was thin and bony.
'Mr A. Mos, do you sometimes have dreams?' she asked hesitantly and immediately knew she had made a mistake. The man laughed, slapped his thighs and gave her a look that seemed
ironic.
'Well I never - a young lady comes to see a strange man and
asks if he has dreams. I t's just like a dream.'
'But I know you.'
'Do you? How come you know me, but I don't know you? Oh,
maybe we met at jaS's party? At jas Latka's?'
34
O l g a To k a r c z u k
She shook her head.
'No? Where was it then?'
'Mr A. Mas . . .
'
'My name's Andrzej . Andrzej Mos.'
'Krysia Poploch,' she said. They both stood up, shook hands
and sat down again awkwardly.
'So . . .' he said after a while.
'My name's Krysia Poploch . . .'
'I know that.'
' . . . I'm thirty years old, I work in a bank, where I'm quite
senior. I live in Nowa Ruda - do you know where that is?'
'Somewhere near Katowice?'
'No, no. It's near Vrodaw.'
'Aha,' he said distractedly. 'Would you like a beer?'
'No thank you.'
'Well, I'm going to have one.'
He stood up and went into the kitchen. Krysia noticed a
typewriter on the desk with a piece of paper in it. Suddenly she
got the idea that what she should do and say next was written on
it, so she got up to take a look, but Andrzej Mas came back with
a bottle of beer.
'Actually, I thought you were from Cz�stochowa. For a while
there I even thought I knew you.'
'Really?' said Krysia, perking up.
'I even thought . . .' he said, his eyes shining. He took a large
swig of the bottle.
'What?'
'You know how it is. You don't remember everything. Not
always. Was there something between us? At the party at . . .'
'No,' said Krysia quickly and felt herself go red. 'I've never
seen you before.'
'But didn't you say you know me?'
H o u s e o f D a y, H o u s e o f N i g h t
3 5
'Yes, I do, but only your voice.'
'My voice? God, what are you on about? I must be dreaming.
A girl comes round and insists she knows me, but it's the first
time she's ever seen me in her life. She only knows my voice . . .'
Suddenly he froze with the bottle to his lips and his eyes
bored into Krysia. 'Now I know. You're from the secret police.
You know my voice because you've been tapping my phone,
right?'
'No. I work in a bank . . .'
'All right, all right, but I've got my passport now and I'm leaving. I'm leaving, get it? For the free world. I'm packing up, as you can see. It's all over, you people can't do anything to me
now.'
'Please don't . . .'
'What do you want?'
'I dreamed about you. I found you through the phone book.'
The man lit a cigarette and stood up. He started pacing up and
down the cluttered room. Krysia took her identity card out of
her handbag and placed it open on the table.
'Please take a look, I'm not from the secret police.'
He leaned over the table and looked at it.
That doesn't prove a thing,' he said. 'You don't write in an
identity card that you're a secret policeman, do you ?'
'What can I do to convince you?'
He stood over her, smoking his cigarette.
'You know what? It's getting late. I'm just on my way out. I
have an appointment. And besides, I'm packing. I've got all sons
of important things to see to.'
Krysia took her identity card from the table and put it hack in
her handbag. Her throat felt painfully tigh t.
'I'll be off, then.'
He didn't protest. He saw her to the door.
36
O l g a To k a r c z u k
'So you dreamed about me?'
'Yes,' she said, slipping on her shoes.
'And you found me through the phone book?'
She nodded.
'Goodbye. I'm sorry,' she said.
'Goodbye.'
She ran down the stairs and found herself in the street. She
walked down the hill towards the station, crying. Her mascara
ran and stung her eyes, turning the world into a brightly
coloured blur. At the ticket office she was told that the last train
for Vrodaw had just left. The next one was in the morning, so
she went to the station bar and ordered some tea. Her mind was
a blank as she sat staring at the slice of lemon floating limply in
the glass. From the platforms a damp, foggy night came drifting
into the station hall. This is no reason not to believe in dreams,
it finally occurred to her. They always make sense, they never
get it wrong - it's the real world that doesn't live up to their perfection. Phone books tell lies, trains go in the wrong direction, the letters in the names of cities get mixed up, and people forget
their own names. Only dreams are real. She thought she could
hear that warm voice full of love in her left ear again.
'I called the travel information. The last train to Nowa Ruda
has already gone,' said Andrzej Mos, and sat down at her table.
He drew a little cross on the wet oilcloth. 'Your make-up's run.'
She took out a handkerchief, wetted the corner with spit and
wiped her eyelids.
'So you dreamed about me? It's an incredible honour to be
dreamed about by someone you don't know, who lives at the
other end of the country . . . So what happened in the dream?'
'Nothing. You just spoke to me.'
'What did I say?'
'That I'm unusual and that you love me.'
H o u s e o f D a y, H o u s e o f N i g h t
37
He snapped his fingers and took a long stare at the ceiling.
'What a crazy way to pick a guy up! I take my hat off to you.'
She didn't reply, just went on sipping her tea.
'I wish I was at home now,' she said at last.
'Let's go to my place. I've got a spare bed.'
'No. I'm going to wait here.'
'As you wish.'
He went to the buffet and got himself a mug of beer.
'I don't think you are A. Mos. I mean not the one I dreamed
about. I must have gone wrong somewhere. Maybe it's another
city, not Cz�stochowa.'
'Maybe.'
Til have to look again.'
The man planked his mug down on the table with such force
that he spilled some beer.
'Pity I won't know the results.'
'But you do have a similar voice.'
'Let's go to my place. You can spend the night in a bed, not at
a bar table.'
He could see that she was wavering. Without the ghastly mascara she looked younger, less provincial.
'Let's go,' he repeated, and she stood up without a word.
He took her luggage and they went back up the hill.
Sienkiewicz Street was deserted now.
'And what else was in the dream?' he asked, as he made up the
sofa-bed in the main room for her.
'I don't want to talk about it any more. It doesn't matter.'
'Shall we have a beer? Or some vodka as a nightcap? M ind i f
I light up?'
She agreed. He disappeared into the kitchen. and after a
moment's hesitation she went up to the typewriter. Before she
had even read the title of the poem written there her heart began
38 0 l g a To k a r c z u k
to beat. It said: 'A Night in Mariand'. She stood over the typewriter as if rooted to the spot. Behind her, clattering about in the kitchen, was Amos from her dream, a real, live skinny man with
bloodshot eyes, someone who knew everything and understood
everything, who entered into people's dreams, sowing love and
anxiety, someone who moved the world aside as if it were a curtain concealing some other, elusive truth.
Her fingers trembled as she touched the keys.
'I write poetry,' he said behind her. 'I've even published a
small volume.'
She couldn't turn round.
'Do sit down . It doesn't matter any more, because I'm off to
the free world now. Give me your address and I'll write to you.'
She could hear his voice just behind her, in her left ear.
'Do you like it? Do you read poetry? It's just a draft, I haven't
finished it yet. Do you like it?'
She let her head drop. The blood was pounding in her ears.
He gently touched her arm.
'What's the matter?' he asked.
She turned round to face him and saw his eyes fixed on her
curiously. She could smell his scent - of cigarettes, dust and
paper. She snuggled up to that scent, and they stood there without moving for several minutes. For a while he held his hands away from her, wavering, then he began to stroke her back.
'It is you, I've found you,' she whispered.
He touched her cheek and kissed her.
'If you like.'
He pushed his fingers into her peroxide hair and pressed his
lips to hers. Then he pulled her on to the sofa-bed and started to
undress her. She didn't like this, it was too abrupt, she wasn't
going to enjoy it, but it had to be done, like a sacrifice. She had
to allow him anything, so she slipped out of her dress, and her
H o u s e o f D a y, H o u s e o f N i g h t
39
blouse, her suspender belt and bra. His thin rib cage loomed
before her eyes, dry and angular like a stone.
'So how did you hear me in the dream?' he asked in a breathy
whisper.
'You spoke in my ear.'
'Which one?'
'The left one.'
'Here?' he asked and slipped his tongue into her ear.
She squeezed her eyelids shut. She could no longer break
free. It was too late. He was pinning her down with the whole
weight of his body, touching her, penetrating her, piercing her.
But somehow she knew that this had to happen, that she had to
give Amos his due first, before she'd be able to take him away
with her and plant him in front of her home like a huge tree.
And so she surrendered to the alien body, and even embraced it
awkwardly, joining in the bizarre, rhythmical dance.
'Cheers,' the man said afterwards and lit a cigarette.
Krysia got dressed and sat down beside him. He poured vodka
into two shot glasses.
'How was it for you?' he asked, briefly glancing at her and
draining the vodka.
'Fine,' she replied.
'Let's get some sleep.'
'Already?'
'You've got a train to catch tomorrow.'
'I know.'
'I'd better set the alarm.'
A. Mos shuffled off to the bathroom. Krysia sat still and looked
around Amos's temple. The walls were painted orange, but the
cold fluorescent light made them look a dull shade of blue. Where
a patch of hessian had come away from the wall she could sec a
brighter orange colour. It seemed to be shining, dazzling her. A
40
0 I g a To k a r c z u k
curtain yellow with cigarette smoke hung at the window, and to
her right stood the abandoned desk and the typewriter with 'A
Night in Mariand' in it.
'Why did you fall in love with me?' she asked when he came
back. 'What makes me different from other people?'
'For God's sake, you're cracked.'
'What do you mean, I'm cracked?'
'You're crazy. Off your rocker.'
He poured himself a shot of vodka and downed it in one.
'You came half-way across Poland to see a complete stranger,'
he said. 'You told him your dream and you went to bed with
him. That's it. You're cracked.'
'Why are you lying to me? Why don't you admit you're Amos
and you know all about me?'
'I'm not Amos. My name's Andrzej Mos.'
'What abou t Mariand?'
'What Mariand?'
'"A N ight in Mariand". What's Mariand?'
He laughed and sat on a chair beside her.
'It's a pub in the market place. All the local boozers drink
there. I wrote a poem about it. I know it's bad. I've written better
things.'
The return journey was filled with the crash of closing doors the door of the night train crashed shut, as did the doors of compartments, station lavatories and buses. Finally the front door of the house gave a hollow crash behind her. Krysia threw down her
bag and went to bed. She slept all day, and when her anxious
mother called her down to dinner in the evening, Krysia had forgotten that she had been anywhere at all. Sleep, like an eraser, had wiped out the entire journey. A few nights later Krysia heard the
familiar voice in her left ear. 'It's me, Amos, where have you been?'
H o u s e o f D a y, H o u s e o f N i g h t 4 1
'How come you don't know where I've been?' 'I don't,' he
replied. 'Don't you travel about with me?' she asked. The voice
fell silent. Krysia felt that this silence expressed some sort of
embarrassment. 'Never go so far away again,' he answered in her
ear shortly after. 'What do you mean by far away?' she asked him
angrily. Maybe her tone frightened him, because he said nothing,
and Krysia had to wake up.
After the trip to Cz�stochowa nothing was the same. The
streets of Nowa Ruda dried out and were flooded with sunshine.
The girls put bunches of forsythia on their desks. The varnish
began to peel off Krysia's nails, the roots of her peroxide hair grew
dark and the fair ends worked their way down to her shoulders.
At noon a large window in the banking hall was opened, letting
the din from the street flood in - children's voices, the noise of cars
streaming by, the rapid clatter of stiletto heels, and the flutter of
pigeons' wings. It was a pleasure to leave work. The narrow streets
beckoned you to enter, to look at the people's faces and be
reminded of a painting of a courtyard scene. The cafes were inviting, their smoke-filled expanses full of curious glances and idle conversation. Even better, they offered the timeless fragrance of
coffee brewing in glasses and the clink of metal teaspoons.
In May Krysia went to see a clairvoyant and asked him about
her future. The clairvoyant read her horoscope, then spent a
long time concentrating with his eyes shut.
'What do you want to know?' he asked her.
'What's going to happen to me?' she said, and he must have
been able to see into distant space beneath his eyelids, because
his eyeballs kept moving from left to right as if he were surveying inner landscap
es.
Krysia lit a cigarette and waited. The clairvoyant saw ash-grey
valleys, with the remains of cities and villages. The scene was
dead still, and was growing dimmer from moment to moment.
42
O l g a To k a r c z u k
The sky was orange, low and thin as nylon. There was nothing
moving, not a breath of wind, not a hint of life. The trees looked
like stone pillars, as if frozen by the same sight as Lot's wife. He
thought he could hear them creaking gently. Krysia wasn't in this
landscape, nor was he there either, nor anyone. He didn't know
what to say. He only felt a spasm of fear in his stomach at the
thought that now he would have to lie and invent something.
'No one dies for ever. Your soul will come back again many
times, until it finds what it's looking for,' he said, then took a
deep breath and added, 'You'll get married and have a child. I t
will fall ill, and you'll look after i t . Your husband will be older
than you and will leave you a widow. Your child will go away
from you , far away, over the ocean perhaps. You will be very old
when you die. Dying will not cause you pain.'
That was all. Krysia went away calm, because she knew all
that already. She had spent her money in vain. She could have
bought a willow-green boucle blouse of the sort that were
arriving in bundles from abroad. In the night she heard Amos's
voice again. 'I love you , you're an unusual person ,' he said.
In her sleepy state she thought she recognized the voice, and
felt sure she knew whose it was, and she fell asleep happy. But as
happens with dreams and semi-dreams, in the morning it had all
melted away and she was left with nothing but a vague impression of knowing something, without being quite sure what. And that was all.
P e a s
'You don't have to leave home to know the world,' said Marta
suddenly, as we were shelling peas on the steps in front of her
house.
H o u s e o f D a y, H o u s e o f N i g h t 43
I asked how. Maybe she meant by reading books, watching
the news, listening to the radio, surfing the Internet, reading the
papers, or going to the shop for gossip. But what she had in
mind was the futility of travel.
When you're travelling you have to take care of yourself in
order to get by, you have to keep an eye on yourself and your
place in the world. It means concentrating on yourself, thinking
about yourself and looking after yourself. So when you're travelling all you really encounter is yourself, as if that were the whole point of it. When you're at home you simply are, you