After the morning out with Irena, I start to hear more stories like Irena's, stories that Nela left out. On the street. From strangers. And it seems they have been here all along. All I had to do was stand in the middle of the street or under one of the bus shelters, wiggle an imaginary dial, and tune in to the conversations passing by. For about a week, I do just this, and I start to hear the people around me all talking about the old days. The War. The Trains. The Secret Police. The Shortages.
"Young people today don't know a thing about suffering," I hear an old woman tell her friend while I am waiting at the tram stop. "All this 'pizza' and 'kebob' now. They would be appalled to see what we ate during the war. Remember the winter of 'forty-four, when everyone was so hungry, we thought about eating each other?" And for some reason they both laugh.
I click the imaginary dial off. To say the truth, I don't want to hear their stories. They are just another terrible burden I don't need. I say a silent prayer of gratitude to Nela for her editing and walk to work instead.
It's been a month since Tadeusz started playing at Stash's, and I've memorized all the private details and intimate gestures that fool me into thinking I know him. I notice if his blond stubble is clean shaven, and I picture him in front of his corroded bathroom mirror, razor in hand, carefully moving the blade up his outstretched neck, giving it one final flick as he comes to his chin. I notice that he wears the same faded black T-shirt every Wednesday and that every other Wednesday, it has the look of cardboard from being freshly washed and hung outside. I know that if the final set ends right around eleven, he will rush out to catch his bus, but if it ends before, he can take a little time to chat. I know that he is shy because he varies his greetings to me in a predictable pattern. Co słychać? one time, then Jak leci? then Jak tam? then back to Co słychać?
"Stop dreaming and just ask him out," Kinga says.
"Ask him out?"
"It's the New Poland. Anything is possible."
"I can't ask him out."
"Why not? Ask him to come with us on Saturday. It would be the most appropriate first date ever."
It's Kinga's last week in Poland and she's particularly cheerful. Stash has given us both Saturday off so we can celebrate her send-off. The city is relaunching the Festival of Virgins this year, and Kinga wants me to meet her and a few of her old classmates from liceum there.
When the music stops after the third set and the grand exodus begins, I can feel his eyes on me from across the room. I can feel him stretching out the time as he packs up his clarinet and says goodbye to Stash and the other band members. By the time he makes his way back to the bar, the place has almost completely cleared out.
"Jak leci?" he asks.
"Good. Orange juice?"
"Thanks."
He stands there and drinks it while I wash the glasses.
"So, do you work every night?" he asks.
"I'm off Fridays and Sundays usually. But this weekend, Saturday too. It's Kinga's last weekend, so we're going to the Festival of Virgins."
"Oh," he says.
"She's moving to Italy," I tell him, because it's better than silence.
"Really?"
"To be an au pair."
"Oh." He nods. There's still a little juice in his glass.
"And you? Do you work somewhere else?"
"You mean other than here?"
"Yes."
"I can't. I have to stay home and watch my sisters while my parents work."
"Oh."
"But my other sister can babysit too sometimes. If I ever need a night off."
The moment squats in front of us, staring us in the face, but neither of us seems to be able to force the words out, and more moments stack up until the first one is smothered at the bottom of the pile. He drinks the last of his orange juice and reaches over and puts his glass in the sink. He taps at his watch, an old aluminum thing with a worn leather strap.
"The bus?" I say.
"The bus."
"See you next Wednesday."
"Na razie."
Sometimes I'm so frustrated I could cry.
Magda is hardly in the flat anymore. When she is, she goes straight to her room and stays there until morning, when she hears everyone leave. Except for her music and the cigarette smoke that trickles out from under the door, it's almost as if she doesn't live with us anymore, and sometimes when Irena talks about her daughter, the tourists assume that she means me, and neither Irena nor I correct them.
There's an older American couple staying tonight, and they're sitting and talking with Irena when I get home. Since my bed is now the foldout ottoman in the corner of the living room, I have to sit with them and be polite until they decide to go to bed. There used to be jokes about how all the furniture in Poland folds out into beds at night. There's one joke where a group of cousins comes to visit, and when it's time to get ready for bed, they fold out all the furniture except for the one, big, double-sized Western bed, which none of the cousins wants to sleep on because they don't know how to unfold it. So one of them ends up sleeping on the floor. It's a very funny joke if you tell it right.
"Jezus Maria," Irena says as the American couple heads off to the guest room. "I thought they were going to keep talking forever. Blah, blah, blah."
"Irena, I didn't know you spoke English that well. I'm impressed."
"Don't be. Blah, blah, blah is all I hear."
I laugh.
"Seriously," Irena says. "I only understand about ten percent."
"Seriously?"
Irena taps her forehead. "It is one of the tricks of the trade." She explains as we make up our beds. "Number one, of course, the rule above all other rules, is to smile. Especially if they are American or Japanese. I make sure I grin like an idiot and don't stop."
I grin at her.
"More."
"Like this?"
"More. Until your face is paralyzed. Then you know it's enough. Now say, 'Excuse. You will tea or coffee?'"
"What does that mean?"
"You didn't learn English in school?"
"Russian."
"Well, that's useless now." She tries to teach me a few more phrases in English: "Flat very near for center," "No, is not much far," and "What day you go away?"
"It's such a rudimentary language," I say. "Like cavemen."
She nods. "And then on the tram, I just ask them about America or Japan or wherever they are from so they will talk and talk and not realize how far it is from the center."
I laugh.
"And, of course, I nod a lot. But it is not so much the nodding as it is the forehead. If you always nod like an idiot, they will suspect something. The trick is that when they talk about something complicated, they will tend to use their hands. So when I notice them using their hands, I squint and wrinkle my forehead as if I am trying hard, but don't quite understand. Then slowly, slowly, I release my forehead and begin to nod because the chances are that they saw me squint and are trying to clarify what they said in the first place."
"And if they ask you a question you don't understand?"
"I say, 'Oh, before I forget!' and then I tell them about Wawel Castle. Or the salt mines. Something that I've nearly memorized I've said it so many times before. And then I ask them about their job or their family or America again and just let them go on about themselves."
"And they never catch on?"
"They think I'm the best conversationalist they've ever met!"
She goes over to the dresser underneath the television and opens a drawer, stuffed full of letters.
"Look. All from tourists. They send Christmas cards and pictures. Some of them even invite me to America."
"Why don't you go?"
"Why would I leave here?"
"You could work."
"I can work here."
"You could marry a rich American."
"And which awful American man would you have me marry?"
"Pani Bożena likes John Forsythe."
"She can have him. Too old."
"What about Jerry Springer?"
"Who's that?"
"The facet on television who makes the fat people angry."
"Springer ... that sounds German." She wrinkles her nose and pretends to spit on the ground.
"Then why not just go to Hollywood, New York City, and the Grand Canyon and come back?"
"Why don't you go?"
"Maybe I will," I say.
She pulls a handful of letters from the drawer and tosses them in my lap. "Proszę bardzo" she says, and laughs.
"What's so funny?"
"What's so funny? The only person less likely than me to get a visa is you."
It's true. They never give visas to unmarried women, but they never, ever, ever give visas to young unmarried women from the village, especially ones who haven't been to university and have no family in America.
"Phooh! Who needs that America anyway," she says. "I only wish I knew enough English to write back. I tried to get Magda to help, but that girl is as lazy as a donkey."
"Stubborn as a donkey?"
"That too. No, I guess they will just have to think that we Poles are rude because we never answer our letters. Unless you want to learn how to write English."
"Irena, why don't you learn?"
"Ach, I am too old to learn anything. You'll see when you are my age."
On Saturday night, I wait for Kinga on the bridge near the Jubilat department store. The banks of the Wisła are rolling with people, and orphaned flower wreaths float at the edge of the water, waiting to be fished out by their rightful suitors. There's a stage set up opposite the castle, the scaffolding glowing red and orange, and a band sings covers of American songs. Apparently, everyone in the city arranged to meet each other on the same bridge, and people press in on me from all sides, spilling beer and shouting conversations. I stand in one place with my back against the railing, hoping that Kinga will find me. Soon enough, I see her raspberry hair moving toward me. She reaches out to me through the crowd on the bridge, miming drowning.
"Ugh! There are so many people! I am so ready to leave this damn country. Look at this bałagan."
"Where are your liceum friends?"
"I don't see them. But they said they were also supposed to meet some of their university friends. At the dragon, I think. Let's go check there."
It takes us half an hour to struggle along the banks to the dragon statue behind Wawel.
"There they are!" Kinga pulls me through the crowd by the arm.
There are two girls, Ola and Gosia, and Gosia's boyfriend, Paweł. They all kiss on the cheeks, one, two, three. Ola seems nice, but Gosia seems like a bit of a lalunia. The three girls all went to liceum together, but Kinga is meeting Gosia's boyfriend for the first time, so they work out their common acquaintances and degrees of separation while I wait to the side and grin like an idiot, nodding my head, furrowing and relaxing my brow.
"And are you from Krakow?" Ola asks me.
"The village."
"Oh," Gosia says.
"This is Baba Yaga. We work together at the jazz club."
"Baba Yaga?"
"It's just a nickname."
"And in the village, did you live in a chicken-feet house?" Gosia asks. Her boyfriend laughs and looks at her admiringly. Gosia is wearing one of the plastic three-thousand-złotych flower wreaths we saw for sale on the way over.
"So. What did we miss already?" Kinga asks.
"Ola lost her wianek," Gosia says. "Oh, wait, that's old news."
Ola hits her on the arm. "You're one to talk."
"Maybe we should get out of this crowd and go find some beers?" Kinga asks.
"Actually, Monika and Grażyna are here too. One of their friends from university is as drunk as a pig, so they just took her to the bathroom. They should be back in a minute."
"It's pretty early for that," Kinga says.
"I know. They said she's been drinking since noon."
"Is everyone in this country an alcoholic?" Kinga says.
"Oh, loosen up."
We stand there listening to the band on the other side of the river. I recognize some of the songs as ones that one of the girls at liceum used to play on her tape recorder during the breaks. All around us, people wander by, boys snatching the wianki from the girls' heads and making jokes about the lack of virgins at the festival. Some of the younger kids climb all over the dragon statue. Ola smiles at me. I smile back at her. To say the truth, I would rather be at Stash's tending bar, or at home with Irena watching television.
"There they are."
"It's about time! Where have you been?"
"We had to go all the way to the hotel to find a bathroom. She's a mess. She can't even walk."
"Maybe somebody should take her home?"
"Not me. It's my last night out."
Monika and Grażyna are supporting the girl in the middle. She has her head down, and her hair is covering her face.
"Magda?"
Her head bobs up. "Baba Yaga?"
"You two know each other?" Kinga asks.
"This is Magda," I say. "The cousin I told you about. The one I'm living with."
"Kurwa," Magda slurs, looking up at me. "It's Baba Yaga."
"Here, let's put her down," Monika says, and they sit her on the concrete, propped against the dragon statue.
"Kurwa," Magda says again. "It's Baba Yaga."
"What do you want to do?" someone asks.
"Grażyna and I can take her home by taxi," Monika says, "and then just walk back."
"Speak for yourself," Grażyna says. "You're the one who let her get this messed up."
"She had a bad day."
"I'm sure she'll thank you tomorrow for making it better."
"Okay, well, I can take her then," Monika says.
"There's no way you'll make it back here. Doesn't she live all the way up Królewska?"
"And then how are we going to meet in this crowd?"
"We could just leave her here and take turns watching her."
"We'd spend the whole night coming back and forth through the crowd."
"Kurwa," Magda mutters again from the ground.
"I'll take her home," I say, and everyone turns to look at me.
"No, no," Kinga says. "It's my last night to celebrate. I want you to stay." But I can tell that no one else really cares, and there was only the customary insisting and counter-insisting to go through.
"Really, it's okay. I'll take her home."
"Are you sure?"
"She's my cousin," I say.
"I'm happy to go if you want to stay here," Monika says.
"Really, it's okay."
"Are you sure?"
"Sure."
"Come back if you can," Kinga says.
"Okay." But we all know there is no way to meet again in this crowd. They help me get Magda to the taxi stand in front of Jubilat and put her in the backseat. The driver barely glances back.
"It should only cost about eight thousand," Monika says. She hands me two thousand złotych and nudges Grażyna to do the same.
"I'm not leaving for Rome until Friday," Kinga says, kissing me on the cheeks—one, two, the Italian way. "I'll still see you at Stash's this week."
"Okay. Na razie."
"Ciao-ciao."
"Hej."
As the taxi pulls away, Magda leans into the corner and lets her head tip back against the seat. I reach over her and open the window. It smells like my father used to—stale beer, vomit, and smoke. Stash won't let anyone get this legless at his place. When he sees someone in a bad way, he flicks at his neck from across the room, which is the signal for us to start pouring him one-quarter beer and three-quarters Sprite. They can't even taste the difference usually.
"Fucking Żaba. Fucking Ruda Zdzira."
All the way up Krolewska, Magda's eyes flutter open and closed as she babbles about frogs and red whores and the airplanes circling in her head. I finally make out that her boyfriend, Żaba, has left her for a girl she calls Ruda Zdzira, Red-Haired Whore.
"And my fucking exam is on Monday. They couldn't even wait until that was over. My fucking exam. Oh, I am going to fail, fail, fail, and once again, fail."
"You don't know that."
"Yes I do."
The taxi drops us off. I get her into the courtyard and up the stairs.
"My fucking exam. I am so going to fail."
"Shhh..."
Irena and the tourists are already in bed, and I lead Magda to her room. I've never been in her bedroom before. I've had the thought to go in there when she and Irena were both out, but I was always afraid that she would come home while I was in there, or would somehow know. I guess I imagined that it would be a bałagan, clothes flung everywhere, cups of tea left to mold over. Instead, I'm surprised at how neat it is. Her lipstick and nail polish are lined up like ammunition, the outfit she wore yesterday folded neatly on the chair.
"That skurwysyn. I can't believe it. That skurwysyn."
"Here, get into bed. Do you want some water?"
She nods her head vigorously.
I get the water from the kitchen. I make her take off her shoes and I put the blanket over her, just like my mother used to do for my father. She probably didn't know why she did it for him either.
"Baba Yaga?"
"Yes?"
She's silent.
"Magda?"
"I forgot."
I get to the door.
"Oh, I remember now. I'm so going to fucking fail."
"You don't know that."
"No. My mother is fucking right. I'm never going to be a fucking prosecutor."
"How does she know?"
There's no answer.
"Magda?"
Still no answer. I close the door softly behind me.
On Sunday morning, through the haze of sleep, I hear Irena shower and leave to take the tourists back to the station. I fall back asleep for a little while, and when I get up, I tiptoe into the kitchen and make my breakfast as quietly as possible, making sure the knife doesn't touch the board and the kettle comes off the burner before it whistles. Magda's door opens suddenly, and I jump.
"You're up." And not only is she awake, but she's showered and dressed with a duffel bag in her hand.
"Hey, thanks for bringing me home last night." She leans against the door frame of the kitchen.
"It was nothing."
"Sorry you were the one to get stuck. Monika told me."
"No problem."
I expect the conversation to end there, but she stays, hovering in the doorway. "I was really a mess."
I shrug.
She ducks her head and fixes her bangs. "I told you everything, didn't I?"
"Less or more."
She stares at me while I sip at my tea. "You're not going to tell my mother, are you?"
"It's none of my business."
"Thanks. I don't think I can stand to hear another 'I told you so' right now."
I motion to her duffel bag. "Are you going somewhere?"
"Monika said I could stay with her for a while. But don't tell my mother. Let her think that I'm at Żaba's. Serves her right. She thinks I didn't study, well, let her think that. Maybe if I'd spent a little less time studying, Ruda Zdzira wouldn't have been able to get her teeth into him."
I don't know why she's telling me these things. For the first time, she seems ordinary, pitiable even. Her face is pale and puffy, and the line of her bangs is uneven.
"Promise you won't say anything?"
"Promise."
"Okay." And she nods her head like she's closing the lid on a box.
Irena returns just as I'm finishing my tea. She's breathing heavily, a carrier bag in each hand.
"Is that głupia panienka awake yet? I heard her come in at dawn last night."
"She stepped out."
"Out? But the exam is tomorrow. Who does she think she is?"
"To study. She went out to study, I think. To the library."
"Well, it's about time—the damn exam is tomorrow. And if she doesn't pass, you know what I'm going to say? You know what I'm going to say?"
"You tried your best, kochana?"
Irena laughs. "No. I'm going to say 'I told you so. Next time you listen to me, because I told you so.'"