Stone Upon Stone Page 8

  “I’m not angry at you about the table,” he whispered when he saw me. “Yours or mine – either way we’ll end up sitting at the same table.”

  I gave the speech at his funeral. I even mentioned about the table. I said to his wife and children, don’t cry, don’t cry, Wincenty’s sitting at the Lord’s table now.

  Then some time after Mateja, Mrs. Pociejka was run over. She was going to high mass, and she was trying to cross the road just like Mateja, because the church was on the other side. She was really scared of the cars, so she waited till the road was clear. But it’s never going to be completely clear. She waited and waited, then she hears the bell ringing for the Elevation. So she ups and starts shuffling across. The nearest car’s still way in the distance. And if she hadn’t looked to the side she would have made it, because she didn’t have far to go. But she saw the car coming towards her and she was so frightened she dropped her walking stick. Some folks said she bent down to pick up the stick, others claimed she knelt down to pray that the driver wouldn’t kill her. But he did.

  Then Kacperski’s stove cracked from the cars. The thing is, the new road passes right by his wall. They’re sitting eating dinner, and whenever a car drives by, the spoons shake in their hands. Thick soups they can usually lift to their mouths, but if it’s a thin broth they sometimes spill half of it before it gets there. Kacperski says he’s even tried eating standing up, or sticking his mouth right in the bowl, or taking his food out into the orchard. The only time he has a proper meal is when his woman brings him dinner in the fields.

  Then Barański’s dog got run over. Then Mrs. Waliszyn’s calf. One Sunday it was one of my chickens. In the morning I’d taken the horse down to the river to water it. The sky was cloudless, the river glistened, the air was warm and fresh, the birds were singing, who would have thought anything bad would happen. I fed the cows and the pigs. I tossed some hay out for the horse, brought the dog’s bowl out, poured some milk into a saucer for the cat. Then I started to shave. I was halfway done when Mrs. Michała runs in:

  “Oh dear Lord, Szymek! One of your chickens has been killed!”

  I run out onto the road with my face half lathered up, still holding my razor, my shirt unbuttoned. I see a crowd of people standing in the road, and in the middle my chicken that’s been run over. It’s still flapping a bit. I pick it up by the legs. Is it yours, they ask. Of course it’s mine. You don’t think I know my own chicken? What’s one life worth for those cars?

  “Which one did it?” I ask, not because I want to know, but it seemed wrong not to say anything at all when it was your chicken.

  “He’s gone now,” someone says.

  “It was a green one,” somebody else adds.

  “Not green, blue.”

  “What am I, blind? It was green!” They start arguing.

  What was I supposed to do? I took it home and it had to be eaten.

  There’s no more peace to be had in our village. Nothing but cars and cars and cars. It’s like they built the road for the cars alone and forgot about the people. But are there only cars living in the world? Maybe a time’ll come when there won’t be any more people, only cars. Then I hope the damn things’ll kill each other. I hope they have wars, worse ones than human wars. I hope they hate each other and fight and curse each other. Till one day maybe a Car God will appear, and it’ll all make him angry and he’ll drown the lot of them. Whoever he spares will have to walk on their own two feet again. Like when the Man God appeared among people.

  Because these days anyone who goes around on their own two feet is nothing but an obstacle to the cars, on the road and everywhere else. Even when you’re walking at the side of the road you feel as if all the cars are driving right through you. Your heart’s in your mouth. Not that you’re afraid of dying. It’s just that dying from a car is no kind of death. Even the memory of a death like that, it’s as if someone had just spat on the road. Yeah, he got run over. But does that mean the same as, he’s dead? Is there eternity after that kind of death? Plus, they honk and make gestures and wave their arms from behind the windshield, and a good few of them wind the window down and call you every name under the sun. As if you were the lowest of the low, because you’re on foot. A person’s legs don’t mean anything anymore. Time was, whole armies went to war on foot. And they won. And people said, there’s nothing like foot soldiers. Or if there’s a pool of rainwater on the road they’ll even deliberately try and splash you. Then the guy that’s done it laughs at you from his car, the jackass. If his woman’s with him she laughs too. If he’s got kids, the little bastards have a ball at your expense.

  You know, if you could get ahold of one of those sons of bitches, you could grab one of those cars like a sheaf of hay and hoist it off the road into the field. But do you think any of them stop? They’re only strong when they’re speeding by. And where are they rushing off to? The sky’s the same everywhere, and no one can get away from their own destiny, even in a car.

  These days there’s no telling how you’re supposed to walk on the road. They say on the left. But push comes to shove, all that means is you’re looking at death face-on instead of having your back turned. Otherwise no one would even know you’re walking there, that’s how low you’ve fallen, man. They can see you or not see you, it’s up to them. A car’s lights aren’t eyes. There you are swinging your lantern in front of every car like a fool, like you were begging it not to kill you.

  And to think that when we were young men, after a dance it’d take us all night to get home along that road. The rooster would crow once, twice, three times. The cows would be hungry and lowing in the cattle sheds. Buckets would be clanking at the wells. And here someone was still on their way home. Sometimes till it was broad daylight. Till morning. What was the hurry? The dance was still spinning in our heads, the music was still playing, and we’d cut a step on the roadway like it was the floor of the barn and sing the first thing that came into our heads. “Stone upon stone, on stone a stone!” And the road never let out a word of complaint that you were waking it up. And it never dared hurry you. It’d go step for step under your feet, alongside you, like a faithful dog. When you stopped it stopped also. You could go one way or another, any direction you wanted, you could even turn back to the dance and it would turn back with you. From one edge to the other it was yours. Like a girl on a bed of hay, underneath you.

  The night could be black as pitch, and you’d be three sheets to the wind. One moment you had the sky over your head, the next the earth, then the next nothing at all, maybe not even God himself, because why would God want to watch over a drunken man. But the road never left you. The whole world would rear like a stallion under you, try and throw you off. Sometimes a tree would hold you up, sometimes a post or a shrine. Or you’d just fall over, pick yourself up, and continue on your way. If not on your feet then on all fours. Or you didn’t get up at all. Till you got woken in the early morning by the birds singing like a heavenly choir in the acacias. And if you didn’t know where you were, the road itself would lead you home like a guardian angel. Unless you got a ride from Szmul when he was taking the milk churns into town of a morning. But Szmul was just as much a part of the road as the acacia trees.

  I never missed a single dance, not just in our village but anywhere in the neighborhood. There were times we’d go five and ten villages away when we heard there was going to be a bash. And since I knew how to have a good time more than most folks, I was always greeted with open arms and they knew me far and wide. Hey look, Szymek Pietruszka’s here! Then they knew the party would be a blast. When I’d show up in the doorway it’d be, in with the band! in with the dancers! Musicians, play a march for Szymek Pietruszka! And the band would play like wild horses. And I’d enter dancing the march.

  The first thing you’d do was go to the buffet in the middle of the room. Like bride and groom walking up the aisle. Stand aside, everyone! At the buffet you’d meet people you knew and people you didn’t, but they were all friends.
Szymek, Szymuś, you’re here, greetings, friend, buddy, pal. Somebody’s pouring a drink, someone’s handing you one already poured, a third person gives you an even bigger glass, someone else a piece of sausage and a pickle. Drink up, Szymuś! Here’s to being single! We’re gonna have fun tonight! Long live us! And when on top of that my watch chain would be dangling from my belt, the whole dance shivered in anticipation. Now there’d be a party. Because on my watch chain I carried a knife.

  Oh, that knife of mine was famous. It looked like just a handle. Anyone who didn’t know might think I was only carrying it for good luck, like a keepsake. And having it on a watch chain like a watch, it seemed almost innocent. But all you had to do was press a button at the side and the blade would pop out like a wasp stinger. Often they’d come at me with sticks, and all I’d have was my knife. A whole mob of them, from every side, and me in the middle all on my lonesome, with nothing but the knife. But even a sword wouldn’t have matched it.

  Sometimes I didn’t even have to take it out. All I needed was to unbutton my jacket and flash the watch chain, fear did the rest. It was the same at the buffet – because of the knife I barely spent a penny. Anyone who wanted to see, it cost them a half-bottle of vodka. If you wanted to see it with the blade open, it was a half-bottle and a beer. And to handle it, a half-bottle, a beer, and something to eat. And if some wise guy pretended to want to know what time it was, you told him it’d be eternity when he found out, and he preferred to stand you a half-bottle as well.

  Four strings of garlic that knife cost me. I bought it off this guy that went around the villages selling needles, thread, safety pins, head-lice lotion, various stuff. They called him Eye of the Needle, because he could talk all day about the eye of the needle, who’d passed through it and who hadn’t. Afterward mother went on and on about how someone had stolen some of her garlic from the attic. I told her to count again, that maybe she’d made a mistake. But each time she counted she was missing those four strings. It was only when she was dying and I wasn’t young anymore, and it had been so long ago that those four strings had shrunk to four heads of garlic, as you might say, that I confessed it had been me. By then the knife was long gone as well, missing or maybe stolen. There was no shortage of folks that had their eye on it. A good few tried to buy it off me. But at that time I wouldn’t have sold it for all the tea in China. I could have gotten ten strings of garlic for it, or a hundredweight of rye, a necktie or a pair of gaiters. One of them even offered his watch. No one had a knife like that in those parts. They usually fought with regular bread knives, sometimes a butcher’s knife, most often with penknives.

  But a penknife, at the most it’s only any good for killing frogs or whittling a pipe while you’re minding the cows. You can’t even cut tobacco with it. Its blade is weak as a willow leaf and the handle’s like a twig. When you’re up against someone in a leather jacket, what use is a penknife, it won’t even cut through the leather. Also, every dick in the village carried a penknife since they were knee-high to a grasshopper. You could buy one at any church fair or win it at one of the stalls with a fishing pole or an air gun. But as for taking it to a dance, you’d be better off with your bare hands.

  So then, after you’d been to the buffet you went and danced. To begin with you were nice and polite. You’d take a young lady that was free and sitting on one of the benches or standing with her girlfriend. You’d bow to her and kiss her hand. And you wouldn’t hold her too tight, because what you’d had to drink was only enough for first courage. Besides, it was still light out. The sun was only just setting, it was shining straight in through the windows. And all the old women were sitting like crows on the benches around the edge of the barn with their eyes burrowing into all the couples like woodworms. There were small kids all over the place like it was a nursery. The band hadn’t had their supper yet and they were only playing slow numbers. All the dancers were still following the emcee’s instructions. In pairs, form a circle, one pair to the left, one to the right, make a basket, girls in the middle, girls choose their partner! And the firefighters in their golden helmets would still be sober as judges, standing there by the door like it was the entrance to Christ’s tomb, making sure no one drank too much. And if anyone did get drunk and went looking for a fight they’d haul his ass out the door. So a young lady could easily tell you you were a pig.

  It wasn’t till later. Once the sun went down and the ceiling lamps were lit. When the old women round the edge of the room went off for the evening milking, and the mothers took their kids and put them to bed. When the first dew broke out on the foreheads of the band, and the party really started to get going. Then, sure, you could drag a young lady to the buffet. And at the buffet it would be a first and a second and a third and, what’s your name, honey? Zosia, Krysia, Wikcia, Jadwisia. I’m Szymek. So listen, Zosia, Krysia, Wikcia, Jadwisia, will you have a drink with Szymek? I’ve been going to one dance after another looking all over for you, and finally I’ve found you. Are you lying? Why would I lie? Come on, they’re playing our number. And in that dance she’d let herself be held close. You could run your hands over the embroidery on the back of her blouse. Some of them had blouses like a flower garden, covered in cherries and rosebuds and raspberries and rowan. A good many of them would like it so much they’d show their teeth when you tickled their cherries and rosebuds and raspberries. Others would look at you reproachfully, like you were trying to pluck the fruit off of them.

  Then it was back to the buffet. Then back to the dance floor. And not for a kujawiak or a waltz this time, but for the oberek! That was a dance and a half! You’d tap your foot, and spin faster and faster. To the left, to the right. Hey! And your partner would be clean off the floor, with only you holding her up. And you’d throw her way up to the ceiling. Her skirt would be flying and her blouse would be bouncing. And her braided hair would spin around as you danced across the room. Oh my Lord! Szymek! My head’s swimming! She falls into your arms all out of breath. This time she’s the one holding you tight. The devil’s in her eyes by now. Szymek, I have to take a break. You’re something else, Szymek. Come on then, Zosia, Krysia, Wikcia, Jadwisia, let’s go get some fresh air. Or maybe she’d suggest it even, come on Szymek, let’s get some air, it’s hot in here. And once you were outside you’d go as far as you could away from the dance. Not here, Szymek, farther away or someone might see us and afterwards there’ll be talk. And you might come to the next dance, but then again you might not.

  Because the dance meant that all sins were forgiven. Even if one of them asked, will you take me for a wife? You could promise you would, sure, why not, but not right after tonight’s dance. Come on, get up, the music’s playing again.

  If you took a liking to one of the young ladies, then whoever she was dancing with it didn’t matter, you treated her like she was yours and you didn’t ever have to apologize for cutting in. Hey, come have a dance with Szymek. Szymek’ll show you what dancing’s all about. And you, beat it, loser! If he was meek he’d go sit on a bench and watch or get drunk at the buffet. If he put up an argument the watch chain would get dangled in front of him. And if that didn’t do the job, he’d get a fist in his face.

  Quite often that was how fights would start. Someone would shout, they’re beating up on our guys! The young lady would scream. Someone would jump forward. Someone would step in, try and separate them. Someone would charge up waving a stool. Someone would already be reaching for his knife.

  Though real fights usually started without any reason. When the dance was in full swing, and everybody was well watered. And whoever was going to stay had stayed. Whoever still had the strength to sing was singing. And whoever had lost their singing voice was reeling about and yelling. The young ladies would be squeaking like mice in the corners, and everything would have gotten good and mixed up. Dresses and shirts, souls and bodies, sweat and blood, and the ceiling lamps were hidden in a dark mist. And there was nothing but noise and crush from wall to wall. And no one knew anyone anym
ore. People’s feet would be making merry all on their own, the entire barn felt like an apple tree that someone was shaking with all their might. It was dusty as a dirt track in summer. Because by then every dance was a fast one. Obereks and polkas, polkas and obereks.

  The musicians had had their supper, and the vodka was playing in their veins. They’d taken off their coats, they were playing in shirtsleeves. Some of them even unbuttoned their shirt down to their belly button, and loosened their belt, and took off their boots because they were pinching. And all for the music. Because it was only now the musicians’ souls would come out. And man, would they play! They couldn’t feel their lips or their hands, they’d play with their gut, like their fathers and their fathers’ fathers before them. They played like they were about to die. Till lightning flashed, and armies marched to war. And a wedding party rode on drunken horses. And flails flailed in barns. And earth fell on a casket. And there wasn’t any shame anymore in feeling up a young lady here and there, you could even put your hand on her backside. And reach under her blouse. And pull her legs to yours. And young ladies would find themselves between your knees of their own accord, like chickens coming home to roost. And they’d fly around the dance floor breathless. They’d forget their fathers, their mothers, their conscience. Even the Lord God’s ten commandments. Because at those dances heaven and hell mixed together. Chest squeezed against chest, belly against belly. They’d giggle and faint their way into such a paradise, you could feel it flowing out of them even through their dresses. And the band would be filled with the devil, he’d have them waving their bows like scythes cutting off nobles’ heads. He’d put a storm wind in the clarinet. He’d set the accordion spinning. And hurl rocks at the drums. And if on top of everything else it was a hot close night outside, there was nothing for it but to let some blood.

  By that time it could be over anything at all. Someone would suddenly stagger as if the room had been tipped on its side. And right away there’d be screams and shouts, Jesus and Mary, Staś, Jaś, goddammit, the sons of bitches! Over here, boys! They’re coming for us! And your legs weren’t even done with the last dance. Your girl was stuck on you like bracket fungus on a birch tree. It was like you had to cut her off with a knife. She wouldn’t let go of you and she’d be crying and begging you: