Swans Are Fat Too (5 page)

The pianist girl had it. He'd met her again today. She'd quite enlivened his day with her strange tale of Maks and a practical joke. It wasn't so much the story itself but the way she told it that was amusing. He'd repeated it to a rather depressed patient and got a laugh out of him.

Still, the boy had problems, he thought. The girl had dealt with it well. He could sense her weariness but she had told him with a certain gusto that when Maks got up in the morning she had met him with a big hug––he had writhed out of her grasp––and every appearance of great pleasure: "Oh Maks, thank you so much for the nice surprise. That's just what I like best––how did you know? It makes my skin feel so smooth in the morning. It's better than a beauty treatment." And then, at breakfast, regretfully, "I'm afraid we'll have to eat bread without butter, because I can't afford to buy any more."

No, Maks definitely had problems, and his sister too. And the pianist girl presumably also or she wouldn't be that shape. But she wasn't a warrior-type and that was a mark in her favor.

His fingers paused, poised, over the keyboard. Thinking of shapes had brought his mind around to his occasional date Agata, whose very shapely, perfect, curvy body was certainly in no danger of ever suffering from heart problems, either physical or metaphorical.

Why did he continue to see her, he wondered? The motives were, let's see, physical attraction…how did women get into clothing that tight? That white tee shirt molded to her round bosom––the image hovered before him, hampering for a moment his ability of consecutive thought––okay, very nice, but those tight jeans? Strange the way women thought the corsets of yore so appalling. Surely jeans like those Agata had been wearing on Sunday were worse, grabbed and squeezed in more uncomfortable places? He'd certainly hate to wear them. He stifled a slight shudder. If research were done would it show that the narrow hips of Polish women were due, like the narrowed ribs of Victorian women, to continual wearing from an early age of very tight miniskirts and hip-huggers? So that the body mass was shot, like toothpaste from a tube, upwards into the breast area, giving Polish women those very good figures. Of course, their long legs were natural from birth.

So let's see, motives: physical attraction…and she was rather lively, talkative...like the pianist girl; that one was talkative too. She babbled away at him and he was close to a complete stranger. Konstanty rarely laughed, but a corner of his lip lifted as he remembered some of her expressions.

He tucked his tie back and went on with his typing.

In the apartment below, the day was waning. Hania was counting the hours till she could sleep. The previous hours had passed somehow. Maks had brooded. Kalina had again woken late and again claimed to feel unwell. Hania hoped she wasn't going to fall ill for real and need to be taken to a doctor or anything like that. There was Konstanty Radzimoyski upstairs, of course, but somehow she doubted that he was a pediatrician. Or was Kalina too old for a pediatrician? Here she'd been a teenager just a short while ago and already she felt as if she knew nothing about them. This one was a closed book anyway.

"Kalina, do you know where your parents went?" She didn't like prying for information from the children, or letting on how helpless she was, but she was beginning to be a little desperate. Somehow, she had this feeling that Wiktor and Ania might not be back on Thursday––or Friday. Nothing definite. Just twenty-some years as a member of the Lanski family.

"To the sea, I think," Kalina spoke in that dead voice. Really, the girl looked very unhappy. Or maybe she really was unwell.

"Where on the sea?"

"I dunno. Sometimes they go to this posh hotel in Gdansk or Sopot or someplace. It's called the Neptune or the Royal or something. It's where all the rich people go."

"What do they do there?"

"Well, what do you think a man and a woman do in a hotel?"

She should have had an answer to that, Hania thought later. She shouldn't have let herself be put off so easily. There should have been some way of getting around it without discussing Kalina's parents' sex life with her. Still, she hadn't been able to think of any at once. All that had come to mind was "Oh, not Wiktor, surely," and she could hardly have said that.

And then later Kalina had disappeared again and she'd had no one to question at all. Maks certainly wasn't going to tell her anything. So she cooked, and cleaned, and played scales, and ran through, in her mind, one piece of music after another. She was very gifted this way; she could turn on the music like switching on a radio, and it accompanied her through the hours, when her only other comfort was food. So Tuesday had passed.

Wednesday had started as a repeat of the day before. Some time in the afternoon Kalina got up off the sofa, put on a skirt that was an eight-inch band of cloth, a halter that didn't begin to reach the band, and four-inch platform sandals, and headed for the door. She wasn't pretty enough to make such exposure attractive or anything but a lurid come-on.

"Where are you going?" Hania asked anxiously, surging out of a chair as if to stop her, as she saw her pass.

"Just out." Kalina was already at the door, already through and banging it a little behind her.

She could hardly run after the girl and stop her, Hania thought with exasperation, but what if Kalina didn't come back till late, what if she got into trouble? She stood still in the middle of the room.

Maks was watching. He said, "She's going to church."

"To church?"

"To see someone."

"Oh." Hania was taken aback. Was that really what one wore to church in Poland? "Oh, that's all right then."

"No, it's not all right. It's a sin."

"A sin?" How could going to church be a sin?

"That's what Kalina says. Kalina's a sinner." Maks went back to his lego blocks, his face inscrutable.

I want out of here, thought Hania.

Ten minutes later Hania left the apartment with Maks trailing reluctant and resentful to the rear. On the stairs down they came across a middle-aged man stumbling up, a bottle clutched in one hand. He raised the bottle at them in salute. "I wish you…your very good …very healthy…healthy…health." And staggered past. "Thank you," thought Hania, rather pleased, every good wish helps.

Then they were out in the street, blinking in the sunlight after the dim interior. "Where are we going," Maks whined. "I don't want to go anywhere."

"We're going to sit on a park bench and eat ice cream."

She saw him open his mouth to say, "I don't like ice cream," but then he shut it again and began to walk. Aha.

The trees of Ujazdowski Park were cool and overarching and green. The water of the shallow lake was a dark mirror surface broken by the flickering movement of golden carp. A small waterfall trickled over boulders. Wide gravel paths stretched away in calm serenity. How good it is here, thought Hania, closing her eyes. I could sit in this spot unmoving for hours; I could imagine myself in tune with nature and the humming humanity beyond.

Maks scrambled over the rocks of the waterfall, lost his shoe in the stream, and shrieked. Hania tried to help him and got her skirt wet. A gray-haired woman left her own tidy and obedient grandchildren and came to scold them both loudly.

Tomorrow Wiktor and Ania will come back, Hania thought, as she made dinner later and Maks ignored her. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, she thought, mangling Shakespeare, or I'll light someone the way to dusty death. Only she wouldn't, of course. And poor children. What was it that made them the way they were? Most Polish children were so polite and sane. Destined, perhaps, to grow rather narrow, but that was the average lot in every country. These kids were… emotionally disturbed wasn't exactly the word for Maks, or was it? And what was eating Kalina? Why did they both repudiate her so aggressively? Okay, so she was a bit repulsive with her great bulges and tent of a dress, not the kind to appeal instantly to a teenage girl or a small boy, but still––you'd think they'd be glad of any sort of support in their situation. Only, as she well knew, neither children nor adults could be expected to behave rationally. So it was no surprise to her when Kalina didn't reappear at once.

But nine o'clock came, and then ten, and no Kalina. Maks refused to go to bed and Hania didn't feel like insisting. She was drooping with weariness. The effort of keeping her eyes open seemed superhuman and prompted images of propping the lids apart with toothpicks. If only Kalina would come back, then she'd just have Thursday to get through. She wouldn't expect Wiktor and Ania tomorrow, but they'd come on Friday. Please, please, please.

And maybe she'd meet Konstanty Radzimoyski again at the grocery. At seven. He'd been there at seven twice. A small voice told her that it would be wiser to go at seven fifteen and avoid him––that it wouldn't do at all to develop a crush on him––and although that is the sort of small voice that young women almost always ignore, she had a strong desire not to be ridiculous. The crush, though, she admitted to herself––the crush was already firmly in place. It had been in place since she was six, since that day in the Radzimoyskis' kitchen when Konstanty had saved her. It had remained there all through those years abroad, through her teens and early twenties, through music and studies. She had always had the incident at the back of her mind, always thought that if someone else came along she would measure him by that standard. Would he be capable of behaving like that?

Of course, no one had come along. She had had her yardstick ready and not a single taker had come by to be measured. There had been no need for her to turn anyone down. No one had even asked her for a date. And yet she was of a very romantic and loving nature. Had anyone shown a little interest or a little kindness she would have flung Konstanty's image aside like a used rag.

Somewhere, in the midst of these thoughts, her head dropped onto her chest and she fell asleep.

It was the click of the door shutting that woke her. She raised her head, thinking through her sleep, "Good, Kalina's come back, I can go to bed." But when she opened her eyes the apartment was strangely empty. Maks wasn't sitting in front of the television anymore; the television wasn't even on. She stood up abruptly and looked about. No one was there. "Maks!" she called. "Maksiu!" No answer. Well, he wouldn't answer. Quickly, rubbing the sleep away, growing momentarily more awake and worried, she scurried through the apartment looking for him. No Maksymilian. The truth dawning on her, she ran back through the apartment, bumping awkwardly into corners and doorframes as she went, until she reached the front door and tried to open it. It was locked on the outside.

She pounded on it. No response. "Maks!" She hissed through the crack. "Maks! Open the door!" There was no response, only silence. She put her ear to the door and listened hard, holding her breath. No sound, no movement reached her. She straightened, panting.

So there she was, locked in. And Maks, her six-year-old charge, Maks whom she was supposed to be taking care of, was gone. She had a moment of furious anger at Wiktor and Ania. Stupid, irresponsible parents! And of anguish––what if something happened to him? And of remorse––she'd be responsible.

And there was nothing to do about it. A moment's reflection convinced her that even if she could scream loudly enough to be heard by the neighbors, they still wouldn't be able to get her out and they wouldn't find Maks unless he wanted to be found. Hopefully he was with Kalina. Please let him be with Kalina. She paced back and forth. 

The minutes passed, then half an hour. She went periodically to the window––to each window in the apartment––to see if she could spot Maks or Kalina in the street. She saw her friendly drunkard of the other day; he was leaning against a building with one hand, and as she was wondering whether to call to him, "have you seen a small boy?" he subsided onto the sidewalk and lay inert. An occasional passer-by walked with quick steps along the pavement and disappeared, and an occasional dark cat flitted across the street, but her relatives didn't reappear. She suspected––hoped––they were sitting on the bottom step of the building. And she hoped that Maks was very tired. But she couldn't be sure.

She picked up the telephone and dialed a number in the States. "Hallo, Tato?" Her father had gotten her into this; maybe he'd have some idea how to get her out. No, she didn't really believe that, she just had no one else to turn to. "Tato, Wiktor and Ania went off and left me with their children and now Kalina has disappeared and Maks has locked me in the apartment."

"So how was the funeral? Were there lots of people?"

"I missed the funeral. The plane was delayed. Maks has locked me in the apartment."

"Good, good. So how's Wiktor? How's Ania? Is everyone healthy?"

Hania took a deep breath.

"Tato, Maks has locked me in the apartment and disappeared. It's eleven o'clock at night."

"Eleven o'clock? Yes, I always forget about the time difference. So how's Warsaw?"

Hania stifled a desire to scream. Why would he never listen?

"Tato! Wiktor and Ania left me with their children and now they've disappeared. What should I do?"

"Whoooo's disappeared?"

"Wiktor. Ania. Kalina. And worst of all––Maks."

"What are you saying?"

Hania could see him shaking his head, unwilling to understand, to get involved, to have to make decisions. She could hear the note of self-pity creeping into his voice.

"You know, I don't understand what you're saying. I don't know why you always have these problems. I thought you'd be a help to Wiktor, you know, Babcia just died and––"

"I know. Should I call the police?"

"About Babcia?"

Why had she called? She'd known how it would be. Between a theoretical physicist and a composer of weird music there wasn't much to choose. She said good-bye quickly and put down the phone.

She went into the kitchen. She should have been ready for an emergency. She should have stocked up on chocolate.

After making herself a cup of tea, she ate four slices of toast with sugar, and then because Maks still hadn't come back, she ate four more, and then she went into the piano room, sat down by the Beckstein, and leaned her head on the rim. On consideration, she didn't think Maks was running around the streets. Maks slept with the light on in his room. He was hiding in the building or he was with Kalina. There was nothing she could do but wait. Sometime, in the early hours of the morning, she lifted her head for a moment and watched as two figures tiptoed into the apartment.