‘It won’t be much fun having a party near the spot where a friend of ours died,’ said the man chairing the meeting, whom I was pleased to recognise as the school’s history teacher. I would never have guessed he was keen on mushrooms too.
‘That’s one thing,’ said the woman sitting opposite me, who ran a newspaper kiosk and often kept magazines for me. ‘Apart from that, it could still be dangerous around there. Some of the ladies and gentlemen smoke, for instance, and will want to go outside into the fresh air…’
‘I should mention that smoking is not allowed inside the firehouse, whereas we can only drink alcohol indoors, according to the permission we’ve obtained. Otherwise it’ll be classed as public consumption and it’ll be illegal.’
A murmur ran through the assembled company.
‘What’s that?’ called a man in a khaki waistcoat. ‘I, for one, like to smoke when I drink. And vice versa. So what am I to do?’
The history teacher chairing the meeting was perplexed, and in the confusion that followed, everyone started giving advice on how to resolve the situation.
‘You can stand in the doorway, with one hand holding your glass inside, and the other holding your cigarette outside,’ someone shouted from the back of the room.
‘The smoke will get inside anyway…’
‘There’s a roofed terrace there. Does the porch count as inside, or outside?’ someone else asked sensibly.
The chairman rapped on the table, and at that very moment a late arrival entered the room – it was ‘the President’, apparently an honorary member of the Society. Everyone fell silent. The President was one of those people who are used to being the centre of attention. From his early youth he had been on the board of something or other: the school student union, the Boy Scouts Service for People’s Poland, the local council, the quarry company – supervisory bodies of every possible kind. Even though he had served as a member of parliament for one term, everyone called him the President. In the habit of running the show, he solved the problem immediately.
‘In truth, we can have a buffet on the porch, and we’ll declare the terrace the buffet zone,’ he joked genially, though few people laughed at his pun.
Admittedly, he was a good-looking man, though disfigured by an ample belly. He was self-confident, charming, and his Jovian physique inspired confidence. Oh yes, this man was born to rule. And he didn’t know how to do anything else.
The smug President delivered a short speech about how life must go on, even after the greatest tragedies. He larded it with little jokes, and kept appealing to ‘our lovely ladies’. He had the rather common habit of repeating a favourite phrase every now and then. In his case it was ‘in truth’.
I had my Theory about interjections of this kind: every single Person has their own expression which he or she overuses. Or uses incorrectly. These words or phrases are the key to their intellect. Mr ‘Apparently’, Mr ‘Generally’, Mrs ‘Probably’, Mr ‘Fucking’, Mrs ‘Don’t You Think?’, Mr ‘As If’. The President was Mr ‘In Truth’. Of course there are entire fashions for some words, just like the ones that for some crazy reason suddenly make everyone start going about in identical shoes or clothes – people just as suddenly start using one particular word or phrase. Recently the word ‘generally’ was fashionable, but now ‘actually’ is out in front.
‘In truth, the dearly departed’ – at this point he made a gesture, as if trying to cross himself – ‘was a good friend of mine – we had many shared interests. He was also a keen mushroom picker, and I’m sure he would have joined us this year. In truth, he was a very decent man, of broad horizons. He gave people jobs, and in truth, for that alone we should respect his memory. Jobs don’t grow on trees. He died in mysterious circumstances, but in truth, the Police will soon get to the bottom of the case. In truth, we shouldn’t let ourselves be terrorised, or give in to fear. Life has its rules, and we cannot ignore them. Courage, dear friends, my lovely ladies – in truth, I’m all for putting an end to the gossip and groundless hysteria. In truth, we must trust the authorities and live according to our common values.’ He spoke as if he were a candidate in a forthcoming election.
I couldn’t help thinking that someone who overuses the phrase ‘in truth’ is sure to be a liar.
The people at the meeting went back to their chaotic debate. Once again someone brought up the topic of the beast lurking in the countryside near Kraków last year. Was it really safe to hold the ball in the firehouse, right at the edge of the biggest forest in the area?
‘Do you remember how the television followed the operation run by the Police in September to catch the mysterious animal in a village near Kraków? One of the locals happened to have filmed a predator on the run, probably a young lion,’ said an excited young man. I thought I recognised him from Big Foot’s house.
‘Nah, you must have got something mixed up. A lion? Here?’ said the man in khaki.
‘It wasn’t a lion, it was a young tiger,’ said Mrs Merrilegs; that was what I called her, because she was tall and nervous and sewed very elaborate costumes for the local ladies, so this name suited her best. ‘I saw the pictures on TV.’
‘He’s right, let him finish, that’s how it was,’ the women said indignantly.
‘The Police spent two days searching for that lion or tiger, that animal – they used helicopters and an anti-terrorist brigade, remember? It all cost half a million but they never found it.’
‘Perhaps it has moved here?’
‘Apparently it could kill with a stroke of its paw.’
‘It bit off heads.’
‘The Chupacabra,’ I said.
There was a silence. Even the two Woodcocks fixed their gaze on me.
‘What is a chupacabra?’ asked Merrilegs, sounding alarmed.
‘It’s a mysterious Animal that can’t be caught. A vengeful Beast.’
Now everyone was talking at once. I could see that Oddball was getting flustered. He was rubbing his hands, as if about to leap to his feet and strangle the first person to come along. Plainly the meeting was at an end and nobody could possibly restore order now. I felt rather guilty about bringing up the Chupacabra, but so what? I was conducting my own sort of campaign too.
No, no, people in our country don’t have the ability to club together to form a community, not even under the banner of the penny bun. This is a land of neurotic egotists, each of whom, as soon as he finds himself among others, starts to instruct, criticise, offend, and show off his undoubted superiority.
I think in the Czech Republic it’s totally different. The people there are capable of discussing things calmly, and nobody quarrels with anyone else. Even if they wanted to, they couldn’t, because their language isn’t suited to quarrelling.
We got home late, and in a stew. Oddball didn’t say a word on the return journey. I drove the Samurai via short cuts, down tracks full of potholes, and I enjoyed the way it kept throwing us from door to door as it jumped one puddle after another. We said goodbye with a curt ‘See you’.
I stood in the dark, empty kitchen and sensed that I was just about to be seized by the same thing as usual – weeping. So I thought it would be best if I stopped thinking and did something. To this end I sat at the table and wrote the following letter:
To the Police
As I have not received an answer to my previous letter, although according to law every public office in the country is obliged to respond within a period of fourteen days, I am forced to repeat my explanations concerning the recent, highly tragic incidents in our district, and in so doing to present certain observations that cast light on the mysterious deaths of the Commandant and of Innerd, owner of the fox farm.