Chapter 11. Alberta Lulaj
I HOWLED. I DIDN’T hear my own howling, but I believe I actually howled — in any case they told me my howling was truly, truly horrible. They moved about the apartment; there weren’t many of them, but still I was in no condition to count them. I was in no condition to count to three. Where had they come from? Had they stepped out of the pages of literature? Had they emerged from The Trial or Humboldt’s Gift? Had they come from the represented world of a novel in which there’s a scene involving a search or an arrest? I raised my leaden eyelids and, I confess frankly, I was afraid they were an alcoholic dream filled with references to the classics, I was afraid the season of amorphous literary specters was still in progress, but one of them leaned over me and straightened my pillow, I caught the leathery smell of his jacket and the spicy smell of his aftershave, and I was overcome by such a terrible wave of thirst that I would have been prepared to lick off all his aftershave to bring myself relief. Maybe I’d manage to gather a single drop mixed in with my saliva; a single drop never brings relief, but there’s always the moment of delusion while one is waiting for relief, and for the duration of that moment the dread is a little less. I smelled the smells and realized my alcoholic suspicions were unfounded, literature was decidedly out of the picture, someone was, without question, actually in my apartment. I turned my head — next to the mattress there ought to have been a bottle with a trusty something left, and even a couple of somethings. Once, I remember, in a comparable state I turned my head and I saw that the bottle was half full. Dear Lord, it was like a Mozart aria, it was like Leibnitz writing about the perfection of God. But not this time, this time there was nothing, there was not even an empty bottle at the head of my bed. I reached out a hand, or rather my tremulous hand began of its own accord to dart about in lizard-like fashion; it groped around in as broad an area as it could, but still there was nothing. The man who had straightened my pillow sat on the edge of the bed and pulled a bottle of Becherovka from under his arm. The sight alone of that legendary green glass, I must say, didn’t so much fortify me as cause my attention to be fortified, and now I could see quite clearly: two steps away there stood someone else, while on the other side of the room, in the armchair in the corner, sat a third person. Let me emphasize once again: these were not hallucinations (though after forty, or maybe a hundred and forty, days I had not only a right, but a duty to have hallucinations), these were not phantasms. Now too, as I am describing the whole situation, I want to avoid at all costs any kind of literary game, the sort of cheap trick of suggesting it’s unclear whether it really happened or the narrator merely imagined it. No. In my living room there actually were three people, though the third figure did in fact have something of the specter about them, dressed as it was in a curious outfit that I could not figure out, its head swathed in a hood.
“You’ll get half a glass of Becherovka in just a moment”—the voice I heard was also incontrovertibly real, nor did it contain any ambiguous tonality, any ruffianly harshness or high-pitched devilry; it was the deep, agreeable voice of a reputable physician. The materiality of this almost-baritone brought nearly as much relief as the promise it had uttered. That’s right, with a drunkard’s obstinacy I repeat once again: the materiality of the situation was a relief to me, for I had been excessively tormented by an incessant onslaught of fictitiousness.
“You’ll get half a glass of Becherovka in just a moment. I’m sure there’s no need to remind such a seasoned master of the art of imbibition that you have to drink cautiously and very slowly, otherwise you’ll bring about what in Old Poland they used to call an ignoble vomitation, and that would be, first, an irreparable disgrace in the presence of a lady, and second, the permanent loss of a significant quantity of life-giving substance.”
It was true, there was no need for him to instruct me. Knowing that in a few minutes a subtle reconstruction of body and soul awaited me, I raised myself to a sitting position; with the greatest caution (not devoid of an element of worship) I took in both hands the glass that had been promised and that, in accordance with said promise, was indeed half full, and I set about moistening my lips and wetting my throat, and, restraining my need for immediate salvation, I settled for a salvation that was gradual. And slowly, slowly the unbearable burden lifted from my heart, my dark thoughts brightened, and my soul was cheered.
“Is that better?” asked my savior, and I, like a receptive apprentice instantly grasping the teachings of the master, replied:
“That’s better.”
After a few minutes, when I was sufficiently improved that I could finally discontinue the hysterical overuse of biblical phraseology to myself, I looked at them all with absolute lucidity and asked the most natural and thoroughly sober question in the world:
“Pardon me, gentlemen, but to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? Where in heaven’s name did you come from, and how did you get in?”
“It’s better, but that doesn’t mean it’s good,” said the one who seemed to be my only interlocutor, a matter-of-fact solicitude in his voice. “First of all, it’s not only gentlemen. Actually, it’s very odd that you of all people, with your reputation as a supposed connoisseur of the fair sex, haven’t noticed there’s a girl present. Alberta, show the gentleman your femininity.”
The most spectral member of the trio rose wordlessly from the armchair and with the unhurried movements of an experienced stripper started unbuttoning the mysterious garment — upon closer inspection it lost much of its mystery and turned out to be something between a light coat and a heavy gown with a hood. In a moment there stood before me a beautiful, graceful, tall brunette in a melodramatically scornful pose; she was wearing a yellow dress with spaghetti straps.
“Alberta Lulaj, poetess,” came the introduction, though who the speaker actually was I could not figure out. The chief intruder? Master of an inscrutable ceremony? My benefactor? Or maybe some reprobate wanted by the police?
“We’re here about her, about her under-appreciated poems. As for the other matters, first, we entered with the aid of the key that you in your drunken abandon left in the lock, and second, we’re old acquaintances. That is, you may not recognize us, you’re entitled not to remember, but I recognize you and I remember. The name’s Józef Cieślar and once, once, forty years ago or more, we were at Sunday School together. I hardly need add that after we left Sunday School our paths diverged. You went to the big city and got an intellectual education, while I stayed in our native region and earned a living in various occupations, none of them of an intellectual character.”
At this juncture it would have been beautiful if a gate, overgrown with dark weeds of forgetfulness, had opened up in my mind, if I had suddenly remembered flaxen-haired Józef Cieślar, who was incapable for love or money of memorizing even the shortest Lutheran psalm — it would have been not just a beautiful but also a classic scene. I, however, I confess frankly, drew a blank. I looked at this alleged Józef Cieślar and no gate opened in my mind, I did not remember anything, nor did I recognize him in the slightest, to the point that everything he said seemed to me a manifest pack of lies serving a purpose that for the moment remained hidden but was without a doubt of a criminal nature. As it happened this impostor, this stealer of biographies, evidently knew rather a lot about me; he even seemed to know certain details of my soul. He evidently knew, for instance, that when I heard about Sunday School I’d be sure to get all emotional in my drunkenness, that I might even burst out in drunken tears. Yet I kept my emotions in check and did not burst out crying; I gave no sign of what I was feeling, while he too did not intensify the incitement he had begun, he did not look at me expectantly, and he continued his introductions with an unchanging matter-of-factness.