and another had been effaced; things there were several of all
looked the same, like exact copies. These images must have lulled
me to sleep, because when I awoke suddenly, I could sec nothing
but darkness - by then the moon had set. But my hearing was
aroused and had taken me captive, and was now dragging me after
it as it crawled over the walls of the house, listening. Gradually, out
of the apparent silence came the breathing of the people asleep in
the house, at first just faint rustling noises that sounded in my ears,
until my entire body was filled by my heightened sense of hearing,
like a bowl of flesh, a glass, or an ear trumpet pressed against the
walls. I began to do nothing but listen, for the first time in my life:
the breathing became a purring, a whirring sound; I seemed to
hear the sleepers' eyelids flapping together restlessly, and their
hearts making a thumping sound that was heavier than air. The
beds were creaking steadily, to the rhythm of sleep. Then I heard
the noise of a mouse metropolis inside the walls of the house,
with tiny intersections, places where tender meetings happen, and
storerooms full of food. I could even hear the woodworm in the
legs of the pine table. I heard the refrigerator take off deafeningly
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O l g a To k a r c z u k
on one of its chilly night llights. Then I heard moths tickling the
cool expanses of the night. But it was all shattered by a hysterical
peal of drops falling from the kitchen tap. Deafened, I turned on to
my back and stared into the sky. It should have been quiet as
usual, but it wasn·t - now I could hear the whiz of falling meteors
and the blood-chilling roar of a comet.
W h o w ro t e t h e l ife of t h e s a i n t a n d
h o w h e k n e w i t a l l
A young seminarian took all the documents from Paschalis and
told him to come back in the evening, when, without saying
more, he showed him to the room he was to occupy while waiting for the council's decision. The room was dark and damp; from the window he could see the river and some poor cottages
along its banks. In some ways the room reminded him of his cell
at the convent - the narrow bed, and the table and chair opposite it, though instead of the sheepskin rug there was a prayer stool. He knelt down on it and tried to pray, but Kummernis
refused to come. Paschalis's mind was on the smooth decorative
details of the furniture rather than the saint, so finally he tried
kneeling on the stone lloor, but he still couldn't concentrate. The
murmur of the river came lloating up from outside, along with
street noises, wheels squealing and people shouting. Glatz was
not conducive to praying. For the first time in years he went to
sleep without saying his prayers.
Next day the same seminarian informed him that the bishop
was reading his documents, so his audience with him would be
tomorrow. The day after he told him the same thing, and the following day too. So Paschalis went on living in the bishop's palace and had time to see the town.
H o u s e o f D a y, H o u s e o f N i g h t
1 67
He saw a vast number of people; he couldn't believe how
many of them lived in one place. He was amazed that they didn't
all know each other. They passed each other in the street impassively, without exchanging so much as a glance. From morning to evening he walked about this strange town until his sandal
straps hurt his skin. He saw the tradesmen at the market, their
stalls filled with every kind of wares. It was hard to imagine
what all those things were supposed to be for. He saw children
playing in the street, animals exhausted by the noise and heat,
and brightly painted wooden statues in the churches that looked
deceptively real.
But what fascinated him most were the women. Here in the
town they were even more conspicuous, concrete and tangible.
As he was praying in the church he recognized their presence by
the rustle of their dresses and the gentle tap of their heels. He
would furtively inspect every detail of their clothing and hair,
the weave of their plaits, the line of their shoulders, the n uent
motion of their hands as they made the sign of the cross. When
no one was looking he copied these movements, as if practising
an elaborate magical spell.
On one of the streets along the river he found a house where
young girls were always standing out in front with their dresses
hitched up to their knees. Their shirt straps seemed to have
accidentally come undone, and their skinny chests were bare.
Paschalis walked past that way several times a day, and whenever
he became lost in thought his legs took him there on their own ,
into those damp-smelling riverside alleyways and that pennanently waterlogged neighbourhood . The girls weren't always the same, but he soon learned to recognize them all. They also got to
know him and smiled at him like an old friend. One day, as he
was hurrying by, one of them whispered to h i m , C
'
ome here .
little brother, I'll show you something you've never seen before .'
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0 I g a To k a r c z u k
This remark was like a slap on the cheek; for a moment
Paschalis lost his breath and the blood rushed to his face, but he
didn't stop. That same day on a stall he saw little wooden crosses
with Kummernis on them. 'That's Holy Anxiety,' said the stallkeeper, 'patron saint of all changes.' Paschalis bought himself a little cross with the money he had got from the prioress.
Finally he was called to see the bishop.
This is all very illuminating and spiritually uplifting. You
have described the story of this unusual woman's life beautifully, but many things in her writings give us cause for concern,'
began a man in a black-and-white habit. He spread the documents out in front of him and pored over them for a while. The bishop was staring out of the window with his back towards the
room.
'What, for example, do the following words mean? "I saw it.
It was infinite and powerful, but not everywhere the same. Some
of it was nearer to Him and some further away. At its edges it
froze and went solid like molten iron. "'
'It's about God,' said Paschalis, but the bishop didn't react. The
monk in the black-and-white habit, however, said, 'I understand
that it may be a poetic metaphor, but as you'll admit, it's rather
bold. The Mother Superior should be more cautious and discriminating. It's not yet fully elaborated, my son . . . Or this:
"Whatever I do it is for love of You , and in loving You I must
love myself, for the force that is alive within me, the force that
loves is You." That sounds most heretical . . . Whatever I do . . .
As if I were listening to one of those schismatics. Or, if Your
Excellency will be so good as to listen . . .'
A sheet of paper filled with Paschalis's even handwriting fluttered to the floor.
' " I know that You live within me. I can see You within
myself - You manifest Yourself within me in everything that I
H o u s e o f D a y, H o u s e o f N i g h t
1 69
can trust - in rhythms, ebbs and flows, waxings and wani ngs. I
belong to the sun and the moon, for I belong to You, I belong to
the world of plants and animals, for I belong to You . When the
moon stirs the blood within me each month I know that I am
Yours, that You have invited me to Your table to taste the flavour
of life."'
The sun and the moon,' the bishop suddenly repeated, and
those were the only words he uLLered throughout the meeting.
Somehow Paschalis knew that everything was lost, so he drew
his final argument out of his pocket - the liLLie wooden cross
with the half-naked body of a woman with the face of Christ.
'You can buy this everywhere,' he said. The faithful make pilgrimages to Albendorf for her blessing.'
He laid the cross down on the sheets of manuscri pt. The
bishop and the monk leaned over it.
'What a tasteless piece of absurdity,' said the monk, pulling a
face. 'People don't know what they're doing.' He took the cross
in two fingers with evident disgust and handed it back to
Paschalis.
'We appreciate the effort you have put into writing the life of
this woman . We also have the most heartfelt confidence in
Mother Aniela, but with the best will in the world we do not
understand what significance this story could have for the faithful . You see, we live in troubled times. People haT lost their fear of God and seem to think they can dictate the conditions to
God themselves, and drag the faith into their own earthly,
human complaints. I have no need to give you examples of all
the schismatics in which our earth abo unds. Our task is to
defend the purity of the faith. We have many recognized female
saints who did not waver from the true faith and sacri ficed
themselves to a martyr's death. Sai nt Agatha, who refused the
hand in marriage of the pagan king of Sicily . . . her breasts were
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O l g a To k a r c z u k
cut off; Saint Catherine of Alexandria who was torn apart by
horses and beheaded, or Apollonia, a mainstay of the faith
during persecution. She was tied to a pillar and all her teeth were
ripped out, one after another. Or Saint Fina, who though paralysed increased her own torment by sleeping on a bed of stone, until finally letting herself be eaten by rats . . .
'
The bishop raised his head and glanced reprovingly at the
monk. Silence fell.
'All those examples are true,' the monk began again, but more
quietly. He carefully started gathering up the documents from
the table. 'He who defends the fai th and dies an honest, martyr's
death, his suffering makes sense, his torment, though shocking
and terrible, fits within the boundaries of good taste. But there is
something unhealthy, I would say sacrilegious, in this naked
body on the cross. The cross brings to mind the Saviour, the Son
of God. But here are naked breasts, the face of our Lord above
naked breasts . . . You have allowed yourself to be deluded by
this effigy, as has Mother Aniela too . . .'
The monk handed Paschalis his documents.
Paschalis immersed himself in the town and by evening had
walked almost all i ts streets. His legs had been expecting the
journey to Rome and were ready to travel, so he had to walk and
walk to give them relief. He could still go back to the bishop's
palace that night, where he would have a bed to sleep in and
some supper, but he didn't want to.
'Shit,' he said to himself for the first time in his life, and realized that he was standing in front of an inn in the riverside street. A chill and the smell of water came wafting off the river.
As people came and went the door of the inn kept opening,
shrouding him in the stuffy, acrid warmth of human bodies.
Someone touched his sleeve, and he saw beside him one of
the girls whose red lips and cheeks shone out against the grey
H o u s e o f D a y, H o u s e o f N i g h t
1 7 1
stone walls . She was looking him in the eye, and gradually her
lips widened into a smile. She seized hold of her bodice and
two white breasts jumped out into Paschalis's face. They
seemed perfect to him, j ust as they ought to be. The girl
dragged him after her inside one of the neighbouring houses.
They crossed a low, stinking hall and climbed a few wooden
steps into a room of some kind . It was dark, bu t he could feel
that it was small.
'Have you got any money?' she asked and lit a candle.
He shook the purse that was tied beneath his habit; the coins
jingled. The room really was small. A mattress sLUffed with straw
lay on the floor against the wall. Paschalis put his bag of documents by the door while the girl lay down on the mattress and pulled her skirt up to her chin. He stood over her, staring at her
legs thrown wide in ragged stockings , and the black blotch
between them, but not knowing what to do.
'Well, brother, what are you waiting for?' said the girl, laughing.
'I'd like to lie on top of you,' he stuttered, with a lump in his
throat.
'Well I never, so you'd like to lie on top of me,' cried the girl,
feigning surprise.
Paschalis knelt down and gently sank on top of her. There he
lay for a while, afraid to breathe.
'Now what?' asked the girl.
He took her hands and spread them wide. He touched the
inside of her palms - they were hard and rough . His face
touched her hair, which smelled of fried fat. The girl lay still
beneath him, and he could hear her steady breathing.
undressed,' she said calmly.
He thought it over, then got up and started taking off h is
clothes. She quickl y pulled o ff her dress. N ow they were
1 7 2 O l g a To k a r c z u k
touching each other's naked skin. He listened intently to her
breathing. He could feel her rough hairs tickling the skin on his
stomach.
There's something wrong with you ,' she whispered into his
ear and started moving her hips rhythmically. He didn't answer
or move. She took his hand and gently guided it between her
legs. He sought the opening leading deep into her body that he
had so often imagined, but it was all quite different.
'Yes, like that,' said the girl.
Suddenly he withdrew his hand in fright and tried to get up,
but she drew him back down with her legs.
'You're so beautiful, you've got hair like a girl,' she said.
He reached for her cast-off dress and stood up. She watched in
amazement as he solemnly put i t on. She knelt and helped him
to lace the bodice.
'Stockings,' he said.
She pulled them off and handed them to him. They barely
reached his knees. He closed his eyes and drew his hands over
his breast and hips. As he moved , the dress moved with him.
'Lie down like before, spread your arms wide , then I'll open
my eyes,' he said.
She did as he asked. He stood over her gazing for a long
while, then raised the folds of the skirt and knelt down between
her legs. Gradually he sank on top of her and entered her faultlessly as if he had had plenty of practice, and then slowly and sy
stematically began to pin her to the ground.
A d r e a m
l dreamed I got a letter. I t was lying on my desk along with all the
other papers that pile up when we're away and that have to be
H o u s e o f D a y, H o u s e o f N i g h t
1 73
read one by one - gone for ever is the joy of pulling individual
envelopes from particular people out of the letter-box and reading them in solemn concentration. I t lay among all the election leaflets, advertisements for hypermarkets and language schools,
bank statements, phone bills, letters with a seal instead of the
sender's name, official demands, postcards with laconic greetings, reminders, information and announcements. It was not exactly a letter - that sort of communication seems to have died
out without anyone noticing. It was more like an advertisement ,
a bad photocopy with fuzzy type - the sort of thing that isn't
worth reading. Also, unlike a proper letter, it formed its own
envelope; it was really just a sheet of paper with the address and
a stamp on it, folded in four with a strip of glue along one edge.
I t began with the words, 'Wake up !' I didn't read on, or else
I've forgotten what it said. Maybe it said: 'Wake up! Poland is
teetering on the brink. Vote for our party ! ' Or: 'Wake up! Don't
miss a golden opportunity. We're giving away a multi-variety
pack of narcissus bulbs on all purchases worth over 300 zlotys.'
Or: 'Wake up knowing a foreign language. Our method of learning as you sleep guarantees mastery of any language in only three weeks.' All I remember is that I opened it with a knife, like
all the other letters, and now every knife is associated in my
mind with that 'Wake up' call, and always will be, I think, and
with the act of slicing open the flat body of a folded piece of
paper, disembowelling a paper ani mal in order to get at its
prophetic, meaningful entrails.
L u r i d b o l e t u s i n s o u r c r e a m
Some friends came over lwm Valbrzych ancl l treated them to
mushrooms. A t the last moment they asked what sort of
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O l g a To k a r c z u k
mushrooms they were, and when I told them they wouldn't eat as if eating or not eating something could save us from death.
We're all going to die, regardless of whether we eat this or that,
do this or that, or think this or that . Death would seem to be a