My First Suicide Read online

  Praise for Jerzy Pilch

  “A very gifted writer… The hope of young Polish prose.”

  —Czesław Miłosz

  “Pilch’s antic sensibility confirms that he is the compatriot of Witold Gombrowicz, the Polish maestro of absurdist pranks. But readers with a taste for the fermented Irish blarney of Flann O’Brien, Samuel Beckett, and John Kennedy Toole might also savor Pilch.”

  —Steven Kellman, Barnes & Noble Review

  “If laughter actually is the best medicine, fortunate readers of A Thousand Peaceful Cities will surely enjoy perfect health for the rest of their days.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Jerzy Pilch’s Thousand Peaceful Cities are… the unruly, wonderfully erudite, and hilariously surreal product of a boisterous imagination set loose.”

  —Valentina Zanca, Words Without Borders

  “Fans of Gombrowicz will find this a much gentler, yet almost equally rich, examination of what it means to be an individual in a bygone world.”

  —Jennifer Croft, World Literature Today

  Also by Jerzy Pilch

  His Current Woman

  The Mighty Angel

  A Thousand Peaceful Cities

  Copyright

  Copyright © by Jerzy Pilch, 2006

  Translation © by David Frick, 2012

  Published with the permission of Świat Książki Sp. z o.o., Warsaw, 2010

  First edition, 2012

  First digital edition, 2013

  All rights reserved

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data: Available.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-934824-67-2

  ISBN-10: 1-934824-67-4

  This publication has been funded by the Book Institute - the ©POLAND Translation Program.

  Printed on acid-free paper in the United States of America.

  Design by N. J. Furl

  Open Letter is the University of Rochester’s nonprofit, literary translation press:

  Lattimore Hall 411, Box 270082, Rochester, NY 14627

  www.openletterbooks.org

  The Most Beautiful Woman in the World

  I

  When great love comes along, a person always thinks he has fallen in love with the most beautiful woman in the world. But when a person has fallen in love with the most beautiful woman in the world, he can have problems.

  If she wasn’t The Most Beautiful Woman in the World in the strict sense, she was in the top ten, and if it wasn’t the top ten, then the top one hundred—the details are unimportant. She was dazzling in a planetary sense.

  I saw her, and I committed a rookie’s mistake. Instead of being satisfied with admiring, I resolved to conquer her.

  I saw her at a certain reception—that is, I saw her for the first time and in person at a certain reception. Before then I had seen her likeness hundreds of times on various photographs, advertisements, posters, and billboards. The famous visage of the depraved madonna—which so excited photographers, cameramen, and directors—was universally known. The reception took place in the gardens of a Western embassy. It was a very significant, very ritual, and very annual reception. On the societal bond market, an invitation to that reception was considered an unusually valuable security.

  The uniqueness of the garden reception at the embassy was also made clear by that fact that, in addition to the habitués—virtuosos at the art of the reception—lost intellectuals were wandering around, intellectuals who never attended receptions, but who had to their credit works devoted to the culture of the Western country whose ambassador was hosting the reception. They were distinguished by their archaic suits, immoderate gluttony, and great enthusiasm. When the jaded habitués confessed to them that they hated receptions, the intellectuals tried to comfort them somehow and urged them on to eat, drink, and have fun. The jaded habitués—who, at all receptions, would drone on gloomily about hating receptions, and who found an equally gloomy hearing for their confessions among other jaded habitués of receptions, who likewise hate receptions—gazed stupefied at the hearty, smiling oldsters, who, flushed with champagne, grabbed them by the elbow with an unexpectedly iron grip, led them to the groaning table and, looking around, exclaimed in triumph:

  “But why so sad, young man! You’ve got to appreciate the sunny side of life! Especially today! Especially here! What a wonderful reception! You simply must eat something! Here you are! Exquisite fish! Exquisite cold cuts! Exquisite salad!” and they shoved plates into jaded hands, and piled up heaping portions and shoved them before jaded faces. “You simply must eat something! And then the drinks await us. The libations are excellent! Please be so good as to help yourselves!”—and the intellectuals, seemingly lost, but in truth feeling like fish in water in the gardens of the embassy, winked roguishly and dove merrily into the undulating throng.

  It was a steamy July day. Clouds dark as lead and light as electricity were scudding along toward Warsaw from the west. The Most Beautiful Woman in the World didn’t budge from her spot for a good two hours. I circled.

  At first I didn’t notice that I was circling. Without a goal—so it seemed to me—I sauntered about the gardens of the embassy holding a glass of still water. I didn’t particularly seek anyone out. Nor did anyone seek me. I instinctively attempted to avoid the bores who were lying in ambush for victims. After enough receptions, this ability becomes second nature. Bores lying in ambush for victims are like sharpshooters in war—they sow death. Somehow I managed to pull it off. True, one bore, a colorless columnist in civilian clothes, what might be called “Independence Style,” managed to take my bearings. He approached and began to blather—for the thousandth time he told the story of how he was arrested during Martial Law. I was already beginning to think I was a goner, but once he got closer, it turned out that my assailant, in spite of the early hour, was already distinctly fuddled—I lost him without trouble. I, of course, didn’t drink a drop myself; true, in the depths of my soul I wasn’t excluding the possibility that yet that evening, having locked myself up tight and alone at home, I might uncork a bottle, but here—out of the question.

  By the time I was passing The Most Beautiful Woman in the World for the third time, I realized that I was circling, and that I was circling in ever tighter orbits. She stood near one of the numerous wicker chairs set out on the grassy areas. She was smoking cigarettes, which was a rarity among the stars, who were so hysterically concerned with their health. She stood, and she didn’t budge. Time and again some sort of jittery habitué would appear in her vicinity, tight like a bow string, but all of them flagged and quickly fell away.

  I made ever smaller circles. I could already see quite well the legs that had paced the most prestigious catwalks of the world; the shoulders that, season after season, were wrapped in the most expensive creations of Dior, Versace, Lagerfeld, and Montana; the hair, fragrant with the most expensive shampoos of the globe; the décolletage boldly presenting the profile of the famous bust, which the floodlights of Hollywood film studios had briefly lit up. Briefly, since she hadn’t had a big career as an actress. That is to say, it is true that fifteen years ago she played a stewardess who served Harrison Ford a drink—even that was the pipe dream of the majority of professional European actresses—but after this episode offers didn’t come pouring out of the proverbial bag. It goes without saying: this did not diminish her in the least—at least not in my eyes. On the contrary. There was a logic in this. Her uncanny beauty decided her fate. Nothing else came into play. Putting it the other way around, which is to say point-blank: in everything she took up, with the exception of her own beauty, she was rather a clod. And, unfortunately, she took up various things. She recorded a CD with her own songs—the chief value of which was its almost complete lack of background hiss. She pub
lished a slender volume of verse—a rare sort of catastrophe, since it was bloody, and at the same time completely lacking in expression. She painted and organized an exhibition of her own work—oh, Jesus Christ! To tell the truth, even her one-second performance as an actress at the side of Harrison Ford—especially considering its minuscule time span—knew no bounds. It was sorry consolation that, at the side of such a virtuoso, everyone—and especially a fledgling artist—looks pale.

  But her defeats had no bearing on the fact of her beauty. Who cared about the fact that she was no singer, a wretched poet, and a miserable painter, since—when they came into contact with her—the greatest singers lost their voices, the most distinguished poets didn’t know what to say, and the most original painters peed their pants from sheer sensation?

  I was already close to that beauty. I was close, but I wasn’t tight like a bow-string—I was shaking like jelly.

  “I’m happy to see you alive,” I managed to stammer, absurdly. I had intended to say, of course: “I’m happy to see you live,” which was supposed to have been the ritual and safe phrase of the admirer who knows his idol from the movie theater, from television, as well as from the thousands of photographs, and now gives expression to his ecstasy at seeing her in real life. Instead of this, my nerves made me blurt out some sort of, I don’t know—some sort of post-traumatic or post-heart-attack line. “I’m happy to see you alive” sounded, after all, as if she had just escaped from some sort of life-threatening danger, but no one had heard anything of the sort. There isn’t anything bad, however, that can’t come out to the good. She looked at me and burst out laughing unexpectedly loudly. Quite clearly—to use literary Polish—my unfortunate lapsus had amused her.

  “I, too, am happy to see you alive,” she said with a light touch, but that lightness immediately weighed like lead upon my brain.

  It’s impossible—I feverishly began to mull over the facts—it’s impossible for her to know that, two weeks ago, I was at death’s door, in the strict sense of the phrase. How could she have known? I had locked myself up at home, I had pulled the Venetian blinds, I had turned off the telephones, I talked with no one, I didn’t go out anywhere, except to the twenty-four-hour delicatessen William… Someone must have noticed me when I was crawling to the store, and the news had immediately made its way around town. It was possible. I tried my hardest, but in the end you always had to go out to the store… Yes, someone saw me as I was crawling to the twenty-four-hour delicatessen William. There was no other possible explanation.

  Except, it was also possible that she had answered without any ulterior motive; that she had answered mechanically; that, for the sake of reinforcing the joke, she had repeated my clumsy opening as an echo. Such a possibility existed, and it was even highly probable, but, in order to accept it with equanimity, I would have to have been cured of my complex. And I had a gigantic complex about this. Every time someone asked me in completely neutral tones: “How are you doing? How’ve you been feeling? How’s life? Everything OK?”; every time I received similar SMSes; every time I heard such questions posed on the phone, or face-to-face—each time I was unable to answer normally and make light of it. Instead, I always shrank with fear, and I always groaned before I answered under the weight of the one-ton question: How does he know? How does that louse know that I am hitting the bottle again? And this time it was the same, or even worse, since, after all, in the assertion “I’m happy to see you alive” lurks not speculation about, but the certainty of my downfall. Nothing to be done about it, I thought. On the whole, it’s even better that she knows about my afflictions. At least then it won’t be an unpleasant surprise if I go on a bender right after the wedding.

  “It’s true. I’m barely alive,” I said carefully. “To tell the truth, I’m completely exhausted.”

  “That’s not good,” she replied with an inordinately subtle motherly tone. “Not good at all. Even bad. Very bad.”

  “I had a Russian teacher who spoke the same way. Exactly the same.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Not that she immediately stiffened, but she was unquestionably startled, and she was well on the way to absolute stiffening. Besides, there’s nothing strange about it. There hadn’t been any teachers of Russian in Polish schools for more than ten years now, and yet the summoning of even the specter of a teacher of the Russian language continued to give rise to problematic associations. Evidently The Most Beautiful Woman in the World was, like many Poles, painfully sensitive when it came to Moscow. No doubt she had this from her parents.

  “I once had a Russian teacher”—hoping to soothe her trauma, I began to tell her the story, feverishly and in haste—“he was a fantastic guy, we liked him a lot. Also because he was not only intelligent, but also understanding. He didn’t go overboard in the enforcement of knowledge. Not that he allowed us to walk all over him, but, all the same, he allowed us quite a lot. Nonetheless, every now and then, more or less once every two months, a frenzy of inordinate severity would seize him. He would enter the room with a boundlessly severe facial expression, summon us to the blackboard with boundless severity, and, inordinately severely, in absolute silence, listen to our answers. He wouldn’t interrupt, he wouldn’t correct, he wouldn’t speak up. Without a word, he would listen to the delinquent as he writhed like an eel, and when he had finally finished, he would say: ‘Very bad.’”

  She laughed, she laughed the entire time I was telling my story, she laughed, and that was good, but also a bit irritating, since when the punch line came she went on laughing in just the same fashion, and, strictly speaking, it wasn’t clear whether she had noticed and appreciated the end of the story at all. But I didn’t delve deeper into this. Distant, still golden and leisurely threads of lightning intersected the dark horizon. Three, maybe four storms were approaching the city.

  “Very good,” she said (she had noticed and appreciated after all!). “Very good. You get high marks from me for that answer. But it is very bad that you are barely alive, and that must change.”

  “What must change?”

  “Life. Life must change.”

  “You know, it is difficult to change life. Life isn’t likely to change. Unless it’s for the worse. And from a certain point on, it is exclusively for the worse.”

  For a moment I considered whether to intensify the pessimistic tone, and even whether to push the pedal of pessimism to the floor, but I eased off. Pessimism and bitterness were means of arousing comforting reflexes in women, which are as certain as they are standard; her all-embracing beauty, however, cautioned against playing this one from memory.

  “If you go on to tell me that you don’t have anyone for whom to change your life for the better, and if you gaze meaningfully into my eyes as you say this, the situation will admittedly be clear, but also quite finished.”

  She had passed me a difficult, a very difficult ball—one that would be downright impossible for a rookie to handle—but as bad as I am, out of boredom, at handling weak balls, difficult balls lend me wings, and I climb the heights.

  “Of course I don’t have anyone for whom to change my life. It’s just that I couldn’t care less about that. God forbid I should change my life, or anything in my life for anyone. I am too accustomed to myself and to my own solitude, and I value it too much to change it. If you tell me that, when true love appears in my life, I will certainly and enthusiastically change my life for the better; if you tell me this, and if you gaze knowingly into my eyes as you say this, then the situation will also be clear, but also quite finished.”

  I knew that she wouldn’t be able to field a riposte let loose with that sort of spin, but I also didn’t foresee that she would go for a feint.

  “The situation is clear,” she said with irritating infallibility. “The situation is clear. You’ve got no idea about life. You don’t know what life is.”

  “So what is it?” I feigned irritation, and even fury, in my voice. There was no retreat. The game was heating up. If she should conclude
that I was a madman—game over. If, in an access of vanity, she should be filled with pride, thinking that she had destroyed my equilibrium, I will have won. “So, I humbly beg your pardon, what is life? Please be so kind as to enlighten me, because I truly don’t know.”

  “Of course you don’t know. He pretends to be a connoisseur of souls, a man of letters, a theoretician of everything—and he hasn’t a clue.”

  I had succumbed, at that moment I had succumbed definitively and—I would say—far-reachingly. I had succumbed, because I had thought, with a rookie’s haughtiness, that I had the victory in my pocket. When a woman proceeds to a seemingly sharp, but in fact tender, attack, the victory is usually in your pocket.

  “But of course I haven’t a clue about anything. And when it comes to life, not the least, not even a hint. Just what is life? I don’t know. I say this in dead earnest: I don’t know.”

  “Oh God, man, don’t go to pieces on me. Don’t you see that I am full of nothing but good intentions, even eagerness? Don’t you see that either, you dope? What year were you born?”

  “Fifty-three,” I responded mechanically, and not without distaste; after all, the date of my birth usually stood plain as day on the covers of my books, and she has to ask? Hasn’t she ever picked one up, or what? For a moment I even considered taking offense and giving up, but after brief consideration I came to the conclusion that the operation would succeed, that I would punish her for ignorance of my work with attacks of eccentric brutality in bed.

  “That’s just beautiful. Born in fifty-three, and he has to ask about the meaning of life! Hasn’t anyone informed you by now, you poor thing, about the meaning of life. Really no one?”