Afternoon, Rose, Detergent

how the dead mislead us.

“An albatross, for instance,” says Jan (age 56).

To which she (age 27) replies: “Meaning?”

“It sleeps on the wing, apparently.” A pause. “It sleeps on the wing, you know. Life really is miraculous,” says he (age 56).

How does he know? From the bees. Last summer they told him about it – have you ever? (No.) Never mind, after death you’ll see.

She knows nothing about the world; she only knows as much about laundry as she’s read in the newspapers. She’s just heating up the water.

a ghostly neighbour ruined tea time

Death hadn’t taught Jan F. (age 56) a thing, and he kept stubbornly returning to his old familiar places. He had died a few days earlier (of a chronic illness), and although this unpleasant occurrence – as one could perhaps define his demise without overstatement – had put him off some of his earthly habits for a while, by the third morning he was back on his old route, and that was when Anna O. caught sight of him.

            He was shambling home from the woods, so at once she wrote into Google: is there death – and what she found was quite reassuring; she invited Jan F. in for coffee; he told her about the minor pleasures of life beyond the grave, and distracted the poor woman so much that she forgot she’d put the washing on.

The first to find out about the child’s death was the water. Anna O. was the last to know, as is often the case.

            Meanwhile they carried out a search.

“Don’t search without a plan,” said Jan F. “Decide you’re going to look here and there, and you’ll achieve your aim. Go back over the last few minutes.”

She wrote into Google: whereson, and it understood her.

“My son was helping with the laundry,” she remembered. “He was an exceptional child.”

They checked in the bathroom – something was rattling in the washing machine.

they stole our road

            The cause of the tragedy is a familiar one: the night before she’d had a dream about an apple grower. He said sternly: “You didn’t watch out for the mist in the Lord’s orchard. He’ll be coming for your little one.”

As he said it, he pointed at a broken gate: milky smoke was creeping along at the end of its strength; meaning the quest had already gone astray.

“Maybe it should be gathered,” she said.

“Gathered how? From everywhere? Where’s your brain?” asked he (age unknown).

a macabre discovery in a washing machine in the Krakow suburbs

            Even today, at the mere memory, Jan F. (age 56) has tears in his eyes. He thinks it through: how he had to roll up his left sleeve, sink his left arm up to the elbow into the soft, warm, pink depths, and twist his way through the water until he felt a suspicious lump.

            They pulled out the child, and immediately realised he wasn’t alive, and that he wasn’t ever going to be alive again. Jan F. made a cursory search of his pockets; he found a packet of Corsair candy, which he gladly consumed.

“They taste even better when they’re free,” he said.

The body was laid on a rose-patterned towel; it had a sweet, illicit smell of soap.

Anna O. burst into tears and wrote into Google: are there washing machines.

the washing machine of menace

“Now I’ve remembered something,” she went on to say. “But I don’t know if it’s relevant.”

“Tell me, and I’ll decide,” replied Jan F. (age 56).

“Last night I had a strange dream,” said Anna O.

“You shouldn’t eat so much before bedtime,” he replied.

They fell silent, and stayed like that for a while, without moving. Then she understood.

“Did you come with a purpose?” she asked.

To which he replied: “Oh yes.”

Translated by Antonia Lloyd-Jones