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  Fryderyk was not alone, because next to him, a few steps away, almost totally concealed in the thicket, loomed Karol.

  Karol’s presence here? Next to Fryderyk? But how on earth had Fryderyk brought him here? Under what pretext? Nonetheless he was here, and I knew that he was here for Fryderyk, not for her—he had not come here out of his interest in what was happening on the bench, he came because he had been lured by Fryderyk’s presence. Truly, this was as obscure as it was subtle. I don’t know if I’ll be able to put it into words. … I had the impression that (the boy) had turned up uninvited for the sole purpose of inflaming the situation even more … to make it resonate more powerfully … and more painfully for us. Most probably when Fryderyk, the older man, hurt by the young girl’s betrayal, stood there gazing with his eyes fixed, he, the youth, noiselessly emerged from the thicket and stood next to him, saying nothing. This was wild and daring! But the dusk was enveloping us, indeed, we were almost invisible, and the stillness—none of us could say a word. Thus the vividness of this fact was drowning in the night’s nonexistence and silence. And it must also be added that (the boy’s) action had a smoothing-over, almost an exonerating quality, his lightness, leanness, gave absolution and, being (youthfully) pleasant, he could actually join everyone … (someday I’ll explain the meaning of these parentheses) … And suddenly he walked away as easily as he had appeared.

  Yet the ease of his joining us made the bench pierce us like a dagger. It was mad, incredible, (the boy’s) joining us while (the girl) was betraying him! Situations in this world are written in code. Inscrutable at times is the configuration of people, and of phenomena in general. This, here … was terrifyingly expressive—nonetheless beyond understanding, beyond deciphering. In any case, the world swirled with strange meanings. At that moment a shot resounded from the direction of the barn. We all ran together, taking a shortcut, with no regard as to who was with whom. Vaclav ran next to me, Henia with Fryderyk. Fryderyk, who in critical moments became enterprising and quick-witted, turned behind a shed, and we followed him. We saw: nothing particularly frightening. A German, tipsy, was amusing himself by firing a shotgun at the pigeons—and soon the Germans scrambled into their vehicle and, waving good-bye, left. Hipolit looked at us, furious.

  “Let me be.”

  His gaze leaned out of him, as if through a window, but he soon shut the doors and windows within himself. He went into the house.

  In the evening at supper, red-faced and deeply moved, he poured vodka.

  “Well, then? Let’s drink to Vaclav’s and Henia’s health. They came to an understanding.”

  Fryderyk and I extended our congratulations.

  VI

  Alcohol. Schnapps. An inebriating adventure. An adventure like a shot of strong drink—one more jigger—though this was slippery drunkenness, each moment threatened a downfall into filth, into depravity, into sensual muck. Yet how could one not drink? In truth, drinking became our mental hygiene, everyone used whatever he could to stupefy himself, in any way he could—so did I—though I did try to salvage something of my dignity by preserving, in my drunken state, the demeanor of a researcher who, in spite of everything, keeps watching—who gets drunk in order to watch. So I watched.

  The fiancé left us after breakfast. It was decided, however, that the day after tomorrow the entire household would go to Ruda.

  Then Karol arrived at the porch in an open coach, a britzka. He was supposed to go to Ostrowiec for kerosene. I offered to accompany him.

  And Fryderyk was just about to open his mouth and offer himself as a third—when he fell into one of his unexpected difficulties. … One never knew when this would happen. He was just about to open his mouth, then closed and opened it again—he remained, pale, in the claws of this tormenting prank, while Karol and I took off in the britzka.

  The horses’ trotting rumps, the sandy road, expansive vistas, slow circling around hills that were cropping up one behind the other. This morning, in this expanse, I with him, I next to him—both of us surfacing from the Poworna ravine, both of us visible, and my coarseness toward him was exposed to the jeopardy of being visible from afar.

  I began thus: “Well, Karol, what were you up to with that hag yesterday, by the pond?”

  He asked somewhat warily, to better gauge the nature of my question, “Why?”

  “Everyone saw it, after all.”

  My opening remark was not precise—just to start a conversation. He laughed, just in case, to make it lighter. “Nothing to it,” he said and cracked the whip, he didn’t care. … Then I expressed my surprise: “If only she were good-looking! But she was the lowest of the low, and an old slut too!” Since he didn’t answer, I stressed the point: “Do you go for old hags?”

  He nonchalantly cracked his whip at a bush. Then, realizing that this was the appropriate response, he snapped the whip at the horses, and they jerked the britzka. His response was clear enough, though impossible to translate into words. We rode more briskly for some time. Then the horses slowed down and, when they did slow down, he smiled with a friendly flash of his teeth and said:

  “What’s the difference, old or young?”

  He laughed.

  This worried me. A slight shiver ran through me. I sat next to him. What did this mean? First of all one thing hit me in the eye: the immeasurable meaning of his teeth that were at play here, they were his inner whiteness, all-purifying—and so his teeth were more important than what he was saying—it seemed that he was talking for the sake of his teeth and because of his teeth—he could be saying any old thing because he was talking for pleasure, he himself was a game and a delight, he knew that his teeth, so high-spirited, would be forgiven every revulsion and disgust. Who was this, sitting next to me? Someone like myself? Not at all, it was a being essentially distinct and delightful, native to a blossoming land, he was full of a grace that was transforming itself into charm. A prince and a poem. Why then did the prince harass old hags? That was the question. Why did it amuse him? Was it his own desire that amused him? It amused him that, even as a prince, he was also in the throes of a hunger that made him desire even the ugliest of women—was it this that amused him? Was his beauty (connected to Henia) so devoid of self-respect that it was almost indifferent as to how it satisfied itself, and with whom it took up? Here darkness was being born. We went down a hill into the Grocholice ravine. I was discovering in him a kind of sacrilege carried out with satisfaction, and I knew that this was something that affected his very soul, indeed, it was something, in its very nature, desperate.

  (It’s possible, however, that I was devoting myself to those speculations merely to maintain, during the drinking, the semblance of a researcher.)

  But perhaps he had pulled up the hag’s skirt to show that he was a soldier? Wasn’t this like a soldier?

  I asked (changing the subject for the sake of propriety—I had to watch myself). “What do you fight with your father about?” He wavered, surprised, but he realized instantly that I must have heard it from Hipolit. He replied:

  “Because he’s harassing my mother. Won’t let her be, the son of a bitch. If he weren’t my father I’d …”

  His response was beautifully balanced—he was able to confess to loving his mother because at the same time he was confessing to hating his father, this protected him from sentimentalism—but, since I wanted to press him to the wall, I asked directly: “You love you mother very much?”

  “Of course! If mother …”

  Which meant that there is nothing peculiar about it, because it’s acceptable for a son to love his mother. Yet this was strange. Looking at it more closely, it was strange, because a moment ago he was pure anarchy throwing itself onto an old hag, while now he became conventional and subject to the law of filial love. So what did he believe in, anarchy or law? Yet, if he so obediently gave in to custom, it was not to add to his worth but to devalue himself, to turn the love of his mother into something commonplace and unimportant. Why did he always devalue h
imself? This thought was strangely alluring—why did he devalue himself? This thought was pure alcohol—why, with him, did each thought always have to be attractive or repulsive, always passionate and full of vitality? We were now climbing, beyond Grocholice, on the left there were banks of dirt, yellow, with cellar holes dug for potatoes. The horses went at a trot and—silence. Suddenly Karol became talkative: “Sir, could you find some work for me in Warsaw? How about in the black market? I could help out my mom a bit if I was earning money, because she needs it for medical treatment, as things are, my father just keeps carping that I don’t have a job. I’m fed up with it!” He became talkative because these were material and practical matters, he could talk, and plenty, it was also natural that he was turning to me with this—and yet, was this so natural? Was this not just a pretext to “reach an understanding” with me, the older man, to come closer to me? Truly, in these difficult times a boy must gain the goodwill of older people who are more powerful than he, and he can achieve this only through personal charm. … But a boy’s coquettishness is much more complicated than the coquettishness of a girl, whose sex comes to her aid … so this was surely a calculation, oh, an unconscious, an innocent one: he was simply turning to me for help, yet he was really concerned not about work in Warsaw, but rather to establish himself in the role of someone who needs to be taken care of, to break the ice … the rest will take care of itself. … Breaking the ice? But in what sense? And what was that “rest”? I knew, or rather, I suspected, that this was an attempt on the part of his boyishness to make contact with my maturity, and I knew from other sources that he was not averse to this, and that his hunger, his desire, made him approachable. … I went numb, sensing his hidden intention of drawing closer to me … as if his whole domain were to assault me. I don’t know if I’m making myself clear. The association of a man with a boy is generally based on technical matters, protection, cooperation, but, when it becomes more direct, its drastic aspect turns out to be very noticeable indeed. I sensed that this human being wanted to conquer me with his youth, and this was as if I, an adult, were to succumb to irrevocable discredit.

  But the word “youth” was not permissible to him—it was not proper for him to use it.

  We had climbed a hill, and an unchanging view of the land appeared, rounded off by hills and swollen with its own immobile undulation in the slanting light that swirled here and there under the clouds.

  “You’d better stay put here, with your parents. …” This sounded uncompromising because I spoke as his elder—and it actually allowed me to ask in the simplest way and as if continuing our dialogue: “Do you like Henia?”

  This most difficult question fell so easily, and he too replied without difficulty.

  “Of course I like her.”

  He said, pointing with his whip: “Do you see those bushes? They aren’t bushes, they’re the tops of trees in the ravine, in Lisiny, that connects with the Bodzechów forest. Sometimes there are gangs in there. …” He squinted at me, suggesting we were in collusion as to the meaning, and we continued on, passed a figurine of Christ, while I returned to the subject as if I had never left it. … A sudden calm, the cause of which I was not aware, allowed me to disregard the time that had elapsed.

  “But you’re not in love with her?”

  This was a much more risky question—it was reaching to the heart of the matter—it could, in its obstinacy, betray my dark exultation, mine and Fryderyk’s, which had began at their feet, at their feet, at their feet. … I felt as if I were touching a sleeping tiger. A groundless fear. “Naw … after all we’ve known each other since childhood! …” And this was said without a shadow of an arrière-pensee. … One might expect, however, that the recent event in front of the carriage house in which we had all been secret partners would make it somewhat difficult for him to answer.

  Not in the least! Apparently the other was for him something in the background—and so now, with me, he was disconnected from the other—and his “naw,” so drawn out, had the flavor of caprice and irresponsibility, even of roguery. He spat. By spitting he cast himself even more as a rogue, and all at once he laughed, his laughter was overpowering, as if it deprived him of the possibility of a different reaction, and he squinted at me, with humor:

  “I’d rather make it with Madame Maria.”

  No! This could not be true! Madame Maria with her teary skinniness! So why did he say it? Was it because he had lifted the old hag’s skirt? But why did he lift her skirt? … what absurdity, what a tiresome riddle. Yet I knew (and this was one of the canons of my knowledge of people gained from reading literature), that there are human actions, apparently nonsensical, that a man finds necessary because in some manner they define him—to give a simple example, someone may be ready to commit a useless act of folly simply not to feel like a coward. And who, more than the young, need to define themselves? … I was therefore more than certain that most of the actions or pronouncements of this green youth who sat next to me, with reins and whip, were just such actions “committed on himself—one could even suppose that our, mine and Fryderyk’s, hidden yet admiring gaze excited him in this game with himself more than he realized. Well, then: he went with us yesterday on that walk, he was bored, had nothing to do, he pulled up the hag’s skirt to introduce a touch of debauchery that he perhaps fancied, for the sake of shifting from being the one who is desired to the one who desires. A boy’s acrobatics. Well and good. But why was he now returning to this topic and confessing that he would prefer “making it” with Madame Maria, was there a more aggressive intention hidden here?

  “Do you think I’m about to believe you?” I asked. “That you prefer Madame Maria to Henia? What nonsense!” I added. To which he replied with stubbornness, plain as day: “Well, I do.”

  Nonsense and a lie! But why, to what purpose? We were already approaching Bodzechów, we could now see the huge chimneys of the Ostrów plants in the distance. Why, why was he defending himself against Henia, why didn’t he want Henia? I knew, yet I didn’t know, I understood and didn’t understand. Did his young age really prefer elders? Did he prefer to be with “the elders”? What was his idea, his aim—the awesomeness of it, its burning-hot sharpness, its dramatic aspect instantly threw me on the trail—because I, now in his domain, followed his excitement. Did this kid desire to roam around in our maturity? Of course—nothing is more common than for a boy to fall in love with a beautiful maiden, then everything develops along the lines of natural attraction. But, possibly, he wanted something … wider, bolder … he didn’t want to be just “a boy with a young girl,” but “a boy with adults,” a boy who is breaking into adulthood … what a dark, perverted idea! But behind him were, after all, experiences from the arena of war and anarchy. I didn’t really know him, I couldn’t have known him, I didn’t know what and how things had formed him, he was as unfathomable as this landscape—familiar yet unfamiliar—and I could be sure of only one thing, namely, that this scoundrel had left his swaddling clothes long ago. To enter into—what? This was exactly the unknown—it wasn’t clear what or whom he fancied, so perhaps he wanted to play with us and not with Henia, and he was constantly letting us know that age should not be an obstacle. … How so? How so? Well, yes, he was bored, he wanted to have fun, to play at something he was unfamiliar with, something he hadn’t actually thought about, out of boredom, by way of digression and without any effort … with us but not with Henia because, in our ugliness, we could lead him farther, we were more unrestricted. Therefore (considering that event in front of the carriage house) he was letting me know that he’s not disgusted. … Enough. I was sickened at the very thought that his beauty sought my ugliness. I changed the subject.

  “Do you go to church? Do you believe in God?”

  A question calling for seriousness, a question protecting me from his treacherous levity.

  “In God? Whatever the priests say, that …”

  “But do you believe in God?”

  “Sure. But …”
>
  “But what?”

  He fell silent.

  I was going to ask: Do you go to church? Instead I asked: “Do you go whoring?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Are you popular with women?”

  He laughed right away.

  “No. Not at all! I’m still too young.”

  Too young. Its meaning was degrading—that was why this time he could use the word “youth” with ease. But, as far as I was concerned, God and this boy had all of a sudden combined with women in some kind of grotesque and almost drunken quid pro quo, his “too young” sounded strange, like a warning. Yes, too young in relation to a woman as much as to God, too young in relation to everything—and it wasn’t important whether he believes or doesn’t believe, whether he’s popular with women or not, because he was “too young” in general, and none of his emotions, or his beliefs, or his word could have any meaning—he was incomplete, he was “too young.” “Too young” in relation to Henia and to everything that was arising between them, and also “too young” in relation to Fryderyk and to me … What was then this slim, tender age of his? Karol meant nothing to me after all! How could I, an adult, place all my seriousness in his nonseriousness, to listen intently and with trembling to someone who was not serious? I looked around the countryside. From here, from the hilltop, I could already see Kamienna, and we could hear the barely audible rumble of the train that was approaching Bodzechów, the whole river valley was before us, and the highway too—while to the right and left was the yellow-green patchwork of the fields, and, as far as the eye could see, a sleepy age-long past, but now gagged, quashed, its yap muzzled. A strange odor of lawlessness permeated everything, and here I was, in this lawlessness, with this boy, who was “too young,” a light-headed lightweight whose insufficiency, incompleteness became, under these conditions, the primary power. How was I, deprived of any buttress, to defend myself from him?