A year, or even a month, ago I would still have written that Dr. Swobodziczka drank like the Consul, in the very recent past I would have drawn such a comparison; but now, now that I have a clear awareness of the end of literature, now for the sake of the truth I retract that flashy juxtaposition. Next to Dr. Swobodziczka the Consul is an artificial literary character (which is hardly surprising, since the former was a man of flesh and blood, while the latter is only a quasi-being); as for the degree of proclivity toward alcohol, the Consul is to Swobodziczka as a grammar school boy tipsy from a single glass of wine is to the Consul. The Doctor drank and ergo was killing himself indefatigably and methodically, and this may well have been why he had a hatred and a scorn for suicides. His “self-annihilation,” as the Russians call it, was diligent, systematic, and measured, while the suicides killed themselves suddenly, messily, any old how, in contravention of all poetics. It was true: in Dr. Swobodziczka’s times the suicides of Wisła did not have an easy life. Horrendous curses were heaped upon their asphyxiated heads. The doctor conducted brutal autopsies, pouring insults on their bodies as they grew cold; he passed his finger along the blue mark on young Oyermah’s neck and said:
“You’re lucky, you’re lucky you’re not alive, boy, because if you were, I’d kill you.”
The black alsatian sat by the head of the corpse, sweeping the dirty February snow as it wagged its tail; beads of frothy beer dripped from its mouth.
Dr. Swobodziczka steadfastly trod the sinusoidal path of intoxication that led into infinity. Often he was more or less deeply under the influence for twenty-four hours a day. He imbibed gallon upon gallon of distilled alcohol; he was a connoisseur of the local moonshine, which was viscid, dark, and flammable as kerosene; he would take bets on whether he could survive the consumption of six bottles of Passover slivovitz in a single evening, and he would win the bet, he would win it with room left over, not merely surviving, but rising from his chair unaided, though with an inordinate stateliness. The black alsatian, drunk on beer, would slink out from under the oak table and sway off behind its master.
What the doctor’s nights and mornings were like I know only too well — the nightmares were excessive, the voices too loud, the specters too palpable. The undoubtedly ghastly epic must have been impossible to accept, to drink away, or to endure, for in his despair and his helplessness, and seeing that the Homeric narrative of his ordeal showed no signs of coming to an end, Swobodziczka reached for the ultimate means of expression. He reached for morphine, with the aim of easing his pain (for it was certainly not with the aim of intensifying his experiences); he reached for morphine, though he was fully aware that, while after the first injection his sufferings would truly (though only seemingly) disappear, the first injection would after a certain time, a short moment, truth be told immediately, begin to demand a second injection, while after the second dose, or at the latest after the third, there would come nightmares even more excessive than before, there would be even louder voices, and the palpable specters would begin to close in on him in an ever tightening circle. Dr. Swobodziczka knew the simple yet inexorable mechanics of total collapse. He was an excellent physician; he was certain he would get by, and this time he made a bet with himself (on whether he would get by), and that bet he lost.
In those days my mother was a young pharmacist of the Augsburg Lutheran denomination; she often worked the night shift in Wisła and at the darkest hour, at three or four in the morning, she would be woken by a prolonged ringing of the bell, a desperate knocking and the ritual exclamation:
“Miss! Miss! I have an acute case requiring immediate intervention! It’s a matter of the utmost urgency!”
Behind the glass door the thickset figure was swaying to and fro, the dog crouching at his feet. With trembling fingers Dr. Swobodziczka would hand over a prescription bearing a magic spell that would bring relief, or maybe even euphoria: “Morph. Hydr. 002.” His voice would break naturally; he had no need whatsoever to feign convulsive speech.
“Miss. . Comrade First Secretary Władysław Gomułka is as we speak present at the Castle; he’s had a sudden attack of the stomach cramps, he’s in great pain, our head of state is in agony, and I’ve been summoned. . You understand, Miss, it’s a matter of national importance. .”
The first time, and maybe even the third time this happened (“Miss, Prime Minister Józef Cyrankiewicz is present at the Castle as we speak, and he’s had a sudden attack of the stomach cramps. .”), there was a modicum of plausibility in this spectacular pretext. President Mościcki’s prewar castle really did serve as a country residence for dignitaries of the highest level; many a time at dusk we would see a cavalcade of Volgas and Chaykas moving slowly down the road toward the Kubalonka Pass, the distant lights playing across the armor-plated bodywork. In the close presence of the leadership (improbable walking parties crossing wooded hillsides in the misty morning — representatives of the central authorities and their companions, setting out to pick mushrooms), in this close presence, then, there was a certain plausibility, and even in the sudden indisposition of the prime minister or first secretary (though according to doctrine they were superhuman, that is to say incorporeal), but when it transpired before long that according to Swobodziczka, Gomułka and Cyrankiewicz (the doctor rarely stooped to lower ranks) must constantly have been staying at the Castle and, in addition, must have suffered incessant stomach cramps by turns, before long, right away even, everything became clear. Though with the passage of time Swobodziczka himself ceased striving for any sort of verisimilitude in his version of events; he automatically repeated his formula about the Castle, the dignitary, and the stomach cramps, handed over the prescription, took the ampoules, sat on a nearby bench in the middle of the town square, opened his bag, took out a needle, stuck it through his trouser leg at the level of his thigh and through his pants administered a dexterous and discreet injection into the muscle. The great Dr. Swobodziczka — Dr. Morphine, Dr. Codeine, Dr. Moonshine, Dr. Nobody.
To this day the inhabitants of Wisła sing hymns of praise to his medical expertise, to this day one can hear stories of epidemics he held in check, fearful maladies he drove away without a trace, unerring diagnoses he rendered every time. His soul was burning to nothing, his body was weakening, his speech was ever more indistinct, yet his medical abilities remained unaffected. The blaze of his addiction consumed everything within him except his skill. He would have the greatest difficulty putting on his stethoscope, but he would hear with absolute clarity the rat-like squeak of the disease hidden in the labyrinth of the innards; his hands would shake as he wrote the prescription, but he would prescribe exactly what was needed. When he referred someone to the hospital, the hospital was essential; when he recommended antibiotics, the antibiotics worked; when he instructed a person to collect oak bark, boil it, and drink the decoction each day for six months, everyone knew the half-year course of treatment would be effective. He was a genius when it came to the chronology of a sickness. In seven days there’ll be an improvement, in ten days it’ll go away, in two weeks you’ll be on your feet again, he would say, and it would happen as he said: in seven days there would be an improvement, in ten it would go away, in two weeks you’d be on your feet again. When Swobodziczka retired (and his retirement lasted a very short time) and his pre-mortal visit to this world was reduced to daily visits to the Piast hostelry, even there lines would form to his table. He would appear at 7 A.M. sharp in the company of the black alsatian, drink a restorative double, wash it down with sips of beer, pour a goodly measure of the latter into a tin bowl for the dog keeping watch under the table, raise his hand and, with a patrician gesture, would permit the first patient to approach.