Candlelight Stories

Andrzej Galicki

CANDLELIGHT STORIES

Montreal 2015

OTHER BOOKS IN ENGLISH

BY ANDRZEJ GALICKI

White Valley

At the Crossroads

Orion

CANDLELIGHT STORIES

Andrzej Galicki

Copyright ©2015 Andrzej Galicki

Smashwords Edition

Cover - painting Never Ending Day 1998

by: Andrzej Galicki

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the publisher and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of contents

1. Tatiana

2.Iza from Adria

3. Rusalka

4. Long, black veil

5. What would you do if she was alive?

6. Station Red Poppies

7. Few candlelight stories

8. The raft of Meduza

9. Bartek

10. Browarek

11. Beginning of the Book

12. Vampire Lady from Warsaw

Tatiana

Do you like old cemeteries, with their extraordinary atmosphere of almost perpetual twilight, shady canopy of trees, eternal smell of rotting leaves and the constant whispers that only a few are chosen to hear? If you are a nature poet, an old cemetery is the place for you. Here, the words themselves are arranged in poems. But beware, because you never know what you might find among these tombs covered in overgrown moss, especially after dusk...

Perhaps the story described in this book seems unlikely, but where does it say that only likely things are supposed to affect us in our lives?

***

At the beginning of October 1968, I began my studies in the Plock branch of Warsaw Polytechnic, Department of Civil Engineering. It was a whole new facility only recently opened - just in its second year of existence - and not everything yet was organized. The university did not have its own building and was located in the borrowed building of the Technical School. Students from outside Plock lived in rented, private lodgings or in the dormitory of the same Technical School. One wing of the dormitory was dedicated to academicians and a corresponding plaque was mounted at the entrance.

The College Dean secretary had just sent me there. The address given to me was Norbertanska street 11, Room No. 1.

The room was the closest to the main entrance. Inside, I found four metal-framed military beds on both sides and one table near the window. I was the first to arrive, so inevitably, I took the bed that seemed the most comfortable to me - the one on the left side, near the window. When I met the other three people assigned to our room, I found out that all four of us were from Warsaw, like the most part of students directed here. The next day, we all walked the long Kilinski street - which was named after a simple Warsaw shoemaker, who probably never thought that such a long street in Plock would bear his name - to our classes and so our first academic year began.

Autumn was beautiful, as usual in Poland. Kilinski street was lined with chestnut trees. On the way to lectures, we gazed at those shiny, brown balls looking curiously out at the world from between clusters of grass and kicked them down the road. With this unsophisticated fun, we considerably shortened the long way to our university.

I had never lived in a dormitory or boarding house before, so this sudden movement into the unknown prompted me to reflect on myself and to compare my personality with that of my colleagues. And here there was actually a shock, since it turned out that the comparison was not always to my advantage. In fact, the results were sometimes really embarrassing. I was neither the most talented nor the smartest. I was also not the strongest or the most hard working. And as a testament to my mediocrity, I realized that I was not even the laziest of the bunch, which was the last title I was counting on. But the result of comparison, however, was unable to break the deep conviction I had inside of me that I was different from all of them, that I was not the same. Maybe I was neither better nor worse, but certainly a little different. For a long time, I wondered what this difference was, and where my unshakable certainty of its existence came from. It cost me a few sleepless nights before I finally realized what was going on.

I just knew something they all did not know, but whenever I tried to explain it to them, my efforts were deterred by their indifference like a fat fly hindered by a glass window. There was no way to penetrate through the armor of their ignorance with the vague arguments I had at my disposal. The case was made all the more difficult by the fact that I only had a rough understanding of what I meant. I could not express it clearly using words. It felt as if human speech did not have a sufficient amount of sounds to convey my thoughts. This feeling comes back to me even today, when, in the middle of a conversation with some people I know, I can see in their eyes infinitely clear misunderstanding and impatience, waiting when I will finally be finished, because after all, they have something more important to say.

I shut down in such cases. I hide with my thoughts like a turtle in my shell, releasing only some banal jokes and pleasantries that are usually worthy of attention and interest. But that is now. Then, I was young and ambitious. I realized that the glass could be broken only by using special methods.

I've never been a good speaker, and so I decided to use the weapon, which is the charm of the spoken word. Of course, I mean poetry. I set aside for this purpose one of my academic checkered notebooks and an ordinary, blue pen. They were sufficient, as I had no intention, yet to publish my poetry. The more important thing was to learn first how to shout out the seething truths inside me. Trying to pass them off as something more was still a distant thing.

Writing poetry in the dorm was a completely impossible task. There, one could not even study in peace. How much more write poetry? I could probably also win for myself a reputation of ridicule, then I would be left alone, but that would stick to my skin forever. No, what I needed was peace and inspiration, complete isolation from those screams, curses, the sound of clinking bottles of wine and puking in the toilets, which are the ordinary, everyday sounds of a male dorm. As it turned out, I was extremely lucky. Only about 200 meters from the building where the student housing was located, on the very same Norbertanska street, there was an old, abandoned cemetery, where the mixed graves of both civilian and military from the mid-nineteenth century to the end of the Second World War were laid. I discovered the place while I was wandering around on my own and immediately fell in love with the prevailing mood there - the melancholic silence, scant streaks of light piercing through the dense foliage of large trees with apparent difficulty, the mysterious atmosphere suspended in the air. They were all just what I needed then.

The right side from the cemetery entrance looked newer, filled with graves from the Nazi war period and later. The left side, on the other hand, looked much more interesting. The old, crumbling gravestones and tombs seemed already forgotten, overgrown with moss and ferns and in the middle of them all stood a small chapel - orthodox style, which was likely where the funeral rites were once held. Walking towards this extraordinary sanctuary, I tried to read some of the inscriptions on the moss-covered sandstone panels.

It seemed to me that I could hear the exultant whispers of those who had been lying here for so long, as if they were rejoicing that someone might be interested in them that they had not fallen completely into oblivion. The sounds were not hostile to my ears. Rather, they sounded like they were greetings from the other side of life.

These were the graves of the Russian and Polish, the tsarist army officers lying side by side with Polish insurgents, the unsubordinated subjects of Russian annexation.

Once, while passing by one of the tombs, I heard a growl. I stood still, scared. The dark shadow flitted suddenly from beyond the grave and hid among the bushes. I could not exactly see what it was. Maybe a fox? I had heard that there were a lot of foxes lingering around cemeteries, but it seemed too big to be a fox. And too dark. I looked at the vertical plate of sandstone, where an inscription made in Cyrillic letters was still partially visible:

"Peter Ivanovich Zaharov

General- Major

Tatiana Zaharova

His daughter"

The rest I could not read, although it looked like some fuzzy dates and ornaments. The plate was cracked and had already been heavily nibbled on by the tooth of time.

Why would a fox (or maybe not a fox) guard just this tomb? I wondered. Guard? At least that was the impression I got.

I set aside that question, though, as I went back to the dorm happy with my discovery of the cemetery, which I did not share with my colleagues, of course. The place had become my place, my very own creative sanctuary, and the place of my reverie.

It happened that in our room, only I was a student of civil engineering. Three colleagues studied at the department of mechanical engineering. They called me bricklayer and I called them locksmiths, which seemed suitable. One afternoon, they had to prepare for the first test of the semester, a kind of trial test. I was obviously not concerned. When they opened the next bottle of cheap, cider wine in preparation, I took my checkered academic notebook and my blue pen out of my cabinet and hastily left the room.

The day had only begun to turn grey, but when I crossed the gate of the cemetery and found myself under the umbrella of spreading branches, I regretted that I did not take my flashlight with me. Pretty soon, it would be dark, and how would I be able to write my damn poems then? Well, I would just have to see. I walked towards the chapel, having already set my mind on its stone steps as my place of work. I firmly believe true art is born on the stones, not in a comfortable chair.

I sat down and opened my notebook on the first, yet clean page. I took the pen in my teeth and pondered. Around me, there was only silence, seemingly created for artistic inspiration. I took a deep breath, the heavy smell of ferns and rotting leaves slowly filling my lungs. Then, finally, I forced myself to touch the pristine white paper with the oozing tip of the ballpoint pen.

Heavy clouds hung over the city... - I started writing, then looked up at it. What clouds? Damn, there were no clouds up ahead. Through the gap between the branches, only a dark blue sky that was quickly turning grey could be seen. I could not start with a lie, for whoever begins to lie will supposedly lie for life. I struck out the first line and started over:

Across a clear sky rushed puffy...

You're the puffy idiot - I thought, and again crossed out the first line.

In this quiet autumn evening...

This time I stopped because I felt someone's eyes boring into me. Shivers went up my spine, from my waist up to my neck. Slowly, carefully, I looked up from my notebook. Before me, in the middle of the alley, sat a big, dark wolfhound which was looking at me straight in the eye, its gaze was deep and inquisitive, as only an Alsatian wolf could look in the evening in the middle of the cemetery. I tried to get up. I even grumbled Sorry, sir but he growled so threateningly that I stopped. I did not know what to do. Of course, poetry evaporated immediately from my head. My hand instinctively reached into my pocket and pulled out one of the cuckoo candies there, which I raised slowly to my lips. The beast followed my every move closely, ready to pounce on me at any moment. Its eyes suddenly sunk into my cuckoo as two ruby lasers (I had read about the device from the Young Technician magazine, so I knew what laser light beams looked like.)

You, Igor, do you want a ‘cuckoo’? I asked suddenly,

surprising even myself with this name. How could I know it? I threw the candy at him. He caught it on the fly and devoured it immediately, not sucking or smacking like me. He simply snapped his jaw and the candy was no more. Then he stepped closer and let me stroke his big, shaggy head. I realized then that we had become friends.

From the depths of the alley, I suddenly heard whistling.

Igor, where are you? It was a woman's voice. The dog lifted his head and barked briefly, and on the path between the graves I saw the figure of a young woman heading towards us.

When she came closer, I saw that she was still very young and beautiful. She was dressed in a bright, long dress, the hem of which almost scraped the dirt. It had a bow at the front, just below the chest. It reminded of the clothes women wore in old movies. Now, the girls in college usually wore jeans and cotton blouses. To complete her rather absurd look, she had a small hat in the same color as her dress, and she held in her hands a small parasol with a thin, long handle that ended with an ivory knob shaped like a cat's head.

I looked at her in disbelief, not knowing what to say while scratching Igor behind his ears, which he clearly liked.

You gave Igor a ‘cuckoo’ candy? she asked, shifting her glance from the dog to me.

I did. Otherwise, he would have eaten me. Is his name really Igor? Is he your dog?

She came closer and sat next to me on the stairs.

Yes, it is Igor, but he does not belong to me. He’s a friend.

She folded the umbrella and set it down so that it was leaning on the stairs, next to the place where she was sitting.

Do you live somewhere near here? I asked another question, maybe one too many. Apparently, you should not ask a stranger personal questions. It is not considered good manners, but her presence here seemed to me so absurd that I could not resist.

Oh, yes, quite near. I live with Daddy. My mother is away, somewhere near Moscow.

I noticed then that she spoke with a Russian accent, though it was barely audible, slightly dragging the middle or last syllable of each word, which added to its pronunciation a melodious sound so characteristic of this beautiful, Slavic speech.

My name is Tatiana she said, and first stretched out her hand in my direction.

Andrzej I introduced myself, extending my hand as well, though it did not encounter anything in its path except clear air. In one second, I became petrified with horror. Tatiana did not exist. I saw her clearly in the moonlight that streamed through the gap between the branches, where not so long ago I had glimpsed the already dark sky. I saw her pale, astonishingly beautiful face. I saw real disappointment in those beautiful black eyes under classical bows of eyebrows. Finally, I saw them brim with tears, and then suddenly, I stopped being afraid. I felt sorry for her as some indescribable despair was painted in her gaze. I ventured then to ask the next question:

Why are you crying? Can I help you?

Are not you afraid of me? Why do you not run away?

At first I wanted to I confessed. But when you started to cry, I changed my mind. Now, I don’t even think about it.

I thought you were my chance. I thought you'd be able to touch me. It might possibly help me. But you do not feel me, just like everyone else. I am very disappointed.

And Igor? Does he feel your touch?

Igor? Of course he does. She stroked the head of the Alsatian and the dog licked her hand with compassion. Then something dawned in her mind. She stretched out her hand in my direction.

Can you lick it? Asked she hopefully. Maybe that would work?

I would prefer the other hand, I mumbled, pointing to the hand the dog had not licked.

Immediately, she reached out her other hand toward my face. I licked the air, nothing more.

It’s just as I thought she whispered, disappointed. It's not enough.

What more can I do?

You have to believe in me, that's all. Igor believes. That’s why he feels me. You'd have to know me better, but it could take a lot of time. Could we arrange to meet a few times and see if we will finally succeed? Would you like to take on this boring task?

I agreed, of course. Each poet would have agreed, especially the one that has not yet posted any verse. So we agreed to meet again the next day. Tatiana smiled and sent me a farewell kiss with her hand. After a moment, her pale dress disappeared in the dark alleys of the cemetery. Igor stood up without a word. He wagged his tail and followed her.

***

The next morning before my classes, I remembered that I left my book of poetry at the cemetery, on the stone steps. It was still empty, a small loss for the art, but anyway, it was a shame to lose it. The A4-sized academic notebook with rigid covers cost a lot of a student’s budget. After breakfast, I went there to retrieve my loss.

What a strange place? I thought along the way. Not for a moment did I doubt that I had suffered hallucinations yesterday evening. Maybe it was the damn poetry, causing my brain to climb to higher levels of imagination that it created the dog and Tatiana and all the rest. Or maybe it was some natural gas or the intoxicating scent of those ferns altering my brain? No, ferns, probably do not smell so it may be the smell of rotting leaves. The air was so heavy and musty, I remembered well. I might have inhaled some dross.

After crossing the gate, I stopped for a while, captivated by the beauty and mystery of the place. Through the spaces between the tree branches, the sun's rays fell in slanting streaks illuminating the old stone tombs, turning their lush green moss gold, and everything was bathed in a haze of morning dew which floated upward in billows as it evaporated from the leaves of grasses and shrubs under the heat of the morning sun. I stood there entranced for some time, savoring the view, which one could see only in dreams or in the classic paintings hanging from the walls of an art museum. Well, now I knew what my first poem was going to be about. Then I remembered my notebook. Passing by a familiar grave, I looked again at the faded inscription:

"Tatiana Zaharova

His daughter..."

Tatiana… It was a strange coincidence, but as it happens, hallucinations often mingle with reality. Much about it was written recently, especially in the U.S.A., where a lot of studies were done on the effects of substances such as LSD or marijuana on the human brain. The popular movement of Flowers Children had not yet ended in California, and from there it reached us here, but in a very miserable form, as the drugs were not available in communist Poland, even on the black market.

I moved on. This time, nothing jumped out from beyond the grave, the morning silence was disturbed only by the chirping of birds. I went to the chapel. My notebook was lying politely on the top step. I bent down to pick it up, and suddenly I noticed something in the tall grass, across the stone steps. I walked over and picked up a small, lady’s parasol with a long handle. The cat's head shaped into a knob at the end of it smiled at me cheerfully. So, it was not a hallucination? She really was here last night?

My head started to ache. And what to do with the umbrella? Leave it here? Someone might take it. I went back to the dorm carrying the umbrella under my arm. Luckily, my roommates had left for the university, so I avoided awkward questions. I put the umbrella, straight in my clothes locker and also left to my classes.

***

In the evening, after classes, I waited for my roommates to leave so that I could take out the umbrella from the closet. That opportunity never came, however. They sat at the table and played bridge with grandfather - an imaginary fourth player. I do not play bridge. Somehow, I was never interested in playing cards. I took out my notebook from the drawer of my bedside table and left the room. It was more or less the same time as yesterday when I left the building. If she didn’t show up, maybe I could manage to write something. I walked slowly, casually, kicking fallen leaves on the road, but it was just a show of indifference. My heart was pounding louder and louder with every step, and when I crossed the gate, I began to fear that the sound of it would wake-up those poor souls spending their last slumber here.

I sat down again, just like yesterday, on the third step from the bottom and opened the book. Igor showed up immediately. Again, it cost me a cuckoo. (Luckily, I had a couple more of them in store.) I looked at my first page and read aloud:

In this quiet autumn evening...

In this quiet… Someone repeated my words in a singsong voice.

She stood next to me, coming out of nowhere, without any sound or announcement.

I composed myself and quickly closed the book.

You write poetry? she asked with a hint of jealousy in her voice. I also wrote once, but I lost it, as I have lost everything I had.

Is your name Tatiana Zaharowa? I asked suddenly.

She sat next to me in the same place where she sat yesterday.

Yes, it's my name. You've probably seen the tomb? Peter Ivanovich, he is my father. He was the commander of the garrison of the tsarist army here, in Plock. When he was promoted to Major-General, they gave him this position. It was a very important institution. The garrison had to defend Warsaw against the attack of the Prussian army. Mazowsze belonged to the Congress Kingdom. When we came here, my mother was already dead, I remember her a little. She is buried in one of the cemeteries near Moscow. My father and my governess, Mme. Rosalie, raised me. She taught me French and Russian. Polish unfortunately she didn’t know, so soon after our arrival here, she packed her belongings and returned to France. Then, Father hired a Polish governess, Cecilia. She taught me to speak Polish. I thought that we were still in Russia. I could not understand then why people here spoke a different language, and why we were not liked here, which I noticed quite quickly. It was Cecilia, who explained everything to me. I learned a lot from her, not only to speak Polish.

I noticed that as she spoke, Tatiana tried slightly to touch my left elbow with her right. I felt nothing, although I wanted to so much.

Too early, she said sadly. You still don’t believe in my existence.

Today, she was wearing a dark gown, which was as equally long as yesterday’s, reaching almost to the ground. Lace booties adorned her feet, all those garments that seemed taken from the theatre dressing room.

Where do you get such beautiful clothes? I asked. I have not seen anything like this in any store.

I have a closet full of them. Did you bring my parasol with you?

No, I left it in the dorm. Why do you use a parasol in the evening?

For the sentiment. It is a gift from Julian. Please return it to me on Monday if you could. I need to get it back.

We agreed that I would do so on the following Monday. She did not tell me why not before, as if she only had days off during the week. Perhaps these meetings drained her strength and she needed time to regenerate it. She tried to touch my hand in farewell, but again nothing came of it, so she sent me like yesterday a kiss through the air and walked away into the darkness with Igor following her every step.

I stayed still in place for a moment, pondering my strange situation. What was my reason for coming to meet with someone who was not really there? What the hell was it?

Ah, yes. It was because she attracted me with her unearthly beauty more than I could express in words. But could I lavish her with kisses made of air? She said that when I believe in her, I'd feel her. But how could one believe in something that does not exist? After all, I was studying to become an engineer, and for such people, only material things count. Everything else does not matter.

So, what was I writing my poems for? Because I am a romantic, incurable. Well, I had not exactly written anything at all except for this one, naive line. I lowered my eyes, opened the notebook and once again read yesterday's scribbling:

"In this quiet autumn evening

I would like to feel your warmth... "

I was dumbfounded. I did not recall writing anything like the second line. And anyway, it was written in clearly different handwriting; delicate equal letters. Could she have done it? Impossible. The whole time we were together, I didn’t detach my eyes from her. I was even devouring her with my gaze, which was all I could since I was not allowed to touch her. I was looking at her like crazy. I couldn’t help it. Now, I felt very uneasy. I really did not know what to do. Maybe I should extricate myself quickly from this mysterious story in which I had suddenly been immersed, but at the same time, I knew that I could not. I had already sunk into it all the way to the ears, and I did not have the slightest intention of retreating.

More than that, I knew that I would do anything she asked of me. I had fallen deeply into this sweet trap from which there was no simple way to run, a captive through and through.

***

Studying at the Plock Branch of the Polytechnic of Warsaw had at that time a huge advantage: Saturdays off. Professors and their assistants arrived from Warsaw on Sunday evening in a special coach and returned to the capital on Friday evening. That meant we had Saturdays and Sundays free. Sometimes, we managed to get to Warsaw with the professors if there were, of course, free seats. We just had to give the driver a tip and the matter was settled. But these two free days away from the rigors of every household had their own special charm. After we got to know the city, which as we learned had two movie theatres and several restaurants and cafes, we quickly worked out everything. One cafe we especially liked more than the others. It was called Sunshine and was located on the slope of the high, Vistula river escarpment, from where stretched a beautiful view of the queen of Polish rivers flowing below.

Once, I made friends with one of the students from my college. Her name was Barbara Wolska and she was a native from Plock. Here she was born, went to Malachowianka school and finally, began her studies at the same time as me and in the same department. She was a redhead and pretty, and she had freckles on her nose. Baska - as we called her - was not a girlfriend. Rather, she was a pal. She walked with us for a beer, cursing like us and it was better not to mess with her. Nothing was personal between us (at least, not yet then). Yes, once she tried to rape me, this is truth, after drinking a bottle of cheap wine, but I tore away. I asked the other day what made her crazy. She answered that she got bored with being a virgin and found me just at hand.

So I told her to pick another guy in our group. We were about 25 people, mostly guys. She replied that it had to be me, because they all had dandruff and did not brush their teeth.

From that day on, I knew that I had to be careful. I still liked her (perhaps even more), but I had to be on guard. Such amours were not in my head then. My heart was occupied with other matters.

There we were, in the Sunshine, Baska and I, drinking our fill of beer. It was nice talking to her, as if we had known each other forever, and not just for a few weeks.

You know what? she said. I have at home some good mushrooms; we can fry them, as my folks are not there. They went to Warsaw and will come back only tomorrow.

And you will not be trying to fuck me?

Not yet. I’ll wait until you wise up.

The proposal was not to be rejected. After two bottles of beer, I was a little hungry and the mushrooms smelled like crazy in my imagination.

Baska lived in a big old house on the street called Tumska. According to her, the house belonged to her family for generations, her father having described the history of his earlier ancestors.

When we walked in, she went immediately to the kitchen to cook the mushrooms and I looked around curiously as I stood in the large living room full of old furniture and family memorabilia.

After a while, the smell of fried mushrooms filled my hungry senses. Baska went into the room, with a hot frying pan and a roll of newspaper in her hands. She laid the newspaper on the carpet and placed the pan on top of it. Then she handed me a fork.

Oh, my folks would give me a scolding if they saw how I treat my visitors she said. When they're not around I always do what is not allowed. That is my greatest pleasure in this damned house.

We ate the hot mushrooms straight from the pan, squatting on both sides of it. The mushrooms were great. We flushed them down with water straight from the tap as Baska announced proudly - probably, that was also prohibited.

Suddenly, the fork fell out of my hand. I jumped up and quickly walked over to the wall opposite where I was sitting.

On the wall hung a few old photos in sepia tone. One of them caught my attention. In it, four people stood in the town park next to a large flowerbed - two young couples. The ladies wore bright clothes, so long they reached the ground, while the gentlemen - sporty, summer suits. From one of these figures I could not take off my eyes. It was, after all, Tatiana.

I know her! I cried involuntarily. It is Tatiana!

You're the loco laughed Baska. They have all been dead for long, a hundred years, maybe more.

But a mistake was out of the question. I'd have recognized this face anywhere, and moreover, Tatiana kept in her hand a parasol. The photo was not too clear, but I was sure that what I saw at the end of its handle was a cat head held upside down.

Wait! I'll be back I cried and rushed to the door.

If you leave, I’ll devour all the mushrooms threatened Baska.

I came back in half an hour with the Tatiana's umbrella under my arm.

Look, I cried, spreading it out. It was indeed identical to the one in the picture. I also noticed that in the photograph, Tatiana was wearing the same dress as the one she had when I first saw her, the one with a high bow pinned in. Baska looked at the parasol, then at me, then at the photograph, then looked at all three of us again over and over. For once, she was utterly speechless, not knowing what to say.

No, it can’t be the same one. Perhaps there are more umbrellas like this - she said carefully when she finally found her voice. But why did you say her name is Tatiana?"

I told you that I know her.

And I told you that you are loco. All these people? They are ancient history.

I know, but I know her like I know you, maybe just a little less. Why would I make things up? Anyway, where could I have taken her umbrella from? Wait, who are the people in the photograph anyway?

The one on the right is the grandfather of my father, and his wife. The one on the left, his brother. I know that he was lost somewhere in Siberia, having allegedly conspired against the Tsar. As for the chick next to him, I have no idea. I never asked.

Standing next to Tatiana, the young man had a handsome face, hair parted in the middle of his head. In one hand, he kept light leather gloves, in the other a black cane with a monogrammed silver handle. The letters were not readable.

I think I saw that stick somewhere in the attic said Baska but that silver monogram, I cannot remember what the letters there are.

I know. Those are the letters JW, Julian Wolski.

Come on, she said. There is an old suitcase over there. I remember that’s where I saw the stick. If it is indeed JW, I will take back what I said about you being nuts.

Both of us moved to the attic. Fortunately, the electric bulb there was working.

In a heap of dusty junk, Baska found, in fact the suitcase that she was talking about. I felt my heart beat faster as she opened the lid. Among the old papers and junk we saw a cane with a silver handle lying inside. Attached to the timber were two silver letters - JW.

Baska looked at me with a strange expression.

Fine. I will keep my word, she said. You're not nuts. You're a real, normal, ordinary madman. The biggest I've ever met in my life. You should give autographs around.

I asked Baska if she could loan me Julian’s cane for a few days. Of course, she agreed, but under one condition - that I would explain everything to her.

She heated up the rest of the mushrooms (she didn’t eat them as warned) and we finished them together. I told her the whole story then, or almost all of it. I skipped my poetry and left out all that I felt for Tatiana. In the end, that was my private business. Baska listened without interrupting and I saw that she actually believed in what I was saying. Someone else probably would not have believed. I myself would not have believed it probably, but for her, it was all possible as she was herself a little crazy. And that was probably the biggest reason why I liked her.

I'm a little jealous of this Tatiana woman, she said. I do not know why, but somehow I feel crazy about you.

What are you? Jealous of Tatiana? But she does not exist anymore.

Maybe not, and maybe yes. That remains to be seen. But I will not let her steal you from me. With whom will I go for a beer to ‘Sunshine’ cafe? Anyway, it is the only advantage that I have with you, but better this than nothing. You know what? I'll try to learn something from my old man about Julian. Who knows? Maybe his grandfather told him something about it.

We agreed to meet the next day in the amphitheater. Meanwhile, I looked again at the old photograph on the wall, took the umbrella of Tatiana, Julian’s cane and returned late in the evening to the dorm.

***

Amphitheater was the name for the slightly recessed area in the shape of a crescent on the banks of the Vistula river. In the middle of it was a small stage, a few rows of seats arranged along an arc facing the Vistula with its beautiful view, an ideal place for outdoor performances. We sat next to each other looking into the distance. On the other the side of the river we could see the buildings of Radziwie.

Baska was eating an apple, which she had lifted from a street stall we passed along the way. I waited until she was finished with the apple, I was sure that she had something interesting to say, and that she was playing a game with me, a cat and mouse game. She ate especially slowly, and from time to time, looked at me askance, as if something was wrong about me. Finally, she finished her apple, and tossed the apple core away, into the bushes.

My old man knows little, she said. Only what you have said. It is the oldest photograph in our house, maybe one of the oldest in the city.

It's actually quite old I agreed.

But I discovered something more. In the same suitcase were several letters that Julian wrote from exile to his brother. He didn’t write why he was sent to Siberia. He probably could not, as the letters had so many stamps of censorship. Everything must have been checked thoroughly. I have learned from them, however, that he was engaged to Tatiana and it was just before the wedding that he was exiled to Siberia on charges of conspiracy. Some Black Vasyl, a tsarist captain, accused him. When they took him, Tatiana poisoned herself, and her father's orderly, Igor, killed Vasyl. So much resulted from these few letters, I tell you, the real drama in the old edition. When are you going to see her? I'm coming with you.