Candlelight Stories

  Baska suddenly paused, as if she had run out of words.

  “What face?” asked Henry, strongly affected by her narration.

  “I do not know. Invent the rest yourself. After all, you're the writer. Well, I'm going to bed. Can I sleep with you?”

  “Look for somebody younger as a companion.”

  “Why? When I was little, I often slept with my daddy.”

  Henryk tried to throw a pillow at her, but she was too fast, she disappeared into the hallway in no time.

  ***

  The phone conversation did not last long. Teresa was furious, of course, but not because of the pen. It seemed she had completely forgotten about it. Now, it was about something else, something even more important. Her current frustration stemmed from the fact that Henry had taken all of his belongings (except the navy stuff) and walked out of the house. If she had sent him away, everything, of course, would be fine, but he? Her own husband? Without her permission and without even consulting her? He had desecrated her personal and professional pride. It was a grave insult. A profanity.

  Henryk understood it, alright. He did not even try to explain anything. After so many years of marriage, he knew everything by heart. “Take care of yourself,” she said at the end, which meant that she was giving him a slim chance to reconsider, telling him that if he worked things out by himself, and above all, come to realize his unimaginable confusion, perhaps it wouldn’t be impossible to fix it somehow. She ended the call, still having two conferences to attend. He was lucky because she was extremely busy this day.

  Henryk hung up, relieved. Somehow, he could not find in himself the sense of guilt, which was required.

  ***

 

  Generally, the first days of his pensioner’s life went by perfectly well. He would take morning walks along the Pulawska street to the nearest dairy bar, where he would enjoy the breakfast milk soup with noodles and sugar - delicious. Then, also on foot, he would head to the MPiK club located on the square of the Union of Lublin, taking time for coffee and reading the newspaper. (Finally, he had the time for it.) He did not have to hurry anywhere and it was divine. He could do everything slowly, deliberately, savoring each movement. The slightest gesture was, after all, important. Every transient moment was a moment of his life, unique and unrepeatable. Just now, when he found himself alone and in retirement, he realized how little he knew himself, how little time he had devoted so far to his own needs. Was it possible to make it up now? Probably not, but certainly, he would not squander what still remained of the most precious gift he had received - his own life.

  From MPiK club, he walked usually to Ujazdowskie Avenue until the entrance to the big Warsaw park, Lazienki. There, he sat on one of the benches, staring at the romantic figure of Frederick Chopin with his symbolic windswept willow. It was here he began to work on his book.

  So far, his work consisted mostly of thinking. Henryk knew that it was not easy to write a book, but he had no idea that it was so difficult to decide what to write about. Repeatedly, he changed the subject. At first, it was to be a war novel, later a historical one, another day a romance. Somehow, he could not decide. But he did not care. He had the time, he was in no hurry.

  Sitting on a bench and just thinking about another topic, he remembered that today was Thursday, and so it was that evening that the spiritualist event was to be held. He wondered how it would be like. There would be five of them, all beside him ladies. Yesterday, he had the opportunity to meet Joanna, who just came back from Budapest. She was an extremely sexy blonde, with a Barbie silhouette that probably aroused lust in each of the male passengers of Polish Airlines LOT. Henryk looked at her cheeks, but noticed no black spots. Maybe she covered them with makeup. Joanna, for her part, also carefully examined him while sensually moving the tip of her tongue over her lips, as if checking if she was already hungry enough. Of course, she would take part in the evening’s gathering, especially if he, Henryk would also be present. It's supposed to be actually a very interesting event.

  Henry could not get rid of the anxiety he felt when he thought of her. What a woman. A turtle could be led to gallop after her on a deserted island. It was better for him not to be alone with her around, it could be too dangerous.

  He noted that his thoughts had become derailed again. He looked at the monument of Frederick as if seeking inspiration, but the famous composer turned his head to the side, busy with his own thoughts. He seemed to know nothing about the creative problems of Henryk.

  ***

  During dinner, Henryk sat on his seat. His place at the table had been established next to Mrs. Stefania and across the two beautiful female tenants, younger and older, both of them stunning in their own ways "A king’s harem," he thought of himself, amused. He would like to see now the face of Teresa if she saw him at this table.

  For the dinner were apples fried in batter - something wonderful - those sweet crumpets smeared with jam seemed to jump alone into his throat. The apple pancakes made Henryk remember his childhood, Teresa never done anything like this. He sighed. Maybe it was necessary to move away from one’s own life in order to regain back one’s memories.

  “Why are you so wistful, Mr. Henryk? Could it be heart problems?” asked Joanna, the tip of her tongue touching her upper lip. “Maybe we can offer some advice for it. There are pieces of advice for everything.”

  “Yes, you can bring him the heart droplets, I saw it in the medicine cabinet of Mrs. Stefania,” Baska kindly suggested.

  “You little twit, mind your own business,” fired Joanna. “Mr. Henryk needs more than droplets, something about which you haven’t got a clue.”

  "I seem to have found myself in a funny situation," thought Henry, feasting on pancakes. He listened to the banter and could not remember when he felt so good.

  When they finished dinner, the doorbell rang in the hall. Mrs. Klara, just as Baska had said, actually had an unearthly appearance. She was thin and pale, with blank eyes that seemed to pop out of their sockets and hovered somewhere between earthy and extraterrestrial realms. She seemed to be a little bit here and a little bit elsewhere.

  After the introduction of Henryk, she looked around the room as if checking if everything was okay, then she set on the table the candlestick with two tall, yellow candles.

  “Candles must be real, made of wax” she explained for Henryk’s sake, as it was his first time experiencing this kind of experiment. “Everything has to be natural.”

  They sat at the table, each of them occupying the same places as at dinner, only Mrs. Klara sat at the head of the table, her back to the window. She lit the candles with a wooden match and on the top of the table, she set a white porcelain plate with the letters of the alphabet inscribed around the edge. The center of the plate bore an incomprehensible secret sign painted in black.

  When everything was ready, Mrs. Stefania turned off the light overhead and the room became flooded with warm twilight, faces and the table with the white saucer in the middle emerging from the darkness, creating a remarkable atmosphere of mysterious excitement. Their hands were spread on the top of the table in a fan shape, creating a circle, with the ends of the thumbs and the small fingers touching around the plate. Mrs. Klara recommended for everyone to close their eyes and focus on the plate, and above all, to not utter a word.

  She alone began to repeat over and over some incomprehensible words, her voice low and steady. After a few minutes, she said with a slightly higher tone:

  “Someone's here. I feel the presence of someone. Someone's here with us.” Then, she fell silent.

  After a while, she spoke again:

  “This person lets me understand that it doesn’t know one of those present here. It wants to know more about this man, demands it.”

  Then Mrs. Klara asked Henryk directly: “Please put on the saucer an object that belongs only to you, and which never before belonged to anyone else.”

  "Strange request," thought Henry as he
moved his hands over his jacket pockets. In the top pocket, his hand encountered the oblong shape - his fountain pen. He pulled it out of his pocket, not without hesitation and entrusted his treasure to the saucer. Again there was silence. The interrupted circle of participants merged back with touches of their fingertips, all with open eyes intently fixed on the porcelain plate.

  Suddenly, the pen twitched once, twice, moved like a float in the rod of a fisherman, the fish nibbling the bait before swallowing it whole.

  "It is taking a bite," thought Henry. "Really taking one.”

  Indeed, the pen moved jauntily, turned on the bottom of the plate and swirled wildly several times, then, as if worn out, slowed down and stopped, pointing at one of the letters with its cap. It was the letter ‘W’. After a few seconds, the pen moved again, this time more slowly, deliberately, stopping on the letter ‘E’. Next, ‘L’ showed up and so on, until the whole sentence was accomplished: "Welcome, Henryk".

  Henryk was stunned completely. Baska stared at him with round eyes, and Joanna gazed at him in the candlelight, licking her lips greedily, as if she did not have any dinner. Mrs. Stefania showed no surprise and the face of Mrs. Klara's flushed red as a lot of physical effort was involved here from her part.

  She started asking different questions to the immaterial being. The answers they received were, however incoherent, sometimes illogical. Finally, the pen froze and the contact was broken.

  Mrs. Klara instructed Mrs. Stefania to turn the light on, and then she blew out the candles. She was very taken over indeed.

  “It was an extremely strong presence,” she said. “We should take advantage of it. We must perform a whole series of séances and do them every day. We must not let this opportunity go to waste. Such a strong signal does not happen often.”

  “The whole series? How many of them?” Henryk asked anxiously. He was not going to waste his time on old wives’ evenings, but at the same time, he was very curious about how this thing from the other world knew his name. It must have been some trick of Mrs. Klara and if so, he was going to expose it. He wasn’t going to let himself be led by the nose by this old crow.

  “The whole series, that is seven sessions, including today,” said Mrs. Klara. “And from now on, for every single evening.”

  After the gathering was over, Henryk returned to his room. He checked his Waterman pen in the lamplight, unscrewed the cap and even sniffed its gold nib. He smelled the characteristic smell of the foreign, Ultramar ink. He liked this smell, the smell of a good pen of a self-respecting writer, as he already considered himself. Then he placed the pen next to the notebook that was still open on the first page, sat in the seat next to it and began to read today's edition of the Life of Warsaw newspaper. Nothing special. At the Silesian Stadium in Chorzow, Poland defeated The Netherlands 4: 1 - what a surprise! - In the qualifying football match for the European Cup. This month, in Tychy, they would start the production of the second line of the Fiat 126p. He had always wondered why someone would invent such a small car. Was it to beat some kind of record or what? And so on, and so on.

  Bored, he put the paper down. It was time to sleep. He had to leave something to do for tomorrow.

  ***

  His dream was a heavy one, odd. He lay on a boat on his back, staring up at the sky. Between the branches of the trees bowing low over his head, he saw the glimmer of stars. Suddenly, the air grew thick, suffocating. Someone’s hands moved over his skin, stroking and caressing him. An otherworldly thrill spilled all over his body. He felt as if he was not alone. Someone was lying over him, someone very light and very feminine. Through tendrils of her hair, he could still see the flashing sparks of stars. The feeling of her body against his naked skin caused a pleasure he had never experienced before. He felt suddenly that he was already inside her. It happened as if by miracle. Without being fully aware of it, he began to sway slowly forward and backwards, faster and faster until the crazy spasm shook his body like an electric shock and repeated a couple of times more until his strength had been completely exhausted, then he felt like a car with a discharged battery, unable to move its wipers or illuminate the way in the dark, not even able to honk for help. The sweet burden eased slowly until it completely disappeared from his chest. The stars also dissolved into the vastness of the dark blue sky. He fell asleep again, slept until the first rays of sunlight fell on his face through the gap between the lace curtains on the window.

  After lifting his eyelids, Henry lay for some time without moving. He knew that he had dreamed of something unusual. At first, he could not remember what, but after a while, hazy memories of the night began to return to his consciousness - the tree branches, some impossible to recognize a face leaning over him, the translucent lights of the stars through her hair, and finally a conclusion, this extraordinary, indescribable orgasm that shook him so hard he had never felt anything like it before. What a remarkable dream. Could such intense feelings be at all possible?

  He threw aside his blanket, sat down on the bed and froze.

  He was completely naked.

  His pajamas were lying on the floor next to the bed, thrown carelessly as if in a hurry. He glanced at himself, then at the pajamas on the floor, his eyes shifting over and over as he tried to put together the remnants of logic that possibly still existed inside his head. As far as he knew, he had never before thrown his pajamas on the floor. He also had no habit of sleeping naked. What was it then? Maybe it was not a dream? Maybe someone was really in his room? But - who?

  "Of course," he thought suddenly, discovering the blatant truth. Of course, she screwed him as Baska predicted. Just as she screwed the black guy or the chimney sweep before him, whoever he was. But how did she do it? Probably she gave him some narcotic drug, maybe in the form of a spray. She could bring it from her travels abroad. But why? Did she fear that he would defend himself? She used guile, that pesky nymphomaniac. Baska said that he should be careful. He should have barricaded the door with a table.

  But wait a minute. What was going in with him? Why was he behaving like a raped virgin? So what if the dream had been real? Wasn’t it pleasant after all? Surely it was. That he could not deny. And how would he have reacted if he had not slept? Would he have defended himself? Probably not too much. Maybe just a little bit, just to show some decency, like: "But, Mrs. Joanna, what are you doing? Does it not seem improper at my age?" That would be all. He would make a pathetic clown of himself and she would explode with laughter and it would all not work out. Well, maybe for this reason, she sedated him instead, so that she would not have to listen to this kind of nonsense.

  And she had done a good job. The best a nymphomaniac could. The finesse of her skills, the true art of love, he had never imagined that such pleasures existed.

  Henry put on his pajamas and went to the bathroom. After returning washed and shaved, he dressed up and was ready to leave the house and go to his dairy bar when his eyes fell on the book lying on the table. The entire first page was filled with neat handwriting, without strike-through and amendments, the next as well and the next one. About twenty pages of his notebook were full of writing. When did it happen? While he slept? It turned out that nymphomaniacs also tend to have literary talents. "Damn it. Why did she have to mess exactly with my novel?" he thought irritably.

  Was that the price of a pleasure? If it was, he must buy her a separate notebook, if only she wanted one. She deserved it. Henryk closed the book, took it under his arm and with a decisive step, went out of the house.

  ***

  Henryk sat on his favorite bench in Lazienki Park. While the golden Polish autumn warmed up his pensioner’s bones with the rays of the golden Polish sun, he wondered if he was really feeling like a real pensioner should. Definitely not. He kept his body straight. He had no wrinkles on his face and though his gray-haired temples undoubtedly made him look more dignified, he did not feel old. And especially not today. Today, more than ever, he felt at least ten years younger. Yes, it was
thanks to Joanna. Her tricks rejuvenated the blood in his veins. It was boiling in the autumn sun. He felt so young, he even called an ice-cream vendor who was passing by and decided to treat himself to a vanilla "Bambino" on a stick.

  "Joanna," thought he dreamily as he licked the vanilla delicacy, the flavor of which reminded him yet again of his childhood. "What a class act, a true champion of the Kama Sutra. It's probably due to her travels abroad that she has become such an expert in the art of lovemaking. Surely, one needs to go through many hotel beds to reach such a level of expertise.”

  Henryk remembered now every touch of her hand, every stroke of the wet tip of the tongue, the velvety touch of her skin... He felt, in sudden amazement, a rapid stiffening in his pants and the stick with the unfinished ice cream slipped from between his fingers and fell under the bench.

  "It will be a special treat for the pigeons," he thought with regret. "Damn, what's wrong with me? Acting like a snapper."

  He shifted on the bench, sat down in the most dignified and comfortable way he could and straightened up his pants. Then he adjusted his glasses on his nose and placed on his lap the notebook had he brought with him. What had come into her head to get involved in his book? Did he even tell her that he was writing a book? He could not remember, but it did not matter. Mrs. Stefania could have told her. He opened the book on the first page.

  The first line, "The beginning of the book", was written with his own hand, but from the second line everything was written in a different, nicer handwriting, though no doubt the same pen was used.

  "Along a bumpy road through the dark forest dashed a black carriage drawn by two..."

  Henry left the book on his knees and raised his astonished gaze on the statue on the other side of the already fading planter. The genius on the monument answered him with an equally puzzled look. Could it be possible? So it was not Joanna? So it was this snotty youngster girl who had visited him at night? But how did she know all those tricks? Then again, such things young people can learn quickly, especially nowadays. Magazines, television and especially American movies which can be seen in Warsaw cinemas more and more show the things that until recently were kept secret by censorship. Not to mention all the things she could learn from her colleagues. It would not fit in a normal brain.