“Grandfather was here with me all night,” I said to try and change the subject. “He just disappeared a moment ago.”
“So did he tell you where he buried those papers?” father asked, perking up.
“Not that one. Grandfather Łukasz from America.”
He waved his hand.
“Him, he was a good-for-nothing. What did he want?”
“Nothing. He just came to talk.”
“He must have needed to do penance. Was he barefoot?”
“I didn’t look at his feet.”
“He probably was. You always have to do penance barefoot.”
One time I came back drunk, it was almost nighttime. For some reason I’d thought to slip a bottle in my pocket as we were leaving the pub. You might have said I had a premonition. But I didn’t, it was just that I’d gotten paid that day, and when you got paid you sometimes took an extra bottle for the road. It came in handy in the morning when you couldn’t get yourself together. I was a bit surprised to see a light still on in our window. But I thought, father’s probably just soaking his feet. He had varicose veins and sores and when they were bothering him more than usual, he’d brew up herbs and soak his feet in them. He’d sit on a chair and put his feet in a pail till the cold woke him up or I got back.
I went in and I thought I was seeing things, it looked like Michał was sitting on the bench by the window. Except he seemed kind of sleepy, because he didn’t even raise his head when I came in. But it was him all right. Maybe he’d been traveling a long while and he was tired? He never did have much staying power. One time he came back from market with father and the wagon kept bouncing up and down, it made him throw up. Or if he stayed up late one night, the next day he’d be all pale and have rings under his eyes.
“You’re here, Michał,” I said. And though my head was spinning, I was pleased to see him. “It’s been years and years, we’ve been waiting all this time. Let’s have a drink, brother. As it happens I’ve got a bottle on me. I took it because I had a feeling. How about that.” I pulled out the bottle and stood it on the table. “Where are some glasses?” I ask. Father’s sitting on a chair with his head down, like he’s dozing. All of a sudden he jerks his head up and says to me:
“What, you want to give him vodka, you piece of work? Look at him.”
“What do I need to look for? I can see it’s Michał. Would I not know Michał? My own brother? He looks a bit older, but not even that much considering how many years it’s been. Tell him, Michał, we’re brothers, right? You’re off away, and I’m here, and we don’t know anything about each other, but you don’t need to know anything to be brothers. Say, do you remember Franek Maziejuk? You were in the same class together. He hung himself. He was missing twenty hundredweight of sugar from his warehouse. What did he need all that sugar for? Course, the priest says from the pulpit, you mustn’t sin. That’s easy to say. As for me, I’m more or less alive here. But never mind that, you’re here, you’ve come, that’s the main thing. Now where are those glasses, mother?”
Mother didn’t say a word. She was lying there with her eyes half closed, like she was asleep, though I knew she wasn’t. I thought maybe she was in a huff because Michał was back and I’d come home drunk. Oh well.
“Do you know where they are, father?”
But father wasn’t saying anything either. Besides, he might not have known if we had any glasses in the house. What would we have used them for? We only ever drank milk or water, sometimes herbs, and for that a mug was better than a glass. It’s bigger and thicker, it’s got a handle to hold it by, and mugs last much longer than glasses. There’s one tin mug, I’ve got it to this day, it’s my favorite thing to drink out of. Grandfather used it too and he said his grandfather did as well, show me a glass that’ll live that long. Water never tastes as good as from that mug. Sometimes I’m not even thirsty, but when I drink from the mug it’s like drinking straight from the spring. Or try picking up a glass with a hand that’s tired from work, it’s like picking up an egg with tongs. When you come back from mowing, whatever you pick up it’s like you were grabbing your scythe.
“Let’s look around then,” I said. I took the lamp from the table so I could see better. “We can’t go drinking from the bottle when my brother’s come to visit. It’s so good to see you, brother. At last we’ll be able to talk and catch up after all these years. And you can tell me what it was you wanted from me back then, during the war.”
I opened the dresser. Plates, big and little bottles, bags, it all began to dance in front of my eyes, but I didn’t see any glasses in the dance. I wasn’t sure myself whether there were any in the house, but I had this mighty urge to drink from a glass.
“How do you like that? Like the ground swallowed them up. Tomorrow I’m gonna go buy a dozen glasses and we’ll keep them on display.” I turned toward mother in bed. “Where are the glasses?” I tugged at her quilt. “Michał and me want a drink.” Then I saw in the light of the lamp that her eyes were filled with tears. “What are you crying for? There’s no reason. I’ve come home drunker than this many a time. I’m not that drunk tonight. Wicek Fulara had a baby boy. I married him and Bronka back when. You know what, tomorrow I’ll borrow Machała’s mowing machine and the whole lot’ll be done in a day. I helped him with his application, he’s sure to lend me his mower. Let him try not to, the son of a bitch.” I was still standing over mother, holding the swaying lamp, and she was crying more and more. “Don’t cry, mother,” I said. “Father, what’s up with mother?” I turned abruptly toward father and the lamp lurched in my hand like the flame had jumped out into the room. It went dark for a moment then got brighter again.
“Put the damn lamp down before you burn the place to the ground.” Father raised his head and I could see he had tears in his eyes as well. He wiped them away with the back of his hand.
“Are you crying because Michał’s here?”
“He’s either Michał or he isn’t,” he said. “God alone knows.”
“Why would God need to know if someone is Mchał or not? I know I’m Szymek, you know you’re father, Michał knows he’s Michał. Everyone knows on their own better than God. Was he just born, that God has to know for him that he’s Michał? Me, even if I didn’t want to be Szymek there’s nothing I could do about it. Even when I’m drunk I know who I am, because no one’s going to be me in my place. Though you should have written to say you were coming, Michał. See, everyone’s crying now.”
“He didn’t come, he was brought.”
“By who?”
“His wife or whoever.”
“You have a wife, Michał? You never said anything. We could have at least sent congratulations. All the best to the newlyweds. Or, may the sun never set on the road of your new life together. Or, here’s wishing you health, happiness, good fortune, and your first son. You don’t even need to make anything up, you can choose a greeting at the post office. Jaśka the postmistress, she just asks you which one you want, the number two or the number five? Which one is cheaper? But for you I’d send the most expensive one. Maybe you did mention it? Maybe I forgot after all these years. Well now we really do need to have a drink. Father and mother, let them cry, that’s their job. Ours is to drink. Don’t you worry about them. I live here with them, they see me every day, and they sometimes cry over me as well. Not father, but mother does. And over you too, specially after you’ve been gone so long.”