| About the book
Since the envoys had brought news of the arrival of the Emperor, Bolesław’s kingdom had been overwhelmed by an all-encompassing state of commotion. Aside from the settlers living deep within the deepest forests, there was probably no one who did not, in some way or other, (...)
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| | About the book
8
The phones are always going wrong, so my parents aren’t upset when there’s no dialling tone. They’re at the fortieth birthday party of a female friend from their class at high school. They say they’re going downstairs to the phone booth for a (...)
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Olga TokarczukPlaying Many Drums
About the book
Professor Andrews represented one of the very important, very profound schools of psychology that had a real future ahead of it. Like almost all such schools, it had grown out of psychoanalysis, but had broken away from its roots and now practiced according to its own methods. It had its own history, its own phenomenology, its own dream imagery, and its own theories on raising children. Professor Andrews was at this moment flying to Poland with a bag full of books and a suitcase full of warm clothes - he had been told that Poland in December is exceptionally cold and unpleasant.
Everything was going smoothly: airplanes took off, people were talking to each other in different languages, heavy December clouds hung in the sky, ready to send winter's communion to earth, millions of white flakes of snow, each one unique. An hour earlier he had looked himself in the mirrors at Heathrow and it had seemed to him that he looked like a travelling salesman - he remembered them from his childhood, they would go door to door selling Bibles. No matter - the school of psychology he represented warranted this kind of sales trip. Poland was a country of intelligent people. He just had to plant the seed and he would be home in a week. He would leave them the books - after all, they read English - and then they would be able to consult the authority of the Founder himself.
Sipping his drink of fine Polish vodka the stewardess brought him, he remembered the dream he'd had the night before his trip (according to the school of psychology he represented, dreams were the litmus test of reality). He had dreamed of a crow, and in the dream he had played with the big black bird. One could say - yes, he had the courage to admit it to himself - that he had petted the bird, like a little puppy. In his school's symbolical system, the crow represented change, something new and good. He ordered another drink.
The airport in Warsaw was surprisingly small and draughty. He congratulated himself on having brought his cap with the ear flaps, a souvenir from his trips to Asia. He caught sight of his Beatrice immediately. Small and pretty, she was standing at the exit holding up a card with his name on it. They got into a tiny, beat-up car and she told him the plan for the coming week while nervously driving him around the sad, sprawling space of the city. Today was Saturday, a free day on the schedule. They would have dinner together and he could rest. Tomorrow was Sunday - a meeting at the university with students. (Yes, she said suddenly, it's a little nerve-wracking right here. He looked out the window but didn't notice anything in particular). Then a lecture to a psychology journal, then dinner. On Monday, if he wanted, a tour of the city. On Tuesday he had a meeting with psychiatrists at some institute; he was in no state of mind to remember the specific names of these places. On Wednesday they would drive to the university in Cracow. Professor Andrews' school of psychology enjoyed great respect there. On Thursday, Auschwitz - he had requested that himself. To be in Poland and not go to Auschwitz... Then on Thursday evening they would return to Warsaw. On Friday and Saturday there were all-day workshops for practical psychologists. On Sunday, the flight home.
Only then did he realize he didn't have his suitcase with the books. They hurried back to the airport, but the bag had disappeared. The girl - her name was Gosha - went somewhere and didn't come back for half an hour. She returned without the bag. Perhaps it had been sent back to London. No problem, she said. She would come back tomorrow, it would probably turn up. Looking out the car window, he didn't hear her agitated chatter. He thought about the other things in the suitcase -underwear, clean shirts, books, xeroxes of articles.
They had a pleasant dinner with her boyfriend. His face was covered by a thick beard and glasses. He didn't speak English, which made him seem somewhat gloomy to the Professor. Professor Andrews ate a red soup made of beets with little dumplings in it and realized that this was the famous borscht his grandfather had told him about. His grandfather had been born in Łódź. The girl corrected him with a smile, he repeated after her like a child: "barsh-ch," "Woo-dzh." His tongue was helpless against these words.
He was exhausted by the time they finally took him to a residential area crowded with tall apartment buildings. They took the elevator to the top floor of one of them and the girl showed him the apartment. It was a small bachelor flat with a tiny kitchen wedged in between the main room and the bathroom. The corridor was so small that the three of them couldn't fit there all together. The two Poles made loud arrangements for the next day, the girl promised to bring him his suitcase. The boyfriend spoke with someone on the phone in a secretive whisper, and finally they left. Exhausted by the borscht and the alcohol, he threw himself on the bed and fell asleep. He slept restlessly. He was thirsty but didn't have the energy to get up. At some point late in the night he heard a commotion in the stairwell, slamming doors, footsteps. Or maybe he just imagined it.
He woke up and realized with dismay that it was already eleven o'clock. He looked at his rumpled clothes in distaste. He took a shower in the tiny, mildewed bathroom and then had to put his dirty underwear back on. Looking through the cupboard for some coffee, he finally found some in an old jelly jar. There wasn't a coffee maker, so he boiled water and made it in a mug. It was stale and tasted like it was brewed from tree bark. The telephone was silent - Gosha must be bringing his suitcase. Holding his cup of coffee, he looked at the books on the shelves, all in Polish, with dirty covers, and harsh on the eye.
Gosha didn't call. Time passed slowly in the thick, overheated air. The Professor walked to the window and looked out at the skyline, marked by the even blocks of buildings. They were all the same color, gray, like the winter sky. Even the snow seemed gray. The sun shone unconvincingly.
There was a tank on the street.
Translated by Kim Jastremski
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There are more than 31,000 publishers registered in Poland. However, the market is highly concentrated. The 300 largest publishing firms still hold almost 98 per cent of it. More »
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