lypynskyi spent the winter seemingly dazed, almost as if in a light blissful haze. He didn’t think about anything, he didn’t feel anything; he just mechanically read through everything he could find in the field of sociology—a new and not-yet-recognized science that had suddenly grabbed his attention.
Nearly every evening all winter long, he would go walking at Błonia Park. The meadow would be blanketed in fog, thick and luscious like a sheep’s wool, so Lypynskyi could see no farther than a step ahead of him. Now and then strangers would glide out of the fog—aimless wanderers just like him. He had to tread very carefully and sometimes halt abruptly to avoid knocking foreheads with them. Lypynskyi would walk all the way to Oleandry Street, beyond Kraków, then cross a little bridge over the Rudawa River. Lone swans, which for some reason lingered in the winter more and more often, would glimmer on the dark water.
Lypynskyi felt protected in these fogs, where his longing for the unattainable melted away without a trace.
bloody roundups began in Russia. Anyone could get shot on suspicion of ties to the anti-tsarist rebels yearning for reform. Against the backdrop of the government’s brutal reaction to the protests, the establishment of the Duma in August 1905 and the Tsar’s manifesto promising democratic freedoms in October swiftly lost any potentially everlasting significance. The fourth issue of Khliborob, the Shemet brothers’ first Ukrainian-language newspaper in the empire, with an estimated circulation of five thousand, was confiscated in December, and the censors wouldn’t even allow the fifth issue to be printed. In lieu of a New Year’s postcard, Mykola Shemet sent Lypynskyi a short letter in which he requested that he not write him from Austria-Hungary for some time because letters from abroad were being compromised by Russian authorities. He ended with the sentence, “If you only knew, dear Viacheslav, how often I think of you these days.”
it was april 1906. Spring kept refusing to arrive, even though the sun had shone in recent weeks. Black and lifeless trees jutted out of the frozen ground; only the credulous grass bloomed with tiny daisies here and there. Lost in his thoughts, Lypynskyi walked through Błonia Park at an amble, all in black.
“It’s worth carrying an umbrella in this sort of weather,” a female voice rang out nearby, unexpectedly pulling him out of his reverie. Lypynskyi immediately knew who that voice—at once melodious and shrill—belonged to.
He raised his head dispassionately. “Ms. Szumińska? There has yet to be weather that would make me carry an umbrella. I have a particular dislike to that form of luxury, for some reason.”
“In that case, enjoy being drenched.” She was standing in front of Lypynskyi, and for the first time her thin face was emanating something other than hatred. What was it? Cockiness? Defiance? A playful rage? An old yearning stirred in him like a three-headed serpent emerging from a grueling battle—dazed, but still alive.
The first droplets of cold rain fell on his forehead. At a loss, Lypynskyi glanced up at the clouded sky, hoping for some much-needed advice from whoever was sitting up there: Should he run away at full tilt or stay and risk his life at the hands of this woman? Kazimiera let out a merry laugh. She wasn’t alone, but with two girlfriends. She wore a simple dress, fitted all the way down, and an English drape-cut coat. A polar-fox collar hung around her neck. Her face too looked like a fox’s.
“Unfortunately, Mr. Lypynskyi, we’re of no help at all to you because we have one umbrella for the three of us. But if you like, you can accompany us to the city. We’re such interesting company that you won’t mind getting drenched to the bone.”
All three of them laughed again. Kazimiera began to leisurely move onward, giving Lypynskyi a few seconds for contemplation. His body made the decision for him faster than he had time to collect himself, and he docilely traipsed after them.
So, that was how it was going to be: in matters concerning Kazimiera, his body would win out over his mind.
Then aloud he said, “To what do I owe the unexpected change in your demeanor? I remember the last time we met Ms. Szumińska more resembled a provoked panther ready to pounce—in a house of God, no less.”
“I must admit, Mr. Lypynskyi, your coarse words in the church didn’t leave me indifferent. At first I was truly very angry, but now that the anger has passed, I’m tempted to get to know you better. You strike me as a direct and honest person. I very much value these two qualities, even if they belong to an enemy of mine.”
A piercing wind was lashing his face mercilessly, but Lypynskyi didn’t notice. Kazimiera was chattering to him so amicably, just a step away, as if an entire year of mutual animosity hadn’t happened at all. As if they had just met and Kazimiera had never humiliated Lypynskyi in front of a half thousand witnesses, never ridiculed him, hadn’t walked past him so many times, hadn’t turned up her nose at him, hadn’t shot through him with those huge green eyes.
“I haven’t changed my position regarding the Ukrainian question, my dear lady.”
“Call me Kazimiera.”
“And you can call me Viacheslav.”
“Call you what?” She laughed again. Under the little bridge across the Rudawa River, a lone swan hissed vigilantly.
“Isn’t your name Wacław?”
“In Polish it’s Wacław, in Ukrainian it’s Viacheslav.”
“So long as we’re on Polish land, Mr. Lypynskyi, I’m going to call you Wacław and nothing else.”
Lypynskyi didn’t respond. His name was the least of what he sacrificed that evening.
the following sunday, he was invited to the Szumiński’s for afternoon tea. For the entirety of his visit, Kazimiera’s mother sat morosely in the living room, not once intruding on the conversation, though she did ask if Lypynskyi was by any chance an inventor, because there were a lot of swashbucklers among inventors.
“My dream is to work with the land, my esteemed lady,” he replied. “I’m currently finishing my studies in agronomy and still intend to attend lectures in philosophy and sociology. Sociology is a new but very promising field. After completing my studies, I’ll return to Russia, where I grew up. I have an inheritance there, my uncle Adam Rokicki’s estate, not far from Uman, perhaps you know of it.”
“I don’t,” Mrs. Szumińska muttered, but any hostility had vanished from her face, leaving only dissatisfaction. “Have you read about the tragedy that happened in San Francisco? The earthquake? So many houses collapsed! Thousands of people died! Just imagine! That’s what you need to study—how to save cities from such atrocities, not philosophy. You need to look to the future, young man.”
In the female realm of the Szumiński family, unexpected guests weren’t liked. Guests weren’t liked in general. If a continental fracture more massive than the one in San Francisco weren’t forming inside Lypynskyi right then and there, he wouldn’t have lasted more than half a minute in their home.
In the epicenter of his own personal earthquake, Kazimiera stood smiling at him. Cheerful, witty, smart. She was clearly flirting, but in the way that women do to compute the ambit of a man’s feelings and the amount of pride that the wretch is willing to forgo for the sake of those feelings. Just a few months before, Lypynskyi would have easily given away his soul to have her merely glance in his direction. But now, stupefied by the unexpected gift of her attention and her smile, he simply watched in confusion as a stranger in his body surrendered to the mercy of the conqueress without the least bit of resistance. Word after word, laugh after laugh, joke after joke, Kazimiera occupied his impregnable fortresses swiftly and deftly, boldly setting foot on his lands that were overgrown with thickets. The blissful haze didn’t disperse but, conversely, grew so dense, like a fog, that Lypynskyi felt its dulcet warmth on his skin. His eyes, which were blinded anyway, closed in the gentle languor, and now and then he was enveloped by a fear that perhaps he was sleeping and all of this was just a perfidious dream. Perhaps, not having obtained what it desired from reality, his mind had simply dreamt up a woman for itself, one terribly similar to Kazimiera and nearly as alive.
From then on, they would often stroll through Błonia Park together. A resplendent spring surrounded them, though now and again a blustery cold wind would sweep in, with a reminder that all changes were relative, and that the past never definitively disappeared and could return when you least expected it. The Rudawa River overflowed its banks, and here and there the meadow turned into impassable swamps. The usual fogs scattered to the solemn bellowing of the livestock, driven out to graze for the first time after long months of wintering.
On their walks, Kazimiera’s little face, angular as always, was adorned by dark blond locks that she painstakingly curled before retiring to sleep, and a tall white collar with fine lace accentuated her neck, long like the Kraków swans’. She wasn’t particularly attractive, but to Lypynskyi she was the most beautiful woman in the world. What he wanted above all else was to embrace her, and to hold her in that embrace until his final breath. He wanted to take care of mundane affairs, go places, study, be sad, grow tired, meet with like-minded colleagues—and do all of it holding her in his embrace. Kazimiera occupied the depths of his soul. A delightful new sensation was filling him up, and without reservation, Lypynskyi took that feeling to be happiness.
in may, he wrote to his parents that he had met a girl he hoped to marry. Klara Lipińska immediately arrived for an inspection of the bride, and Kazimiera proved not to her liking.
“She’s too self-confident, she’s a coquette,” was his mother’s verdict. “She’s excited by novelty and scared off by humdrum. But that’s what life is, son—humdrum!”
“I’ve already decided,” Lypynskyi cut her short, though perhaps he suspected that there was a kernel of truth in his mother’s words. Kazimiera had a passionate nature; she yearned for festivities, adventures, and heightened feelings. For the time being, Lypynskyi had been giving her that. The sparks between them hadn’t died down yet, and when they argued about current political topics, the air around them became as hot as a blacksmith’s workshop. He didn’t budge for her, and she didn’t budge for him. Their discussions could last for hours, and Lypynskyi would hold back only when he noticed tears on her pale cheeks. Then Kazimiera would joyously clap her hands like a child and, for the entirety of the ensuing day, celebrate her victory, repeating, “Come on, Wacław, admit that you were wrong.” Sometimes he would admit it, but more often than not he would deny it, and the discussion would reignite with even more vigor.
No, for now there was no shortage of intense emotions between them. But could it go on like that forever? At night, Lypynskyi had mentally measured out their married life to the littlest detail, but Kazimiera was poorly suited for the role that had been prepared for her, that of loyal companion and docile assistant. He who had had the imprudence to fall in love with this Erinys was the one who needed to be loyal and docile.
for lypynskyi’s mother, however, one argument outweighed all of the bride’s flaws and shortcomings: Kazimiera was Polish. So excited at the prospect of her son marrying a fellow Pole that she was nervous, Klara Lipińska awaited her son’s marriage with fearful trepidation, lest it fall through. In the family of one of her acquaintances, a tragedy had recently occurred when a young man, in defiance of his parents’ will, had unexpectedly decided to up and become Ukrainian, and then, on top of that, married the first best Ukrainian girl he met. She, of course, turned out to be some uncouth peasant girl from a remote village. To avoid communal condemnation, the family had no choice but to publicly declare their son disabled. Klara Lipińska had very much feared a similar scenario and immediately decided that even the worst Polish Kazimiera was better than some hillbilly Ukrainian named Paraska.
The day after meeting the bride, she was supposed to settle procedural matters with the older Szumińska, as was the custom, and ask for Kazimiera’s hand in marriage on her son’s behalf. The ladies secluded themselves in Mrs. Szumińska’s office. The young couple, meanwhile, discussed women’s suffrage on the couch in the living room, pretending to be oblivious.
“Denying a woman the opportunity to vote in elections on equal footing with men—that’s some kind of Stone Age!” Kazimiera was ardently arguing. She followed this subject closely and had even sent a letter to the Viennese women’s weekly Die Arbeiterinnen-Zeitung, in which she passionately described Polish women’s expectations of receiving the right to a political voice. For some reason, that letter never did get printed.
“If the female residents of the Grand Duchy of Finland go to the polls—and that’s how things look!—that’ll be an abasement to all those who consider themselves vanguards of the European community, to all of us!” Kazimiera continued.
The mothers came out of the office. Klara Lipińska was flushed beet-red, her hands clenched in resolute fists.
“It’s not all that simple,” Lypynskyi began, but, looking at his mother, stopped short.
Mrs. Szumińska didn’t waste time on niceties: “Kazimiera, I was honest and told our esteemed guest everything that I think of her son. I don’t consider him a good match for you but will give permission for the marriage if you yourself want him. So, do you want him?”
Klara Lipińska was so enraged that she was shaking. Kazimiera lowered her gaze to the floor hesitatingly. Lypynskyi froze. In those few dozen seconds of uncertainty, he again reexperienced all the pain that this girl had managed to inflict on him. It seemed as though at any moment she would erupt with laughter and exclaim contemptuously, Mother, who would marry this yokel? How could you think that of me? I was only waiting for a suitable opportunity to have my revenge. Lypynskyi recalled their quarrel in the church, and a suspicion flashed through his mind that the recent rendezvous in Błonia Park, the invitations home, the strolls, and the pleasant conversations were nothing more than a preparation for the most insidious and hence the most perfect plan of revenge that the female intellect had organized to date. Had this been the case, the plan would’ve been successful. Lypynskyi would have been completely destroyed.
“I want him,” Kazimiera replied softly, and at first it seemed to Lypynskyi that this was his imagination whispering.
“What are you mumbling, Kazimiera? Can’t you say what you want clearly?”
Kazimiera stood up and—like a soldier, her head held high—pronounced the same thing loudly and clearly: “I want him.”
She wasn’t looking at Lypynskyi—as though she had already achieved her goal and no longer needed him or anyone else. Maybe her plan of revenge was much more intricate and a million times more ruthless than anyone could have imagined.
“So, it’s been decided,” the hostess of the gathering concluded irritably. “You must forgive me, but I’m not feeling well and must go lie down promptly. Would you like any tea, Mrs. Lipińska? If so, I’ll see to it that it’s brought.”
Klara Lipińska could no longer restrain herself.
“Thank you, but it’s time for me to go.” With these words, she flew out of the apartment like a tempest, never to return.
“What an intolerable family! To accept your proposal of marriage so begrudgingly?” Klara Lipińska would later complain to her son. “I can’t imagine how you’re planning on sharing a life with them. I’ve seen such arrogant behavior before, to be sure, but not from someone who’s completely bankrupt.”
The Szumiński’s financial situation was no secret. Yet Lypynskyi was the last to be concerned with it.
When the betrotheds finally found themselves alone, Kazimiera was aloofly studying a bee that had just flown in through the window and now couldn’t find its way back. An awkward silence expanded in the room, so much so that it was dizzying, but neither of them could compel themselves to say something to dispel it. The new status of their relationship was so unexpected that they were both immobile with fear. The bee was hysterically flailing against the windowpane, which had been washed painstakingly in preparation for the Green Week festivities preceding Pentecost. Kazimiera waited. At long last, Lypynskyi mumbled, “Women’s suffrage would make sense if women received an education on par with that of men. Without education, the right to vote is a meaningless plaything. How are women going to know who to vote for if they don’t know how to read or write? Their husbands will make the decision either way.”
“Women know how to read and write!” Kazimiera objected heatedly.
“I’m not saying that all of them don’t, but many . . .” Lypynskyi fell silent, while Kazimiera rushed to the window and threw it wide open to help the bee fly free. The bee hurtled between the pane and the frame and stopped buzzing. Lypynskyi walked over to help.
“I don’t need any help!”
But she wanted him to help.
Lypynskyi set about trying to coax the insect out of its hideout with the curtain, though he did so, as was customary for him, very ineptly. The bee flew down his collar, and a sharp pain shot through his whole body. He grabbed his neck and howled as if he had contracted apian rabies from the sting. Kazimiera laid him down on the sofa, whispering, “What happened, Wacław? I’ll send for a doctor, but tell me: What happened?”
“Yes, send for one,” Lypynskyi replied, his tone softening to a premortem moan, “but it might be too late. I’m dying. There’s not enough air for me to breathe, Kazimiera. I’m dying.”
His pallid face was bathed in sweat, his hands froze over, his eyes grew bleary.
“Christ, can you tell me what’s wrong with you?”
“The damned bee bit me here, in the neck.” And he turned back the collar of his shirt to show her. Kazimiera exhaled. She wanted to laugh but didn’t. Instead, she suddenly leaned down and kissed him on the lips.
The pain subsided, and the world ceased to exist. The kiss was barely palpable. It was more of a whiff than a kiss, a spurious touch, a fleeting, one-footed jaunt into quicksand—a poke of a toe, just to break the sand’s stillness but not get sucked in whole. Lypynskyi had a right to this kiss, as they were now engaged. But he didn’t have the courage to claim it. Kazimiera pulled her head back, and he didn’t stop her.
Many years later, he would replay this scene in his mind over and over: the bee, his cries, her fright, her kiss. Though, no, it wasn’t a kiss but a proffer of a kiss, a proffer of herself, as if to say, From now on I’ll be yours, take me, take my mind and my body. But he didn’t take her, he shoved her away. It didn’t matter that he did so out of great fear; Kazimiera retreated back inside her shell, offended and shamed, and never showed herself to him again.
This would be the most terrible mistake of Lypynskyi’s life. All of his subsequent mistakes would be but consequences of this first one.
“I don’t think it’s worth troubling a doctor,” Kazimiera declared, standing up abruptly.
Sprawled out on the couch, Lypynskyi helplessly squeezed his throat with numbed fingers, as if willfully throttling himself.
“Have you never been stung by a bee, Wacław?”
“Never.”
“It isn’t deadly.” Kazimiera’s face sharpened like a dagger.
Lypynskyi remembered that he should still escort his mother to the courtyard. He rose from the couch.
“I’ll stop by tomorrow as usual, at two o’clock.”
Kazimiera nodded, and he quickly gathered his things and abashedly slipped out into the street.
the wedding took place in that same church where the young couple had previously quarreled so spiritedly. Only the closest relatives attended the ceremony. Uncle Adam Rokicki, the owner of the large estate outside Uman, was too busy with the threshing to make it but invited the newlyweds to visit him at his homestead. Lypynskyi responded that they wouldn’t manage to visit him that year, perhaps the following year, but before committing to doing so, he’d consult with Kazimiera, as they were now a family and decided everything together.
Together, they decided to move to Geneva to enroll in a sociology course at a university there. They both knew French quite well. They both wanted to get away. They sent their belongings in advance by mail, and some acquaintances in Geneva helped them find an apartment just opposite the university at the address Rue de Condol 4. Then the newlyweds headed off for their honeymoon in Venice. They spent two weeks in a luxury hotel on the island of Lido di Venezia.
At first, they held hands constantly. There was something new about this for both of them—that new type of unguarded intimacy, when there’s no need to be on defense, when there’s no need to mentally sift through relevant topics for conversation or analyze the words you’ve heard, searching for a hidden intimation or accusation in them. They could simply hold hands and not say anything. Her hand was always cold. His was as well. Kazimiera would spend the entire day splashing around in the water: she didn’t know how to swim, naturally, just pretended. He sat on the shore in a folding chair, shirt buttoned up to the last button in the scorching sun. Who knew what these boundless marine depths concealed? Big fish could bite off his feet.
This was the first and last time Lypynskyi saw the sea. Later, whenever salt hit his lips or skin, he would invariably think of his wife.
But now, here she was, smiling, happy, her hair poking out from under her hat. He was rushing toward her, but each step that he took separated them, didn’t bring them closer but distanced them, took her away from him. The closer Lypynskyi wanted to be to Kazimiera, the less of her he had left, and whenever he’d come up right next to her, she’d disappear entirely. She’d dissipate, dissolving like a droplet of seawater in a river’s floodplain. The aftertaste of salt in his mouth alone would serve as a reminder that she had ever existed at all.
In time, to be able to expel Kazimiera from his memory, Lypynskyi would give up consuming salt in any shape or form. The “sans diet,” as he’d call it. A life sans salt and sans flavor. A life without Kazimiera.