I don't even have to look outside to know that winter's coming. A dense cloud has been collecting in my lungs, breaking free and rattling about in the mornings, settling and thickening in the afternoons. Irena insists that it's a head cold from constantly drinking cold noncarbonated water at the bar, but when I begin drinking the prescribed tea, the weight in my chest only becomes heavier, pulling my voice lower and lower.
I'm not used to the coal they use here in the city. Wood smoke stings your nose and the back of your throat, but it doesn't settle inside you the way coal does. During the first two weeks of October, the sidewalks are blocked with mountains of the stuff, which men in coveralls feed into the bowels of the buildings, leaving swirls of black dust on the sidewalk. And by the middle of the month, nearly all of the old, stuccoed kamienice from the Rynek to Aleje are steadily belching out thick, dark smoke. A false dusk precedes the real one, and I watch it fall through the dugout window at Stash's, first like snow in a photo negative, then like a hood, until I'm staring at my own glossy reflection in the window.
I've been working as a bar girl for six months now, with no end in sight. At least Magda can partition her past from her present from her future. At least she can say "When I failed my law school exams" and "When I take the entrance exam again in the spring." For me, time is as wide and boundless as the Błonia, stretching in all directions. As I watch Tadeusz play, I wonder how long you have to do something before you become it. How long does he have to play the klarnet before he really is a klarnecista? How long can I stand behind this bar and say that I'm not a bar girl?
I half listen as Kinga tells Magda about her friend in London who is trying to find a spot for her at a language school there.
"I thought you were going there to work, not study."
"That's how it works. The school gets you a student visa, you go there in the morning just to sign in, and then you leave and you're off to work."
"And where will you work?"
"I don't know. Probably a bar."
"But you can do that here."
"But I can learn English there. And make a lot more money."
"That's how they start," Magda says. "They convince everyone that they need to learn English, they come over here under the innocuous title of 'native speakers,' settle in and establish outposts they call language schools, and then before you know it, they've bought up half the Rynek and we're drinking milk in our tea. Mark my words, that's exactly what happened in India."
"You're paranoid," Kinga says. " And hypocritical. You already know English a lot better than I do."
"My mother made me go to lessons when I was too young to know any better."
"Your mother was a smart woman. You should take your English and get out while you can. This country is sinking fast."
"Only because people like you are leaving. If everyone our age would only stay..."
"Listen, I love Poland, but not enough to sacrifice myself and be poor all my life."
"Being poor here is better than doing slave labor for the Colonizers," Magda says, waving her hand in the direction of the table of Englishmen. "Besides, Polish boys are much better looking."
"You have me there."
And they both laugh.
The break comes. When I leave them, they are taking an inventory of the boys that hang around the club from week to week. Magda seems to have made a full recovery after Żaba. I meet Tadeusz with his orange juice at a table off to the side.
"How's everything?" Tadeusz asks.
"Fine. You?"
He shrugs.
"Do you want to go to Mikro on Friday? They're playing Take It Easy."
"I'll have to let you know."
We sit in silence, listening to the shouts and laughter in the room.
"You know, I've been thinking," I say. "Irena knows a lot of people at the Cabaret. I was thinking that maybe I could ask her to załatwić an audition for you."
Tadeusz runs his finger around the rim of his glass.
"Tadeusz, did you hear what I said? An audition at the Cabaret. With Piotr Skrzynecki."
"I heard you. I'm thinking about it."
"What's there to think about?"
"I just don't want you to inconvenience yourself. Or Irena. You know, for Irena to have to call in any favors if she is going to need them for Magda."
"It can't hurt to try. Can you imagine? Playing for the Cabaret? You would be famous. Famous."
Tadeusz covers his mouth. He clears his throat and leans back in his chair. "That would be great. Really great."
"You don't sound very excited about it."
"I just don't want to put you or Irena through any trouble."
"It's no trouble."
"I'll think about it."
Something bothers me about the expression on his face and the timbre of his voice. I try to convince myself that I'm just imagining things, but after the third set, he leaves right away, picking up his clarinet case and winding his homemade scarf around his neck like a bobbin.
"Where are you going?" I call after him.
"I'm going to miss the bus," he says. "Sorry. Call me tomorrow."
As we walk home, Magda is talking about one of the boys at the bar. I'm still thinking about Tadeusz, and when I get home, I go immediately to the living room.
"Irena, I need a favor."
"Mmm..." she says. She's watching another documentary, this time on the city of Lwów.
"Irena, I was thinking."
"Mm-hmm?"
"Since you know a few people at the Cabaret..."
"Mmm..."
"Do you think you could get Tadeusz an audition with Piotr Skrzynecki?"
She laughs loudly and mutes the television.
"What does that mean?" I ask.
"It means that it is a very big favor you are asking me to załatwić, a very big bargaining chip that I have indeed, and living in the new and improved Poland, I will have to think of some way to make sure that I profit from it."
"Name your price."
"You can't afford it."
"Try me."
Irena thinks for a minute. She gets up from the love seat, goes to the dresser underneath the television, and pulls open the bottom drawer.
"Answer the letters. These stupid, pieprzone letters," she says. "They all send them thinking they are doing something nice, but every single one is like a damn pebble in my shoe. You get Magda to answer these letters in English for me, and I will talk to someone at the Cabaret about your klarnecista."
"Why can't you answer them yourself?"
"With my English?"
"You seem to speak well enough to make them follow you home from the train station in the first place."
"Yes, but writing that infernal language ... it's like they throw all the letters up in the air and transcribe them the way they land on the floor. No, Magda will have to do it. I've been asking her since the summer, but she says she is too busy. Isn't that irony? For years she has been too lazy to write them. Now she is too busy." She adjusts her glasses on the bridge of her nose and holds the broken part delicately between her fingers. "So. Do we have a deal?"
I go to Magda's room and tell her, and she laughs. "She's talking bzdury. When I tried to help her, she still didn't want to do it. She just blames it on me because she feels guilty about it. We'll call her bluff and Tadeusz will have his audition."
On Sunday, Magda and I hurry through dinner. As soon as we're finished, we get up and clear the dishes from the coffee table.
"Relax," Irena says. "Where do any of us have to be today?" It's sleeting outside, and we can hear the pinging of the ice against the metal railing of the balcony. Irena eats the last bite of surowka straight from the serving bowl and lays the fork down. Magda adds it to the stack of dishes in her hands and heads off to the kitchen.
"We're answering your letters today," she calls. "You told Baba Yaga you wanted to answer your letters, so we're answering your letters."
Irena puts her feet up on the love seat and stretches out as much as she can, her head propped against the armrest. "Not today. Another day, but not today."
"Oh, no you don't." Magda tosses a dishcloth to me, and I wipe off the coffee table.
Irena shields her face with her hands. "I don't feel well. Another day. I have my period. The weather is terrible. Another day."
I go into my room and bring back the plastic bag of pens and paper, envelopes and stamps that I have collected over the past week. When I come back, Magda is already shuffling through the pile of letters in her lap. "Come on, mamo, we're all going to work on them until they get done."
"And do you want me to write these letters in Polish or Russian?" Irena asks. "I'm bilingual, you know."
Magda puts the letters on the table and sets two in front of her mother. "Here. These are the two that can be answered in Polish. The rest, you will dictate to me and I will translate into English. While we are doing that, Baba Yaga will copy the addresses onto the envelopes."
Irena rubs at her eyes. "But it's so dreary today. The barometer is low and I have cramps. I can't. Not today. It will only be bad news."
"Mamo, I'm serious. This one time I will do them. If not today, then I will never listen to you complain about them again."
Irena smiles slightly, her hands still over her eyes. "Głupia panienka"
There are about forty letters—Christmas cards mostly, some from two or three years before, some with handwritten letters tucked inside. I wonder if these people will even remember Irena, but I know that if she doesn't write them, they will continue to squat in her mind. Magda digs into the pile. She hands me the envelope to copy the address, then smooths the letter flat on her lap.
"Okay. Betty and Walt Lyons from Green Lakes, Minnesota," she translates. "Dear Irena ... coś tam, coś tam ... had a wonderful time ... coś tam, coś tam ... come see us in Minnesota ... coś tam, coś tam..."
"Where's Minnesota?" I ask.
"Near California. Everything is near California," Magda says authoritatively. "Except New York. Okay, mamo, what do you want to write back to them?"
"I don't know. I don't even remember who they are."
"I don't believe you, Irena," I say. "You remember all the guests. How old they are, what their children do for a living..."
"I told you, I'm not in the mood today."
"Drogi Betty i Walt..." Magda looks up at her mother.
Irena lifts her hand up like a visor and squints at Magda. "Dear Betty and Walt. I don't remember you, but I remember that you are from that country that forced those terrible soap operas and those greasy hamburgers on us."
Magda shakes her head and laughs. She begins writing. Irena waves her hand limply, conducting an imaginary, apathetic orchestra. "Things are terrible here in Poland. There is so much poverty and unemployment, and the filthy capitalist pigs in your country who wanted this revolution are doing nothing to help the people. Once the communists fell, you left us like manure in the pasture." Irena smiles. "Write, little daughter, write."
"Dear Betty and Walt," Magda translates back to us. "Sorry that I haven't written to you in so long, but that doesn't mean I haven't thought of you often. In fact, I remember your visit to Krakow as if it were yesterday. Things are difficult at the moment in Poland. There are many challenges; however, the Polish people are strong and will overcome these in time."
Irena clears her throat and continues. "It is sleeting outside today, and I feel like crap. My daughter, Magda, has failed out of law school and is now working at a bar." She laughs at her own pessimism.
"Don't forget to tell them about the cousin who came to visit and won't go away," I add.
"Yes, yes, good idea," Irena agrees. "Add that." We are all laughing.
Magda clears her throat and reads back to us what she wrote. "I still have my health, thank God. And Magda is working toward someday becoming a prosecutor, as she has always dreamed. A beloved cousin from the village has come to stay, who has brought us much happiness."
"I don't know whether to thank you or throw up," I say.
"My friend says that's how it is in America," Magda insists. "'How are you? How can I help you? God bless you. Have a nice day.'"
Irena continues. "There is no way in hell I could ever afford the airplane ticket to Minnesota, and even if I could, I'd go someplace more interesting like New York or California. Besides, your damn consulate won't give anyone a visa, and they treat us like dogs, making us line up outside for days in the rain."
"Thank you for your kind invitation," Magda reads back. "I hope that someday I will be able to visit America. Greetings to your children. Your friend, Irena."
Magda lines the letter up on the coffee table with the envelope I've addressed tucked beneath it. She and Irena write two more in the same way, which she lays down on the table next to the first. She stands up to survey the three letters.
"What about the rest of them?" I ask.
"It's all systematic," she says. And sure enough, she's thought everything out for maximum efficiency. While I address the envelopes, she reads the rest of the letters to Irena, and Irena decides whether to answer with version one, two, or three.
"Version zero."
"There is no version zero."
"Exactly," Irena says, crumpling the letter. "He was a babiarz ... from Holland. Only interested in my dupa."
"Your dupa?" Magda and I look at each other and break up laughing.
"Go ahead and laugh, but believe it or not, there are a few men walking on this earth who at one point were interested in my dupa."
We start copying the letters, changing the names and the states, subtracting children, adding pets. Magda supervises and proofreads them after we're done. The work goes quickly, disappearing behind Irena's stories about the guests: the Italian who fell hopelessly in love with both her and Magda on the same weekend; the American man who lost his home in a fire and was touring the world with his insurance money; the Swiss woman who woke up every morning and stood on her head; the American couple who stacked their luggage behind the guest room door because they thought that Irena would come in during the night and rob them.
"They were in their seventies, I think. All wrinkly. Even if I had wanted their money, I would have been too scared to open the door and catch them in the act!" She laughs. "But the money seems to be the first thing they think of in America."
"Right," Magda says. "As if no one thinks of money here."
"Out of desperation," Irena says. "It is a different thing."
The pile of unanswered letters on the table has dwindled. I check the drawers beneath the television and find another short stack.
"We missed a few," I say, handing them to Irena.
She opens one. We sit in silence, listening to the storm outside as she looks over the paper. She frowns and hands it back to me.
It's not from one of the tourists. Dear Irena, it says in Polish, in the same uniform handwriting seared into all of our fingertips from the primary grades. I am sorry to hear about your husband's death.
Magda reaches for the letter. I hand it to her, and she reads it, wrinkling her brow in the same way as her mother. Irena shuffles through the rest of the stack. Magda finishes the letter and leans back in the armchair.
"I'll go and post these," I say, gathering up the finished letters, and neither of them protests that it's Sunday evening or that it's storming outside. It's only when I pull the door shut behind me, only when I'm standing in the corridor that I hear them start to talk.
Outside, the icy rain buffets my cheeks. I didn't bother to take an umbrella, and I can't go back now. The kiosks and the shop windows are dark, and the streets and sidewalks are nearly empty except for an occasional silhouette slouching under the awnings or the tram shelters. I run with the letters under my coat and stuff them into the red box hanging on the wall outside the post office. I run to the cluster of three phone booths a little farther down. They have just begun replacing the old blue communist phone booths across the city with new, bright yellow ones, the color of school buses and taxicabs in the American films. I slip into one of them, pull the door shut behind me, and sit down on the ribbed metal floor.
Sometimes it feels as if Irena and Magda were meant to be my real family, as if I was really meant to grow up there in the flat on the Street of Kazimierz the Great, as if I am meant to die in Krakow, buried in Rakowicki Cemetery, with Irena stacked below me and Magda above. Sometimes it seems as if the first six years I spent in Half-Village listening to my mother die and my father stumble and fall on the other side of the wall were a terrible mistake, and the fifteen I spent with Nela were nothing but a dream. Sometimes it feels as if I was dropped by the stork into the wrong house, or the city walls were misdrawn by a few hundred kilometers and I simply ended up on the wrong side. Tonight, though, I feel the distance between us—the kilometers stretching from the village to the city, the space between being a daughter and a cousin, the cavernous years of my absence.
I sit in the phone booth listening for the sounds of the city on a Sunday night—the sleet pinging against the metal, the occasional rumble of a tram or a car passing by, my own breathing. I watch the glass fog up and feel the cold metal seeping through to my backside. I rewrap my scarf so it covers my nose, breathing brief pockets of warmth into it, which quickly dissipate. I pull my coat tightly around me. I tuck my hands into the warmth under my arms. I sit there for an hour or so, waiting for the storm to pass, and when I return, neither of them asks where I've been.