The ritual scene of feeding and weeping repeats every evening. But for a few days now it has not repeated. Sky Pilot has disappeared; he failed to come out from behind the brick wall at the established time. The Sugar King has walked the entire area, round all the wings; he even went through the dark woods down to the Utrata. Sky Pilot is nowhere to be found.
We’re not brave enough to openly poke fun at the Sugar King’s childlike despair; we merely cast hypocritically commiserative glances in his direction, while he glares at us through eyes that are as dead as pebbles in the Utrata and shouts:
“What do you expect of a cat? Why would a cat look at a person when it’s got cat-whores on every side? Cats aren’t able to jerk off, and you can’t argue with that!”
I’m not fond of the Sugar King, but I admit the difference between him and me is not so great. The difference between me and Simon Pure Goodness, on the other hand, is fundamental. Simon is escaping.
From the point of view of the further drinking of Żołądkowa Gorzka you can’t argue with it. If Simon had graduated in alcohology, if he’d diligently attended the lectures and the seminars, if he’d conscientiously kept his emotional journal and written all his confessions and assignments, if he had persevered — then it would have been much harder for him to drink than it will be after he escapes. After an escape from the Department of Alcohology it’s not only easier to drink, after an escape drinking is a higher imperative — and after all, why does one escape? Because of a higher imperative.
To graduate in alcohology and then keep on drinking is something of a faux pas. What will people say? They’ll say so-and-so, he studied alcohology and then when he graduated he kept on drinking, he’s a corpse now. Though people are one thing, people often saw me as a stinking corpse and I the corpse remained alive, and the people remained alive too. People are one thing, but what would the specters say, the ones I’ve been summoning for years through the drinking of successive bottles of Żołądkowa Gorzka? What would they say as they crowd around me? What would the green-winged angel with the build of a wrestler say? What would my grandfather Old Kubica say? What would my alleged Sunday School pal say, the one who smelled of cheap cologne?
I felt waves of hot and cold washing over me; I rested my forehead against the frost-covered window pane and saw cankerous innards pulsating beneath skin that was covered with piglike stubble.
“Get your things together and run away, run away as fast as you can.” His voice was remarkably similar to that of the alleged Józef Cieślar — the same good-natured tone of a G.P. on a house visit, a slightly different, shriller coloration, but good-natured nevertheless. I listened to him and did not feel the cold.
“Get your things together, run away; at any moment you can go wherever the mood takes you.”
“I’m staying here. Simon Pure Goodness is running away.”
“Fine, just fine”—I believe he gave a convulsive giggle—“I’m staying, he’s leaving. You’re talking like a member of the Politburo, that’s the first comparison that comes to mind. ‘Comrade, our cause is lost. You have to leave; I’m staying.’”
“Not a word about the former regime. The former regime makes me want to puke, and so do comments about the former regime.”
“Not a word about the former regime. . Fine, that’s actually even better. Not a word about the former regime, because you’re quite incapable of saying anything sensible about the former regime. All you can do is make pathetic jokes about how Solidarity supposedly robbed you of a hot babe in a yellow dress or something.”
“It’s true, Solidarity robbed me of a certain, as you put it, hot babe in a yellow dress, for which, by the way, at the present moment I’m eternally grateful to said labor union.”
“We know all about that. The yellow dress has been replaced by a black blouse, so to speak. . Am I right?”
“The hell you care.”
“You’re right, I really could care less about yellow dresses, or any other slutty item of clothing. But I care about the black blouse, I care about the black blouse almost as much as you care about the Solidarity labor union. I’m grateful to it.”
“You? Grateful to it? You’re grateful to it? For what, if I might ask?”
“For the fact that you got sober. After all, you got sober for it. . And if not for it, it still played a leading role in your getting sober. You got sober splendidly, definitively, and in style. You got sober the way Luis Figo dribbles a soccer ball. You’re completely sober and finally, finally you can be negotiated with.”
“Negotiated with about what?”
“What do you mean, what? Continuing to drink. You continuing to drink — right now that game is worth the black candle.”
“I’m afraid it would be a waste of effort for me. I realize that directing your attention to my comrades in arms is, if not inappropriate, then actually criminal, but right here you’ll have no problem finding a good few eagles, as Dr. Granada calls them, ready and waiting for their next phantom flights.”
“Who is it you’re recommending to me? These wretches, whose last ounce of reason has been eaten away by firewater? Surely you can see that all of your comrades in arms, as you so grandiloquently call them, have damaged brains? You don’t see that? And anyway, how come you’re so understanding all of a sudden, you who were once the embodiment of malice, my friend? I know — you decided to accept a lesson in humility and so you’re humble, except that you don’t even believe in that humility of yours. You’re prostituting yourself out of humility, and that’s the worst kind of prostitution.”
“My mind is damaged too.”
“Your mind isn’t damaged, with you it’s quite the opposite. Even here, in this intellectually lean environment, even here the she-therapist princesses sing anthems of praise to your mental proficiency. By the by, I’d like to talk about that some time.”
“About what? The therapists or my mind?”
“Both. As far as the princesses are concerned, take your pick. In this respect at least I understand your humility and your toleration. You’re attracted to them, and so you tolerate the nonsense they talk: flush the toilet, brush your teeth, and wash your socks, because the ward is our little home and we’re a little family. . Fine, that’s actually even better. . Sixty half-cut yahoos are a “little family” according to a sleeping princess of a she-therapist. You must really want them to put up with it all. . So take your pick. . It’ll be like before — not one of them will say no to you. Remember how great it was? And as for your mind, don’t you worry, it’s in good shape, your noggin survived too, you lucky drunk, you’ve got everything a Polish writer needs to get down to work.”
“If my mind wasn’t damaged I wouldn’t be able to hear you or see you.”
“As it is you can barely hear me or see me. Have a drink, you’ll hear me and see me better.”
“I won’t do that. You know I won’t. You know it, and that’s why you’re here.”
“True, I’m a little concerned, but let’s not exaggerate. You won’t do it now, today. . But after a while. . in a year. . in two. . you’ll reach for the bottle.”
“No I won’t. I tell you in truth, Satan, I won’t reach for the bottle.”
“I’m not Satan, I’m your green-winged angel in the gold baseball cap. Though the question of my identity is of little importance. . And what if something happens? You won’t reach for the bottle even if something happens?”