The Lullaby Of Polish Girls Part 9

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, wishing, 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 shiny 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.

In the bathroom, Kamila peels the lace stocking off her body and stands there, naked and clammy from head to toe. She wipes away the bit of blood, sits on the toilet, and quickly m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.es. She feels accomplished; it isn't every day that one loses her virginity to her soul mate.

Now, Kamila figures she just has to wait for him to get on his knees and ask her what she has been dying to hear all these years. She tells herself that as awkward as the s.e.x was, she and Emil will get better at it with time, and that eventually they will marry.

Kamila wakes up the next morning, fully sober. She doesn't have to roll over to know that Emil is not in bed with her. She is suddenly aware that the night before was a catastrophe. She all but forced Emil to have s.e.x with her. She behaved like an animal, and treated Emil likewise. She doesn't even know when he left the apartment. In fact, the last thing she remembers is sitting on the s.h.i.tter, playing with herself.

The phone rings and Kamila leaps toward it, praying it is Emil calling to forgive her, but it is Anna, asking if they are still going to Justyna's.

"I guess so. But I need a few hours here. Can we do it in the evening?"

"Yeah, sure. You sound tired."

Kamila hangs up, and the phone immediately rings again. Kamila lets it ring.

"Kamila! Get out of bed. Ciocia Frania died. Pick up the G.o.dd.a.m.n phone! h.e.l.lo?? They're gonna go over the testament in the afternoon and then I'm back on the bus. I want you to go to the masarnia and get a pound and a half of beef and some vegetables, but only if they're fresh. Don't let Pan Tadek talk you into yesterday's produce, I don't care about any discount. Kamila?!" Zofia lets out an aggravated sigh. "She died screaming in pain. You should have been here with me." Her mother breathes heavily for a few seconds. "And, cholera jasna, wash the sheets!"

Kamila stuffs the remains of the bloodied bedsheet into a plastic garbage bag, but not before tearing off a pinkish swath, tucking it in the back of her underwear drawer.

When Kamila arrives at the bus stop, Anna is already there, looking effortlessly beautiful. Anna doesn't need diet pills and she doesn't need to bully boys into bed. Tonight, for the first time ever, Kamila feels acutely jealous of her.

Anna jumps to her feet. "Kamila! G.o.d, you look so different." For a minute Kamila panics, perhaps the old superst.i.tion is right, that you can tell a woman's had s.e.x just by looking at her.

"It's such a drastic change every time I see you. I miss the carrot top." Anna reaches out to touch Kamila's black frizz.

"I don't. Orange isn't pretty and you know it."

"It was pretty on you."

"No, it's pretty on a cat, Anna, but not on a person. Can't you be honest for a change?"

"At least your red hair was natural. This looks fake. It's so black it looks blue. And it just doesn't suit you." Anna smiles. "How's that for honest?"

When they board the bus, Anna takes two prepaid tickets and slides them in a slot, punching out the holes, in case kontrola comes. Anna smiles when she returns to the seat, waving the little tickets.

"Someone graffitied kurwa on my babcia's mailbox," Anna blurts out. "I a.s.sume it was Kowalski, or one of his cronies. Maybe it was that fat f.u.c.k."

Kamila doesn't say anything. Obviously something happened between Lolek and Anna, but Kamila doesn't know when it happened or what it was, and she'll never ask.

"When was the last time you saw her?" Anna changes the subject.

"Justyna? A month ago, I think. Pani Teresa was still in the hospital then."

The topic of Justyna's mother's impending death is too much; they simply avoid the subject.

"The baby's cute. Small. But I'm not surprised. You couldn't even tell she was pregnant. It just looked like someone snuck a beach ball under her sweater."

"Lucky b.i.t.c.h. I bet I'll blow up like a balloon."

"Me too."

"You'll look beautiful."

Kamila sighs. "Why do you always do that?"

"Do what?"

"Tell me how pretty I am, when we both know it's just not true. I'm ugly, I was always ugly, but I didn't care. I only started to care when you started telling me otherwise all the time."

"Kamila-"

"I had s.e.x with Emil last night."

Anna's mouth falls open.

"I wanted to come here and tell you how magnificent it was. I wanted to lie, but I can't. Let's stop lying to each other, Anna. Last night was the worst thing that ever happened to me. I got so jealous of you, griping about Kowalski, I thought, What a spoiled brat-someone eager to love her, and she's boohooing about the lack of conversation? So I got drunk, dressed up like a wh.o.r.e, and basically forced him. I told him I would never see him again so he better f.u.c.k me. I made him do it. And do you know the worst part?"

Anna shakes her head.

"He could only get an erection-and it was just a partial one, just enough to make it work-when I told him to close his eyes and think of something else. Just pretend it's not me."

"Kamila ..."

Anna doesn't say anything more, and Kamila is grateful. They get off the bus and walk in silence up the street toward Justyna's. When they get to Witosa Road, Kamila stops in her tracks and grabs Anna's arms.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have told you I thought you were a spoiled brat. You're not; you're my best, closest friend."

"Don't be sorry. Life's too short to always be sorry. The first time always sucks, Kamila. Trust me, mine was no picnic either. One day I'll tell you all about it."

Kamila nods, relieved.

"You took the initiative. That's b.a.l.l.sy, Kamila. That's the G.o.dd.a.m.n stuff of life."

Anna's right. Anna's always right. There had been one moment last night, when Kamila had stopped bucking under Emil's weight, clenched the length of her body against his, and kissed him on the cheek. "I love you," she had whispered. They lay like that for a brief minute, before Emil whispered back, "Me too." Emil will forgive her, because he's Emil. She'll just wait it out, and if there's one thing she's good at, it's waiting.

They walk up to Justyna's house at a quarter past seven. The lights are all on and the windows are open. They can hear clearly the cries of an inconsolable baby.

Justyna.

Kielce, Poland.