The Lullaby Of Polish Girls Part 14

Sebastian and Anna don't say much, just clink gla.s.ses and stare up at the sky. You can see it all up here, every possible configuration, from the Big Dipper to Orion's Belt. When she got in his truck, he promised her the best view of the city, and he wasn't kidding. In the distance, Kielce glimmers, aglow with what look like dozens of tiny flashlights.

"It's a pretty sight, isn't it?"

Sebastian smiles and nods his head. "Sure is." Anna still can't believe she's here with him, on a date that's been ten years in the making.

"I had a dream about you last night," Anna tells him as they lounge in the back of his pickup truck.

"Oh, yeah?" Sebastian is noncommittal, breezy.

"Yeah. You picked me up in the truck at Babcia's and told me you were gonna drive me to America. You were wearing a white hat. And when we got in the car I was like, 'Wait, you know there's an ocean after Paris. How are we gonna drive across the ocean?' And you said, 'Don't worry about it, we'll make it.' " Anna immediately regrets telling him.

Sebastian takes a swig from the bottle and closes his eyes. "That's it?"

"No, hotshot, and then I told you I loved you and we made out all the way to France."

He laughs out loud. "That's better."

Anna flushes pink because that was the dream, G.o.dd.a.m.nit. Kocham ci, she had whispered three times in a row, as they sped down Toporowskiego and he had turned to her and started weeping.

"So what are you doing tomorrow, Baran?"

"You tell me. Maybe we'll go to Krakow again." Anna rolls her eyes at him.

"Ha ha." He opens one eye and takes a final gulp of wine, chucking the empty bottle over the side of the truck. "So, let's get to the crux of the matter here, Baran. You have a fella back home?"

Anna shakes her head. She's pretty sure he's not asking because he's dying to know the answer.

"I want a career, and then I'll worry about 'a fella.' "

"You Americans do it all backward, huh? Look at your best buddies. They're way ahead of you in the game."

"What game? And what best buddies?"

"Marchewska, Strawicz. Kamila's as good as married, Strawicz already has a kid."

"You don't think I know that?"

"I don't know what you know. You might be too busy with Hollywood to keep up with the local newsreel."

"I still don't know what your point is." Anna sits up, irritated now. This was not how she had imagined the night unfolding.

"Point is, love is in the air, Baran, up for grabs. But you have loftier goals, I guess."

"Loftier goals? I don't want a husband or a child right now, what's so lofty about that? There's an expression in America, 'whatever floats your boat.' So it's my boat and I don't need anyone telling me how to float it."

"Till it sinks, right?" Sebastian laughs.

Anna fusses with her jean cuffs. "And wouldn't that be great? Wouldn't it teach me a lesson, huh? That I should have settled for mediocrity? 'Lofty ambitions.' You say that as if it were a bad thing. Why is that? The minute you try to rise above the fray, what are you? c.o.c.ky, stupid, lucky? But it's never admirable, so explain that to me. Maybe that's why this country's so f.u.c.ked. 'Cause you'd rather sit on your a.s.ses, judging others and griping about life, than work to change your circ.u.mstances."

Sebastian stares at her, eyebrows raised. "Wow, if your acting thing doesn't work out, you could always run for mayor, Anna."

"You're happy? You're happy being a truck driver at twenty-one? Why don't you just knock up one of the wide-eyed fawns that are probably lined up around the block for you, and call it a day?"

"It's easy to visit, Anna. Try living here and then talk to me."

Sebastian leans toward her and and touches the small medallion dangling from the chain around her neck. "Patriotka," he murmurs, and suddenly they're kissing. It's not how she envisioned it, but the moment grabs hold of her and doesn't let go for a long while. Anna parts his lips with her tongue. They kiss hungrily, their mouths still tasting like cabernet.

And then, just as suddenly, Sebastian stops, stands up, and jumps off the side of the truck, dusting his hands off on his jeans.

"There's a woman," Sebastian offers quietly. And Anna knows that it's over. All of it.

They drive back in silence, the rickety truck speeds down the hill, and in eleven minutes they are pulling up to Toporowskiego, where Anna jumps out before Sebastian can make a full stop.

"We really should drive up to Krakow," he calls out after her and she turns around and stares at him, memorizing his face, his hangdog expression and churlish little smile, his black curls that are matted to his forehead. She knows this is the last time that he'll be this close.

"You carried my bag," she whispers. "You were thirteen years old and you hoisted that duffel over your shoulder in front of everyone."

Sebastian leans his head out the window. "What? I can't hear you, Anna. Just come here for a second." But Anna turns and runs into the building, runs up the three flights of stairs, almost knocking down Pani Nowacka, who's heading to work.

That afternoon Anna wakes up on the couch with Babcia sitting beside her. Babcia has a wet washcloth folded in her hands, which she gently places on Anna's forehead. The handkerchief sends icy hot s.h.i.+vers down Anna's neck, and she weakly moves her head from side to side, trying to slide it off.

"You have a fever, coreczko, and a bad one at that," Babcia informs her. Anna opens her mouth and winces in pain; the skin on her lips is cracked and brittle. "My throat," she croaks in English, hoping Babcia will guess, because if she tries to stretch the open vowels for the Polish words moje gardo, she might draw blood. Her grandmother shakes her head and places her hand on Anna's chest. "Your heart."

Anna stares into her grandmother's loving face, into her gray eyes that s.h.i.+ne like t.i.tanium. "Cut it out, Babcia," she manages.

"I saw the way you ran down those stairs last night. Tell me, coreczko, did you sleep with him?"

Anna shakes her head, surprised at the question. If Anna could talk, and if she could talk of such things with Babcia, Anna would confess that she was the one who wanted to make love with Sebastian last night, she was the one that didn't want to stop kissing him.

"Were you able to say everything you wanted to tell him?" Anna shakes her head again. Tears are gathering in her eyes and she feels stupid and confused. She wishes Sebastian had never called her.

"No wonder your throat is sore."

"I caught a cold, that's it, Babciu. It was freezing last night." Anna tries to sit up.

Anna just wants to sleep everything off, but Babcia continues. "Did I ever tell you what happened to me after I met your grandfather for the first time?" Babcia wipes her hands on her ap.r.o.n and folds them on her lap. "I was seventeen. It was summer and I was on my way back from town. My hands were full of shopping bags, and I was tired and hot and not paying too much attention to where I was headed. As I crossed the street I tripped on the curb and skinned my knee. I should have been wearing stockings but it was too darn hot that day. My mother had admonished me, but what did I care?" Babcia smiles at the memory.

"Anyway, my bags spilled every which way and suddenly there was a shadow over me. I looked up and there he was, your grandfather. Oh, Aniusia, he was so dapper then. He knelt down and, without a word, licked his finger and blotted the blood from my knee. He stood right back up, tipped his hat, and said, 'Stefan Chmielinski, at your service,' and then sauntered off, leaving me on the pavement to clean up the rest of the mess. That would turn out to be his modus operandi when we were married, but back then, what did I know." Babcia divorced Dziadek Stefan years and years ago, long before Anna had been born.

"Well, the next day I woke up covered head to toe in a terrible rash, itchy red hives everywhere. Doctors came and examined me and not one of them could explain what was the matter. But my grandmother, your pra-pra-babcia Walentyna did. 'This Stefan, he got under your skin, Helenka, and until you see him again, the rash won't heal.' And she was right."

To Anna, the story is a good one, but that's all it is. Anna is not lovesick, she has a throat infection that's been brewing for days now, that's all it is. But she can't argue with Babcia. This is the same woman who swears up and down that cancer is an actual crab that hibernates in the body, and if it "wakes up" it preys on its host. Anna wants to laugh at the story but she's too tired for an argument, so she closes her eyes.

When Anna boards the plane back to JFK five days later, her throat is still throbbing. As the wheels lift off, she wipes away tears; saying goodbye to Poland would never be easy. But Anna spends the next nine hours replaying the trip in her head, wondering if summers in Kielce are worth the ha.s.sle anymore. Somehow, her hometown has lost its l.u.s.ter. This time, when the customs officer hands Anna back her United States pa.s.sport and says, "Welcome home," she doesn't roll her eyes.

Kamila.

Warszawa, Poland.

"And so, after what felt like a lifetime of skirting the issue, I finally got down on one knee, right in the middle of Zamkowy Square, and asked Kamila if she would allow me the honor of being her husband. And thank G.o.d, she said yes. I hadn't really planned on it, even though I'd been thinking about it for years."

"Years," Kamila chimes in, because she just can't help it.

"Okay, okay, koteczku"-Emil turns red, but plows on-"but I didn't think it would happen yesterday! When we were packing, I thought, lemme bring the ring, just in case the mood strikes me. And boy, it struck me. It sure did. Tourists were taking pictures of us and everything." Emil ceremoniously throws his arm around Kamila's shoulder and brings her in for a rough squeeze as if she were a goal-scoring player on his soccer team. "We have to refit the ring, that's why she's not wearing it right now-it was my great-grandmother's and she had tiny fingers. Kamila's got paws, right, kochanie?"

"Well, that's the most romantic thing I have ever heard," squeals Jola, and elbows Norbert's side.

Kamila takes a sip of her daiquiri and sloshes the drink around in her mouth before rolling her eyes. " 'Kamila's got paws'? That's the most romantic thing you've ever heard?" Everyone laughs.

Norbert lights his girlfriend's third consecutive Vogue cigarette. All night long, Kamila's made it a point not to stare at his hair plugs, but she's failing miserably. They look fresh, like little black turnips sprouting in rows on his scalp.

"Let's have a party at the country house before you guys leave on Monday. An engagement party. It's been too long since we partied up at the chatka, don't you think, Jolusia?" Norbert winks.

Jola twirls the skinny cigarette between her fingers, her French manicure gleaming, and nods vehemently in agreement. "Za dugo!" she thunders. Kamila is fascinated by her cousin Jola, by her two-inch-long nails ("Acrylic tips! Asian-owned salon. Kamila, I'll tell you what, those Orientals know what they're doing"), by the way she flounces into a room in three-inch high heels, and by the fact that Jola is schtupping her forty-two-year-old boss, a bona fide Polish millionaire, who has his own plastic surgery practice, as well as his own wife and two kids.

"But my procedure is scheduled for tomorrow," Kamila reminds them.

"Then we'll reschedule it for Monday. Jola, you can set it up, can't you, kotku?" He laughs loudly because of course Jola can. If she could, Jola would pull up the office calendar now. She'd do anything to keep her job with all its perks, including weekend getaways at the "chatka" Norbert has in Suruck, on the outskirts of the city. Chatka, my a.s.s, Kamila thinks. It's not a hut, not even close. The vacation home where she and Emil have been staying for the past two weeks is more like a castle, with turrets and balconies and a stable in the fields surrounding the grounds.

Norbert motions for the waitress, and Kamila excuses herself. Jola hops up and follows her. "It's like they need help with wiping or something," Kamila hears Norbert say to Emil. Kamila cringes as Emil erupts in a fit of giggles.

The bathroom is all polished porcelain with perfectly folded hand towels. White cans of Rexona deodorant perfume and Elnett hairspray sit in neat rows next to the sinks. It's like a five-star spa, not a bathroom; even when it comes to its s.h.i.+tters, the Warsaw area is s.h.i.+ny, effusive, and impossibly chic compared to Kielce. Kamila is suddenly overwhelmed. She stands in front of the enormous mirrors and examines, among other things, her painfully short bangs and big paws.

"I can't believe you're getting married, Marchewska. I didn't wanna say it back there, but it's about f.u.c.king time." Jola snickers, reapplying her bright pink lipstick.

"Jolu, please don't call me by my last name. 'Marchewska' wears a kerchief and brings jars of cabbage to the bazaar every Sunday, okay?"

"You're so f.u.c.king funny, Marchewska-I mean, Mrs. Ludek!" Jola laughs.

"No. I'm so f.u.c.king nervous," Kamila whispers, as the bathroom attendant does her best to appear occupied.

"It'll be superosko, kochanie. You have to come back here to buy your dress, obviously. You won't find anything couture in Kielce. Who's gonna be your maid of honor, huh?" Jola widens her eyes theatrically. "Okay, don't answer that now, but keep in mind, kuzynko, that I'd throw a f.u.c.king dynamite bachelorette party. There's this place that opened last year called Fantom. It's like a gay nightclub where you can watch guys go down on each other! There's no sign or anything, you just ring a little bell. And some of the guys paint their b.a.l.l.s with glitter!" Jola scoops and rearranges her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. For a moment, Kamila doesn't know what to say, about any of it.

"I'm nervous about tomorrow," Kamila corrects her cousin.

"Oh my G.o.d, Kamila, Norbert's the best there is. You're gonna love your new nose! Let's face it"-Jola t.i.tters-"the nochal you've got doesn't do you any justice. Out with the old, honey, and in with the new. You're in Warsaw now."

"My nochal. Right." She wonders what her father will think next time he sees her. She is getting rid of his nose, his genetic stamp. All her life Kamila has dreamed of transformation, of physical metamorphosis, because beauty was not just skin deep; it burrowed underneath tissue and muscle. Kamila liked her personality just fine, thought of herself as insightful and enterprising; but ever since Maciek Toboszycki told her she was ugly, calling her brzydula in front of the whole fourth grade, Kamila has wanted to erase her face and start over. And now, she is going to do just that. She thinks about the picture she has had tucked in her wallet for weeks now-a close-up of Mich.e.l.le Pfeiffer's tiny, b.u.t.ton-sized nose. When she nervously showed it to Norbert last week, he smiled. "Well, I'm not a miracle worker, Kamila, but I'll try."

Jola straightens up and looks at herself one last time in the bathroom mirror. "We better get back, Kamila, they'll think we drowned."

"Would you marry Norbert, if you could?" Kamila asks. Jola stares at her for a minute, before bursting out in a peal of laughter.

"Are you kidding, dziewczyno? He's like a hundred years old." In that moment, Kamila realizes that she's underestimated her cousin. Jola's dalliance with Norbert is dirty and wrong, and it will all probably end quite soon, but that's why it is so good. Kamila briefly tries to imagine a life where nothing else matters but the thrill of living.

By the time Norbert and Jola drop them off at the villa, Emil is sloppy drunk, falling into Kamila's lap in the car and groping her. It's all for show, and it's what Emil does best. Whenever they get behind closed doors, Emil curls up on the couch and complains about headaches or bellyaches. Kamila is used to it, and yet she is still constantly disappointed.

"We'll stay at a hotel tonight, kochanie. You two can have the house to yourselves." Jola winks at Kamila.

"Let's not reschedule tomorrow, Norbert. The idea of a party is tempting, and we appreciate it, but I just want to get this over with, okay?" Kamila asks, lightly tapping the tip of her nose before getting out of the car. Norbert concedes quickly, his hand already somewhere under Jola's dress, and then speeds off into the night.

The villa is dark but Kamila refrains from flicking on any lights. She's suddenly feeling lost and worried, wis.h.i.+ng that she could just flop into her bed back home.

"I should shower. I can still smell those cigarettes," Emil says and makes his way toward their bathroom.

Kamila helps herself to some whiskey from the bar and goes out onto the terrace. The night sky is speckled with stars. She listens to the sound of the cicadas chirping and the running water upstairs, and somewhere underneath all that noise, she can hear the sound of her own pounding heart. On the eve of what she has dreamed of for years-a marriage proposal today and a new face tomorrow-she feels uncertain.

In the hushed night, she can hear Anna's and Justyna's voices, she can see their sixteen-year-old faces, on the cusp of real life but not quite there yet. The last time she saw Justyna was months ago, randomly ran into her on Sienkiewicza Street. She had Damian in tow, but she had stopped and grabbed a beer with Kamila. Pamitasz, pamitasz?, they laughed and sipped their piwo. They didn't talk about Justyna's mother or Kamila's problems with Emil. They talked about the only thing that they had in common now: the past. The conversation was nice but in the end neither of them mentioned meeting up again.

Kamila pours the rest of her whiskey over the balcony and walks back inside. She finds Emil in their bedroom, reading a book. Kamila undresses quietly and slips under the covers, naked, s.h.i.+vering. She can't even remember the last time they made love. It was months ago, maybe years.

She finds Emil's p.e.n.i.s with her left hand and with her right she begins to fondle herself. Emil turns a page of his book.

"You have to. We have to. What will we tell our children about the night we got engaged?" Kamila pleads.

"Children? We won't be telling our children anything about this sort of thing," Emil answers.

"Well, then, it would be a personal travesty, my husband-to-be, if you left me yearning on the night of our betrothal. Don't make me go hunting through this castle for a banana." Kamila laughs, hoping to lighten the mood.

"Fe, Kamila."

"You know, they say s.e.x goes out the window once you're married. So I guess we're ahead of the game," and then she dissolves into a fit of laughter. Emil sighs and puts his book down on the nightstand.

"Kamila, Kamila," Emil whispers, and his fingertips trace the contours of her nose with its dips and valleys. When he parts her lips and leaves his finger in her mouth, she stops laughing.

"Kamila, you are my soulmate. Let's not debase that. In the second grade you stood up for me and I knew then that we were destined to be together. I didn't need a b.l.o.w. .j.o.b as proof of that then, and I don't need one now. Animals f.u.c.k for the sake of their existence. But we are more than animals. We are beyond skin, beyond flesh. And if that isn't enough for you, then I don't know what to tell you."

Kamila feels her heart hammer in her chest. She thinks back to the spectacle in the square earlier that day. Emil was grinning like a fool, flailing as he spoke, the sweat flowing down his face in torrents, as he clownishly exclaimed, "Marry me!" Kamila had always imagined him proposing during a private moment, because Emil was most truthful and most himself when they were alone. She had imagined him quiet and focused, vulnerable in his desire to make her his wife. She imagined happy tears, and a kiss. She never imagined a gaggle of Saudi tourists snapping their picture as he got down on one knee.

She wants to flat out ask him if she is signing her life away to celibacy. Is that what he means? That they will never have s.e.x again? But Kamila is afraid to ask, afraid to know more. Emil strokes her forehead.

"I'm nothing without you, I want you beside me forever, and I can't imagine not having you as my wife. And I'm sorry I called your hands paws tonight. That sounded callous because it was callous. But your hands, Kamila ..." He reaches under the covers and retrieves both of them and places them on his face, till she is cradling his head. "Your hands are my armor, my comfort, my everything. And they are meant for better things than that," and he smiles.

"Okay, kochanie. Another night." She sighs and closes her eyes.

In the morning, Kamila wakes up to the smell of coffee and sausage. Emil is in the kitchen, already dressed.

"Sweetheart, I can't eat or drink before the surgery, remember? But thank you." Emil serves himself a big helping and chews his food in silence. She can tell he's jittery too.

"Turns out I can't eat before the surgery either. But I sure could use a drink." He laughs his giggly, high-pitched laugh.