My First Suicide. Jerzy Pilch

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      I made ever smaller circles. I could already see quite well the legs that had paced the most prestigious catwalks of the world; the shoulders that, season after season, were wrapped in the most expensive creations of Dior, Versace, Lagerfeld, and Montana; the hair, fragrant with the most expensive shampoos of the globe; the décolletage boldly presenting the profile of the famous bust, which the floodlights of Hollywood film studios had briefly lit up. Briefly, since she hadn’t had a big career as an actress. That is to say, it is true that fifteen years ago she played a stewardess who served Harrison Ford a drink—even that was the pipe dream of the majority of professional European actresses—but after this episode offers didn’t come pouring out of the proverbial bag. It goes without saying: this did not diminish her in the least—at least not in my eyes. On the contrary. There was a logic in this. Her uncanny beauty decided her fate. Nothing else came into play. Putting it the other way around, which is to say point-blank: in everything she took up, with the exception of her own beauty, she was rather a clod. And, unfortunately, she took up various things. She recorded a CD with her own songs—the chief value of which was its almost complete lack of background hiss. She published a slender volume of verse—a rare sort of catastrophe, since it was bloody, and at the same time completely lacking in expression. She painted and organized an exhibition of her own work—oh, Jesus Christ! To tell the truth, even her one-second performance as an actress at the side of Harrison Ford—especially considering its minuscule time span—knew no bounds. It was sorry consolation that, at the side of such a virtuoso, everyone—and especially a fledgling artist—looks pale.

      But her defeats had no bearing on the fact of her beauty. Who cared about the fact that she was no singer, a wretched poet, and a miserable painter, since—when they came into contact with her—the greatest singers lost their voices, the most distinguished poets didn’t know what to say, and the most original painters peed their pants from sheer sensation?

      I was already close to that beauty. I was close, but I wasn’t tight like a bow-string—I was shaking like jelly.

      “I’m happy to see you alive,” I managed to stammer, absurdly. I had intended to say, of course: “I’m happy to see you live,” which was supposed to have been the ritual and safe phrase of the admirer who knows his idol from the movie theater, from television, as well as from the thousands of photographs, and now gives expression to his ecstasy at seeing her in real life. Instead of this, my nerves made me blurt out some sort of, I don’t know—some sort of post-traumatic or post-heart-attack line. “I’m happy to see you alive” sounded, after all, as if she had just escaped from some sort of life-threatening danger, but no one had heard anything of the sort. There isn’t anything bad, however, that can’t come out to the good. She looked at me and burst out laughing unexpectedly loudly. Quite clearly—to use literary Polish—my unfortunate lapsus had amused her.

      “I, too, am happy to see you alive,” she said with a light touch, but that lightness immediately weighed like lead upon my brain.

      It’s impossible—I feverishly began to mull over the facts—it’s impossible for her to know that, two weeks ago, I was at death’s door, in the strict sense of the phrase. How could she have known? I had locked myself up at home, I had pulled the Venetian blinds, I had turned off the telephones, I talked with no one, I didn’t go out anywhere, except to the twenty-four-hour delicatessen William… Someone must have noticed me when I was crawling to the store, and the news had immediately made its way around town. It was possible. I tried my hardest, but in the end you always had to go out to the store… Yes, someone saw me as I was crawling to the twenty-four-hour delicatessen William. There was no other possible explanation.

      Except, it was also possible that she had answered without any ulterior motive; that she had answered mechanically; that, for the sake of reinforcing the joke, she had repeated my clumsy opening as an echo. Such a possibility existed, and it was even highly probable, but, in order to accept it with equanimity, I would have to have been cured of my complex. And I had a gigantic complex about this. Every time someone asked me in completely neutral tones: “How are you doing? How’ve you been feeling? How’s life? Everything OK?”; every time I received similar SMSes; every time I heard such questions posed on the phone, or face-to-face—each time I was unable to answer normally and make light of it. Instead, I always shrank with fear, and I always groaned before I answered under the weight of the one-ton question: How does he know? How does that louse know that I am hitting the bottle again? And this time it was the same, or even worse, since, after all, in the assertion “I’m happy to see you alive” lurks not speculation about, but the certainty of my downfall. Nothing to be done about it, I thought. On the whole, it’s even better that she knows about my afflictions. At least then it won’t be an unpleasant surprise if I go on a bender right after the wedding.

      “It’s true. I’m barely alive,” I said carefully. “To tell the truth, I’m completely exhausted.”

      “That’s not good,” she replied with an inordinately subtle motherly tone. “Not good at all. Even bad. Very bad.”

      “I had a Russian teacher who spoke the same way. Exactly the same.”

      “I beg your pardon?” Not that she immediately stiffened, but she was unquestionably startled, and she was well on the way to absolute stiffening. Besides, there’s nothing strange about it. There hadn’t been any teachers of Russian in Polish schools for more than ten years now, and yet the summoning of even the specter of a teacher of the Russian language continued to give rise to problematic associations. Evidently The Most Beautiful Woman in the World was, like many Poles, painfully sensitive when it came to Moscow. No doubt she had this from her parents.

      “I once had a Russian teacher”—hoping to soothe her trauma, I began to tell her the story, feverishly and in haste—“he was a fantastic guy, we liked him a lot. Also because he was not only intelligent, but also understanding. He didn’t go overboard in the enforcement of knowledge. Not that he allowed us to walk all over him, but, all the same, he allowed us quite a lot. Nonetheless, every now and then, more or less once every two months, a frenzy of inordinate severity would seize him. He would enter the room with a boundlessly severe facial expression, summon us to the blackboard with boundless severity, and, inordinately severely, in absolute silence, listen to our answers. He wouldn’t interrupt, he wouldn’t correct, he wouldn’t speak up. Without a word, he would listen to the delinquent as he writhed like an eel, and when he had finally finished, he would say: ‘Very bad.’”

      She laughed, she laughed the entire time I was telling my story, she laughed, and that was good, but also a bit irritating, since when the punch line came she went on laughing in just the same fashion, and, strictly speaking, it wasn’t clear whether she had noticed and appreciated the end of the story at all. But I didn’t delve deeper into this. Distant, still golden and leisurely threads of lightning intersected the dark horizon. Three, maybe four storms were approaching the city.

      “Very good,” she said (she had noticed and appreciated after all!). “Very good. You get high marks from me for that answer. But it is very bad that you are barely alive, and that must change.”

      “What must change?”

      “Life. Life must change.”

      “You know, it is difficult to change life. Life isn’t likely to change. Unless it’s for the worse. And from a certain point on, it is exclusively for the worse.”

      For a moment I considered whether to intensify the pessimistic tone, and even whether to push the pedal of pessimism to the floor, but I eased off. Pessimism and bitterness were means of arousing comforting reflexes in women, which are as certain as they are standard; her all-embracing beauty, however, cautioned against playing this one from memory.

      “If СКАЧАТЬ