“Do you have much in the way of poultry?”
“Sure I do. Chickens, geese, ducks, other things. Loads of them. But I like poultry. In the early morning, before you even open the door of the coop they set up a racket, as soon as they know it’s you. Then when I open the door for them it’s like opening a sluice-gate in a water mill. They rush past you, under you, over you. One big cloud of feathers. The whole yard is filled with feathers, earth and sky. If the dog tries to bark it’s choked by feathers and it sounds like it’s barking behind a wall. And even more than the feathers, there’s all the cackling and quacking and honking and gobbling. And once they all start pecking at the ground, the whole place quakes like in a hailstorm. If the calf pokes its head out from the cattle shed, it hurries back in again right away. If you need to harness the horse, you have to drag him by force through all the hullabaloo. I’ve got turkeys, guinea fowl. But guinea fowl are something else. They’re calm as anything, timid, it’s like they’re lost among all the other birds. They’re not pushy, they don’t get in the way. Because chickens, they’re ragtag and bobtail. All they’re good for is laying eggs. Though come wintertime, eggs are expensive and things even out. I even have two peacocks. I hold on to them because people in the village have gotten used to saying, the house with the two peacocks. Sometimes one of them will spread its tail, and I have my own rainbow. It’s lovely to look at. The truth is, though, I don’t know how many birds I have. I don’t count. Besides, how could you count even if you wanted to? They’re always moving around, hopping and pecking and fighting, you’d need a hundred eyes to keep track. Plus, when the sun comes out in the yard everything’s all glittery. Sometimes, if I get to a hundred I can’t be bothered to keep on counting. What’s the point, I ask myself? Will there be more of them if I count them? Let them live uncounted. If I knew how many I had, I’d need to worry whenever one of my geese or ducks or chickens went missing. Though when that happens, try searching other people’s farms and orchards, in their yards and behind their barns, try asking if they haven’t seen anything anywhere. In the village there isn’t even anywhere to look. There’s one house next to another, all in a row. You’d have to look to the neighbors, because when something goes missing, they’re the likeliest suspects. Though maybe that’s why people are neighbors? And if you’re at odds with your neighbors, then all the more they’re the likeliest. Or you could set traps for polecats, and catch a neighbor in one of them from time to time. Though polecats can do their fair share of damage too.”
It was a Monday, and he asked me right away if I could give him a shave along with the other guys. Because Monday was market day, and from early morning everyone on the ward would start getting ready for visiting hours. Dawn would barely be lighting the windows, and already they’d be whispering and sighing and saying their prayers. Some of them woke up much earlier even, as if it was time to feed the animals. So if anybody felt like sleeping in, Monday wasn’t the day to do it. One bed would creak, and right away every bed in the place would start creaking. Though whoever woke up first generally woke everyone else up right off:
“Hey everybody, wake up! Today’s Monday!”
Right away there’d be a commotion and comings and goings. Even when someone was stuck in bed because of illness or injury, and they couldn’t get up, on a Monday it was like they were expecting a miracle to happen and they’d get ready as well. Everyone washed, shaved, combed their hair, and those that couldn’t do it by themselves, someone else would shave them and comb their hair and wash them. Eventually, when I could get up myself, I was the one that shaved everyone. I had my work cut out for me on Mondays. Because every man jack of them needed something special doing. One of them had to at least have his sideburns evened up, someone else wanted his mustache trimmed so everybody would know he was expecting someone. And though some of them never had visitors, Monday was the kind of day when you might finally get one. They might come to town to buy a horse or sell some suckling pigs, and while they were at it they’d come visit.
That was all people talked about from the early morning, will they come or won’t they. Will they come or won’t they. They might come, they’ve got a bullock they need to sell, why keep it any longer than necessary. It’ll eat more than their cow, and it’s not going to give them any milk. They’ve already plowed and sowed, what else do they have to do. They don’t have that many apples in the orchard, no, not like last year, the branches were almost breaking under the weight. I told them they ought to spray one more time. Damn aphids ate all the blossom. So I think they’ll come. They didn’t sow any beet or carrots this year, they only had to lift the potatoes, so they probably already did it. Why should they need to do the threshing now? It can wait till winter. I’ll do it when I get back. Working the fields with only one leg would be harder, but you can do the threshing as long as your arms are healthy. Really you can, though it’d be easier with a threshing machine. I told her, just get a hired hand if you can’t manage on your own. I bet she did. With me, whatever I say, goes. Though where am I going to get a hired hand these days? You think it’s like it was before the war? She might not have found anyone. They were supposed to come right after the harvest festival. They didn’t come last time, or the time before that, or the time before that either, ever since you’ve all been in here. Because the land won’t let them go. In the winter they’d come for sure. What work is there in the winter? You feed the animals and then you sit and warm yourself in the kitchen. What, you don’t know what the land is like? It’ll grab you by the legs or the arms or round the waist and hold on. If it ever popped into that head of hers to collect a few eggs, some cream, even just a little cheese, she’d have something to bring to market. A bit more money never goes amiss. To buy salt, or sugar, or vinegar. The bus comes to the village now, they’ve surfaced the road, all you have to do is sit and stare out the window and you’re there. Maybe they’ll at least come let me know whether it’s a bull calf or a heifer. Ask me if I think they should keep it or not. I mean, the priest isn’t going to give them any advice, what does he know about calves. I’m telling you, it’s a poor story when the head of the house is gone, that’s for sure. I even said to them, the moment I’m gone, then you’ll cry. Who’s going to drive the geese down to the pond, who’ll look after the grandson, who’ll put the water on to boil when you come back from the fields. Who? I won’t be able to hear you anymore. Cry all you like. They’ll come, they’ll come. Why wouldn’t they? She was going to buy herself a new pair of shoes, and an overcoat for Jaś. She sure dresses up a lot. When he married her she was dirt poor, now she’s the lady of the village. They’re wanting to build a new house but they can’t get sheet metal for the roof anywhere, maybe they’ll come buy it in town. They’ve promised to give me my own room, with curtains in the window and a carpet on the floor. They’re going to paint flowers on the walls. What do you think, will flowers look nice? My whole life I lived with whitewashed walls, I’m worried flowers’ll give me asthma. Maybe they’ll come to buy wedding rings. Christmas is on its way, and at Christmas they’re planning to get married. They could get my blessing at the same time. Cause there’s no telling if I’ll ever make it back home. And without a blessing life can go wrong. Last Monday I sent word by the neighbor, come as soon as you can, me, I could wait, but death might not be willing to. Death’s like an emperor. However much you beg him, he won’t wait even just one more week, till the next market day at least, because something must have held them up. He’s actually not that bad of a farmer, but man does he drink. If he wasn’t drinking yesterday, he’ll for sure come today. He needs to pick up supplies for the cooperative. They canned him three times already, but they don’t have anyone else to give the job to. I told him, I said, it’s my land, my inheritance, my everything, the mutt and the rake and the stork on the roof. And you, you Johnny-come-lately, what’s your contribution? Ten lazy fingers and a lazy arm. And those glazed eyes of yours that are only interested in sleeping the whole time. And on top of that you disrespect me? I’m not giving you a thing. I’ll give to the church, I’ll give to the poor, but you, you’re not getting one red cent from me. So he beat me up so bad the dog was yowling over me. You old fart, you belong in the cemetery. That’s where your land is, your inheritance, your everything. And all she says is, Miecio, don’t hit daddy. Daddy! Daddy! But I guess I’ll forgive them if they come. Why not. I can’t take it with me after I’m gone. So maybe they’ll come. God’ll tip them the wink and they’ll come. I never was much of a one for revenge. It’s all because of the land. The land’s run wild. The land isn’t what it used to be. Evidently the land’s going to die with us, Wojciech. You’ll have enough of it in your hands, in your feet, under your back, in your eyes, in your gray hair. Last year I had a dream that I was standing on a field boundary and the land was coming toward me. There were oats and barley and wheat and rye coming, and fallow fields. There were farmers’ fields coming alongside the squire’s. They were coming from somewhere on the other side of the sky and marching like regiments, armies, battalions, companies, one field after another was marching past me and going on, moving away then disappearing. There were the neighbors’ fields, my brother-in-law’s, mine. I recognized them all from far away, of course I knew my own fields, they were all blue with cornflowers. I spread my arms. Where do you think you’re going? Stop! Stay there! I shouted. I grabbed fistfuls of crop, but it slipped out of my grip like eels. I fell to my knees. Come back! But they passed by and they vanished, and then I woke up. Why shouldn’t they come today. I bought them a car, all they need to do is hop in, vroom vroom, and they’re here. If the Lord would just send some rain, then they’d come. When it rains people remember the most forgotten things. And when the rain really sets in, it rains and rains and you keep remembering things. Long rains, people call it. You can’t send the cows out in weather like that. You can’t go plow. You sit at home, the windows are running with rain, it’s pouring down like it was coming from the sky to the earth and then back from the earth to the sky. All the houses are in a row but every one of them’s apart, every person’s apart. Course, you could mend the chair, the one that the leg fell off of. Or visit your neighbor. But it’s raining over there just the same, it’s raining everywhere in the village. And it’s raining in Sąśnice, in Walencice, the whole world. Cut it out, what’s gotten into you with that rain. If it’s potato lifting time let folks dig their potatoes in peace. The thing is, when it rains it gets at you inside so bad you’d even make up with your worst enemy. One time I actually did make up with my enemy when it was raining. For twenty years we’d been at each other’s throats. But I’m sitting at home, I couldn’t even go look outside cause it was cats and dogs the whole time, and my conscience started nagging me. I’ll go see him, I thought, why should we be angry with each other. I go by there, and he says, I’m surprised you could be bothered in this weather. I would’ve made up with you anyway before I died. Sit yourself down, since you’re here. Look how misty it is over the way. Take a look, your eyes are better than mine. Mine don’t see too good anymore. In the village I’d be able to tell. There’d be smoke lingering on the rooftops, and my bones’d be aching. This could be my last Monday? Lord, let it rain.