Franciszek sighed with relief. “Thank God.”
“What?”
“Thank God.”
“A metaphysical notion. You surely know, Pop, that religion is opium for the masses. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And who said it?”
“I’m tired,” Franciszek said gently. “Let me alone, Romek.”
“You just don’t remember. That’s bad, bad. Once your memory begins to fail, you can make all sorts of blunders. Lenin wrote brilliantly about memory. It’s in a letter to a friend, saying he needed money for an abortion.”
Franciszek opened his eyes wide. “Roman, what are you talking about? Where did he write that?”
Roman expressed surprise. “Don’t you remember?”
“No.”
“Come, come.”
“Really, I don’t.”
Roman wrung his hands. “Why, that’s impossible.”
“My word of honor.”
Roman laughed triumphantly. “Of course it’s not true,” he said. “I just wanted to see whether you’d be taken in by such rot.”
He went on talking, very fast and loud, emphatically and stiffly — he was active in student party affairs, and when he spoke to one man it was as if addressing millions. The shadows cast by his vigorous gestures ran back and forth across the ceiling. Franciszek did not hear him; he looked at him with half-closed eyes, and although Elzbieta was not in the room, he saw her pure and austere face beside Roman’s. “So that’s how it is,” he thought. “This little black beetle, and you — so clear and pure. Your calm and his arrogance; he solves all your problems for you in a minute, problems you’d struggle with for weeks on end. He’ll explain everything to you, and everything will come out even as in a multiplication table. He is your fool and your sorcerer; and you, my little one, you think you’re in love with him. What do you look like together — this barking dwarf and you?”
“Elzbieta,” he said, “I’m in a hurry.”
After a while she came in carrying a tray with a steaming dish. “You and Mikołaj think that everything makes itself,” she said. “Or that I have a dozen gnomes in the kitchen to help me.”
“A dozen, no, but one …” Franciszek began, and bit his tongue. Whenever he recalled that Elzbieta was an adult, and that there were matters of life about which she need no longer consult him, he could not bear the sight of her and Roman together.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. It’s hot. When is Mikołaj coming?”
She glanced at the clock. “He should be here now.”
“He is always late.”
“Always.”
Franciszek knew that Mikołaj and Roman could not stand each other. Whenever he wanted to get rid of Roman, he talked about Mikołaj: the effect was instantaneous. This time it worked again. Roman began to move restlessly about the room; finally he said he had to leave and would be back tomorrow. He said a long goodbye to Elzbieta in the entrance hall, and managed to say “Bye-bye, Pop” several times. At last, to Franciszek’s great relief, the door banged shut. Elzbieta came back into the room.
“I don’t like him,” he said.
She nodded. “I know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I. But I’m sure you understand.”
“I’m trying.”
She smiled weakly. “You’re wonderful.”
“Will you tell me something frankly? As frankly as you can.”
“I’ll try.”
“I want you to tell me, yes or no.”
“Yes?”
“Do you love him?”
“You know that I do.”
“Very much?”
“As much as I’m capable of.”
“You’re sure?”
Her clear eyes filled with light. He sighed.
“Yes,” she said.
He wanted to question her about their relationship, but he suddenly felt ashamed. “Why do I have to talk to her about these things?” he thought angrily. “Am I afraid, or what? It’s I who should tell her everything, not the other way around. No, damn it, I must tell her at once …” He put his fork down, and was about to tell her, but she spoke first.
“You’ve guessed everything, haven’t you?”
“I’ve guessed what?”
She peered at him closely. “You know everything,” she said.
He felt as if he had swallowed a lump of ice. He suddenly began to fear that she would tell him something that would merely sound bad; that she was too young to tell him everything clearly and well; and that she would use some unfortunate words that would torment him for years afterward. He said: “I know … he is the only human being …”
“Not the only one,” she said. “Now there is a second one …”
“Have you fallen in love with someone else?” He was about to jump from his chair when he saw her calm, almost victorious smile.
“Most of us love our own children,” she said. He looked at her, and suddenly time vanished, the years opening up like the waters in fairy tales: his own wife had used the same words, and said them in the same way to announce that she was pregnant with Mikołaj.
“You know it for sure?”
“For sure.”
“My little girl,” he whispered. “But …”
“There’s something I never told you. He’s very sick.”
“Who?”
“Roman.”
“Sick?”
“Consumption. I’m worried about him, Father. He’s very depressed; this has been going on for months. He says he’s going to die; he thinks about it all the time. He wants me to think of — him.”
“And what does he say about this?”
“Nothing.”
“How so?”
“He doesn’t know.”
“You didn’t tell him?”
“I’ll tell him when the time comes.”
“You can tell him now. You’ve got to.”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid to,” she said. “He might want me to — he’s sick, he’ll be afraid. I’ll tell him after it’s …” She stopped.
“Why?” Franciszek whispered.
“I want them to live, both of them.”
Franciszek turned away; Elzbieta walked quietly out of the room, carrying the dish. He drummed his fingers on the windowpane. On the floor above, someone was torturing a piano; the fingers of the invisible player kept stumbling on the same key. In the street a man with a long pole passed, lighting the lamps; the gleam of a newly lit lamp and the false note on the floor above came almost simultaneously.
“You look like an Italian woman praying to God and waiting for her husband. They stand by the window for hours, exactly as you’re doing now.”
He turned. “Did you buy a newspaper, Mikołaj?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going somewhere tonight?”
“Have you something to tell me?”
“Yes.”
“Just a minute, I want to wash my hands.”
Mikołaj left the room. He was dangerously handsome; his face, voice, silhouette, the gleam in his eyes, his smile or grimace, his animal gait, his calm sleep, the manner in which he flipped away a cigarette butt — everything nature had given him was like a constant humiliation to others, a summons to hide their faces, to keep offstage, to stop talking, smiling, and breathing loudly. After a moment he came back and sat opposite Franciszek.
“Listen, Mikołaj,” Franciszek said. “I’ve been expelled from the party.”
“Are you drunk?”
“I’m sober. I haven’t touched a drink.”
“Then don’t talk that way.”
“It happened yesterday. I did something I can’t understand. It seems like a nightmare. But it’s a fact.”
Mikołaj walked up to him and looked him in the eyes. Franciszek drew back, hunching up a little: his son was staring at him as if he were some strange thing. They were silent; Elzbieta was clattering dishes in the kitchen.