A Treatise on Shelling Beans (5 page)

You may not believe me, but I couldn’t wait for the moment when mother would light the lamp. As soon as it started to get dark outside, I’d beg her: “Light the lamp, Mama, light the lamp.” I can’t explain it, but I wanted the light in our window to be the first one in the village. Father would hold her back, say it’s still too early, we can still see each other. Grandfather and grandmother would agree, they’d say it was a waste of kerosene. Uncle Jan would get up for a drink of water, which perhaps meant he had no need of light in general. And in my mother’s eyes there’d be a sort of indulgent smile as if she understood why I was so anxious for her to light the lamp.

Whenever she’d reach for the lamp on its nail on the wall, I’d rush out of the house, run down to the Rutka and wait there till the miracle of light by mother’s hand appeared in our window. When the first light in the whole village came on in our window, it was like the first light in the entire world. Let me tell you, the first light is completely different than when there are already lights here and there, in all the other windows, in all the other houses. It shines differently, and it’s immaterial whether it comes from a kerosene lamp or an electric bulb. It can be faint, like from a kerosene lamp, but you still have the impression it’s not just shining. It’s alive. Because the way I see it, there are living lights and dead lights. The kind that only shine, and the kind that remember. Ones that repel you, and ones that invite you. Ones that see, and ones that don’t know you. Ones that it’s all the same to them who they’re shining for, and ones that know who they shine
for. Ones that however bright they shine, they’re still blind. And ones that even if they’re barely glowing, still they can see all the way to the end of life. They’d break through any darkness. The deepest shadows will surrender to them. For them there are no boundaries, there’s no time or space. They’re capable of summoning the most ancient memory, however eroded it is, even if a person’s been cut off from it. I don’t know if you agree, but in my view memory is like light that’s streaming toward us from a long-dead star. Or even just from a kerosene lamp. Except it’s not always able to reach us during our lifetime. It depends how far it has to travel and how far away from it we are. Because those two things aren’t the same. Actually, it may be that everything in general is memory. The whole of this world of ours ever since it’s existed. Including the two of us here, these dogs. Whose memory? That I don’t know.

In any case, when I saw the light I knew right away where I was. The more so because when we shelled beans in our house, mother would always turn up the lamp to almost the full wick. Before she did it she’d always remember to ask father whether she should make the flame bigger. Though she knew full well he’d say: “Yes, turn it up. It’d be fine like it is for everyone else, but for your eyes it needs to be brighter.” Then she’d spread a canvas sheet on the floor, put a stool in the middle of it, stand the lamp on the stool, and father would go bring the bundles of beans.

So when I saw the light get brighter and come to a stop, I knew mother had put it on the stool and father had gone to fetch the beans. Though I paused a moment outside the door, because I didn’t know what to say when I went in. So many years had passed, no one expects you anymore, what should I say, what had I come for? I kept weighing it up, whether to go in or not, and what I should say when I crossed the threshold. As you know, crossing the threshold is the hardest part. In the end I thought to myself, it’s best if I just go right on in and ask whether they might have any beans for sale.

They were all sitting in the circle of the kerosene lamp, father, mother, granddad, grandmother, my two sisters Jagoda and Leonka, and Uncle Jan, who was
still living. He was the only one who got up when I came in, he went to get a drink of water. He drank a lot of water before he died. The rest of them, the bean pods were motionless in their hands. I stood beyond the circle of light, just inside the door, while they sat in the ring made by the light, I could see them all clearly. But no one smiled or showed surprise or even frowned. They looked at me, but their eyes already seemed dead, it’s just there hadn’t been anyone to close their eyelids. It was only the pods in their hands that showed they were shelling beans. And they didn’t know me.

Did you want a lot in the way of beans? That much I think I might have. Though they’re unshelled. But if you helped me we could shell them. You’ve never shelled beans before? It’s not so hard. I’ll show you. After a couple of pods you’ll figure it out. I’ll go fetch some.

So did you come here of your own accord, or did someone send you? Well, I don’t know who it could have been. I thought maybe it was Mr. Robert. But you keep saying you don’t know Mr. Robert. I just wonder in that case how you knew where to find the key to his cabin.

No, not like that. See here, watch my hands. You hold the pod in your left hand, not flat, like this, then with your right hand you split it open with your thumb and your index finger. Then you put your thumb inside and slide it down to the bottom. See, all the beans pop out. You try. Wait a minute, I’ll find you a better pod. Here, this one’s even and it’s nice and dry. That’s it, use your thumb. There you go. You see it’s not so hard. The next one’ll be easier. And every one after that will be easier still. You just need to keep your thumb straight, with the nail pointing forward. The thumb’s the most important thing in shelling beans. Like a hammer when you’re putting in a nail, or a pair of pliers when you need to pull one out. When we’d shell beans grandfather would often say the thumb ought to be the finger of God. The left thumb’s also important for playing the saxophone, it operates the octave key.

Of course we did, the children took part in the shelling as well. Ever since we were tiny. They started to teach us how to shell beans even before we could
properly hold our drinking cup by the handles. They usually put Jagoda by grandmother, Leonka would sit by mother, and me, I was the youngest, I’d be between mom and grandmother. The drier pods were too hard for us, so mother or grandmother would take our hands in theirs and shell the beans with our fingers, and use our thumbs to slide the beans out. So it looked like we’d done it ourselves.

I have to admit, when I was a child I hated shelling beans. My sisters too, they were older than me but they hated it as well. We’d always try to get out of it. My sisters would usually say that one of them had a headache or a stomachache. For me, I came up with different methods. One time, I cut my thumb right here with a piece of broken glass. Then later, when we started school in the order of age – first Jagoda, then Leonka, then me – we’d usually use our homework as an excuse, we had to study for tomorrow, we had a whole ton to do. It wouldn’t get done if we were shelling beans. My mother’s heart would always soften right away when we mentioned homework. You go get your schoolwork done, we’ll manage here on our own. On the subject of schoolwork grandmother would always mention God, she’d say if God wasn’t going to allow something, no amount of studying would help. Uncle Jan would usually just get up and go get a glass of water, so it was hard to figure out whether he was for homework or for shelling beans. Father, on the other hand, he would say that shelling beans was one of the lessons we should be learning:

“And not just any lesson. It’s one of the most important ones. Not just math or Polish. It’s a lesson to last you your whole life long. Math and Polish, all that’ll vanish from their heads anyway sooner or later. And when they’re left on their own it’s not math and Polish they’ll be drawn to. No sir.”

Grandfather would usually refer to the war, because he liked to use the war to make his point. Once he told a story about how a long long time ago, so long that his own grandfather had told the story, there’d been a war and the family was shelling beans. All of a sudden there’s a hammering at the door. “Open up!” It’s soldiers. Their eyes are all bloodshot, their faces are twisted in fury.
They would have killed everyone dead just like that. But when they saw that everyone was shelling beans they put their rifles in the corner, unfastened their swords, had stools brought for them, and they sat down and started shelling beans with everyone else.

As for Mr. Robert, I can’t say I knew him that well either. For some reason we never were able to open up to one another. We never went to the informal
ty
, even though we’d known each other for years. He had a store in the city, he sold souvenirs … What sort? I couldn’t tell you, I was never there. The one thing I can say is that in the letters he wrote me he’d always make fun of those souvenirs. He’d say that he himself would never in a million years buy the kinds of things he sold. And that if souvenirs like those were supposed to help you remember, it was better not to remember at all.

The first time I met him we were abroad. One evening a group of men and women came into the place where I played in the band. It was a Monday, and on Mondays there were usually free tables. Other days you’d have to make a reservation ahead of time. Though we’d still play every evening, even if there was only one table occupied.

They took two tables close to the little stage. I might not have noticed them, but I heard them speaking Polish. They were acting in a deliberately nonchalant way, as if they were trying to draw attention to themselves. They talked loudly from one table to the other, and I heard that they were part of a bus tour. They spent a long time looking through the menu and equally loudly discussing the prices. At the more expensive items they’d say, look how much this is! Wait a minute, how much is that in Polish money? Good grief! Back home you could live for a month on that. Not to mention if you ate in a cheap cafeteria. But being at a place like this in a foreign country, it’ll be a tale to tell. Instead of just endless castles, cathedrals, museums, scenic views. Come on, let’s order the most expensive thing. What if we don’t like it? At that price we’ll have to. And maybe some vodka too. Why? We have our own. Well, at least one shot each to kick off. I mean, we’re going to need glasses anyway, right? We have our own
glasses as well. But what if someone sees? What’s there to see? Vodka looks the same wherever you are.

They called the waiter, and each of them in turn ordered by pointing at the menu. And it was all the costliest items, the waiter bent double under the weight of all the prices. There was something impetuous in that scramble for the most expensive dishes, and at the same time it was disarming. But I had no intention of talking to them. I avoided those kinds of meetings.

There was a break. When the next set was about to start, one of the Polish group – Mr. Robert, as it later transpired – got up from his table. He came up to the band and started saying something in a mixture of words, but no one could understand him. I couldn’t decide whether to let on or not. He was trying to request a tango and he was asking how much a request like that would be. They understood the tango part, but not the bit about how much it would cost. Whether I liked it or not I spoke up, I said we’d play a tango, and it wouldn’t cost anything.

“You speak Polish?” He immediately held out his hand. “Robert’s the name.”

But I already had the mouthpiece between my lips so I didn’t reciprocate. We started up the tango. He went to each of their two tables in turn and said something, pointing at me. The people at both tables began watching me with a smile. He asked one of the women to dance. He didn’t lead her into the middle of the dance floor; instead they danced as close as possible to the band, as if he didn’t want to lose sight of me. He held her close, the way you do in a tango, and he kept smiling at me over her head as if we were good friends. I was mad at myself, I knew he wouldn’t leave me alone.

And he didn’t. During the next break he dragged me over to his table, just for a minute, so he could at least exchange a word or two with a fellow countryman. I didn’t let myself get drawn into any toasts to lucky meetings. All the same, from both tables they showered me with questions and I regretted giving myself away when he was trying to ask for the tango. Do you live here permanently? Since when? What brought you here? How did you manage to get a place in a
band in a club like this? Was it right away, or did you have to start by washing dishes? So you must have known someone. Normally everyone begins by washing dishes. Even for that you need to have good luck. Then if you’re really lucky you might get to wait tables. But this is something else! I bet it’s so great living here. Working in a place like this. Dance parties every evening. And they pay a decent wage, not like … One of them even asked:

“You can be honest with us. Did you leave for political reasons? Did you escape?”

“No,” I said.

“Oh, then I know!” cried one of the women as if she’d finally hit on why I’d found myself there. “I bet it was because of a woman. Well? Was that it?” They crowded in to hear what I’d say.

Another woman, who was sitting at the next table and up till now hadn’t asked any questions, gave a sigh and said:

“The things love can make you do.”

“The hell with love,” Mr. Robert retorted in irritation. “Who can afford love these days. It’s all about going to bed, nothing more.”

“Don’t say that,” the woman protested. “Love is the most important thing in life.”

Fortunately the other musicians waved to say the break was over. But the matter didn’t end there. You might say that was only the beginning. A few days later, a postcard arrived addressed to me at the club, in which Mr. Robert thanked me for an unforgettable evening. He said he was glad to have met me and that he’d write a real letter soon. With no idea of what might come, I wrote a postcard in return to say I’d also enjoyed the evening and I was glad I’d gotten to know him. But you know, it’s not good to be too polite. You can never be sure that even with common courtesy you’re not setting a trap for yourself. It was just that his postcard had kind of touched an unhealed wound in me. I’d never gotten a postcard from anyone back in Poland before.

Some time later the promised letter arrived. It was long and cordial. He
invited me to come take a vacation. He wrote that he had a summer cabin on some lake. All around there were woods. It was secluded, quiet, peaceful, in a word a magical place, as he put it. Even if it was true that some woman had left me, like we’d been saying that evening, in this place I’d be able to forget her. Because here you could forget anything. Here you went back to being a part of nature, without any obligations, without memories. Besides, if it was women I was after, there were any number of them here, and he’d find one who’d be right for me, cheer me up after the other one. Pretty young things, they come here on the weekends, or for their vacation. Some even spend the whole summer here, so there’s no need to try very hard even, they fall into your arms of their own accord. You won’t be disappointed, especially as you’re coming from abroad.