Authors: Stefan Grabinski
‘Sir, what are you doing? For God’s sake, it’s a sin!’
Before he ran up to him, the fire chief shrunk and vanished into the wall without a word of response. Making the sign of the cross, Marcin quickly went to his master’s bedroom and saw that, once again, his master was fast asleep.
‘What the devil!’ he muttered. ‘Am I seeing things? I haven’t touched a drop.’
About to return to his room, he suddenly noticed a new phenomenon: several feet above the head of the sleeping man hung a flickering, blood-red fire in the shape of a flaming bush. Long, blazing tentacles shot out from this fire toward Antoni, as if trying to reach him.
‘Dear God Almighty!’ Marcin cried out, hurling himself with bare hands on the fiery phantom.
The flaming shrub quickly withdrew its eagerly outstretched limbs, twisted itself into a compact, uniform column of fire, and, with a silent, parting hiss, expired in a few seconds.
Darkness prevailed in a room weakly lit by the candle dropped by the servant. Czarnocki was asleep on the bed, stretched out like a board … .
The next day Marcin judiciously hinted something about his poor appearance and advised him to see a doctor; but Antoni dismissed him with a joke, not even sensing what was afoot.
Two weeks later the catastrophe occurred … .
It was the night of March 28th, a memorable night for the city. Czarnocki returned late that evening, deathly tired from a rescue action at a huge fire at some railway warehouses. He had acted like a hero and, with repeated risk to his life, saved several railwaymen who, closing themselves in a storage area, had been sleeping soundly during the conflagration. Returning around ten to his home, the fire chief, still fully clothed, threw himself on his bed and immediately sank into a deep slumber.
Concerned about his welfare for several days, Marcin kept faithful watch by a lamp in the neighbouring room, occasionally glancing into his master’s chamber. Around midnight weariness overcame the old man. His grey head involuntarily rested on a table, and he dozed.
Suddenly Marcin was awakened by three knocks. He roused himself and, rubbing his eyes, listened. But the sound did not repeat itself. Then, lamp in hand, he rushed into the adjacent room.
But it was already too late. Opening the bedroom door, he saw his master in the midst of a fire whose thousand flames seemed to be invading his body.
Before the old servant could reach the bed, the fiery phantom had completely entered the sleeper.
Marcin, shaking like an aspen, looked at his master in horror.
Suddenly, Czarnocki’s features underwent a strange transformation: along his motionless face passed a nervous spasm, twisting his features into a frozen grimace. Impelled by the mysterious force that had craftily taken possession of his body, the fire chief jumped up from bed and rushed out of the house with a wild cry.
It was four in the morning. Over the city stretched the final procession of sleep apparitions, reluctantly preparing for their return journey; demon ghosts sadly furled their fantastic wings, and dream angels, bending wistfully over children in bed, planted parting kisses on little foreheads … .
Violet light loomed on the eastern horizon. The blue-grey light of dawn flowed into the city – stirring, rousing, awakening … . Swarms of downtown jackdaws, wrested from sleepy stiffness, made black rings around the city-hall tower and, warbling cheerfully, perched on bare, pre-spring trees. A few stray dogs, finishing their nightly wandering amongst alleys, now sniffed for food at the marketplace … .
Suddenly fountains of fire shot up from several areas in the city; red, flickering curls blossomed into crimson flowers over roofs, rising to the sky. Church bells groaned; the quiet of daybreak was assailed by shouts, turmoil, voices of panic:
‘Fire! Fire!’
Seven bloody torches lined the morning horizon, seven banners of fire unfurled themselves over the city. The Franciscan monastery was ablaze, along with the executive and justice buildings, the Church of St. Florian, the fire barracks and two private homes.
‘Fire! Fire!’
Throughout the marketplace surged multitudes of people. Some person in a fireman’s outfit, with windblown hair and naming torch in hand, was feverishly pushing his way through the crowds.
‘Who’s that?! Who’s that?!…’
‘Stop him! Stop him!’
Ten firemen are after him.
‘Grab him! Grab him! He’s the arsonist!’
A thousand hands rapaciously reach out for the fugitive.
‘Arsonist! Criminal!’ screams the infuriated mob.
Someone knocks the torch out of his hand, someone else grabs him by his waist. He struggles and thrashes about violently, his mouth foaming … . Finally they subdue him. Restrained with ropes, his clothes in tatters, he is led through the square. By the pale light of dawn, people look at his face:
‘Who is it?’
The hands of the firemen involuntarily withdraw.
‘Who is it?’
A chill of fear breaks off sentences, stifles hoarse throats.
‘Whose face is it?’
From the madman’s shoulders hang the ripped epaulettes of a fire chief, on his torn jacket sparkle medals awarded for valour and distinguished service. And then there’s that face – that face twisted in an animal grimace, with a pair of bloodshot, criss-crossing eyes!
For a month after the great fire, which had burned down seven of the city’s most beautiful buildings, Marcin, the old servant of the Czarnocki household, saw his master’s apparition sneaking into the bedchamber night after night. The maniac’s shadow stood by the empty bed and looked for its body, as if wanting to re-enter it again. But the shadow searched in vain … .
Only at April’s end, when the fire chief had thrown himself in a fit of madness from a window of Dr. Zegota’s sanatorium, dying on the spot, did his shadow stop visiting his house … .
Yet to this day legends circulate among people concerning the spirit of ‘Fireproof,’ which abandoning its body in sleep could not return to it, as it had been taken over by the elementals.
The train shot through the landscape as quick as a flash.
Fields plunging into the darkness of evening, fallows bare and stark moved submissively behind, appearing like so many segments of a continuously folding fan. Taut telegraph wires went up, then went down, and once again unreeled with perfect, level straightness – stubborn, absurd, stiff lines … .
Godziemba was looking through the compartment window. His eyes, glued to the shiny rails, drank in their apparent movement; his hands, digging into the window sill, seemed to be helping the train push away the ground that was being passed. His heart rate was fast, as if wanting to increase the tempo of the ride, to double the momentum of the hollow-sounding wheels … .
A bird, inspired by the passage of the rushing locomotive, flew easily from the fetters of dreary existence and flashed by the lengthy coach walls, brushing their windows in its exhilarated flight and overtaking the engine to soar to the wide, vanishing horizon, to a faraway, mist-covered world! …
Godziemba was a train fanatic. This usually quiet and timid dreamer became unrecognizable the moment he mounted the steps of a coach. Gone was his unease and timidity, and his passive, musing eyes took on a sparkle of energy and strength. This notorious day-dreamer and sluggard was suddenly transformed into a dynamic, strong-willed person with a feeling of self-worth. And when the horn signal faded and the black coaches started toward their distant destinations, a boundless joy permeated his entire being, pouring warm and reviving currents into the farthest reaches of his soul, like the rays of the sun on summer days.
Something resided in the essence of a speeding train which galvanized Godziemba’s weak nerves, stimulating strongly, though artificially, his faint life-force. A specific environment was created, a unique milieu of motion with its own laws, power and dangerous spirit. The motion of a locomotive was not just physically contagious; the momentum of an engine quickened his psychic pulse, it electrified his will – he became independent. ‘Train neurosis’ seemed to temporarily give this overly sensitive individual a forceful and positive energy. A moving train effected him like morphine injected into an addict’s veins.
Finding himself inside the four walls of a compartment, Godziemba became instantly enlivened. This reclusive misanthrope initiated conversations and showered his fellow travellers with witty and impromptu anecdotes. An oaf – who aside from his remarkable transformation aboard a train was undistinguished in everything else – became a bold and incisive person. This shy individual changed unexpectedly into a blustering brawler, who could even be dangerous.
Quite a few times during a journey Godziemba had gone through some interesting adventures from which he emerged triumphant thanks to his pugnacious and unyielding attitude. A sarcastic witness to one such scene, who knew Godziemba well, advised him to settle all his affairs of honour in a train – and one travelling at full speed
‘
Mon cher
, always duel in coaches; you’ll fight like a lion. As God is my witness!’
But the artificial intensity of his life-force effected his health badly: he paid the price for almost every journey he made with an illness. After each temporary increase of psychological powers an even more violent reaction would follow, and he would descend into a state of even deeper prostration. Despite this, Godziemba liked riding trains immensely and repeatedly invented fictional travel goals just to drug himself with speed and motion.
So, yesterday evening, getting on the express at B., he really didn’t know what he would do tonight at F., where in a few hours the train would deposit him. What did it matter to him, after all? For here he sits comfortably in a warm compartment, looking through the window at the landscape whisking by, and he is riding at 100 kilometres an hour … .
Meanwhile, outside it had darkened completely. A lamp near the ceiling, turned on by an unseen hand, vividly lit up the interior. Godziemba drew the curtain, turned his back to the window, and glanced at the compartment. Having been engrossed with the murky countryside, he hadn’t noticed that at one of the stations two people had entered his compartment to occupy the empty seats opposite him.
Now in the lamp’s yellow light he saw his fellow passengers. They were probably newly-weds. The man, tall, lean, with dark blonde hair and a clipped moustache, appeared to be in his thirties. From under his heavily-defined brows looked out bright, cheerful eyes. The sincere, somewhat long face was enhanced by a pleasant smile whenever he would turn to his companion.
The woman, also blonde but with a lighter hue, was small but well developed. Her luxuriant hair, twisted unpretentiously in two thick braids at the back of her head, framed a face which was delicate, fresh and attractive. The short grey dress, clasped simply with a leather belt, emphasized the alluring curves of her hips and firm, young breasts.
Both travellers were heavily covered with the dust and dirt of the roads; they were apparently returning from an outing. An aura of youth and health came from them – that refreshing vigour which mountain-climbing inspires in tourists. They were occupied in a lively conversation. It seemed they were sharing impressions of their excursion, for the first words Godziemba heard referred to some uncomfortable summit hostel.
‘It’s a pity we didn’t take that woollen blanket with us; you know, the one with the red stripes,’ said the young lady. ‘It was a bit too cold.’
‘Shame on you, Nuna,’ scolded her companion with a smile. ‘One shouldn’t admit to being so weak. Do you have my cigarette case?’
Nuna plunged her hand into the travelling bag and withdrew the requested article.
‘Here, but I think it’s empty.’
‘Let me see.’
He opened it. His face registered the disappointment of a fervent smoker.
‘Too bad.’
Godziemba, who had managed several times to catch the glance of the vivacious blonde, took advantage of the opportunity and, removing his hat, politely offered his abundantly-filled cigarette case.
‘Can I be of service?’
Returning his bow, the other man drew out a cigar.
‘A thousand thanks. An impressive arsenal! Battery beside battery. You are more far-sighted than I, sir. Next time I’ll supply myself better for the road.’
The preliminaries were successfully passed; a leisurely conversation commenced, flowing along smooth, wide channels.
The Rastawieckis were returning from the mountains after an eight-day excursion made partly on foot, partly on bicycles. Twice rain had drenched them in the ravines; once they had lost their way in some dead-end gully. Despite this, they ultimately overcame their difficulties, and the vacation had turned out splendidly. Now they were returning by train, quite tired but in excellent humour. They might have had one more week of fun among the ranges of the East Beskids if not for the engineer’s surveying job. Anticipating an avalanche of work in the near future, Rastawiecki was just taking this short break. He was going back gladly, for he liked his work.
Godziemba listened only casually to these explanations, divided between the engineer and his wife; instead, he was taken up with Nuna’s physical allurements.
One couldn’t call her beautiful; she was just very pleasant and maddeningly enticing. Her plump, slightly stocky body exuded health and freshness, and aroused his libido with its seductive odours of wild herbs and thyme.
From the moment he saw her large blue eyes, he felt an irresistible attraction. This was odd, for she didn’t fit his ideal. He preferred brunettes with slender waists and Roman profiles. Nuna belonged to the exact opposite type. Besides, Godziemba didn’t get excited easily; he was by nature rather cold, and in sexual relations abstinent.
Yet all it took was a meeting of their eyes to kindle a secret fire of lust within him.
So he looked at her intensely; he followed her every movement, her every change of position.
Had she noticed anything? Once he caught an embarrassed glance thrown furtively from under her silky eyebrows – and he also thought he had detected on her luscious cherry lips a little smile full of pride and coquetry meant for him.