Part 9 (1/2)

On the eight-o'clock express, Anna leans her forehead against the cool window, and closes her eyes. Kowalski burps and the air goes putrid with the waft of stale sausage.

”That kiebasa from lunch.” He grins and waves a hand in the air, fanning toward her face. ”Want some?”

The train ride to Wrocaw had been different. They had cuddled, exchanged brief kisses, and shared a glazed raspberry pczek. Now, she glances at him with obvious contempt.

”Jesus. What's the problem, Anka?”

”You're the problem here, Kowalski. This isn't working out. I need more than a willing lay. I need conversation.”

Kowalski looks at her like she's insane. His face flushes crimson.

”See, that's what I mean, you don't say anything. I mean, I don't need you to recite poetry but something other than a running commentary about the workings of your digestive system would be nice.”

Kowalski gets up and violently grabs his knapsack from the overhead bin.

”So you're just gonna leave? You have nothing to add? Nothing? What's wrong with you? It's unnerving. You're like an animal; you communicate through f.u.c.king, grunts, and farts. I need words.”

Before he slides open the compartment doors, Kowalski turns around. ”You want words? I've got two for you. Odpierdol si. How's that? You drag me on this trip, it's your idea, you f.u.c.k me, we stroll around the ape cages like f.u.c.king Romeo and Juliet, and then you switch on a dime, so what words do you want? I never said I was good enough for you, Anka, but you don't have to keep reminding me of it. Lolek was right.”

It is the most he has ever uttered in one breath. Then he is gone.

Anna gets home past midnight. Babcia is fast asleep on the wersalka in her little room. Babcia hadn't been too happy that Anna had run off with Kowalski like that. Maybe Anna should have listened to her and just stayed put.

The next morning, the ringing phone wakes her at seven. Anna shuffles to the foyer, wis.h.i.+ng, again, that Babcia would finally let her buy a cordless phone for the apartment.

”Halo?”

”So Babcia's in a huff because you ran off with some boy to Wrocaw? Did you have fun, corko?”

”I did. How's Tato?”

”Don't change the subject. I wanna talk about the fun.” Anna can see the small smile on her mother's face, she can hear the wistfulness of her plea.

”He's the subject of our lives, Mamo.”

”Your father's a mess, but what else is new. He refuses to take his Prozac, he cut up all my credit cards.”

Over the years, Radosaw has sunk into real depression. When Poland held its first democratic elections in 1991, he couldn't get over the fact that he wasn't there to celebrate with his old friends. His anger overwhelmed him, and in turn, overwhelmed his wife and daughter. One morning, they found him in the bathroom with a steak knife pressed against his wrists, and talked him back into bed, where he cried into his pillow and didn't speak for days.

”I'm sorry. The fun, huh? Well, Wrocaw is gorgeous and the boy was too. Kind of.”

”Oh, Anna, I'm so jealous....” Anna laughs but she knows Paulina isn't kidding. The depth of regret Paulina lives with is something Anna never wants to experience. Before her departure to Poland, she took her mother out for drinks, and when Paulina, sloshed on martinis, began detailing her awful s.e.x life, Anna shouted ”No!” laughing. She didn't want to hear it.

”What did you want to be when you grew up?” she asked instead and Paulina had looked sadly into the bottom of her gla.s.s, dipped her finger in and swished it around absentmindedly.

”I wanted to own a cukiernia. I wanted to make candy.” It was that disclosure, more than anything, that broke Anna's heart.

After she hangs up with her mother, Anna walks into the kitchen, where Babcia is making pierogi. When the first batch is ready, boiled to perfection and drenched in onions and b.u.t.ter, Anna eats more than is good for her, stuffing them whole into her mouth. Babcia eats like she always does, over the kitchen sink, straight out of the pot.

When Anna walks downstairs at five forty-five, she notices someone has spray-painted the word kurwa next to Babcia's mailbox. Kurwa like b.i.t.c.h, kurwa like c.u.n.t, like wh.o.r.e, kurwa like all of the above. She wonders if Kowalski did it.

Anna sits down on the curb in front of Babcia's apartment building. She brings her knees to her chest, and suddenly, she's fourteen again. She remembers one summer when a neighborhood kid walked past her and muttered, ”Go back home, Amerykanko.” Anna's face had flushed, but she caught up with the kid and swung him by the arm. ”I am home, you little f.u.c.ker,” she'd hissed and the boy looked at her like she was crazy but he never bothered her again.

This place is her private corner of the world. No one can ruin this patch of sun-baked gra.s.s, these cobblestones, that trzepak in front of her, unfaltering as ever. No one can ruin Poland for her. Just then a flock of blackbirds flies overhead, in perfect formation. ”They're on their way to a wedding,” Babcia always said and that's how Anna had always pictured them: gathered round a white canopy, dancing till dawn. The birds disappear past the rooftops, flying quickly, as if they're late.

Kamila.

Kielce, Poland.

Motivated by the account of Anna's l.u.s.ty escapade in Wrocaw, Kamila decided that she was finally, finally going to do something about Emil.

Her father was at some art historian seminar in Lublin for the weekend-and her mother was visiting Kamila's Ciocia Frania in Sandomierz. The stars were truly aligning. Yesterday Ciocia Frania had taken a turn for the worse, and Zofia had rushed off, hoping to positively affect the contents of her aunt's last will and testament.

Kamila told Emil that she was having a small party, since her folks were out of town. ”I only invited Lidka Frenczyk and Irek, bring some wine if you want. We can make pizza.”

When she opened the door, in her red bustier and high heels, Emil nearly pa.s.sed out. He was cradling a bottle of white wine in his arms, with a green satin ribbon tied around its neck. The bottle fell from his hands and shattered, soaking the welcome mat and his s.h.i.+ny black loafers. ”Is this a costume party?” he stuttered.

”I'll get a towel. And get in here. I don't want the neighbors to see me like this. They'll tell my mother I'm running a brothel in her absence,” Kamila muttered. She scurried into the bathroom to regroup, trying to make herself believe that things could only go up from here. She sat on the toilet, which felt like an icicle against her bare a.s.s, and whispered a small prayer. ”Please, G.o.d, let me have s.e.x tonight and let it be everything I always dreamed of.”

Last month, she and Lidka had taken the train to Krakow, and found the Coco Erotik Butik. Kamila and Lidka giggled like schoolgirls at the d.i.l.d.os and vibrators, but Kamila felt excited surrounded by all those rubber c.o.c.ks. ”Maybe you should just get one of these,” Lidka had suggested. But Kamila shook her head and headed toward the back of the store, where she found exactly what she wanted-a red lace body stocking with two silken ta.s.sels attached to the bustier. It was flamboyant, expensive, and most important, it was crotchless. For weeks, the outfit lay hidden underneath her bed.

Kamila got off the toilet and stood in front of the mirror. She had abused her newly dyed hair into an impressive bouffant and sh.e.l.lacked it into place with a can of Elnett. She'd lined her eyes with kohl, smeared glitter on her lids, and painted her lips blood red. She looked like a f.u.c.ked-up version of Cleopatra. Glancing down at her auburn bush, she wondered if she should have listened to Justyna and shaved it off. ”Guys like it when you look like a little girl down there, Kamila, trust me.”

Kamila takes a deep breath and stares at her reflection. ”All right, Kamila Marchewska. Look at you. Look at you! Men are visual creatures and I bet you Emil's out there right now at full mast.” But when she comes out of the bathroom, Emil is sitting on the floor, Turkish style, his shoes off, one black sock in his hands.

”And don't stop there.” She motions to his bare feet, her arm outstretched, her pointer finger rising up, toe to head. She stands above him like a warrior, but she's a bit wobbly in her three-inch heels.

”Are Lidka and Irek here yet?”

”Look at me, Emil! This is for you. And I don't care if you don't make love to me tonight. I don't care if you don't have s.e.x with me. But you are going to f.u.c.k me, Emil. Once and for all.”

Emil's voice actually cracks when he speaks. ”And if I can't?”

”Then you will never see me again.” With that Kamila struts into her bedroom, throws herself on the folded-out wersalka, and splays her legs open. When Emil finally toddles into the room, there is nothing left to his imagination.

Kamila worked all year for this moment. She dieted like mad, finally lost those last fifteen pounds thanks to the tiny heart-shaped appet.i.te-suppressing pills. The results were impressive-she had a twenty-six-inch waist and even her toes had slimmed down. My G.o.d, she had actual ankles, for the first time in her life! Of course, the steady intake of Dexatrim had caused some of her hair to fall out, and she experienced odd palpitations every now and again, but it had all been worth it. She felt like a model.

Emil perches on the edge of the wersalka and doesn't say a word. She wants him to tell her that she looks beautiful, that he too has been waiting years for this moment, but he sits motionless and silent, so Kamila reaches for his fingers and guides Emil's hand to her c.l.i.toris but it sits there, motionless. Kamila joins her fingers with his and shows him how.

”You should kiss me, Emil. Don't you want to kiss me?” He leans down obediently and kisses her lips with his closed mouth. Kamila has to blink back tears, but Emil hasn't run off screaming, and she takes that as some kind of victory. She gets down on her knees in front of him, arches her back, and unzips his trousers. His p.e.n.i.s is soft in her palm, like a wounded animal. ”h.e.l.lo, stranger,” she whispers. Emil's apprehension is natural, she tells herself; they are about to cross the boundary between friends and lovers. She works hard for a long time, flicking, sucking, tracing elaborate circles on his shaft with her tongue, just like the videos taught her, until finally, she gets on top of him and instructs him to close his eyes and picture anything he wants, anything at all.

Emil's eyes squeeze shut and his face contorts with concentration. He manages a few deep prods before slipping out of her. He sits up, hangs his head in embarra.s.sment, and asks her if she is okay.