Grandma Pech outwitted death by her eternal readiness for it. That was how she lived to be ninety. For as long as I could remember, she had been saying that it was time to leave this world, that she had just one desire, to fall asleep in the evening and not wake up in the morning, and she always wore black. Even when she wasn’t entirely in black, she always wore something funereal, even if it was only a scarf with black roses. In other words, she was ready for death every day, she had the angel’s assurance that she would live to see a thing or two, she had been forewarned about God’s decisions. She was doubly, or perhaps even repeatedly, fortified; she had been expecting Mila’s death for half a year. But in that case, what was the reason for her race from the hallway to the kitchen, feverish and stately, like an up-tempo cortège? Why, and for whom, that grabbing of uncanny Pospiszil by his gray mane? Why, and for whom, those theatrics?
For the Lord God. For half a year, day after day, Grandma Pech had awaited Mila’s death with a heavy heart, but also for half a year she had been gearing up for her performance on the occasion of that death. She couldn’t foresee all the circumstances, but it turned out almost ideally. Grandma Pech was the Lord God’s dancer. She didn’t have the slightest doubt that He never took His eye off her, and that in important moments He scrutinized her carefully. Her faith was pure and steadfast, but it plunged her into an aesthetic of despair, because it seemed to her that the Lord God, the angels, and, in general, all the inhabitants of heaven were the audience before which she was performing. She did her best, but she didn’t know the duplicitous art of solemn gestures. She couldn’t even feign sorrow over someone’s death very well. And when she thought about herself, she went numb with fear. Just how would that be? Through one’s whole life, a person hadn’t been anywhere, hadn’t traveled, hadn’t met anyone. A person hadn’t even been to Warsaw, and now you have to exchange a few words with Lord Jesus, greet the archangels from up close. God! How will this be? My Grandma Zuzanna, née Trzmielowska, primo voto Branna, secundo voto Pech, wasn’t afraid of death — she was afraid of leaving Wisła.
II
She died in long drawn-out agonies. I saw her for the last time two weeks before her death. For the previous nine years, ever since Grandpa Pech had died, she had lived alone. For the last year, she lay in bed in the small room. I sat on the round stool at the sewing machine. She told stories about the church fair, about gingerbread, and about the taste of freshly pickled cucumbers. I realized that she was talking about the taste of cucumbers from the year 1912. Twenty years later she fell in love with the young butcher Gustaw Branny. A dark, almost indecipherable photo from their wedding party was hanging over the little chess table. Today it is easy to say that clouds were gathering over the young couple. If you stare at the background, you can see more than clouds, and more than the black trunks of pine trees — you can see corpse-white lightning bolts slashing through the darkness.
To the left of the groom sits his sister Mila, with uncanny Pospiszil. Pospiszil’s uncanniness, in my mind from back then, was based on three circumstances. First: he had a twin brother. Second: a year after my aunt’s death, the devils carted him off to hell, and he cursed horribly, horribly. Third: he was an enthusiastic phillumenist.
He showed me his collection once. Oh, the varieties and origins of matchbox covers he had there! Egypt, The Congo, Bechuana, Tanganyika, Laos, Oran, Siam — God knows what else. Everything the same size, poor pictures, wretched paper, zero serration. In those days, I collected stamps, and Pospiszil’s phillumenalia made a gloomy impression. It seemed to me that he, too, really wished to collect stamps, but, as some sort of punishment, he was only allowed this pathetic stuff. Or that those were stamps, but that the devil cut the edges at night and spilled acid on them, which made the colors fade, the paper get thin, and the glue come off the back. Pospiszil was amazingly proud of his collection. He presented it with the superiority of the magician initiated in who knows what sort of arcana. With the proficiency of the old pedant (before the war he had taught at the conservatory), he tested me to see whether I was reacting with the proper humility, and I felt ashamed of him with the terrible shame of the child who is ashamed of adults. To make matters worse, the Pospiszils’ house in Wierchy was huge and unfurnished. All the rooms were painted yellow, and there was not even a stool in a single one. In the living room, there was a piano covered with a shiny violet dust sheet — and that was that. Maybe they lived on the second floor, maybe they were remodeling just then, painting, changing the stoves — the explanation wouldn’t be complicated, but in my mind there remained the yellow light of the walls, the empty rooms, and Pospiszil showing me, with pomp and solemnity, the most pathetic little scraps of paper in the world.
When he died a year after Mila’s death, his identical twin brother came to the funeral. I suppose they didn’t get along, because I had never seen the twin before. Supposedly he lived in Gdynia. Or on some other moon. Actually, I don’t have to elaborate on the images and circumstances. Just imagine the funeral of a twin, which is attended by the other twin. Maybe you have been at such a funeral? It is obvious what sort of irresistible thoughts one has then. And what is more, I was seeing the other Pospiszil for the first time in my life, and I didn’t really know that he was — perhaps didn’t even really know what it was: twinness. My Aunt from Wąwóz had twins, but they weren’t similar. And here you had the identical voice, the identical motions, height, gait, hair, even clothing — all identical. It couldn’t be anything other than that the corpse had crawled out of the coffin and was standing over its own grave. Years later I feel like laughing, but then? Horror! And there were the amazing stories: that the deceased — if he was deceased, if the coffin wasn’t empty — had died horribly, how he howled, cursed, blasphemed. Horror! Fear, genuine, piercing to the marrow like frost. Fear that somewhere here, over the cemetery on Gróniczek Hill, emissaries of hell were circulating, that, granted, Father Kalinowski conducted the right services, that we sing and pray, but that the devil already has everything in his care. Years later — when Father died and over his grave a black, July downpour broke out — I recalled a shadow of that fear.
III
On the photo hanging over the little chess table, black clouds and the black branches of pine trees bend over the wedding guests. Black pine needles rain down upon my Grandma’s bonnet, but she doesn’t know about it. Leaning on the distinctive shoulder of the young butcher, she has before her yet a year of faith in love, a year of faith in the world’s sense, a year of faith in God’s goodness. In nine months, she would give birth to a son. In twelve months, on a sunny September afternoon, someone would drive up in front of the house on a motorcycle. Someone with dark folded wings? Most likely yes, although this isn’t all that important. What is important is the motorcycle — a DKW Sport 500, the 1929 model. A black, shining spider, which could reach the unprecedented speed of seventy-five miles per hour.