Fair Play (8 page)

T
HE SNOW
had come early, a blizzard at the end of November. Mari went to the railway station to meet Wladyslaw Leniewicz. His journey from Lodz via Leningrad had been in process for months, with repeated applications, recommendations, and investigations passing slowly from one distrustful office to another. The letters to Mari grew more and more agitated:

“I am brought to despair. Do they not understand, can they not grasp, these cretins, whom they are delaying? The man who has been called The Marionette Master! But, my dear unknown friend, we approach one another, we shall meet despite everything to speak freely of Art's innermost essence. Do not forget my sign of recognition, a red carnation in my buttonhole! Au revoir!”

The train arrived. There he was, one of the first to alight, long and thin in a huge black coat, no hat, his white hair fluttering in the wind. Even without the carnation, Mari would have known that this was Wladyslaw, such an utterly odd bird. But she was surprised at how old he was, really old. All Wladyslaw's letters seemed written with youthful intensity, full of overblown adjectives. Plus his disconcerting penchant for hurt feelings at something she had written or failed to write. He sometimes spoke of her “tone of voice.” Mari's tone of voice had been wrong—and she did not give their shared work her undivided attention. Every misunderstanding must be elucidated, analyzed in detail, all their intercourse must be clear and pure as crystal! Oh those letters on the hall floor, her name and address in great, bold letters across the entire envelope ...

“Wladyslaw!” she called. “You are here, you are finally here!”

He crossed the platform with long, elastic strides, carefully put down his valise, and fell on his knees before her in the snow. A very old face, deeply furrowed, with a large protruding nose. And, astonishingly, enormous dark eyes that seemed to have lost nothing of their youthful luster.

“Wladyslaw, my dear friend,” said Mari. “I beg you. Stand up.”

He opened a bag and strewed an armful of red carnations at her feet. The wind swept them across the platform and Mari bent down to gather them up.

“No,” said Wladyslaw, “let them be. They shall lie here, a tribute to the Finnish legend, proof that Wladyslaw Leniewicz passed this way.” He rose, picked up his valise, and offered her his arm.

“Excuse me,” said an arriving passenger, a friendly woman in a fox hat. “Excuse me, but surely you're not going to leave all those lovely flowers in the snow?”

“I don't really know,” Mari answered, terribly embarrassed. “It's nice of you to ask ... But I think we have to go ...”

Mari unlocked her door. “Welcome,” she said.

Wladyslaw set down his valise, again very carefully. He seemed totally uninterested in the room he had just entered, hardly glancing around. He did not want to take off his long black coat. “One moment—I must call my embassy.”

It was not a long call, but it was very intense. Mari heard his disappointment and—before he hung up—an expression of lofty contempt.

“My dear friend,” Wladyslaw said, “you may take my coat. It will be the case that I remain here, with you.”

In the afternoon, Mari ran across the attic to Jonna. “Jonna, he's arrived, and he's eaten nothing on the whole trip, and now he doesn't want to eat because he's too upset. But he said maybe ice cream ...”

“Calm down,” Jonna said. “Where is he staying?”

“With me. A hotel won't do, he's way too proud. And he's at least ninety years old and says he prefers to discuss art at night! He only sleeps a couple of hours!”

“I'm not surprised,” Jonna said. “Better and better. Do you like him?”

“Very much,” Mari said.

“Good. I'm going out for food in any case, so I'll get some ice cream and bring it over. And a couple of steaks. He'll probably want something to eat by this evening.”

“But don't ring the bell—not yet. Just put it down outside the door. And I'm out of potatoes.”

Wladyslaw and Mari ate ice cream and drank tea.

“Tell me about your trip.”

“Dreadful,” he burst out. “Faces, faces—and their hands! Expressionless, meaningless, raw material I no longer need because I know. I know how to shape a changing countenance to its uttermost expressiveness. I can use simplicity and nuance to make a marionette almost unbearable! You, my precious friend, have drawn certain figures. I beg your forgiveness—but those figures are mute. They do not speak to me. Their hands do not speak to me. But I have given them life, I have taken them over and given them life!”

“Well, well,” Mari said. “But then they're not mine anymore.”

Wladyslaw was not listening. “Theater, puppet theater, what do you think it is? Life. Violent life simplified down to its essence, conclusively. Listen to me. I take an idea, the tiniest fragment of an idea, and I think. I feel. And I refine!” He leaped up and began striding back and forth across the room with long, almost dancing steps. “No, say nothing. What is it I have found? I have found a glass shard of what I call the Finnish legend, a shard of a clumsy fairy tale, and I have made this glass shard sparkle like a diamond! Is there any more tea?”

“Not at the moment,” Mari replied rather coldly.

“You should use a samovar.”

Mari filled the saucepan and turned on the hotplate. “It will take a while,” she said.

Wladyslaw said, “I don't like your tone.”

“According to the contract,” Mari began, conscientiously, and he interrupted her at once.

“You amaze me. Do you speak to me of contracts, of repulsive trivia with which an artist need not concern himself?”

“Now listen to me!” she burst out. “I was supposed to have approval! After all, they're mine, they were mine. And when do I finally get to start making dinner?”

Wladyslaw continued pacing back and forth. Finally he said, “You know nothing, you are barely seventy, you have learned nothing. I'm ninety-two, does that not tell you something?”

“It tells me that you're pretty proud of being ninety-two! And you haven't learned to respect work that isn't your own!”

“Excellent!” cried Wladyslaw. “You can be angry! Good, very good. But you haven't put any anger into your figures, and nothing else either. I'm telling you, they're mute! Welldrawn fairy-tale figures, fairy-tale idiots; look at their eyes, look at their hands, pathetic paws! Wait. I'll show you.” He ran for his valise.

Among the socks, underwear, photographs, diverse belongings of all sorts, there were innumerable small packages, each wrapped in cotton wool held together with rubber bands.

“Look,” he said. “My hands. You must learn while there is still time. Handling my faces could have taught you much, but these too can help you see that the simple line is utterly ignorant of the sculptural. Take away the cups, take everything off the table, clean it off. Your tea is far too weak.”

Hand after hand was unpacked and laid before her, and she studied them in silence.

They were unbelievably beautiful. Shy hands, greedy hands, reluctant, pleading, forgiving, wrathful, tender hands. She lifted them, one after another.

It was already rather late at night. At last Mari said, “Yes, I understand.” She paused briefly and went on. “Everything is here. Including pity. Wladyslaw, may I ask you a question? There on the train, on your long trip, didn't you feel at all sorry for all those hands and faces that you call raw material?”

“No,” Wladyslaw said. “I no longer have time. I have already told you. I know them. I have forgotten my own face. I have already used it.”

Mari went and turned off the tea water. “And?” she said.

“I must continue, filled only with my knowledge, my insight. But I have not yet been able to use the face of death, not well enough. He is too palpable. Or is it a she? In any case, a challenge that fascinates me. And what do you know of death? What do you think about it? Have you ever even experienced a great loss?”

“Wladyslaw,” Mari said, “do you realize that it's three o'clock in the morning?”

“It doesn't matter. One must use the nights. My friend, I sense that you have not thought much about the face of death. And do you know why? Because you do not live with all your strength, all the time, in your own triumph dashing ahead of time, anticipating it and disdaining it. I am awake, always. Even in my brief dreams I continue to work, constantly. Nothing must be lost.”

“Yes, Wladyslaw, yes,” Mari said. She was very tired. From the depths of her exhaustion, where she no longer had the strength to follow what he was saying, she remarked that he had undoubtedly been very beautiful.

He answered gravely. “Very. I was so beautiful that people stopped on the street and turned around to look at me and I heard them say, ‘It's not possible!'”

“That must have made you very happy.”

“Yes. I liked it. I couldn't help it. But of course all of that took time from my work. I allowed feeling to dominate at the expense of observation. Much too often.” Wladyslaw was silent for quite a while. Then he said, “Now perhaps we might have a meal to complete the day. You said something about beef?”

At four o'clock, the morning paper came through the letter slot.

“Are you tired?” Wladyslaw asked.

“Yes.”

“Then I won't say much more. Just one thing—and now, my friend, you must give me your complete attention. It is simply this: do not tire, never lose interest, never grow indifferent—lose your invaluable curiosity and you let yourself die. It's as simple as that. No?”

Mari looked at him. She smiled without answering.

Wladyslaw took her hands in his. He said, “We have only two weeks. That will give us a poor fraction of all we have to talk about, all we must talk about. But do not be distressed; we will use the nights. Now you should sleep. Do not be surprised if I am gone when you wake up; I'll just be out for my morning walk. The city looks very provincial, but it does lie by the sea. When do the flower shops open?”

“Nine o'clock,” said Mari. “And I've grown very fond of red.”

“I
S IT YOUR
glasses?” said Jonna without looking up from her work. After a while she said, “Have you looked in all your pockets? The last place I saw them was in the bathroom.”

Mari said nothing. Her steps went from the studio to the library and back again, to the bedroom, to the front hall.

“Tell me what you're looking for.”

“Oh, some papers. A letter. It's not important.”

Jonna stood up, went into the library, and looked under the table. There lay several sheets of blue paper covered with writing.

“She writes on both sides and doesn't number her pages,” Mari explained. “Do you have time to talk?”

“No,” said Jonna amiably.

Mari gathered up the papers.

“Okay, what does she want?” Jonna went on. “A brief summary.”

“She wants to know what's the meaning of life,” Mari said. “And she's in a hurry, she says.”

Jonna sat down and waited.

“She thinks I have life experience, like you're supposed to have when you're old. What should I say?”

“Well, how old is she herself, this person?”

“She's not old—barely fifty.”

“Poor Mari,” said Jonna. “Say you don't know.”

“I can't. And I can't say work is the most important thing because she doesn't like her job.”

“What's her name?”

“Linnea.”

“How about simply love?”

“Won't do! She's completely alone; no one loves her.”

“And there's no one she cares about? No one to take care of?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Does she read? Is she interested in world events?”

“I don't think so. Now you're going to ask if she has a hobby, but she doesn't. And she's not religious.”

“This happens all the time,” said Jonna. “Again and again. Now, once and for all, try to write down the meaning of life and then take a photocopy so you can use it again next time. I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you're going to have to deal with your Linnea by yourself.”

“Oh, that's just wonderful!” Mari exclaimed. “Thank you very much. It's all very well and good for you. What do you care about the meaning of life? You don't have to explain it and don't get hard letters from people you've never met, and of course won't ever have to meet. And you've got someone else to compose your thank-you letters and sympathy notes and politely decline all the invitations you don't care for. Marvelous!”

Jonna stood with her back to Mari, looking out the window. “Of course. You're right. But come here a minute. The harbor is lovely in the fog.”

The harbor really was lovely. Black channels cut through the ice all the way to the distant quays where the big ships lay barely visible.

“So terribly lonely,” Mari said. “But Jonna, try to help me here. Could I write to her about experiencing very simple things ...”

“Like what?”

“Well, for example, that spring is coming? Or just buying pretty fruit and arranging it in a bowl ... Or a great, stately thunderstorm moving closer ...”

“I don't believe your Linnea likes thunderstorms,” Jonna said. And at that instant a skyrocket rose silently into the air far off across the harbor. The winter sky began to burst with repeated explosions of color that paused for a few seconds in their beauty before sinking slowly and giving way to new multicolored roses, a lavish splendor repeated again and again, softened by the fog and for that reason more mysterious.

Jonna said, “I'll bet it's some foreign cruise ship entertaining its passengers. My, they're far away. Now a white one ... That's really the prettiest because it makes the harbor look so black.”