House of Day, House of Night Page 5

  was thin and bony.

  'Mr A. Mos, do you sometimes have dreams?' she asked hesitantly and immediately knew she had made a mistake. The man laughed, slapped his thighs and gave her a look that seemed

  ironic.

  'Well I never - a young lady comes to see a strange man and

  asks if he has dreams. I t's just like a dream.'

  'But I know you.'

  'Do you? How come you know me, but I don't know you? Oh,

  maybe we met at jaS's party? At jas Latka's?'

  34

  O l g a To k a r c z u k

  She shook her head.

  'No? Where was it then?'

  'Mr A. Mas . . .

  '

  'My name's Andrzej . Andrzej Mos.'

  'Krysia Poploch,' she said. They both stood up, shook hands

  and sat down again awkwardly.

  'So . . .' he said after a while.

  'My name's Krysia Poploch . . .'

  'I know that.'

  ' . . . I'm thirty years old, I work in a bank, where I'm quite

  senior. I live in Nowa Ruda - do you know where that is?'

  'Somewhere near Katowice?'

  'No, no. It's near Vrodaw.'

  'Aha,' he said distractedly. 'Would you like a beer?'

  'No thank you.'

  'Well, I'm going to have one.'

  He stood up and went into the kitchen. Krysia noticed a

  typewriter on the desk with a piece of paper in it. Suddenly she

  got the idea that what she should do and say next was written on

  it, so she got up to take a look, but Andrzej Mas came back with

  a bottle of beer.

  'Actually, I thought you were from Cz�stochowa. For a while

  there I even thought I knew you.'

  'Really?' said Krysia, perking up.

  'I even thought . . .' he said, his eyes shining. He took a large

  swig of the bottle.

  'What?'

  'You know how it is. You don't remember everything. Not

  always. Was there something between us? At the party at . . .'

  'No,' said Krysia quickly and felt herself go red. 'I've never

  seen you before.'

  'But didn't you say you know me?'

  H o u s e o f D a y, H o u s e o f N i g h t

  3 5

  'Yes, I do, but only your voice.'

  'My voice? God, what are you on about? I must be dreaming.

  A girl comes round and insists she knows me, but it's the first

  time she's ever seen me in her life. She only knows my voice . . .'

  Suddenly he froze with the bottle to his lips and his eyes

  bored into Krysia. 'Now I know. You're from the secret police.

  You know my voice because you've been tapping my phone,

  right?'

  'No. I work in a bank . . .'

  'All right, all right, but I've got my passport now and I'm leaving. I'm leaving, get it? For the free world. I'm packing up, as you can see. It's all over, you people can't do anything to me

  now.'

  'Please don't . . .'

  'What do you want?'

  'I dreamed about you. I found you through the phone book.'

  The man lit a cigarette and stood up. He started pacing up and

  down the cluttered room. Krysia took her identity card out of

  her handbag and placed it open on the table.

  'Please take a look, I'm not from the secret police.'

  He leaned over the table and looked at it.

  That doesn't prove a thing,' he said. 'You don't write in an

  identity card that you're a secret policeman, do you ?'

  'What can I do to convince you?'

  He stood over her, smoking his cigarette.

  'You know what? It's getting late. I'm just on my way out. I

  have an appointment. And besides, I'm packing. I've got all sons

  of important things to see to.'

  Krysia took her identity card from the table and put it hack in

  her handbag. Her throat felt painfully tigh t.

  'I'll be off, then.'

  He didn't protest. He saw her to the door.

  36

  O l g a To k a r c z u k

  'So you dreamed about me?'

  'Yes,' she said, slipping on her shoes.

  'And you found me through the phone book?'

  She nodded.

  'Goodbye. I'm sorry,' she said.

  'Goodbye.'

  She ran down the stairs and found herself in the street. She

  walked down the hill towards the station, crying. Her mascara

  ran and stung her eyes, turning the world into a brightly

  coloured blur. At the ticket office she was told that the last train

  for Vrodaw had just left. The next one was in the morning, so

  she went to the station bar and ordered some tea. Her mind was

  a blank as she sat staring at the slice of lemon floating limply in

  the glass. From the platforms a damp, foggy night came drifting

  into the station hall. This is no reason not to believe in dreams,

  it finally occurred to her. They always make sense, they never

  get it wrong - it's the real world that doesn't live up to their perfection. Phone books tell lies, trains go in the wrong direction, the letters in the names of cities get mixed up, and people forget

  their own names. Only dreams are real. She thought she could

  hear that warm voice full of love in her left ear again.

  'I called the travel information. The last train to Nowa Ruda

  has already gone,' said Andrzej Mos, and sat down at her table.

  He drew a little cross on the wet oilcloth. 'Your make-up's run.'

  She took out a handkerchief, wetted the corner with spit and

  wiped her eyelids.

  'So you dreamed about me? It's an incredible honour to be

  dreamed about by someone you don't know, who lives at the

  other end of the country . . . So what happened in the dream?'

  'Nothing. You just spoke to me.'

  'What did I say?'

  'That I'm unusual and that you love me.'

  H o u s e o f D a y, H o u s e o f N i g h t

  37

  He snapped his fingers and took a long stare at the ceiling.

  'What a crazy way to pick a guy up! I take my hat off to you.'

  She didn't reply, just went on sipping her tea.

  'I wish I was at home now,' she said at last.

  'Let's go to my place. I've got a spare bed.'

  'No. I'm going to wait here.'

  'As you wish.'

  He went to the buffet and got himself a mug of beer.

  'I don't think you are A. Mos. I mean not the one I dreamed

  about. I must have gone wrong somewhere. Maybe it's another

  city, not Cz�stochowa.'

  'Maybe.'

  Til have to look again.'

  The man planked his mug down on the table with such force

  that he spilled some beer.

  'Pity I won't know the results.'

  'But you do have a similar voice.'

  'Let's go to my place. You can spend the night in a bed, not at

  a bar table.'

  He could see that she was wavering. Without the ghastly mascara she looked younger, less provincial.

  'Let's go,' he repeated, and she stood up without a word.

  He took her luggage and they went back up the hill.

  Sienkiewicz Street was deserted now.

  'And what else was in the dream?' he asked, as he made up the

  sofa-bed in the main room for her.

  'I don't want to talk about it any more. It doesn't matter.'

  'Shall we have a beer? Or some vodka as a nightcap? M ind i f

  I light up?'

  She agreed. He disappeared into the kitchen. and after a
<
br />   moment's hesitation she went up to the typewriter. Before she

  had even read the title of the poem written there her heart began

  38 0 l g a To k a r c z u k

  to beat. It said: 'A Night in Mariand'. She stood over the typewriter as if rooted to the spot. Behind her, clattering about in the kitchen, was Amos from her dream, a real, live skinny man with

  bloodshot eyes, someone who knew everything and understood

  everything, who entered into people's dreams, sowing love and

  anxiety, someone who moved the world aside as if it were a curtain concealing some other, elusive truth.

  Her fingers trembled as she touched the keys.

  'I write poetry,' he said behind her. 'I've even published a

  small volume.'

  She couldn't turn round.

  'Do sit down . It doesn't matter any more, because I'm off to

  the free world now. Give me your address and I'll write to you.'

  She could hear his voice just behind her, in her left ear.

  'Do you like it? Do you read poetry? It's just a draft, I haven't

  finished it yet. Do you like it?'

  She let her head drop. The blood was pounding in her ears.

  He gently touched her arm.

  'What's the matter?' he asked.

  She turned round to face him and saw his eyes fixed on her

  curiously. She could smell his scent - of cigarettes, dust and

  paper. She snuggled up to that scent, and they stood there without moving for several minutes. For a while he held his hands away from her, wavering, then he began to stroke her back.

  'It is you, I've found you,' she whispered.

  He touched her cheek and kissed her.

  'If you like.'

  He pushed his fingers into her peroxide hair and pressed his

  lips to hers. Then he pulled her on to the sofa-bed and started to

  undress her. She didn't like this, it was too abrupt, she wasn't

  going to enjoy it, but it had to be done, like a sacrifice. She had

  to allow him anything, so she slipped out of her dress, and her

  H o u s e o f D a y, H o u s e o f N i g h t

  39

  blouse, her suspender belt and bra. His thin rib cage loomed

  before her eyes, dry and angular like a stone.

  'So how did you hear me in the dream?' he asked in a breathy

  whisper.

  'You spoke in my ear.'

  'Which one?'

  'The left one.'

  'Here?' he asked and slipped his tongue into her ear.

  She squeezed her eyelids shut. She could no longer break

  free. It was too late. He was pinning her down with the whole

  weight of his body, touching her, penetrating her, piercing her.

  But somehow she knew that this had to happen, that she had to

  give Amos his due first, before she'd be able to take him away

  with her and plant him in front of her home like a huge tree.

  And so she surrendered to the alien body, and even embraced it

  awkwardly, joining in the bizarre, rhythmical dance.

  'Cheers,' the man said afterwards and lit a cigarette.

  Krysia got dressed and sat down beside him. He poured vodka

  into two shot glasses.

  'How was it for you?' he asked, briefly glancing at her and

  draining the vodka.

  'Fine,' she replied.

  'Let's get some sleep.'

  'Already?'

  'You've got a train to catch tomorrow.'

  'I know.'

  'I'd better set the alarm.'

  A. Mos shuffled off to the bathroom. Krysia sat still and looked

  around Amos's temple. The walls were painted orange, but the

  cold fluorescent light made them look a dull shade of blue. Where

  a patch of hessian had come away from the wall she could sec a

  brighter orange colour. It seemed to be shining, dazzling her. A

  40

  0 I g a To k a r c z u k

  curtain yellow with cigarette smoke hung at the window, and to

  her right stood the abandoned desk and the typewriter with 'A

  Night in Mariand' in it.

  'Why did you fall in love with me?' she asked when he came

  back. 'What makes me different from other people?'

  'For God's sake, you're cracked.'

  'What do you mean, I'm cracked?'

  'You're crazy. Off your rocker.'

  He poured himself a shot of vodka and downed it in one.

  'You came half-way across Poland to see a complete stranger,'

  he said. 'You told him your dream and you went to bed with

  him. That's it. You're cracked.'

  'Why are you lying to me? Why don't you admit you're Amos

  and you know all about me?'

  'I'm not Amos. My name's Andrzej Mos.'

  'What abou t Mariand?'

  'What Mariand?'

  '"A N ight in Mariand". What's Mariand?'

  He laughed and sat on a chair beside her.

  'It's a pub in the market place. All the local boozers drink

  there. I wrote a poem about it. I know it's bad. I've written better

  things.'

  She stared at him incredulously.

  The return journey was filled with the crash of closing doors the door of the night train crashed shut, as did the doors of compartments, station lavatories and buses. Finally the front door of the house gave a hollow crash behind her. Krysia threw down her

  bag and went to bed. She slept all day, and when her anxious

  mother called her down to dinner in the evening, Krysia had forgotten that she had been anywhere at all. Sleep, like an eraser, had wiped out the entire journey. A few nights later Krysia heard the

  familiar voice in her left ear. 'It's me, Amos, where have you been?'

  H o u s e o f D a y, H o u s e o f N i g h t 4 1

  'How come you don't know where I've been?' 'I don't,' he

  replied. 'Don't you travel about with me?' she asked. The voice

  fell silent. Krysia felt that this silence expressed some sort of

  embarrassment. 'Never go so far away again,' he answered in her

  ear shortly after. 'What do you mean by far away?' she asked him

  angrily. Maybe her tone frightened him, because he said nothing,

  and Krysia had to wake up.

  After the trip to Cz�stochowa nothing was the same. The

  streets of Nowa Ruda dried out and were flooded with sunshine.

  The girls put bunches of forsythia on their desks. The varnish

  began to peel off Krysia's nails, the roots of her peroxide hair grew

  dark and the fair ends worked their way down to her shoulders.

  At noon a large window in the banking hall was opened, letting

  the din from the street flood in - children's voices, the noise of cars

  streaming by, the rapid clatter of stiletto heels, and the flutter of

  pigeons' wings. It was a pleasure to leave work. The narrow streets

  beckoned you to enter, to look at the people's faces and be

  reminded of a painting of a courtyard scene. The cafes were inviting, their smoke-filled expanses full of curious glances and idle conversation. Even better, they offered the timeless fragrance of

  coffee brewing in glasses and the clink of metal teaspoons.

  In May Krysia went to see a clairvoyant and asked him about

  her future. The clairvoyant read her horoscope, then spent a

  long time concentrating with his eyes shut.

  'What do you want to know?' he asked her.

  'What's going to happen to me?' she said, and he must have

  been able to see into distant space beneath his eyelids, because

  his eyeballs kept moving from left to right as if he were surveying inner landscap
es.

  Krysia lit a cigarette and waited. The clairvoyant saw ash-grey

  valleys, with the remains of cities and villages. The scene was

  dead still, and was growing dimmer from moment to moment.

  42

  O l g a To k a r c z u k

  The sky was orange, low and thin as nylon. There was nothing

  moving, not a breath of wind, not a hint of life. The trees looked

  like stone pillars, as if frozen by the same sight as Lot's wife. He

  thought he could hear them creaking gently. Krysia wasn't in this

  landscape, nor was he there either, nor anyone. He didn't know

  what to say. He only felt a spasm of fear in his stomach at the

  thought that now he would have to lie and invent something.

  'No one dies for ever. Your soul will come back again many

  times, until it finds what it's looking for,' he said, then took a

  deep breath and added, 'You'll get married and have a child. I t

  will fall ill, and you'll look after i t . Your husband will be older

  than you and will leave you a widow. Your child will go away

  from you , far away, over the ocean perhaps. You will be very old

  when you die. Dying will not cause you pain.'

  That was all. Krysia went away calm, because she knew all

  that already. She had spent her money in vain. She could have

  bought a willow-green boucle blouse of the sort that were

  arriving in bundles from abroad. In the night she heard Amos's

  voice again. 'I love you , you're an unusual person ,' he said.

  In her sleepy state she thought she recognized the voice, and

  felt sure she knew whose it was, and she fell asleep happy. But as

  happens with dreams and semi-dreams, in the morning it had all

  melted away and she was left with nothing but a vague impression of knowing something, without being quite sure what. And that was all.

  P e a s

  'You don't have to leave home to know the world,' said Marta

  suddenly, as we were shelling peas on the steps in front of her

  house.

  H o u s e o f D a y, H o u s e o f N i g h t 43

  I asked how. Maybe she meant by reading books, watching

  the news, listening to the radio, surfing the Internet, reading the

  papers, or going to the shop for gossip. But what she had in

  mind was the futility of travel.

  When you're travelling you have to take care of yourself in

  order to get by, you have to keep an eye on yourself and your

  place in the world. It means concentrating on yourself, thinking

  about yourself and looking after yourself. So when you're travelling all you really encounter is yourself, as if that were the whole point of it. When you're at home you simply are, you