“My associate, on the other hand”—with an almost elegant gesture of his hand he indicated the second gangster, who was standing a few feet away—“my associate, on the other hand, doesn’t know you personally but is a great admirer of yours. He read your article in the newspaper.”
My alleged admirer nodded and with feigned eagerness confirmed this:
“That’s right, I’m not someone who is generally inclined to fascination, but in this case I was fascinated.”
I decided to probe the matter more deeply and, partly out of cunning, partly out of vanity, I asked:
“I’m most curious — that is, I’m flattered, but at the same time I’m most curious — which of my pieces made such a very favorable impression on you?”
The other man shrugged his shoulders in a familiar gesture of helplessness and said with a straightforwardness that was equally familiar:
“I don’t remember what it was about, but I remember I almost split my sides laughing.”
I flinched as if struck by a whip. The chief intruder gave me a sympathetic look, the poetess Alberta Lulaj pretended to be absorbed by an over-tight or perhaps over-loose spaghetti strap, and there was an embarrassing silence. When the embarrassing silence passed, the cordial voice sounded once again.
“You continue to impress me with the extent of your ruination; you ought to know you should never quiz your readers on their knowledge of your work, you should be pleased at even the most general existence of readers, and leave it at that. Though that’s not important. Let’s get back, or rather let’s get down, to the heart of the matter. Before you stands the beautiful and wise Alberta. Not only is she standing before you; over the next few hours, and if need be over the next few days, she will remain with you. My associate and I will withdraw in literally a minute; aside from everything else, as usual we have urgent business in town. We are going, Alberta is staying. I’m leaving you the bottle too. That’s right,” repeated the purported Józef Cieślar with emphasis, “I’m leaving you the bottle. In other words”—here he raised a finger in a meaningful, schoolmasterly gesture that was uncannily reminiscent of Christopher Columbus the Explorer—“in other words, you are being left with a woman and a bottle; observe that it’s as if you had entered paradise without remotely deserving it. Later on Alberta will help you recover yourself; she’ll soothe your troubled nerves, make you some nourishing broth, feed you fruit juice rich in vitamins, and in the last resort will pop down to the store for the last two life-saving beers. You in return. .”
“What in return? What in return?” I interrupted, on the one hand overwhelmed by the excessive number of fairy-tale kindnesses and, on the other hand, terrified at the inner certainty that in my present state I was incapable, utterly incapable, of doing anything whatsoever in return, and would have no way of repaying my unsavory benefactors.
“I’m about to tell you. In return you really don’t have to do very much at all. All you need to do is listen to Alberta’s poems. Naturally I have no wish to influence you in advance, but in my modest opinion Alberta not only writes beautiful poems but also recites them beautifully, it’s as if she were singing; just listening should calm your nerves. After you’ve heard them, you’ll carry out an in-depth analysis and an honest appraisal, after which, making use of your extensive network of contacts, you’ll enable Alberta to publish her work, preferably in the Catholic intellectual weekly Tygodnik Powszechny.”
“But it’s been years since I wrote for Tygodnik Powszechny,” I said, or rather whined quietly. I whined not because I felt a sudden drunken nostalgia for Tygodnik Powszechny; I whined because in the depths of my soul I knew that all my reluctance and resistance was a sham. I whined because I knew I’d agree to everything.
“That doesn’t matter, you still have contacts there. Besides, it doesn’t have to be Tygodnik Powszechny, it could be some other influential and prestigious publication, Polityka or Gazeta Wyborcza. Though Tygodnik Powszechny would be best. Do you know why?”
“Yes, I know why,” I muttered unwillingly.
“You know?”
“I know.”
“What do you know?”
“I know what I need to know,” I retorted wearily, because in this case I actually did know.
“If you know, then say it”—there was something undeniably childish in his insistence (a lingering vestige of Sunday School?).
“It’s because Tygodnik Powzechny is read by the Pope.”
“Excellent! Bravo!” beamed the alleged companion of my childhood Bible lessons. “I can see I underestimated you. I took you for an unhinged virtuoso of the word, but you’re quite the cunning fox. You understand what it would mean: John Paul II reads Alberta Lulaj’s poetry in Tygodnik Powszechny, the profoundly metaphysical nature of the poems makes a huge impression on the Holy Father, he sends Alberta a momentous letter or even a papal bull, and the world, the whole world is ours. I’m sure you understand that’s the only thing that interests us, only that: playing for the highest stakes. So Tygodnik Powszechny would be best, but if it can’t be done, never mind, it can be done somewhere else. In the end it makes no difference, you know everyone, you’ve drunk with everyone, and when you recover yourself you’ll think of something. The girl deserves to be helped; she writes wonderful things that, because of the intellectual and personal inertia which, as you well know, dominates those circles, don’t get published. Yes, the woman needs to be enabled to publish her work, because having her hopes unjustly thwarted could cause her to take to whoring. When you hear Alberta’s poems you’ll understand that they have to see the light of day. All right, there’s nothing more that needs to be said. You can surely do this much for an old Sunday School friend.”
He had given himself away, he had given himself away beyond the shadow of a doubt — no one who ever attended Sunday School would have called the Pope “Holy Father.” Not even the worst Lutheran would say such a thing. He was unmasked, but since he did not know he was unmasked he went diligently on with his job. He removed the empty glass from my hand, took it into the kitchen, came back, and placed the scarcely touched bottle of Becherovka at my bedside. Then he dug around in the pockets of his leather jacket and took out a small, thick-sided shot glass wrapped in a scrap of newspaper.
“Alberta will measure it out for you,” he said. “Alberta will measure it out for you, and you’ll drink slowly, in small sips, from this glass. Come to your senses, my friend”—his voice took on the tone of a full-scale admonition—“you’re one of the biggest drunkards in the world, and you haven’t had a shot glass in your hand for ten years or more. How on earth can that be?” he said with considered sternness. “How can that be?” he repeated, this time directing the question to himself, and quickly answering it himself: “My question would seem purely rhetorical in nature. You’ve not had a shot glass in your hand for ten years or more because for ten years or more you’ve been swilling vodka exclusively from tumblers or straight from the bottle. The technique of drinking, as Christopher Columbus the Explorer would say, has grown utterly sloppy. Come to your senses, my friend, use a shot glass and listen to the poems. Be well.”