Adjudication by the Disciplinary Commission of the District Office of the Post and Telecommunications in Cracow. The object of the adjudication: accused. . born. . employed. . previously unpunished disciplinarily, accused of infringement of official duties committed by exploiting his position as the Chief of the Office of the Post and Telecommunications, that, using employees subordinate to himself, he did transport by postal ambulance private packages containing veal to the addresses of certain employees of the District Office of the Post and Telecommunications, is, after the conclusion of an oral hearing, declared innocent and exonerated of the above-mentioned charges. The citizen is declared innocent on account of lack of evidence of official transgression in the deeds charged against him.
•
“You were debased by Moscow, Chief, debased through and through, and you will forgive me if I don’t share your premature joy.” Mr. Trąba seemed absolutely immune to Father’s enthusiasm that day.
“From the beginning I knew that justice would be done,” Father triumphed, “from the very beginning. And when I learned that Cracow had been designated as the place of the hearing, I no longer had a hint of fear or doubt. Cracow is Cracow! There were only prewar chiefs, gentleman chiefs, on the board of the adjudicating commission.” Father choked on his own saliva. “Chief Czyż, Chief Holeksa, Chief Kozłowski, every inch the gentlemen, suits, good manners, broad horizons. .”
“I see that you, Chief, have developed a taste for disciplinary hearings,” Mr. Trąba allowed himself an almost openly contemptuous tone.
“If you only knew, Mr. Trąba, if you only knew. It is worth meeting people like Chief Kozłowski under any circumstance.” Father swaggered at the table and sought, however unsuccessfully, to pose like a victorious sailor who had just returned from a dangerous expedition.
I well remember Father’s return, not simply declared innocent and exonerated, but quite triumphant. I remember not only the words, but also the gestures, for that day abounded in particularly frequent risings from the table, walks over to the sideboard, and removals from it of successive, very successive, bottles.
“What fairytales are you trying to tell me, Chief? You can’t have become that Bolshevized! I understand that you spent some time in Russky bondage and that you have a right to certain complexes, but — by a billion barrels of beer — you aren’t a young poet who needs to base his entire life on traumatic events! The very fact that a proceeding was initiated against you was a crime.”
“To tell the truth, what I did wasn’t entirely in order.” Father now attempted to speak in a sort of boldly canny manner.
“Chief, don’t fall prey to any illusions, and don’t make yourself into some sort of capo of the meat mafia who not only ran afoul of the organs of justice but even hoodwinked them. What did you do? You did nothing. Once a week you sent a little bit of veal by train so that your so-called friends wouldn’t croak from hunger. That’s what you did. And for that you were debased.”
“I was declared innocent, and exonerated,” Father answered with puffed up dignity.
“Do you know, Chief, what’s the most terrible thing about Moscow? The most terrible thing is the fact that, in her omnipotence, Moscow wishes to imitate God, that it is the Antichrist.”
“You exaggerate, Mr. Trąba, as usual you exaggerate.” Sunk in an absolute state of bliss, intoxicated with his evanescent relief, and, quite simply, already pretty well potted, Father wouldn’t hear any arguments. He didn’t realize that all of Mr. Trąba’s admonitions and ominous suppositions would be fulfilled to the letter, that they had already begun to come true.
“Just as almighty God works with the hands of his servants, the people, so Moscow debased you with the hands of its servants, the employees of the District Office of the Post and Telecommunications. They declared you innocent, but all the same, you won’t return to your position, or to your office. You will continue to commute for now in rain, heat, and stormy weather to far-away Cieszyn. You will lose your health. You will hand over generous bribes in an attempt to obtain the sick leave that is coming to you. In your apparently innocent, but in reality endless degradation, you will continue to experience constant humiliations. You will continue to write and to send petitions:
“‘In connection with the fact that I have been declared innocent of the charge that, in transporting packages containing veal by ambulance, I had infringed upon my official duties, I humbly ask for transferal, return, and annulment.’
“And the Antichrist will continue to respond to you by the hands of his secretaries:
“‘In answer to your question, you are hereby informed that your petition was not accompanied by the appropriate attestations and attachments. . will be examined at a later date. . was settled negatively.’
“Yes, that’s how it will be, that’s how it will be, Chief. Too bad I can’t take your picture, because if you could take a look tomorrow at a daguerrotype of your face, lit up as it is with childish happiness, you would grasp that three months outside of Moscow in Serpukhov is a trifle in comparison with true bondage.”
Mr. Trąba looked for a moment at Father’s irregularly nodding head (it was flying through golden spaces), and he added in a jauntier tone:
“And yet, as they say, there isn’t anything so bad that it couldn’t get worse. When you come to your senses, when you finally make a hard landing on earth, when you grasp that the nightmare hasn’t ended, rather that it has taken on definiteness, this will give you strength. You will grow manly in your disaster. You will become a little bitter. You will become a little cynical. Perhaps even a note of gallows’ humor will arise in your noble nature. Don’t be angry, but, from my point of view, this will be better. You would become a more interesting disputational partner, more inclined to resistance. Yes, Chief, we will chat, we will drink a little, we will philosophize. We will be like the heroes of a novel that has come unglued. We will be like literary figures that, instead of acting lazily though comprehensively, will talk over our fates from all sides. But that, too, only for a time. For a time, Chief. For a time, since the hour of our deed will also ring forth.”
•
In addition to the smell of packing paper, hemp twine, and wax seals, perhaps there still smoldered in the rocking ambulance the smell of calves’ blood. But I didn’t smell it; I didn’t know the necessary details at the time. If the specter of any sort of blood flitted through my half-conscious head at all, it was quite certainly the blood of Władysław Gomułka, which we were supposed to shed in less than twenty-four hours. I continually awoke and fell asleep, and I listened to the voices of the men as they told the story of one love-affair after another.
“And in that way I came to the conclusion,” someone’s dark, subdued voice was finishing a sad, or perhaps a happy, story, “in that way I came to the conclusion that the only thing I demand from a woman is that she wear a brassiere with style. That’s right. I demand style in the wearing of a brassiere. Nothing else.”
“A proper demand,” a second subdued voice added to the discussion, “a proper demand. After all, this is something no man can do.”
Suppressed giggles resounded, glasses clinked delicately, and the train slowed down.
“I had the misfortune,” someone had clearly succumbed to the spell of Mr. Trąba’s narcotic manner of speaking, although this was certainly not him; the unfamiliar half-whisper sounded too youthful and unstable, “I had the misfortune to start a romance, once upon a time, with a woman with fluent mastery of the pen. I was never keen about people who had fluent mastery of the pen, but my knowledge about the fact that there existed women who had fluent mastery of the pen was highly theoretical. In any event, I had never met a writing woman, to say nothing of one who wrote so ecstatically, so greedily, and — I’m aware that this sounds risqué—who wrote in every situation. She buried me under piles of letters and letterlets, little slips of paper, hundreds of confessions, thousands of notes, occasional poems, and accidental short stories, inspired descriptions of what she did yesterday, and what she would do today. Everywhere I came upon sheets of paper covered with her sprawling handwriting and folded in her characteristically refined manner. Every time I reached into my pocket, I came upon some text. I constantly removed them, and I constantly found them. I removed them not only because I was quite simply afraid that they would fall into my wife’s hands, which were not itching, or rather were itching, to kill me — that too; but this woman with fluent mastery of the pen produced such quantities of records that the quantity itself was the main problem. One way or another, I had to reduce their monstrous number. I didn’t have any doubt that sooner or later one of these scraps, which were lying about everywhere and flying out from every corner, would fall into my wife’s hands. And that is just what happened. To tell the truth, it happened many times. Luckily, a significant portion of the writings of the woman with fluent mastery of the pen were hermetic writings, and, thanks to happy coincidences, on each occasion my wife came upon statements that were unclear, basically incomprehensible. Nonetheless she always attentively unfolded and flattened out the little notes that she found everywhere, put on her glasses, and read. Or rather, she studied them carefully. And then, she would raise her glance and look at me with a sympathy that was full of pain, as if she were aware what sort of forced labor there is in a romance with a graphomaniac, with such a pampered soul that is compelled to pour out all — that’s right—all her emotions onto paper. But the woman with fluent mastery of the pen was not a graphomaniac. This thirty-year-old, who measured 40-24-38. .”