A train was slow entering the platform, announced by a megaphone for an hour. Leszek was looking at the snow-covered locomotive's helmet, lit by the station's neon lights. The dense snow has been raining since morning covering the roofs of the houses with a greyish layer, akin to dirty plaster, seemingly already connected in the air with the dust of surrounding factories. The train rolled into the platform at the velocity of a rhino caught in a noose. He stood with a gnash of wheels, and from the carriages the travelers got out, dragging behind them cracked bags and suitcases.
Where are they in specified a hurry? – Leszek thought – ... and most likely on Christmas Eve! And he looked at the sky looking for the first star, but the dark clouds closed the space above the horizon.
“I’ve been blindfolded again!” he said with anger.
He was homeless and slept in an old train car, standing on a side track. During the day he would go to the station and spend long hours in the waiting room, on platforms or in a train station bar, where he ordered a hot dog and a tiny beer. And erstwhile he ran out of money from the allowance, he took a condition of his guts on loan.
Leszek liked the place, although for any time the nights became restless, and any thieving ringing was circling the tracks stealing everything, snooping on freight trains. It was hard to keep an eye on them, and old railwaymen told Leszek that it was a tiny beer compared to robbing the full country in subsequent unjudged scandals. And they carried flasks with them for the crack. In the day, however, the station had its charm, and looking at the travellers was Leszek's main occupation, unless another tenants of the old wagon were pulling him out for beer. They only drank 1 pint today, due to the fact that the buffet said she wouldn't let the drunks in the station bar for Christmas.
It is not known precisely who came up with the thought of this Christmas Eve – possibly a parish priest, an anti-alcoholic committee or the voivode itself. Or is it truly that mysterious bank of open hearts? The case looked serious and the bar closed 3 hours ago. You could see a large tree that 2 ladies wore. The area was cleaned, tables were washed with year-round streams of anger and beer, soups, secretions and sweat. They cleaned the old lamp, vacuumed the corners and shelves, on which the colored bottles stood. The buffet liked to rule, so she was in her element, which was apparent to random visitors. The windows were not washed only due to the fact that they were partially frozen, and fantastic patterns were arranged on them, as if removed from east carpets and painted with a branch of frost.
The same stained glass was remembered by Leszek from his childhood. At that time, he admired them in his household home erstwhile he was fleeing the frost in the kitchen oven area where his parent cooked bigos or dumplings. He longed to look at the burning carbides and listened to the burnt fields slam, scattering like fireflies filled with fire. Then they would fall down to the ashtray, burning grains of acorns.
The Christmas tree was brought consecutive out of the woods, cutting out a shooting spruce or a spreading fir all year. Leszek remembered her scent and always felt sorry for her erstwhile she slow dried distant from the mountains and snow, under a low slop of a chamber full of cabbage and dried mushrooms.
At the same time, he felt hungry and thought they could yet open the bar door. Meanwhile, the last passengers left the train, wearing elegant furs and caraculate caps. Scented with cologne, anointed with any fine creams, where average Nivea had to appear as a hinge grease. Rested after a night of sleep, they walked decently looking for baggage. Leszek thought it would be possible to make a fewer bucks and leaned before a tall man in a cot, making a motion of an experienced porter. He was about to carry a dense suitcase. He understood the word “taxi” and headed towards the stop, bypassing the shortcut. Finally, he put a suitcase in front of a taxi and felt a note in his hand. He recognized the single dollar and sighed – for this he could now buy only beans in Breton and bread loaf. He put a bill in his coat pocket.
The bar was open. There was a carol on the inside. The buffet was behind the counter cutting up poppy pie. Tables arranged in a horseshoe, covered with ceramics, have already been placed with plates and cutlery. respective people sat against the wall looking at the tree standing in the corner. Covered with candy and covered with angel hair, she covered her shamelessly with her nakedness, green and brittle like breaking heels. They were bountiful erstwhile Leszek tried to rip candy off a twig. Confused by a buffet, he sat at the end of the table. And the people were coming, taking places in silence. There was a fresh carol coming from the radio – as all year the same choir sang about shepherds who came to Bethlehem. Bethlehem didn't change either, but all year another show was set under the tree. Peter approached Leszek and patted him in the shoulder, showing a bottle hidden in the pocket of his coat.
– This for later ... – he mumbled, staring at the table.
1 of the ladies lit candlesticks. A lamp hanging at the ceiling was put out, leaving only a smaller light in the buffet. The last seats were taken by old ladies in decorated coats and handkerchiefs on their head. The odor of kerosene coming from their clothing was unbearable, Leszek moved his chair somewhat further, to the very end of the table, closer to Peter. And he hasn't been in the bathhouse in a while, but he's grown with his scent like a wolf with his hair.
The buffet turned down the radio and lit the electrical lights on the Christmas tree. The door to the bar opened and 2 more people entered. The first entered the unknown woman in felt boots and a blue coat from the Ortalion, and behind her was Franek in his unbuttoned coat, carrying his large belly. He was holding a cigaret butt in his hand. Without reasoning long, he extinguished it by 1 of the balloons swinging at the entrance. The tiny detonation was stifled for a minute by a tender soprano singing "Lulaije jesus, lulaije lulaij...". It was snowing again outside the window.
At least on Christmas night, Mr. Frank, you could behave decently!
“It’s a cheer!” he replied, “it’s not a wake...
A fewer people laughed, Frank's loudest friends, in the old wagon.
- No, it's not. due to the fact that it's a birth... - added Peter and rose to give way to Frank.
– Please... – there is simply a buffet voice – there is simply a customized to leave 1 cover...
– But all taken – individual called – and there is no chair!
There's a move. The buffet brought a fresh plate. Fork and spoon. individual brought zydel from the kitchen. At the end of the table, he was waiting for any wanderer, a wanderer. During these preparations, Leszek felt that his taste sticks were hitting with all the power of palate like drum skin. He was just hungry, and the kitchen smelled like bacon and fried fish.
– Look, decision over... – he spoke to Peter. - I don't want to sit on the shore... you don't know who's coming... and if Cain comes, I don't want to sit here. Next to that Jew...
Peter was surprised. He looked at Lesk with 1 pupil. As he spoke, his right eye was always blinking, and his cheek was moved by a slight grimace. Why are you so superstitious?
– possibly superstitious... Leszek replied – possibly I am a drifter, but I have my dignity. I'm not sitting next to any Cain! It's not a circular table...
– Then decision with me. I don't care. And possibly no 1 will come... ?
erstwhile they switched seats, the buffet signaled. Everyone got up and broke their neighbor's wafer. In the mediate of the night, the buzz of a ladle hit the cauldron with a borscht. Sounded clean like a signature on the morning.
Marek Baterovich
Editorial:
We encourage you to get the book by Marek Baterowicz published by our association - stories about the "war of Jaruzel"- It's coming in the wound.
 | Marek Baterowicz (born 1944) made his debut as a poet in the pages of "The Weekly of the Common" and "The Student" (1971). Book debut - "Verses to Dawn" (W-wa, 1976); the title was an allusion to the night of PRL. In 1981, he published outside censorship a collection of poems entitled "Having broken branches of silence". Since 1985 on emigration, since 1987 in Australia. Author of respective prose titles(M.in "The Seed Rises in the Hurt"-1992 and 2017) and many poesy collections, specified as "The Heart and Fist" (Sydney, 1987), "From that side of the tree" (Melbourne, 1992 – poems collected), "Place in the atlas" (Sydney, 1996), "Chair and Shadow" (Sydney,2003), "On the Sun leash" (Sydney, 2008). In 2010 in Italy there was a selection of poems – "Canti del pianoa", followed by "Status quo" (Toronto, 2014), a collection of short stories – "Jeu de masques" (Nantes, 2014), "Over large Water" (Sydney, 2015) and an e-book of his naval novel, settled in the 16th century "Aux vents conjurés". |
