House of Day, House of Night Read online

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  book in Vhich she notes down her measurements. She showed

  it to me. 'R.f - 52, 54, 1 4' and a clumsy pencil drawing of a head

  with a high forehead, stained in several places with spilt milk or

  tears. Or: 'C. B. - 56, 53 , 1 8' and a sketch of a wig with a centre

  parting and waves of lightly curled hair that would fall on to the

  shoulders. Or a hairpiece for someone with a receding hairline,

  an incomplete wig covering only the front of the head, but tied

  to the back underneath the remaining natural hair. Or a

  scalpette, that is, a toupee - a hairy pancake glued to the skin of

  the head, the envy of men who comb wisps of hair over their

  shiny bald patch and fear every mocking gust of wind that might

  spoil their artful arrangement.

  Marta showed me several more wooden heads, polished to a

  shine by the fine gauze meshes. One of them was small, as if for

  a child, while another was so large that it was hard for me to

  believe that it matched anyone's head. For large wigs, apparently, there's rarely enough hair of a single kind and you have to blend hair, mixing skeins from many heads, selecting them precisely in terms of thickness and colour so that it will look natural.

  Marta says that at one time all the women wanted to have

  partings, a straight pink mark dividing the hair, in line with the

  nose. To make a parting in a wig you have to add a very fine silk

  gauze, and pull individual hairs through i ts tiny eyelets, then tie

  them underneath , creating a minute mesh. It is extremely timeconsuming, so Marta regards all partings as the height of refinement. When a friend who has an elaborate hairstyle with a

  parting visited us, I could see that Marta was looking at her

  head anxiously. She doesn't like dyed hair, especially bleached

  hair. She says that colouring stops the hair from being a storeroom for the thoughts. The dye ruins or distorts the hair, making it empty and artificial so that it can no longer fulfil its function.

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

  7 l

  Better to cut i t off and throw i t away a t once - it's dead, without

  memory or purpose.

  Marta never manages to finish tell ing me anything before

  we're interrupted by the need to deal with the water flowing

  down the hill, to steer it away from our houses so that it won't

  undermine the foundations, and to strengthen the edges of the

  pond before a flood in the night destroys them once and for alL

  or else to dry out our sopping shoes and trousers. Only once did

  she let me try on one of the wigs - it was dark and curly. I

  looked at myself in the mirror; my features seemed better

  defined, and I looked younger, but a stranger to myself.

  'You don't look like you,' she said.

  That was when it occurred to me to ask Marta for my own

  special wig. She would examine my face and record it in her wigmaker's memory. She would measure my head, immortalize it in her exercise book, add it to the other heads described in there,

  and then select hair of exactly the right colour and texture for

  me. I could have my own wig that would disguise and change

  me, that would give me a new face. But I didn't mention it to her.

  She put the wig away in a little bag of val nut leaves, which preserve hair.

  T h e b o rd e r

  The Czech Republic borders our land and is visible from our

  house. In summer we can hear dogs barking and cocks crowi ng

  from that direction. On August nights we can hear the Czech

  combine harvesters roaring away, and on Saturdays the sound of

  a disco that's held in Sonov. The border is very old , and it has

  divided one state from another for centuries, without undergoing much change. The trees have got used to being on the

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  border, as have the animals. But while the trees have come to

  terms with their location and have never stepped out of place,

  the foolish animals have no respect for the boundary. Each

  winter herds of deer sweep grandly southwards across it. The fox

  goes to and fro twice a day - just after sunrise he appears on the

  hillside, then goes back after five when everyone is watching the

  news. You could set your watch by the fox's comings and goings.

  Ve have often wandered across the border too , in search of

  mushrooms, or out of laziness, because we don't feel like cycling

  all the way to Tlumacz6w, where there's an official border post.

  \'e can carry our bikes on our backs and soon be on the other

  side. The forest road that runs across the border near our house

  has been ploughed up to make it impassable to cars, but reemerges a few metres further down. Ve've got used to being watched day and night by the border guards - the lights of their

  night patrols, the thunder of their Mercedes, and the rumble of

  their motorbikes; dozens of men in uniform guard the weedchoked strip of land where raspberries grow large and fragrant with no fear of being uprooted. It would be easier for us to

  believe they're guarding the raspberries.

  T h e c o m e t

  Quite out of the blue a bizarre and compelling idea came into

  my head today: that we have ended up as human beings through

  forgetfulness, through lack of attention, and that in reality we are

  creatures participating in a vast, cosmic battle that has probably

  been going on since time immemorial , and which, for all we

  know, may never end. All we see of it are glimmers, in blood-red

  moons, in fires and gales, in frozen leaves that fall in October, in

  the j ittery Oight of a butterOy, in the irregular pulse of time that

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

  73

  can lengthen a night into infinity or come to a violent stop each

  day at noon. I am actually an angel or a demon sent into the turmoil of one life on a sort of mission, which is either carrying i tself out without my help, or else I have total ly forgotten about

  it. This forgetfulness is part o f the war - it's the other side's

  weapon, and they've attacked me with i t so that I'm wounded,

  invalided out of the game for a while. As a result, I don't know

  how powerful or how weak I am - I don't know anything about

  myself because I can't remember anything, and that's why I don't

  try to look for either weakness or power in myself. I t's an

  extraordinary feeling - to imagine that somewhere deep inside,

  you are someone completely different from the person you

  always thought you were. But it didn't make me feel anxious,

  just relieved, finally free of a kind of weariness that used to permeate my life.

  After a while this powerful feeling faded completely, bloucd

  out by concrete images: the door open to the hall, the dogs

  sleeping, the workmen who arrived at dawn and arc puLLing up

  a stone wall.

  In the evening R. went to town, and I went to see Marta.

  Over the mountain pass hung a comet - falling without moving,

  a frozen, alien light in the sky. Marta and I sat at the table. She

  was combing hair for wigs, laying out some very fine multicoloured strands on the oilcloth. She covered the entire surface of the table with them, while I read the life of the sai nt to her. I

  didn't think she was listening properly; s
he kept rum maging in

  drawers and rustling the newspapers in which she keeps her

  hair collection. Spring Oies and moths had already discovered

  the light bulbs; their wi nged shadows, enormously magn ified,

  were jumbled on the kitchen walls. At the end of t he story tlarta

  had just one question: who was the person who wrote the life of

  the saint, and how did he know it all?

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  That night R. came back. As he unpacked the shopping from

  the plastic bags he said that people in town were going out on to

  their balconies to look at the comet through binoculars.

  W h o w r o t e t h e l ife of t h e s a i n t a n d

  h o w h e k n e w i t a l l

  You could say he was born imperfect, because for as long as he

  could remember he felt there was something wrong with him, as

  if he had made a mistake at birth, choosing the wrong body, the

  wrong place and the wrong time.

  He had five younger brothers and one older. After their

  father's death the older brother took on the task of managing the

  farm. johann both hated and admired him. He hated him for the

  stubborn and severe way in which he ran the farm, where everything had to be done on time and each person had his own permanent duties that had to be performed like a ritual. Even

  prayers. johann liked to pray, because it was the only moment

  when he could be entirely alone with himself, but even then his

  older brother would prod him and say, 'That's enough. Prayer

  time's over now. The sheep are waiting.' He admired his brother

  for the same reasons - thanks to him everyone had something to

  eat.

  But one year a harsh winter set in early and they failed to

  gather in the last of the hay in time, and the fruit froze on the

  trees. It was clear that johann was the one who should go to the

  monastery.

  That was how he ended up as a monk at Rosenthal, among

  young and old men, but his new life wasn't very different from

  the one he had led at home. Here he worked in the kitchen and

  the garden, chopped firewood , washed the dishes and fed swill

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  75

  to the pigs. From October to April he felt cold all the time, so he

  huddled by the kitchen stove until his brown habit grew warm

  and gave off the smell of burnt wool. In spring he was assigned

  to the garden, under the care of Brother Michael, who taught

  him the names of the herbs and instilled in him a fond ness for

  all that grows, sprouts leaves, blossoms and bears fruit. 'You

  have green fingers, my boy. Look how your basil is growing.

  We've never had such a fine specimen before.' Gradually johann,

  who was now called Paschalis, noticed that his habit was becoming infused with the aromas of thyme, hyssop, fennel and mint.

  But despite his changes of name, clothing and smell, Paschalis

  continued to feel ill at ease. He would have preferred to be someone else, somewhere else. He still didn't know who or where, but often, instead of praying, he would kneel down with his hands

  folded and gaze at the icons in the chapel, especially the one

  showing the Virgin Mary holding the Holy Infant, with two

  women standing beside her - Saint Catherine with her book

  and Saint Apollonia with her tongs. And whenever he gazed at it

  he imagined he was in the picture too, at the very centre of the

  scene. Behind him lay an open plain, crowned on the horizon by

  snow-capped mountain peaks. Nearby there was a city with a

  massive tower and walls of red brick. Well-trodden paths led

  from all directions to the gates of the city. Beside him, close

  enough to touch, sat the Virgin Mary and the Holy Infant; the

  Redeemer's smooth, white legs were resting on her purple gown.

  In the air above her hovered two angels, t heir wings outspread

  like huge dragonOies. Paschalis was either Saint Cat herine or

  Saint Apollonia - he could never make up his mind for long. hut

  in any case he was one or other of them. He had long hair that

  Oowed down his back. H is dress hugged his rounded hrcasb

  and Oowed to the ground in gentle folds. His naked feet could

  feel the soft caress of the material. At this point he would he

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  O l g a To k a r c z u k

  seized by rapture, and he would close his eyes and forget he was

  kneeling on the cold chapel floor in his old brown habit.

  Brother Paschalis had a beamiful face - his closely cropped

  hair only accentuated its beauty. His striking, dark eyes gazed

  from beneath his long eyelashes. His smooth, clear skin was still

  beardless, and his teeth were brilliantly white. As he knelt there

  in the chapel, with his eyes fixed on the icon of the Virgin Mary,

  he looked unbearably lovely.

  That was how Brother Celestyn - the bursar, who guaranteed

  material comforts for the brotherhood alongside their spiritual

  life - first saw him. Brother Celestyn called Paschalis over to him

  and said simply, 'I like you . You have a true vocation for the

  monastic life, and that is rare in our turbulent, heretical times.

  Perhaps one day you will become an abbot. But for now I shall

  take care of you.'

  So Paschalis became his new assistant, the third or fourth in

  succession. He brought the lamps into the dormitory, hung up

  the towels and was in charge of the razors. The next winter

  Paschalis started learning to read and taking care of the lamps in

  the scriptorium. Brother Celestyn himself checked his reading

  progress, and told him to come to his cell after nones to read

  some set texts. As he listened, he paced the cell from wall to

  wall, or stood facing the window. Paschalis could see his solid

  shoulders and his heels clad in woollen stockings. 'You read

  better and better,' said his superior, coming over to him and

  casually stroking the clean-shaven nape of his neck with his

  thumb. Paschalis did not find this caress unpleasant. Finally,

  during one of the reading sessions Celestyn came up to him and

  slipped a hand beneath his habit. 'Your back is as a smooth as a

  girl's. You have grown into a handsome youth.' Paschalis soon

  found himself naked in Celestyn's bed , where beneath the

  woollen blanket were sheets so soft they put the skin to shame.

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

  77

  In this silken bedding he allowed Brother Celestyn to do as he

  wished with his body. It was neither enjoyable nor unenjoyable.

  From then on Paschalis's habit no longer smelled of herbs, but

  of dust, books, and the strange, pungent odour of another male

  body.

  Once, as they lay beside each other, drowsy from making

  love, Paschalis confided in Celestyn that he would like to be

  someone else. 'What would it be like if I were a woman . . . ?" he

  wondered in the darkness. He also told him about the dress

  clinging to the body of Saint Catherine and fal ling in folds to the

  ground. 'We should regard being a woman as a kind of deformity, although this deformity is a pan of the natural order,'

  replied Celestyn in the words of the Areopagite and closed
his

  eyes, as if wanting to shield himself from all such infallible statements.

  One day Paschalis asked the wise Brother Celestyn about sin .

  Tel l me, is this a mortal sin? Surely we're not only breaking our

  vows of chastity, but also the laws of nature . . .' 'What would

  you know about nature?' said Celestyn angrily and sat up in

  bed, lowering his bare feet to the cold stone noor. His back was

  speckled with red pimples. He started to pull on his habi t .

  Paschalis suddenly felt cold i n the empty bed, without Celestyn's

  body to keep him warm . 'All the great philosophers and fathers

  of the Church have said that woman is the source of all evil I t

  was because of her that Adam committed the original sin, and

  because of her Our Lord died on the cross. She was created for

  temptation, but foolish are those who succumb to her.

  Remember that the body of a woman is a sack of dung and each

  month nature herself reminds us of this by staining her with

  unclean blood.' Celestyn turned the leaves of the book rrom

  which Paschalis had been reading aloud . 'Come here and read ,"

  he said. Paschalis stood shi'ering over the book. 'In the order of

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  old it was said that the pit should always be covered; and if an

  animal were to fall into the open pit, the man who had left that

  pit open would incur punishment. These terrible words apply to

  a woman, who shows herself to the eyes of a man, leading him

  into temptation. The pit is her pretty face, her white neck and

  sparkling eyes. The woman is guilty of the man's sin and must

  pay for that sin on the Day of judgement.' 'Get dressed,' said

  Celestyn, seeing his lover's trembling body. 'Our sin is merely a

  minor carnal sin, not worth a mention at confession. It is a lesser

  e'il than intercourse with a woman.'

  Yet Brother Celestyn wasn't paying proper attention and had

  misunderstood Paschalis. Paschalis wasn't interested in intercourse with a woman - he didn't want to have a woman, but to be a woman - to have breasts and to be aware of them with

  every movement. Those soft, warm spheres ,.,·ould fully make up

  for the lack of that thing between h is legs. To feel the hair tumbling down your back, smell the sweet scent of your own soft skin, hear the jingle of your earrings, smooth out the folds of