs are crushed until one fits someone else’s idea of how one should be.
The Pole too, for all she knows. The Pole, with his inconveniently long legs and big hands, may have been crushed and contorted in a frame of his own.
45. In the days before she flies back to Barcelona she has time to reorder her memories and settle on the story she is going to tell herself, the story that will become her story. She had a fling, she decides (she uses the English term). She had a fling with a visiting musician, which had its rewards but is now over. If Margarita, who is intuitive, taxes her with it (You have been with someone! I can see it!), she will not dissemble. It was that Polish pianist you brought to Barcelona—you remember him? He was playing at the Chopin festival. He was free, I was free, we spent a few days together. Nothing serious. I am sure he has lots of affairs.
She is prepared to entertain the possibility that her story may be incomplete and even in certain respects untrue. But, looking into her heart, she can find no dark residue: no regret, no sorrow, no longings—nothing to trouble the future.
Nothing serious. Is love a state of mind, a state of being, a phenomenon, a fashion that recedes, even as we watch it, into the past, into the backward reaches of history? The Pole was in love with her, seriously in love—and probably still is—but the Pole himself is a relic of history, of an age when desire had to be infused with a tincture of the unattainable before it could pass as the real thing. What of her, Beatriz, his beloved? Well, she was certainly not unattainable. On the contrary, she was all too attainable. Come and visit me in my house. Come and visit me in my bed. If she has saved herself, in the end, from the stigma of the too easily attainable, it was only by sending the Pole packing—the Pole who is no doubt at this very moment working up a story of his own about a cruel Spanish mistress who left a scar on his heart that will take a long time to heal.
FOUR
1. For a while after her return to Barcelona she continues in a state of mild shock. It surprises her that what occurred in Mallorca can have an effect so long-lasting, like a bomb that explodes harmlessly but leaves one deafened.
Being in a state of shock does not prevent her from plunging back into activity. She has been drafted onto a committee to fund residencies for rising young musicians: she spends hours every day on the telephone. And then there is the Concert Circle, whose audiences are dwindling as regulars grow old or infirm. Tomás Lesinski has died; his wife Ester is in the process of moving to France to live with their daughter. The grant that the Circle receives from the city is about to be slashed by half (‘financial stringencies’): they will have to trim their programme from ten concerts a year to six.
She does not miss the Pole, not at all. He writes to her. She deletes his letters without reading them.
2. In October of 2019, visiting the Sala Mompou, she is told by a secretary that someone is trying to contact her from Germany. ‘It is about a musician who once played here, I didn’t catch the name, it sounded Russian. She left her number.’
She calls the number and hears a recorded message in German. Speaking English, she leaves her name.
Her call is returned. ‘This is Ewa Reichert, my father is Witold Walczykiewicz, he passed away, perhaps you know this?’
‘No, I did not know. I am sorry. Please accept my condolences.’
‘He was ill for a long time.’
‘I knew nothing of this. I am afraid I lost touch with your father some time ago. He will be remembered. He was a great pianist.’
‘Yes. There are some things for you that he left behind.’
‘Oh? What kind of things?’
‘I have not seen. They are still in Warsaw, in the apartment. You were there?’
‘I have never been to Warsaw, Mrs Reichert, Ewa. I have never been to Poland. Are you sure you have the right person?’
‘This is the number that I called, and now you call me, so it is you—no?’
‘I understand. Can you send these items to me?’
‘I am in Berlin, I cannot send anything. I give you the name of the neighbour in Warsaw, then you can make arrangements. Her name is Pani Jabloṅska, for a long time she was a friend of my father. All the items for you she has put in a box with your name. Only you must act soon. I wait only for the documents from the lawyer, then I sell the apartment. Or perhaps it is not important to you, I don’t know, it is your decision. But I say again, you must please act soon. There is a wohltätige Organisation in Warsaw, I don’t know how you say it in English: I arrange that they come and take away everything in the apartment, make it clean, that is how they work. So if you want these things, you call Pani Jabloṅska.’
She dictates an address and telephone number in Warsaw.
‘Thank you. I will speak to Pani Jabloṅska and see what can be done. You have no idea what these things are that your father wanted me to have?’
‘No. My father did never tell me his secrets. Also, Pani Jabloṅska will not speak English, so you must have translation when you telephone.’
‘Thank you. Thank you for letting me know. Goodbye.’
Secrets. So she is one of the Pole’s secrets: the Barcelona secret. What other secrets did he leave behind in cities around the world?
3. She calls a courier company. Yes, they operate in Poland, they operate everywhere in Europe. Yes, they can pick up a consignment from an address in Warsaw. What does the consignment consist of? A box? A large box? A small box? For an item of under five kilograms, for door-to-door pick-up and delivery, the charge will be one hundred and eighty Euros, plus customs duties if there are customs duties, depending on what is in the box. What is in the box? Photographs? CDs? Used CDs? Normally there no customs duties on such items within the EU. Shall they go ahead?
First let me make arrangements for the pick-up, she says. I will call you back.
4. One of the violinists in the chamber orchestra that uses the Sala Mompou is a Russian. She catches him after a rehearsal. ‘Can you spare me a minute? I need to get a message to a lady in Poland. I have her number here. If I call her, can you speak to her and give her a message—that a courier will be coming on Friday to fetch the box? Can you do that for me?’
‘I don’t speak Polish,’ says the violinist. ‘Polish is not Russian, is different language.’
‘Yes, I know, but this is an elderly lady, she has lived through a lot of history, she must know some Russian, and it is a very simple message.’
‘Speak Russian to Poles is like insult, but for you I try. Courier is coming Friday?’
‘Courier is coming Friday, she must give him the box.’ She taps in Pani Jabloṅska’s number and hands over the phone.
There is no reply.
‘Write the text in Russian and I will send it. The text is: Good day, Pani Jabloṅska. My name is Beatriz, I am the friend of Pan Witold. A courier will come on Friday. Please give the box to the courier.’
‘I write in Roman alphabet,’ says the violinist. He writes: Dobri den, Pani Jabloṅska. Menya zovut Beatriz, ya drug…You write his name. Kuryer priyedet v pyatnitsu. Pazhaluysta, otdayte korobku kuryeru. ‘Is not good Russian, but maybe Polish lady understands. I go now. You tell me if you have success, yes?’ And he hurries off.
There is no reply to the Russian’s text. Early the next morning, with the Russian words at hand ready to be repeated, she telephones Pani Jabloṅska. Again there is no reply. She calls at all hours, that day and that night, without result.
5. What can the Pole have left for her? Whatever it is, can it be worth all this fuss? Does she want to hear yet more of his recordings of Chopin?
The future lies open before her and the Pole is trying to draw her back. From the grave he stretches out a great claw to drag her into the past. Well, she does not have to submit. She can shrug off the claw. To the courier man she can say, Cancel my order. To the daughter she can say, It is too much trouble, speaking Russian gibberish to Pani Jabloṅska, who will not understand anyway. So go ahead, clear out your father’s apartment, sell everything, be rid of it. To the man in the grave she can say, You have no power over me. You are dead. Being dead may be a new experience for you but you will get used to it. It is a not uncommon fate to find oneself dead and forgotten.
6. She telephones the daughter again, Ewa. ‘I have been in touch with a courier company. They say they can fetch the box, no problem. The problem is Pani Jabloṅska. She does not answer my calls. Perhaps something has happened to her—I don’t know. Is there anyone else who can give the box to the courier?’
‘There is the Agentur, they are selling the apartment, they have keys. You can call the Agentur and explain, yes?’
‘Explain what, Ewa?’ She cannot keep the sharpness from her voice.
There are noises in the background. ‘Ich komme!’ cries Ewa. ‘I must go now. I send you the number of the Agentur, then you can explain. Goodbye.’
Explain what?
7. The apartment is not at all what she had expected. To begin with, it is not in Warsaw proper but in the outer suburbs. From the street where the taxi drops her she has to cross a car park and a playground where three boys are racing their bicycles, with a little white dog scurrying after them, yapping and trying to bite their tyres. And then the apartment block itself is devoid of all character, built to the same drab plan as blocks in the working-class sections of Barcelona. Why would he choose to live here of all places?
Early for her appointment, she makes a circuit of the block. From an upstairs balcony an old woman in black peers at her suspiciously. It is October; the trees—maples?—are dropping their leaves.
In the entryway she meets the agent, a tall young man in an ill-fitting suit. He shakes her hand; his English, it turns out, is rudimentary.
‘Thank you for coming,’ she says. ‘You understand, I do not want to buy the apartment, I have come only to fetch something. I need no more than a minute of your time.’
He makes no move. Has he understood?
‘You open the door for me.’ She makes a twisting motion: a key turning in a lock. ‘I pick up the box. Then we go. You are a free man. That is all. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ he says.
There is a problem with the door. The key on his ring, the key that is labelled 2-30—he shows her the label, the number of the apartment—does not fit the keyhole. He shrugs helplessly? What can I do? his expression says.
She takes the keyring from him, tries another key. The door opens. ‘See?’ she says.
She enters, the agent following.
She had expected mahogany furniture, gloom, dust, creaking bookcases, spiders in the corners. In fact, save for a stack of cartons in a corner and four plastic chairs nested into one another, the front room is bare, and—because the curtains have been taken down—flooded with sunlight.
She peers into a minuscule kitchen, into a bathroom with a plastic shower curtain brown with age.
‘You are sure this is the correct apartment?’ she asks.
The agent shows her the key again, 2-30, the key that does not fit.
It occurs to her that the whole thing may be a trick, a malicious trick: not only not the correct apartment, but also not the correct apartment block, not the correct quarter of the city, perhaps not even the correct house agent. A trick for which only one person can be responsible: the daughter in Berlin, Ewa. Ewa has, out of ill will, sent her off on a pointless errand. Who is she, this Beatriz? Just another of my father’s many girlfriends.
But she is wrong. No trick. The second room is positively cluttered. It contains a bed (single), two chests of drawers, a rack of men’s clothes, an ironing table with a plastic sunflower in a vase, a mirror in an ornate gilt frame, a massive rolltop desk with a formidable typewriter.
There is a third room too, with another kitchen and another bathroom leading off it. This room is bare save for a piano. On one wall is a framed advertisement for a recital at Wigmore Hall, dated 1991, with an image of one of the Pole’s younger selves staring abstractedly into the distance. On the piano lid: a picture of young Witold, black and white, unsmiling, receiving some kind of award from a man in a frockcoat; a plaster bust of Johann Sebastian Bach; a more recent picture of Witold, hands clasped, at the centre of a row of women in sparkling evening dress, among whom she recognizes, astonishingly, herself. The Concert Circle sisterhood as it was in 2015, minus Margarita! She has never seen the photograph before. Where did he lay his hands on it?
‘See!’ she says, pointing.
The house agent peers over her shoulder. ‘It is you,’ he says.
‘Yes,’ she says, ‘it is me.’ Indeed it is! Year after year, unbeknown to her, her image has been casting its faint light over this dreary quarter of this alien city.
But what of the box, the precious box that the elusive Pani Jabloṅska has prepared for her, the box for whose sake she has crossed half a continent?
The cartons in the front room—there must be twenty of them—have labels scrawled on them that she cannot make out. ‘Can you help me?’ she says to the young man. ‘Can you tell me what these boxes contain?’
