“We can’t risk any sort of inefficiency. As it is, there are too many improvised elements in our whole enterprise, and we are not going to repeat the historic errors of old assassins. We will spend the final hours before we kill Gomułka touring the city.” Mr. Trąba emphasized this aspect many times, and I, Jerzyk, now listening raptly to the words and melody of old Lutheran Psalms, not only agreed with him, but I also admired his unshakable logic.
“When once I erred around the forest unhappy, suddenly I heard a voice from the thick branches of the olive tree. When I rested in its shade, and began to ponder that song in my heart, I arose refreshed,” sang the choir of Canaanite, Samaritan, and Philistine women. And indeed, in my simplicity, refreshed by the assent to everything that had filled me, I raised my head even higher, and above the divine coifs of the women’s chorus, I glanced at the stained-glass window, filled with undulating light, at the figures of the apostles looming from the exploding radiance, and there was in me no bitterness, distaste, or disappointment. My transaction with Grand Master Swaczyna was ultimately a spiritual transaction, and what is more I, Jerzyk, knew the rules of that transaction well. After all, I well knew, and had known for a long time, that neither in the figure depicted on the glass, nor in the shape of the head, nor in the likeness of the countenance of the Apostle Paul was there the least hint of similarity to Vladimir Ilyich Lenin.
Chapter VI
Elżunia Baptystka knew the answer to every question. She knew how many crosses there were in our church and what adorned and crowned the pulpit; what the first miracle performed by Lord Jesus was and when the Descent of the Holy Sprit took place. She was even able to give the precise number of all the books of the Bible and the date of Pastor Potraffke’s ordination. Dressed in white stockings and a green woolen frock, Elżunia won the church trivia contest year after year. She would confidently ascend the podium and resolutely answer the questions posed by the presbyters. The Pastor’s Wife would kiss her on both cheeks and present her with edifying literature. I hated Elżunia Baptystka. And I lusted after the Pastor’s Wife.
Then it was my turn. I stepped through the high October grass on trembling legs. I climbed the podium that had been cobbled together out of pine planks, breathed in the scent of the shiny wood, glanced at the festive crowd seated below, at the giant rock by which the Lutherans of old used to gather in times of persecution. I glanced at the beech forest surrounding the glade, and I felt on my palate the watery taste of disaster. The Curator of the Church Grange glanced playfully at the Pastor’s Wife, then with pretended reflection he fixed his gaze upon me and said:
“And now, a question from the field of the life of our parish. Please tell us the style and color of the Pastor’s Wife’s favorite hat!”
Of course I knew perfectly well that the Pastor’s Wife’s favorite hat was a red and black toque with a pompom on the side. I knew the Pastor’s Wife’s wardrobe inside and out. I knew what her favorite skirts, frocks, and blouses were. I knew how she dressed for every time of the day and season of the year. I even knew how many pairs of flat-heeled pumps she had. I knew everything, but, of course, I remained silent. I didn’t yet have a clue how one ought to behave in the presence of women after whom one lusted, but my instinct, as blind and as powerful as my lust, whispered to me that, in any case, you ought not to hold forth about their wardrobe in their presence. I remained silent. The Pastor’s Wife looked at me with ostentatious coldness and indifference. Her gaze went through me as if I weren’t there. Suddenly I understood that her glance was too cold, too indifferent, that she looked at me as if I weren’t there because I was. . Jesus Christ, she loves me! I experienced a sudden revelation, and the apparently disparate elements — every glance, chance meeting, and meaningless phrase — arranged themselves, in the twinkling of an eye, into a complete whole. “The Pastor’s Wife is madly and unhappily in love with me,” I slowly and thoughtfully repeated this sentence to myself — just like vodka, it lent me wings, and indeed I felt myself take wing, that I could answer. What was more, I would answer each question exhaustively and ornately.
I hadn’t a clue how to act in the presence of a woman who was madly in love with me, and I fell subject to the thoroughly male delusion that, in the presence of a woman who was madly in love with you, you can allow yourself everything.
“In that case,” the Curator again looked playfully at the Pastor’s Wife and again with feigned reflection fixed his gaze upon me, “in that case, the next question from the same field. This one is more difficult. When the Pastor’s Wife directs our choir, what characteristic gesture — in no way connected with directing — does she make, especially at rehearsals?”
I glanced at her. Mercilessly, I sought out her panicked, fleeing glance, and I spoke slowly, luxuriating in my own omniscience:
“Before she begins to direct — although some times, sporadically, it happens after the choir has performed the first hymn — the Pastor’s Wife takes three silver bracelets off her left hand and she places them on the director’s side-table next to the music stand. She always places them in the same fashion, such that the intersecting circles of the bracelets divide the surface of the side-table into eight separate regions. At the end of rehearsal, the Pastor’s Wife puts the bracelets back on, reversing the order in which she had taken them off. This means that first she puts on the bracelet that’s on the very bottom, the one with the small ruby on the clasp, next the one with the black Aztec design, and finally the chain-form wristlet. .”
There was a moment of utter silence. The birds fell quiet. Nature came to a standstill. Not even the shadow of the simple thought that maybe I had gone a bit far passed through the limited brain of this class genius. I luxuriated in my infallibly A+ answer. I also luxuriated in the fact that only I, her wise beloved, could see the imperceptible blush that was slowly covering her dark cheeks. The Pastor’s Wife’s complexion was not white like paper; it was dusky like the Rose of Zion, like the shoulders of King Solomon’s betrothed. The Pastor’s Wife was dark like the consort of a Brazilian soccer player. Thunderous applause erupted, rousing a black grouse at the edge of the forest to a fluttering run. Everyone who was sitting at the table, made of the same pine planks as the podium, clapped. Father, Mother, and Mr. Trąba clapped — admittedly, with a peculiar reserve; but the rest, with the exception of Father Pastor Potraffke — I don’t know how he clapped because, of course, I didn’t dare to look at him — all the rest, Grand Master Swaczyna, Małgosia Snyperek, Sexton Messerschmidt, Mrs. Rychter, Commandant Jeremiah, and even Elżunia Baptystka, and all the confirmation students sitting below at a table of their own, all clapped as was proper.