Candlelight Stories

  After returning to the base, I was sent for a medical examination. I had experienced a serious nervous breakdown and was considered ineligible for further service. Demobilized, I found myself back here where it all began. I had in my pocket a hundred thousand francs and complete emptiness in my soul.”

  We were already well into the second half of the bottle, as time passed gently forward with the dark waters of the Seine. This state of intoxication I liked the most - not sober, and yet not drunk. It was extremely difficult to maintain such a mood for a long time. Your brain demands more wine, to not be sober, but it is easy to go too far and get completely drunk or just fall asleep after consuming more than a certain amount of this shit.

  “Well, where have you invested all this money?” I asked curiously.

  “Where? Well, I promised you I would tell you. I invested them in the most appropriate place that came to mind. Very close to here.”

  I simply blinked without understanding.

  “It burned me as if it was the hell fire, this paper, burning holes in my pockets and in my conscience. By chance, I found myself on that bridge you see there. To this day, I do not know its name. I stood on it and through half of the night I threw my fortune into the water slowly, systematically, one piece of paper after the other. They flowed down the river like night moths, at first drifting in the air, then calmly settling on the water’s surface. It took a long time. I stretched the pleasure as long as I could. Until today, I still think it was the most enjoyable night of my life. And you know what I did with the last hundred?”

  I shook my head.

  “I lit a cigarette with it and it was the only useful thing I spent that money on. Do you understand?”

  I understood. But would I have acted similarly in his place? I highly doubted it. You had to be really desperate to throw that amount of money into a river, even in such as the Seine. We drank the rest of the wine. Bartek slowly began to make himself unavailable, his mind drifting off into space. In the end, he stood. I also got up. We shook hands and left, each of us in his own direction into the growing darkness.

  ***

 

  Sunday. I noticed a change with Mui Tang.

  The incense sticks showed up in my room earlier, before the noon. (Usually, she lit them in the evening.) And with them came the Chinese wraps. It turned out that under their soothing action, my ribs cured extraordinarily quickly, and the pain in my side was felt only at very violent movements. I was extremely grateful to her for this treatment and I was wondering what caused the change in the day’s proceedings. Our French was still extremely poor, but we had learned to communicate quite well with Chinese and Polish interjections. To complete the gaps in understanding, we used the signs and in desperate situations, we drew pictures on paper, if otherwise, something could not be described. It was in such a complicated way that I learned the following: It was Mui Tang’s last Sunday at the hotel. And the last day she was going to spend with me.

  Tomorrow, her fiancé was arriving from Hong Kong and they both would live with her aunt until the formal wedding.

  I felt terrible. How many girls could one man lose in such a short time? I reproached Mui Tang. Why didn’t she say anything about a fiancé?

  She said that the patient should not be worried. I was angry at her a little, of course, but when she cried, I forgave her everything. I owed her so much.

  We spent the whole day together. We walked around Paris as a tourist couple in love, holding hands. We watched the city skyline from the hill of Montmartre, roamed the Grand Boulevards, and when night fell, we went (everywhere on foot) to the Latin Quarter, where we had dinner in a small Chinese restaurant.

  Mui Tang was talking - I did not even try to understand what she was saying - and crying alternately. I felt strongly mournful, but knew too well that the guys did not cry. After leaving the restaurant, we walked by a small jewelry store. I saw there on the display window thin chain necklaces with golden Chinese symbols for pendants. Despite her resistance, I forced her to choose a character that would remind her of me. Finally, she pointed to one of them. I never found out what it meant. Mui Tang wore it around her neck as soon as I had bought it and after, she would stop to look at its reflection in the other shop windows as we passed by. I did not even wonder how much it had cost, this little thing. For me, it was worth much more than money.

  After returning to our (still) small hotel, I also received a gift: When I opened a small box covered with Chinese ornaments, I saw two shiny metal balls lying next to each other. She showed me how to rotate them both together in one hand. While turning, they produced an extremely pleasant sound that introduced the person in a good mood even in difficult times. After a long and hot farewell, Mui Tang left in her Chinese night, leaving in my room unforgettable memories and the smell of fragrant incense. I was once again alone in this big and divine city of Paris.

  ***

  Next day was an ordinary day. At work, it was the usual routine - we stripped off the old roof completely and without difficulty. Time passed quickly. The smell of incense was gone from my room and Mui Tang disappeared forever from my life.

  Only Bartek was left to me. Despite the fact that he did not speak readily, I slowly began to consider him as a friend. One day, on a Thursday, he invited me for a glass of wine at the same coffee bar where the waitress with the French Curves, as I called her in my mind, worked. We stood at the counter as usual. Bartek paid for the wine - unlike usually while Ms. French Curves drove me crazy with her movements even more than usual.

  Damn. I had to do something about her or I would really go mad.

  We spoke sparingly over our second glass. Actually, Bartek had already told me everything about himself. I had no more questions to ask. The lessons came to an end. But my concern about staying in Paris was still unresolved. It still hung in the air. I had no idea what to do next.

  “So, what did you do when you remained here without money and work?” I asked finally.

  “I knew well what I was going to do. The plan I had devised was simple and reliable. I was going to go on the same bridge in the evening, fold up the bottoms of my trousers, then put inside as many stones as I could. And then, of course, I would jump and disappear.”

  “What? You wanted to end your life?”

  “Exactly. I had a plan like this. Sooner or later, we have to leave anyway. Maybe sooner is better? Who knows?”

  “And what? You changed your mind?”

  “No, not like that. I went before dusk to this coast. I started to look for stones. On the same bench where we sat on Saturday, some boatmen drank wine. One of them called out to me. Jacques was his name. He told me later that my strange face puzzled him. I came closer. He handed me a paper cup filled with red wine. I drank. I had no reason to refuse. I felt better after it so I drank some more. Jacques offered me a job at the port, something to do with unloading the barges. I agreed without thinking and I remained there for some time, for two years, in fact.”

  “So you can say that he saved your life?”

  “Saved? There was not much to save. He just delayed the inevitable. Little I gained from this.”

  Bartek ordered another drink. After we finished it, our conversation suddenly stopped. Not much more could be said this evening.

  “You'll be at work tomorrow?” he asked at parting.

  “Tomorrow is Friday?” I paused to think. “Maybe not. I’ll be going to the police prefecture. Maybe they will be kind enough to extend my visa for another three months.”

  ***

 

  They agreed to extend but also promised that it would be the last time. Waiting in queue in a gloomy corridor of the Prefecture of Police at Quai des Orfevres, I looked carefully around. Who knew? Maybe I would get to see the somewhat famous Commissar Maigret with his inseparable pipe, or at least, Inspector Lucas. I did not, but the extension of my visa introduced me to an unearthly mood. Again, I had the right to legally stay in this bea
utiful city while earning French money painted in colors with the faces of France’s famous children and the elements of its architecture.

  I liked the French bills. They were larger than our own banknotes, decorated in pastel colors. The paper was stiff though thin. Holding them in my hand, I felt their value and my brain immediately began to convert them to Polish Zloty, the real magic of money.

  On Saturday, I visited my friends. It was Sophie’s birthday. I brought some flowers and as a gift, the last survivor of Polish vodka, Zytnia, which I had brought with me from Poland. It turned out that it was unnecessary as at the party, they served only champagne and oysters on a wide platter covered with crushed ice. It was commonly known as French elegance, which was practiced even in a tiny “chambre de bone” directly under the roof. (Who knew? Maybe it would be my next job.)

  High life boiled in my head along with the bubbles of champagne. The "poisoned cigarettes" stopped the time and transported us somewhere above, above the clouds from where we watched our little life indulgently, marvelling at the problems that seemed so important yesterday.

  ***

  On Sunday I went to Versailles. Visiting the palace, I wondered why everything was so overloaded with golden ornaments. Personally, I thought they were really in bad taste. The golden ornaments and knick-knacks literally dripping from the walls and furniture created an impression opposite to what was intended, changing the refined splendor into the new richness of the bourgeoisie. The palace itself, however, made a huge impression on me. Oh, to have a hut like this. How many crazy parties could be held here at the same time? The garden I did not like especially, for the hedges were trimmed to the line. Luckily, at least the hedges were green. Maybe the last king ran out of gold paint since all had been used inside his palace?

  I went back to Paris in the evening. I tried to find in the air just a tiny trace of Chinese incense, but could not. Somehow, it had vanished, disappearing along with all else. To console myself, I drank a whole bottle of red wine, ate half a baguette with sardines in oil and threw myself on my wide, creaky bed where I was doomed to sleep alone.

  I did not know how much time had passed, but it was still dark, probably the middle of the night, when I was awakened by a knock on the door.

  I opened my eyes. The tapping repeated. I got out of bed and put on pants.

  "Mui-Tang" I thought at first, hope swelling in my chest. "Could there be something wrong?" I frowned. "Or maybe it is her fiancé with a long Chinese sword?"

  It was neither. On my doorstep, I saw Bartek.

  "How the hell did he get my address?” I thought. “Well, probably, I told him the name of my hotel and he found it. But how did he get here on the top floor? Aren’t the front doors usually closed for the night?"

  “It’s you?” I asked, amazed.

  “I came just for a moment, I have a request.”

  I was silent, still pretty sleepy. What kind of request could it be that it could not wait until the morning?

  Bartek put on my table something wrapped in newspaper. As the wrapping came undone, I saw a coiled rope that we used generally for binding together the parts of scaffolds at a construction site. Those were the typical links, finger thick, with which we secured any kind of connections. Links were in several lengths and had at one end a small loop. That was a very old yet effective way to strengthen connections, for example, the connections of the brackets in wooden platforms. The repeatedly looped rope tied at the end held firmly even if the nails gave away.

  “I borrowed it from Pasqual on Friday after work. I promised that tomorrow, I would return it. Could you do it for me, please?”

  Bartek did not look very good.

  "Hangover" I thought.

  “Of course I will give it to him,” I said. “But why won’t you do it yourself? Are you not coming to work?”

  “I don’t work there anymore,” he said quietly.

  “Something happened?” I asked. “Did you get fired?”

  “You will know tomorrow. Now, I have to go. Thank you for the favour and...” Here, he turned his face towards me. “And thanks for listening to my stories. I think I needed to tell someone those.”

  He opened the door and without further explanation, left. Immediately, I went to bed and slept a hard, stony sleep.

  ***

  When in the morning I was awakened by the cheerful rattle of my Soviet alarm clock, the skies were clear behind the window. I washed up and got dressed quickly. Coming out of the room, I remembered the cord to the scaffold and came back for it. Strangely, though, it was not where I put it yesterday. There was also no wrapping paper. "What the hell! Was I dreaming?" I thought frantically.

  I had no time to search further. On my way to work, I thought about this mystery.

  Maybe Bartek forgot to leave it? Or maybe he changed his mind and later returned to get it? Or maybe it was really just a dream? I was still pretty sleepy, after all.

  At the site, there was already a great stir. Pasqual yelled ‘Kurwa Macio’ upon seeing me and began immediately to tell me something excitedly. I did not understand it at all. He called out something very quickly in French, nervously interjecting his usual Italian words. The patron of our company, a Pole, who had already been on the site since morning, explained to me just what happened. On Friday afternoon, before the end of the work, Bartek came to Pasqual and borrowed from him the rope used for scaffolding. He promised that he would give it back on Monday morning. On Saturday, the police arrived at our boss’ home. Early morning, Bartek was found hanging under one of the bridges over the Seine. (There was no need to explain to me what bridge it was.) They easily found his place of work and because the act of suicide was obvious, the investigation consisted only of a few formal questions.

  "But wait! He was with me that night! He brought me this rope!" I wanted to scream, barely holding it back.

  "Where is the cord?" They would surely ask me immediately. "Can you show it to us?" I could not. I had neither this cord nor even the newspaper in which it was wrapped. I didn’t say anything. If word got out that one Pole hanged himself, and the other immediately got nuts, they would cease to employ us in this country.

  That day, the work was not good. Pasqual was silent, which was not his custom. It was the real Black Monday.

  After returning to my hotel room, I searched again. The cord, of course, I did not find. I found instead a gray spider. It ran away, scared of me, but I caught it on a piece of paper and threw it from my seventh floor balcony, out on the street.

  It was only when he started to fall, I did wonder if he could fly. Who knows? Maybe Bartek had a point.

  The sheep we are not.

  Back to ToC

  Browarek

  He earned some money in the United States, hoping that when he returned to his country, he would open a small bar in his hometown and be able to live peacefully and without any problems. It did not work that way. It was no longer the same city. Lawlessness, bandit gangs and corruption prevailed, the police helpless during the reorganization after collapsing of the communist regime. In such an occasion as in others, you have to take matters into your own hands...

  Here is a romantic thriller for a good night.

  ***

  Byniek rolled from the back a new keg of beer, plugged the pump in and pushed it under the counter. Once, the barrels were made of wood, probably oak and on each barrel was installed a hand pump with a handle to create the pressure. A beer then was just a beer, large or small, light or dark. Now, in each fucking bar there had to be at least a few variants so that the client could have a choice. The west European beer they wanted mostly, which was imported in smaller barrels made of aluminum, easier to roll and never leaking, new technology.

  The bar was small, located in a suburb of Otwock city. Byniek affectionately called it "Browarek" which meant just a little beer factory in Polish slang. In Warsaw, there was a strange diminutive trend. You did not go for a beer, but for a little beer
. You did not shop at the bazaar, but at the little bazaar and so on. Before it was not so, at least not so commonly.

  The bullies waited quietly, without a word, looking at him cheekily. On their shaved heads they had black caps. They were dressed in jerseys, Nike sneakers on their feet. Typical fucking skins, many of which could be found now in Warsaw and the surrounding area.

  "I'll get them one day," thought Byniek. "I’ll smash their stupid faces." But he knew that it wouldn’t happen now nor in the near future. He had to keep his cool, as they now said in Poland, he had to wait a little longer.

  He had brought home a little dough from the USA. Not much. Just enough to redeem the apartment left by his mother and open this bar. For now, he only offered beer and sandwiches, but he was going to introduce something hot soon, like stew or grilled sausages. Alcohol, after all, was known to stimulate the appetite. After eating, the clients wanted to drink again and the reverse was also true, so hot food was necessary for the sake of keeping the chain going, for maintaining the client’s interest. At least, that was his plan until the damn thugs started appearing.

  They drank his beer quietly, graciously. When finished, the one sitting on the left side said: “Well, Grandpa, time to bring out the dibs.”

  “Gentlemen, this is the third time.” Byniek groaned. “Where will I get the money from? I do not earn enough and...”