In any case, when I saw the light I knew right away where I was. The more so because when we shelled beans in our house, mother would always turn up the lamp to almost the full wick. Before she did it she’d always remember to ask father whether she should make the flame bigger. Though she knew full well he’d say: “Yes, turn it up. It’d be fine like it is for everyone else, but for your eyes it needs to be brighter.” Then she’d spread a canvas sheet on the floor, put a stool in the middle of it, stand the lamp on the stool, and father would go bring the bundles of beans.
So when I saw the light get brighter and come to a stop, I knew mother had put it on the stool and father had gone to fetch the beans. Though I paused a moment outside the door, because I didn’t know what to say when I went in. So many years had passed, no one expects you anymore, what should I say, what had I come for? I kept weighing it up, whether to go in or not, and what I should say when I crossed the threshold. As you know, crossing the threshold is the hardest part. In the end I thought to myself, it’s best if I just go right on in and ask whether they might have any beans for sale.
They were all sitting in the circle of the kerosene lamp, father, mother, granddad, grandmother, my two sisters Jagoda and Leonka, and Uncle Jan, who was still living. He was the only one who got up when I came in, he went to get a drink of water. He drank a lot of water before he died. The rest of them, the bean pods were motionless in their hands. I stood beyond the circle of light, just inside the door, while they sat in the ring made by the light, I could see them all clearly. But no one smiled or showed surprise or even frowned. They looked at me, but their eyes already seemed dead, it’s just there hadn’t been anyone to close their eyelids. It was only the pods in their hands that showed they were shelling beans. And they didn’t know me.
Did you want a lot in the way of beans? That much I think I might have. Though they’re unshelled. But if you helped me we could shell them. You’ve never shelled beans before? It’s not so hard. I’ll show you. After a couple of pods you’ll figure it out. I’ll go fetch some.
2
So did you come here of your own accord, or did someone send you? Well, I don’t know who it could have been. I thought maybe it was Mr. Robert. But you keep saying you don’t know Mr. Robert. I just wonder in that case how you knew where to find the key to his cabin.
No, not like that. See here, watch my hands. You hold the pod in your left hand, not flat, like this, then with your right hand you split it open with your thumb and your index finger. Then you put your thumb inside and slide it down to the bottom. See, all the beans pop out. You try. Wait a minute, I’ll find you a better pod. Here, this one’s even and it’s nice and dry. That’s it, use your thumb. There you go. You see it’s not so hard. The next one’ll be easier. And every one after that will be easier still. You just need to keep your thumb straight, with the nail pointing forward. The thumb’s the most important thing in shelling beans. Like a hammer when you’re putting in a nail, or a pair of pliers when you need to pull one out. When we’d shell beans grandfather would often say the thumb ought to be the finger of God. The left thumb’s also important for playing the saxophone, it operates the octave key.
Of course we did, the children took part in the shelling as well. Ever since we were tiny. They started to teach us how to shell beans even before we could properly hold our drinking cup by the handles. They usually put Jagoda by grandmother, Leonka would sit by mother, and me, I was the youngest, I’d be between mom and grandmother. The drier pods were too hard for us, so mother or grandmother would take our hands in theirs and shell the beans with our fingers, and use our thumbs to slide the beans out. So it looked like we’d done it ourselves.
I have to admit, when I was a child I hated shelling beans. My sisters too, they were older than me but they hated it as well. We’d always try to get out of it. My sisters would usually say that one of them had a headache or a stomachache. For me, I came up with different methods. One time, I cut my thumb right here with a piece of broken glass. Then later, when we started school in the order of age — first Jagoda, then Leonka, then me — we’d usually use our homework as an excuse, we had to study for tomorrow, we had a whole ton to do. It wouldn’t get done if we were shelling beans. My mother’s heart would always soften right away when we mentioned homework. You go get your schoolwork done, we’ll manage here on our own. On the subject of schoolwork grandmother would always mention God, she’d say if God wasn’t going to allow something, no amount of studying would help. Uncle Jan would usually just get up and go get a glass of water, so it was hard to figure out whether he was for homework or for shelling beans. Father, on the other hand, he would say that shelling beans was one of the lessons we should be learning:
“And not just any lesson. It’s one of the most important ones. Not just math or Polish. It’s a lesson to last you your whole life long. Math and Polish, all that’ll vanish from their heads anyway sooner or later. And when they’re left on their own it’s not math and Polish they’ll be drawn to. No sir.”
Grandfather would usually refer to the war, because he liked to use the war to make his point. Once he told a story about how a long long time ago, so long that his own grandfather had told the story, there’d been a war and the family was shelling beans. All of a sudden there’s a hammering at the door. “Open up!” It’s soldiers. Their eyes are all bloodshot, their faces are twisted in fury. They would have killed everyone dead just like that. But when they saw that everyone was shelling beans they put their rifles in the corner, unfastened their swords, had stools brought for them, and they sat down and started shelling beans with everyone else.
As for Mr. Robert, I can’t say I knew him that well either. For some reason we never were able to open up to one another. We never went to the informal ty, even though we’d known each other for years. He had a store in the city, he sold souvenirs … What sort? I couldn’t tell you, I was never there. The one thing I can say is that in the letters he wrote me he’d always make fun of those souvenirs. He’d say that he himself would never in a million years buy the kinds of things he sold. And that if souvenirs like those were supposed to help you remember, it was better not to remember at all.
The first time I met him we were abroad. One evening a group of men and women came into the place where I played in the band. It was a Monday, and on Mondays there were usually free tables. Other days you’d have to make a reservation ahead of time. Though we’d still play every evening, even if there was only one table occupied.
They took two tables close to the little stage. I might not have noticed them, but I heard them speaking Polish. They were acting in a deliberately nonchalant way, as if they were trying to draw attention to themselves. They talked loudly from one table to the other, and I heard that they were part of a bus tour. They spent a long time looking through the menu and equally loudly discussing the prices. At the more expensive items they’d say, look how much this is! Wait a minute, how much is that in Polish money? Good grief! Back home you could live for a month on that. Not to mention if you ate in a cheap cafeteria. But being at a place like this in a foreign country, it’ll be a tale to tell. Instead of just endless castles, cathedrals, museums, scenic views. Come on, let’s order the most expensive thing. What if we don’t like it? At that price we’ll have to. And maybe some vodka too. Why? We have our own. Well, at least one shot each to kick off. I mean, we’re going to need glasses anyway, right? We have our own glasses as well. But what if someone sees? What’s there to see? Vodka looks the same wherever you are.