Swans Are Fat Too (7 page)

Hania went on typing for a while, then rose, made sure the apartment door was locked, made sure the chain was in place, and prepared to take a shower. Both children appeared to be asleep. She wandered from room to room, peering into each; she didn't know why. She had an urge to lift the curtains, to look behind them before she turned her back.

The apartment was large and eerily empty-seeming. Steamy in the hot weather. In the bathroom she piled her heavy brown hair on top of her head, and paused for a moment to look over her shoulder. The door was closed. It was difficult to get over the sides of the high tub. She pulled the curtain, let the water run. In the shower one heard nothing. Somehow she didn't like that. She turned the water off a time or two and listened, but no sounds reached her. Why did she have that strange feeling? Almost gooseflesh in spite of the heat.

She got out of the tub, dried herself, and let down her hair, feeling all the time that she should hurry, hurry, and telling herself that that was ridiculous, what could have happened? She would come out and the children would be in bed sleeping, horrid as ever, but safe. She put on her nightdress and robe and opened the door. No sound. The light was on in the hall.

But what was that on the floor? Her heart gave a painful thud. A long smear of blood.  And another down the hall. Dear God, no. Her mind sent her racing toward Maks. Her legs kept her rooted to the spot, shaking. She forced herself to move, to follow the red stains to Maks' room. The light was out. She batted at the wall wildly, mouth dry and hands almost powerless for trembling. Somehow she kept jerking her head over her shoulder to see if someone were there, were waiting. "Maks," she rasped, "Maks." The light sprang on. And her heart stopped. Maks lay in a heap on the bed. His arm was flung across his face and blood ran over it and around his neck, blood soaked his shirt, and a knife lay beside him in the bed.

The world reeled, time stood still––no, thought Hania, this can't be happening. No, no, no. And then: first aid measures. Was he still alive? Go to him. And ice in the veins freezing movement.

Then the world righted itself. Still shaking, she crossed the room, reached for the bottle lying half under the bed covers, turned about, and left the room, snapping out the light as she went. She stalked into the kitchen, threw the ketchup into the garbage bin, and returned to her room. She lay down on her bed and stared at the ceiling, relief and rage and shock washing over her in turns. It was such an old trick but who would have thought a six-year-old could make it so real?

A loud wail arose from down the hall. It was Maks. "Heeeelllppp! I'm afraid of the daaaaark!!! Kaliiiiina!!!" And louder: "Kaaaaliiiina!!!"

Sometime later Hania rose and went into the piano room. Holding down the soft pedal to muffle the sound, she began to play scales. Up and down, up and down. The noise was just enough to take the edge off Maks' sobs. This way she could think. Something had to be done about these children. They needed help and she didn't think a psychologist would fit the bill––even if she had the authority to take them to one, which she didn't. So she had to be the help. At least she had to do what she could while she was here. Maks needed attention and Kalina needed comfort. Actually, she thought Kalina was a harder case than Maks, but she'd have to try for her too. She looked across the piano top at the photo of Babcia with the singer…You did this Babcia, she felt like saying, you had no time for your children, you left them with nannies, you wouldn't listen to them, you were unkind and authoritative and denigrating; you made sure they'd grow up to behave the same to their children. Had Babcia been treated that way herself? Each generation was responsible for the next, and everyone was required to help out where possible. She hadn't intended to come to Warsaw to be a surrogate mother, but that's what had been handed her. She'd better put her mind to doing it well, at least for the short time she would be here. 

Maks was still crying in his bedroom. Why didn't Kalina go to him? She left the piano, peeked into the girl's room and found her sleeping, curled in a ball with a pillow over her head. She went to Maks, turned on the light, and sat down on his bed.

"Truce, Maksiu.

4

She was up early, working at her laptop. She wrote an email to Konstanty:
Respected Sir, I'm sending back the parts I've done:

By Mieszko's time, the slave trade had existed for over a millennium, first as the prisoners of inter-tribal warfare were sold to Roman traders, later from raids of the Vikings and Slavs living along the Baltic. Sometimes also, impoverished parents sold their children.

Sell Maks? Hmm, there was an idea.

 ...The adoption of Christianity did nothing to stop the practice. Bolesław the Wrymouth, a 12
^th
century king of Poland, supposedly took 8,000 maidens and children to sell after he conquered Pomerania. Czechs, Danes, and Poles sold one another back and forth. Prague, too close to Poland for comfort, joined Dublin and Marseille as a European centre of the export trade to Muslim and Byzantine markets.

Isn't it appalling,
Hania added as a postscript,
that the slave trade still goes on in our day?...At least old women are now safer. The numbers you give of those executed in Poland over the centuries for witchcraft are also bloodcurdling––even if they were less than in the Holy Roman Empire or France. Still, it's rather intriguing what you say about the end of the pagan rites on Mt. Łysogóra and Mt. Slęża, and how witches were later said to come there riding on broomsticks. It's like the Walpurgis Night celebrations on the Brocken mentioned in Goethe, isn't it?

'…the whole length of the mountain side,

The witch-song streams in a crazy tide.'

Do you suppose women really did gather on the mountains?

Hania added a word or two about the number of marriages recounted in the text, and sent the message off. Then she sat thinking about women who were witches and warriors. She rose and went to a bookshelf that covered one wall to head height. It was way too early to wake the children yet. It was the time change that had pulled her out of bed at this hour. She stood before the books. They were practically lost under sheaves of music that had been stuffed in over the tops of the bindings, but by lifting the papers she could see beneath. There were the usual books of music theory, a number of lives of great composers and pianists, correspondence between musicians, and the usual array of Polish classics: Reymont, Żeromski, Orzeszkowa, Dąbrowska, the Nobel Prize winner Sienkiewicz. She paused before his
Deluge.
There, that was exactly what she was thinking of: what a revolting passage that was where the patriotic young woman thinks her fiancé has joined the wrong side during the Swedish invasion and sternly consents to his execution. What a strain of iron in the soul. Like the young woman insurgent of the Warsaw Uprising in 1944, who composed the song '
hey boys, get your bayonets out
.' Brrr. Hania shivered. She'd posed for the mermaid statue too, that one; it's holding a sword, of course.

Well, thought Hania, she was glad none of the Polish women she knew displayed those martial capacities, and as for herself, she was just a young musician, whose life had revolved around piano practice, who had lived rather too long in America, and who was beginning to doubt her ability to cope with practical matters. Perhaps if she ate something, then dealing with the children wouldn't seem so bad. Determination always carried one through, she thought, as she finished off four eggs. 

She prepared breakfast for the children, and then sat at a piano and played reveille fortissimo with the sustain pedal down, and when that didn't rouse them, she marched down the hall, banging on their doors: Kalino! Maksiu! Get up! We have important things to discuss!

"What? What's so important?" Kalina growled as she sat beside Maks at the kitchen table. "Why'd you wake us up like this?"

Hania could see that curiosity was gnawing them, keeping their rudeness just slightly in check.

"I'll tell you when you've eaten." A pause. "And it might be your last meal for a long time, so eat up. Go on." She folded her hands on the table and waited, her face calm.

Maks looked at her with interest, Kalina gave her a half glance under the lids and a small sneering lift of the lip, but both started to eat.

She waited until they were finished.

"So the deal is this. Your parents didn't leave any money. No money equals no food. I have a little, but, if I'm going to spend it, I'm going to need some cooperation. Look, we're all in this together, aren't we?

"I hate them." Said Kalina with vehemence. "They make me sick."

"Okay," said Hania, recruiting her ideas. "Okay. But what we need here are some positive ideas. Hating people won't help."

"It's fun, though," said Maks positively.

"No, no. It doesn't do any good. The point is––we're stuck here together, we don't know when your parents are coming back, and we have to get along. We can make life miserable for each other, or we can help each other out. Which do you think would be best?"

"I thought you were here to take care of us," said Kalina angrily. "Why should we help you?"

"I didn't come here to take care of you. You're old enough to take care of yourself, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"And old enough to take care of Maks."

No answer.

"So since we're two adults living here, I suggest we treat each other with courtesy––like saying if we're going out somewhere––and we divide up the chores, and divide up looking after Maks––you could watch him for, say, two hours in the afternoon, and then, probably I won't mind spending my money––my own hard-earned money––on food. Otherwise..." She let a long silence follow. "Maks can help out too."

"What can I help out with?" Maks looked alarmed.

"You could take your plate to the sink, things like that."

Kalina got up from the table without saying anything and left the room.

After this, Hania didn't know if she'd scored a total failure or only a partial one. Her brief period of enthusiasm waned sharply. How could she think she could help? She could only hope the situation wouldn't last long. Maks played with his toy cars and she worked on the history. She had an email. She opened it in excitement: it didn't matter that it was only about the work, it made her feel she wasn't alone. Konstanty had addressed each of her comments.

Respected Madam,…Do you really think I spend too much time on marriages? I think they're rather important, but perhaps I was brought up to pay over much attention to genealogical matters. Still, just think: Charlemagne was making arrangements to marry Irene, Empress of Byzantium. If the marriage had gone through how differently history might have unrolled––both for the world, if the empires were united, and for Charlemagne personally (she is thought to have done away with her son, the Emperor Constantine, and why should she have stopped there?) ...

Respected Sir,…was the murdered son the Byzantine ruler who sent Charlemagne a fabulous organ?

Hania looked up. Here was Maks again at her side. He probably had some horror for her. He wouldn't talk to her otherwise. He sat down beside her, not looking at her, kicking his feet. "You promised you'd eat a shoe and you didn't."

"Maks, I never promised. I never said 'I promise.' You can't twist things people say to you." On the other hand, did she remember exactly what she'd said? Maybe she'd given that impression. And he was clearly holding out an––so to speak––olive branch.

Respected Sir, May I ask a medical question? Will I be harmed by eating a small piece of leather?

Respected Madam, Re: the small piece of leather. I presume we are considering a very small piece here. I am not a gastroenterologist but my guess is that the tannins, etc. are unlikely to be of sufficient quantity to cause lasting damage. The possibility of choking should, however, be considered, and the portion to be consumed should be suitably reduced and masticated. In regards to the necessity itself, I think it comes down to the following: if there was a promise, then there's no question, if it kills you, you have to perform it. If there was no promise, then why ever?

Respected Sir, There was no promise, but I'm trying to win him over.

Respected Madam, Bon appétit.

The next days passed without incident. She had no need to put her threat into action. The children regarded her warily, but were tolerably polite and helpful. Still, she had a feeling they were waiting for something.

"You really don't know where your parents went?" she said one morning to Kalina, when the prospect of the week ahead seemed too daunting. Kalina took her pacifier out of her mouth and after considering a moment, deigned an answer.

"They went to meet some people to talk about a film. Tata is making the music for it."

Goodness. What kind of film could that be?

"They were going to Gdansk and then to Berlin––someplace in Germany anyway."

Germany!

"You really don't know when they'll come back?"

"I don't want them to come back." She burst into tears. Hania stared at her, distressed. The tears ran down the girl's childish face. What on earth was the matter with her? She put out a tentative hand in sympathy but Kalina brushed it away.

Here was Maks, sitting on the other side of her. "I'm bored." That was his latest method for making her uncomfortable. He followed her around saying "I'm bored" like a broken record and refusing any of her suggestions for entertainment.

"Maks, can't you see your sister's unhappy?"

"Kalina's...."

Kalina tried to hit him around Hania, and got Hania instead.

"Kalina's….what?" thought Hania, as she sat at the piano, touching the keys slowly. C, C sharp, D. Involved in drugs? Kalina and Maks didn't usually fight. What was it that she had had to keep him from saying?