A Treatise on Shelling Beans (17 page)

It wasn’t just an ordinary tablecloth. Mother only ever used it for Wigilia. She’d woven it and embroidered it herself, intending it all along to be only for
Wigilia. Everyone knew how much work had gone into that tablecloth. She’d even sown the flax for the linen herself, in the best soil. She sowed it sparsely so the sun would reach each stalk. Then she went out every day to see how it was doing. Whenever a weed would poke its head out of the ground, right away she’d pull it out. So when the flax grew, it was a handsome crop, let me tell you. She cut it herself with a sickle. Exactly, you didn’t know what a sickle is. She used a sickle so as not to break the stalks. It dried for a long time in the sun, then later for a bit longer still in the barn. Then it was bound in sheaves, fastened with pegs down in the Rutka where the current ran fastest, and soaked there. Then it was dried again. Then she broke it up in the brake. I won’t go into what a brake is. In other places they call it a flax mill. She threw out any fibers that were too thick or too short. You can’t imagine how much sorting and combing there was. Till all that was left was a kind of gossamer. So every Wigilia, Grandmother would tell us the tablecloth was woven from gossamer.

Once the fabric had been woven, she washed it and dried it several times over. When the sun shone she’d spread it out on the grass to make it even whiter. Though it was hard to imagine it could get any whiter than it was. All summer long almost, day after day, if only the sun came out she’d spread the tablecloth in the sunlight. It wasn’t till winter that she set about embroidering it. It was supposed to be ready for Wigilia that year, but she kept embroidering it more and more, and it wasn’t till Wigilia of the following year that it was finished. As she worked on it she taught both Jagoda and Leonka to embroider. She embroidered a whole Garden of Eden. It was fancier than you see in some pictures. Grandfather, once he’d taken the edge off of his appetite, he liked to move his finger over mother’s embroidery.

“That’s where we’ll be,” he would say. “See, that’s where we’ll be.”

What did we eat at Wigilia? First a little cheese with mint, to represent the shepherds. Then
?urek
sour rye soup with wild mushrooms and buckwheat kasha. Pierogies with cabbage and mushrooms. Potatoes boiled in their skins, and salted. Whey soup to wash it down. Pierogies with dried plums, sprinkled
with nuts and slathered with fried sour cream. Noodles with poppy seed. Boiled or fried fish. You have no idea how many fish there were in the Rutka back then. These days, in the lake you won’t find half of what there used to be. I see it, people come here to fish and they sit for hours and hours by their poles. Sometimes I go watch, and it’s rare that any of them gets a bite. Back in the day you could catch something just by dipping a basket in the river. You’d put it in near the bank, tap a stick against where it had holes, and every time something would end up inside it. Before Wigilia, when the Rutka froze over, you’d cut a hole in the ice, drop a net through it, and wait till a fish came along. Anyway, after that there’d be cabbage and peas, or cabbage on its own, fried in linseed oil. If it was cabbage on its own, then separately there’d be green beans in honey and vinegar. If it was cabbage with peas, there wouldn’t be any green beans, just broad beans, that you had to take the skin off of. Then cranberry jelly. And finally compote from dried fruit.

We’d eat till we were fit to burst, even though it was always just a little of each dish. After that we’d go to midnight mass. Us children, we were usually sleepy by then, since the mass started so late. But we still had to go. It was only then that we’d put out the candles on the tree. To be honest, it wasn’t the dishes, it was the candles that kind of proved it was Wigilia. When they were lit like that, I was prepared to believe anything. I believed in mother’s tablecloth and in what grandfather said about how that was where we would be going, as he passed his finger across the embroidery. Sometimes I even had the feeling we were already there.

Maybe that’s why for the whole of my life I’ve always liked to see candles burning. Whenever I was at some party abroad, if there were candles burning as well as ceiling lamps and wall lamps, I’d always remember that particular party. Whenever I invited anyone to my place, I’d always have to have candles. When the guests left, if the candles were still burning I’d not put them out. I’d sit there till they burned out by themselves. You might not believe me, but it hurts me to put out a candle. I have the feeling I’m shortening its life. As if something was
suddenly ending, while nothing else was beginning. As if I were extinguishing something inside myself. I don’t know how I can explain it to you.

Let me put it this way. In my view, there’s something in a burning candle. Maybe everything. The same way that a drop of water contains all water, every body of water there is. Try putting out a candle one day.

I have two candlesticks. Silver. I bought them when I was living abroad. As if I knew you’d come visit me one day. If not right away, then at some time in the future. Shall I fetch them? They’re through there in the living room. On the sideboard. I can put candles in them, we’ll light them and watch them burn, and you’ll see. I used to sometimes swing by an antique shop on the ground floor of the building I lived in. For no particular reason. I liked looking at all the old furniture, pictures, objects. All those cabinets, chests of drawers, writing bureaus, looking glasses, lamps, clocks, or even the inkstands, blotters, paper knives. When you think about it, all that furniture and those objects contain an infinite number of human touches, looks, how many heartbeats, sighs, sorrows, tears, fears, and of course smiles, excitements, outbursts of joy, though a lot fewer of those, those are always rarer. Or how many words, just think about it. Now all of that has gone. But has it really? For instance, a mortar for grinding pepper or cinnamon, when I touched it, you have to believe me, it would speak to me. It’s just that it wasn’t given to me to hear it.

I’m sorry for asking, but have you never had a similar longing to live both here and there? Never mind when. Never, not even for a moment? A moment is important.

So one day the antique shop owner, who always gave me a smile whenever I came in, although until then we’d never spoken – anyway, he came up to me and asked:

“Excuse me, I know you, I’ve often seen you come by, but so far nothing’s caught your eye. Tell me, is there something in particular you’re looking for? I can keep an eye open for you.”

And though I’d had no intention of buying anything, I surprised myself by saying:

“I’m looking for a nice old candlestick.”

“Oh, I have plenty of candlesticks. Take a look.” He pointed to the cabinets lining the walls. “Brass, bronze, porcelain, majolica, lacquer, silver. Whatever you like.” He began opening one cabinet after another, unnecessarily, because they had glass doors and you could see inside. He took a candlestick from one of the cabinets and placed it before me, singing its praises. “Maybe this one?” He took out another. “Or perhaps this is what you’re looking for?”

“No, not that one,” I said to each one he lifted out. “I’ve seen all these ones before. This isn’t my first time here.”

“Right,” he acknowledged. “Could it be a pair?”

“Of course,” I said. “It’s actually a pair that I’m after.”

“In that case I have something for you. I asked because they can’t be separated. I couldn’t sell just one of them.”

And from a heavy cabinet with solid wood doors that he unlocked with a key he kept in his vest pocket he took out the two that I ended up buying. He stood them in front of me.

“Have a good look. Are these not the kind you’re looking for? I knew it right away. They’re baroque. Venetian. Superb craftsmanship, I’m sure you’ll agree. I have to warn you though –”

“I can imagine,” I said, interrupting him. “The price is immaterial. Please wrap them.”

He probably wasn’t expecting me to buy them, because as he was wrapping them up he continued trying to persuade me:

“It’s a miracle they survived to the present day. And both of them together. You can only imagine what their story has been. You know, the stories of objects are as curious as human stories. And just as tragic. For example, imagine recreating the story of these candlesticks. Not their history, their story. At the same
time we’d learn a great deal about the people who owned them. Things that might seem the most ephemeral, but which, who knows, might be the most important of all, though we’d never find out from any documents. Because sometimes a person can only count on objects to understand him. Sometimes he entrusts something to an object that he’d never entrust to anyone. Sometimes it’s only objects that are truly capable of co-existing with us. I hope these candlesticks will be like that for you … Please come again.”

Shall I bring them through, so you can take a look? I could light some candles. You say the light we have is enough for shelling beans. You misunderstand me. I didn’t mean that we’d have more light. Oftentimes I don’t feel like reading, I don’t feel like listening to music. Especially when it’s like this, in the fall or winter, the evenings are long, and I’m with the dogs, I sometimes bring the candlesticks in here to the kitchen, put in candles and watch them burn. And you know, as I watch I stop feeling that it’s me watching. It’s like there was someone here in my place. I don’t know who. Besides, it makes no difference. The dogs will be lying just like they are now, over by the wall in the shadows, sleeping or pretending to sleep, while inside me it’s as if everything is passing and I’m being overcome by an even greater calm. I become almost indifferent to myself, the whole world becomes indifferent to me, that it’s this way and not otherwise. I even have the sense that I’ve refound myself in an order I never knew before. And like you see, you’d think they were just ordinary candles. They burn and say nothing. But maybe in that silence of theirs there’s something more than silence, what do you think?

Now this was a true rebellion. We’d rebelled before, of course. How can you be young and not rebel? Especially in a school like ours. There were any number of reasons for defiance. It could be all sorts of things. The food, because the food was lousy. Or to protest the punishments. For instance, when one of us was missing a button on his uniform, the whole team would have to stand at attention half the day. One time they made us clear snow without gloves, also as a punishment. It was bitterly cold at the time.

They weren’t big revolts. Once we came back from work in the late afternoon and the power was out. Not for the first time. So we decided we’d not go to class, or to shop, we wouldn’t do anything connected with work. We all gathered in the rec room and sat there. They didn’t give us lunch, they didn’t give us supper, and in the morning, when we failed to appear for muster, they didn’t give us breakfast either. They reckoned they’d defeat us with hunger. Except that each of us was thoroughly familiar with hunger. You might say there was nothing we’d had as much practice with as hunger. A good few of us had survived the war because hunger had bound us to life. Hunger showed you were still alive. Hunger woke you up, hunger put you to sleep. Hunger held you, consoled you, caressed you. Often hunger was your only refuge, because like I said, we were all from who knows where.

It lasted three days. The teachers came and tried to talk us out of it, they argued, threatened that it would end badly. The commandant himself came by. He was festooned with medals, he wore a Sam Browne belt, he only ever dressed like that on special occasions. He even started calmly, in a paternal way you might say, telling us we had to understand. He didn’t blame us. He knew what it meant not to have electricity. They, that is, the teachers, also had to go without. Him too, even though he was the commandant. But we needed to realize that we were all still licking our wounds after the war. We of all people should know that. There was still very little power being produced, while the needs were colossal. Factories had to be set in motion, steelworks, mines, hospitals, schools. Our school for example. He gave us a long list. How much electricity was needed for cities, not just for the houses but for the streets as well. Soon the villages would need it as well, because they’d already begun the electrification that was finally going to end the age-old inequality between city and country. We ourselves were being trained with that in mind, after all. We’d be electricians by the time we left school. Had we not been given a challenge to be proud of? Future electricians, rise to your feet! No one stood up. That sort of cooled his enthusiasm. But he cleared his throat and went on. It was a thrilling task. One to suit our young hearts, our youthful zeal. He got so carried away the medals bounced on his chest. He was a fine speaker, that I’ll give him. We had to understand and we had to understand, he said, the country still couldn’t afford to give to each according to his needs. But in time, gradually, through hard work and vigor and patience, we’d get there. And through studying, studying was the key to strength. And it would depend above all on us young people as to who would finally win the peaceful war that was now being waged. Though he, the commandant of the school, he could already guarantee that we would be the winners.

We understood less and less of what he was saying. That there was some new war going on, even a peaceful one – that was beyond our ken. In any case no one had heard about it. After that he went back to saying, we had to understand, we
had to understand. And we had to stop repaying the school with ingratitude. The school had taken us under its wing, looked after us, taken the place of home and family, made it possible for us to grow up …

All of a sudden he was interrupted by a whistle from someone or other, then all of us together, as if we’d planned it, we started shouting:

“We don’t want to grow up! We don’t want to! We don’t want to! We want them to stop cutting off our electricity!”

He froze as if he was paralyzed. But not for long. Raising his voice to drown out our shouts, he began to yell:

“Who are the ringleaders? Who are the ringleaders? The rest of you will be let off! I want to know who the ringleaders are!”