My First Suicide. Jerzy Pilch

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СКАЧАТЬ so many corpses! Nothing but corpses lying like trophies of the chase. Mr. Trąba—a corpse! Young Messerschmidt—a corpse! Doctor Granada and Kohoutek—corpses! Master Sztwiertnia and Father Kalinowski—both corpses! Even Małgosia Snajperek—a corpsette!” Supposedly all of them truly—I wasn’t present for this, I lay with a bandaged head in the clinic—absolutely all of them had fallen fast asleep, and they slept not one, but many hours, until the break of dawn. “Instead of keeping watch and praying for the removal of suffering, we fell asleep like the Disciples in the Garden of Gethsemane,” said Father Kalinowski, when Mother finally managed to wake him at daybreak. “I myself, overcome with wine, fell asleep like Christ in the tomb, and if it weren’t for you, Mrs. Engineer, I would not have risen from the dead.” With lightning speed, according to Mother’s tale, he braced himself; to her horror, with a shameless motion, he reached for the unfinished bottle of cherry vodka that was standing on the table, and he took a hefty swig straight from the bottle. Then he fell into a pensive mood for a moment, and after a while, with a gesture well known from the pulpit, he raised up his hand and said: “But both the sleep of the Disciples in the Garden, and His sleep in the tomb—although they were needless events that to this day arouse opposition—would turn out to be, in fact, unusually necessary and, in God’s plan, irrefutably needful!”

      V

      In September of the year 1971, I knew perfectly well which events are, both in life and in God’s plan, irrefutably needful, and which are completely needless. Without giving it a second thought—especially, I would say, without giving it any theological thought—I would call up my folks, and I would tell them that our entire brigade had, on the coming weekend, an obligatory excursion to the camp in Auschwitz, to the Błędów Desert, or to the dam in Porąbka, and every weekend I would make the trip to see Gocha in the mountains, and those were unusual trips.

      First of all—crouching down the whole time and ready the whole time for the sudden drop that would render me invisible—I would take the local bus to Krakow. With my eye, with the corner of my eye, glued the whole time to the glass in utmost vigilance, looking to see whether my folks’ white Fiat wasn’t crawling along in the opposite direction like a tortoise. The attack had been forestalled, the telephone call had been placed, but there remained unforeseen circumstances to be foreseen. To tell the truth, when it had to do with my folks, you always had to—you had nothing else to do but—foresee unforeseen circumstances. It could always happen that my incredibly convincing story about an excursion to the dam in Porąbka, to the camp in Auschwitz, or to the Błędów Desert would seem to Mother somewhat odd. My folks could always come up with the idea that they would manage to drop off something to eat before my departure, if only a couple sandwiches with home-made butter, which strengthens the eyes. They could always come to the conclusion that I must have a cold, because I speak in such a dreadfully hoarse voice on the phone, and if I go on the excursion I will fix myself for good. They could always make the desperate attempt to drive over in the early morning with a note, written in advance in their own calligraphy, a justification of the absence of our son from the tourist activities. Always, always, always. I was never able to foresee everything. Beginning in the deepest depths of childhood, I practiced decoding the unpredictability of my folks. I was really not bad at this. I could foresee practically everything, but, all the same, they always managed to surprise me.

      I sat in the bus, crouching and ready to drop, and I quailed at the sight of every white Fiat, and at the sight of a white Fiat that was traveling somewhat more slowly than the rest—my heart stopped beating. Two times or so, I was certain it was them. On the first Friday one, on the second Friday a second white Fiat barreled along in the opposite direction on the deserted chalky road at wheelchair velocity. In hallucinogenic panic, I saw the silhouettes of my folks inside: Father frozen in a catatonic stupor over the steering wheel, Mother thrashing about with incessant exhortations to slow down. I knew that as soon as they got there, and didn’t find me, they would set out in hot pursuit. First, it goes without saying, by requests, threats, force, money, whatever they could muster, they would extort, that’s right, they would extort—even from Wittenberg, they would extort—a confession of where I was, and immediately thereafter they would set out in hot pursuit. I looked around me for some time to see whether, from behind, from beyond a white hill, from beyond a sandy turn, they would appear with lights and sirens blazing, but these were already much too surrealistic visions.

      The closer I got to Krakow, the more the apparitions faded, and once I got there, at the bus terminal, they vanished completely. A biblical throng teemed there. The voice of God, roaring as on Mount Sinai, announced the next departures. An azure pillar of exhaust fumes rose to the heavens like the sign of an accepted offering. I didn’t have any luggage, and probably that advantage allowed me to make my way through the throng every time. God knows by what miracle, standing on one leg, in an exceptionally reckless position, but every time, suddenly I would find myself on the regional bus to Zakopane—crammed beyond human endurance—and my soul sang. Actually, I know by what miracle. In a couple hours, my body would be clinging to Gocha’s dusky body, and on the face of the entire earth there wasn’t a bus so crammed full that I wouldn’t get on it in order to reach her.

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