The Tale of a Runaway Bady
“Daniel,
all we want to do is come to your house every weekend and help you decorate, is
that so much to ask?” I am rarely posed with such obtuse and gritty questions,
partly because I live two hours away from my in-laws and partly because when
they are here I sometimes forget how to speak Polish. On this occasion however I
was caught off guard and deemed forced to answer this putrid blurting of
blunderbuss. I recall lowering my head in the fashion of a bewildered dog,
perhaps caught in the act of rubbing itself against the carpet, “of course
not” I replied, feeling a heavy pulsation in my left temple as my words fell
to the ground like blooded teeth. It was at this point I realised that unless I
leave Poland relatively soon, I will be doomed to decades of DIY weekends and
discussions armed by the most recent episode of ‘Dance with the Stars’, a
Polish series dedicated to the ham-fisting of Eastern European soap celebrities
on the dance floor. I packed an overnight bag and left my house without looking
back and I got on a bus to Krakow where I spent the rest of the weekend in
hiding from the two most placid and obscure rivals I have ever had. This
happened well over a month ago and I have not seen the couple in question since,
it was this weekend however they shared their thirtieth wedding anniversary and
I was subjected to the depths of Katowice for a day of vodka, Jesus and an
inkling of redemption.
I
left Bochnia on Sunday morning with Joanna on my arm and my head heavy from
thought. I have been asked to go to Thailand to film for the TEFL project in
December and my head was awash with ideas, excitement and far too much caffeine.
The train to the industrial heart of Poland was relatively fast, it normally
takes around two hours and fifteen minutes to get to Katowice from Bochnia, and
although we had to stand for the first half an hour on the Pospieszny train from
Przemyls to Wroclaw, the time soon passed. It was in fact thoroughly enjoyable
to escape my disdained mindset and engross my grey matter in the fabulous
writings of Jon Snow in his autobiography ‘Shooting History’. I managed to
finish the book half way through the journey and so I became reliant upon the
warped and jerky offerings of the new album by ‘The Go! Team’ to keep my
mind occupied from the impossibly awkward meeting that awaited me.
I got off the train and took a big deep breath, which is always a big mistake to make at any PKP in the Slask region as your lungs are graced with the ever too familiar tint of coal griffed air. The sky was grey and the so were the drunk accordion players who were swaggering around the underpass on the way to the high street. I popped a rusty fifty-grosze coin into the paper cup of the player with the biggest tangled beard and prayed the man would not put the money towards buying himself a new razor. The Katowice high street is always a morose place to find yourself on a Sunday afternoon, however the once crumbling and oxidated buildings that once lurched over the party playground I remember with Mr Carr two years ago have since been replenished, promising a glint of hope for this fractured road of consumerisms. We stopped in Empik and bought a neat bag in which to place the ‘Learn English… with the Stars’ compact disc and step by step guide we had got for Joanna’s parents for their present. The prospect of learning a new language with your partner of over thirty years seems utterly romantic in my eyes and so I was made wholly responsible for selecting their risky gift.
The couple live in a small district of Katowice called Bogucice, which is a twenty five minute walk from the city centre, I had not been to their flat for at least seven months but there was no surprise to find that nothing had changed in this residential gathering of high rise ghoulish blocks. The chipped and haggard grey red paint jobs puncture the polluted skyline like the jagged shards of mantrap into the thighs of an unsuspecting raggedy drunk. Upon locating Joanna’s family home, we took the lift up to the seventh floor, my girl looked me in the eyes and told me solemnly not to worry about her parents, on the contrary I planned to be flamboyant and frivolous in my behaviour, ready to take in insult sturdily on the chin like a wretched runaway should.
The
waft of meat smashed me like a brick to the face when my mother-in-law opened
the front door to greet us, she looked at me suspiciously after I planted to
sloppy kisses on each of her cheeks and she invited me to join the family for
dinner. Tesc
took my hand firmly and threw me
a pair of slippers, which I immediately applied, there was no look of hesitation
in his eyes about my presence and no awkward questioning regarding my
whereabouts last time they were in Bochnia. Instead the table was laid and I
feasted upon a fish kotlet with mashed potato and approximately three tons of
fresh beetroot. Szwagierka sat pouting in the corner as I asked to examine the
miniature Polaroid photos of the wedding that took place in Pierocice thirty
years ago. Tesc took great pleasure in guiding me through the fascinating black
and white snapshots of drunken Poles gallivanting around a barnyard at his
village home and there was little mention at all of Bochnia or décor.
Szagierka
has recently given birth to her first son. Unfortunately the birth was two
months premature and the baby had to spend one month in an incubator, he has
since been moved to a sterilised bed sit, if ever there could be such a thing,
where he lives with his mother while fighting off an infection. She talked me
and my sorrowful wife through the joys of having a son and I asked questions,
braving each response by dwelling in tingling sensation I had in my calf from
digging my nails deep into my skin. Upon finishing the last mouthful of
beetroot, Tesc poured me a pint of ‘Doner Strong’ and we discussed the
football, Poland are playing Belgium in a few weeks and I get the impression he
would like to go, as would I. He told me that the tickets are sold out but that
we may try our like with a tout. The happy couple seemed pleased with their
linguistical gift and confirmed that they will indeed try and learn English
together, this heightens the mood and I finally begin to feel relaxed.
We
left for the cemetery shortly afterwards, when Joanna was living here this was a
frequent strolling route after a large meal. The weaving avenue of graves has
since been pickled with solemn connotations, as it is now the resting place of
our son. I approached his grave for the first time since the funeral feeling
guilty, the new headstone that had been placed two weeks after the funeral
looked bold and stylish among the neighbouring tasteful sites of equal shape and
size. I lit a candle with a match and placed it before the headstone, as is
tradition in Poland around the time of All Saints Day. Joanna told me she had
been here a few times before and that she came here often to think about things
when she was living in the city. We left after about twenty minutes and returned
back to the flat.
We arrived to find that Szagierka had since left and that Tesciowa’s sister and her family had travelled from Myslovice to celebrate with us. Joanna’s uncle is a spitting image of George Cloony in ‘O Brother Where Art Thou’, only he is missing one index finger. He fascinates me. The vodka came out almost immediately and I found myself involved in a semi-conscious contest of cold salad and straight vodka shots followed by large helpings of home made cheesecake. The festivities continued until around quarter to eight, when we left for church. The house of God in Bogucice is tall and stained but has a wonderful interior, grafted with gold and sculptures of a butchered Christ. I followed suit with the standing and kneeling rituals but did not take communion, instead I found myself trying to define the essence of art form. Is it possible to call these ominous statues and heavenly portraits dotted about the church ‘art’? At the time I think I defined art as the following equation: vision + sound = expression. I realise my conclusion is far too crass to be taken seriously but the pondering kept me occupied at time.
Copyright Daniel Emmerson 2007 all rights reserved