Stone Upon Stone (10 page)

And that was how the table ended up back together.

Mother even killed a chicken and made broth to celebrate. We sit down at the table, me opposite father, Stasiek and Antek opposite mother. We cross ourselves and start to eat. Father says:

“Finally we’re eating like human beings.”

Mother sighs:

“Lord, if only Michał was with us. All these years and no word, no sign. Who knows if he’s even still alive?”

“He’s alive, he’s alive,” father reassures her.

And Stasiek tries to change the subject and says:

“Can you imagine if someone came to visit right now, with the chicken, and the table.”

And it was like he’d said it in an evil hour. The door opens and in comes Mateja from across the river.

“Christ be praised.”

“Forever and ever.” But I can see there’s something about him. He’s smiling, but there’s a fox in his eyes, you can even see its teeth.

“You’re having chicken,” he says. “Lucky for you.”

“We got a new table so I killed a chicken,” mother explains.

“I know you do. That’s what I’m here about.” And without so much as a by-your-leave he starts checking the table from every side, tapping it, rapping it, tugging at the legs to see if it isn’t wobbly, patting it like you pat a horse’s rump, and in the end he says it’s his table.

“Have you got a certificate?” I ask him.

“What certificate?”

“You know, to say it’s yours.”

“I can see it’s mine. It was on my land.”

“What are you talking about, your land, you moron! It was on the manor’s land!”

“It was the manor’s when it was the manor’s. Back then I wouldn’t have taken it. But after the land reform it’s mine, so the table’s mine too.”

“The hell it is! What kind of table did you have before the front came through? You forgotten? A bunch of planks nailed together, the wood wasn’t even planed. You were always getting splinters under your fingernails. Your fingers were bandaged so often, people made fun of you for picking too many blackberries. The table’s from the manor, so get the fuck out of here! How many of you are there at your place? You, your woman, seven kids, the grandfather. As many as you’ve got fingers. And do you know how many people sat at this table? As many as there were apostles at the Lord’s Supper. You couldn’t even have counted them. If a thirteenth came along there would’ve been room for him too. How is this supposed to be your table, you old fool? Look, you can still see the stains from the candle wax. They had candles when they ate. You all couldn’t even afford kerosene. Your eyes would be shining in the dark like wolves. And what, you want to eat
żurek
and potatoes at a table like this? They ate capons. Do you even know what capons are? Roosters with no balls. When they ate, all you could hear was knives and forks clinking against the plates, like bells during the Elevation. When you lot eat, you can hear the slurping noises all the way out on the road. They had napkins tied around their necks. And what’s left of them?
This table. And even that, all the parts got scattered and it had to be put back together after the war.”

As chance would have it, after they built the new road Mateja was the first person to get run over by a car. He was crossing to the other side because he’d remembered his woman told him to buy salt and the store was on the other side. Not only did he not buy the salt, it also turned out it was his fault. Here he was in his own village and he was to blame. He was going to buy salt and he was in the wrong. He didn’t die right away. They carried him to the side of the road. The whole village came running. I went too, though we’d been mad at each other all those years because of the table.

“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.