Nine by Andrzej Stasiuk

walked shoulder to shoulder like vigilant deer. They looked right, left, and straight ahead. No one looked back.
    The cigarette had a foul taste. The men were fast, self-assured, walking to their cars. Some of the cars had been taken by thieves. It was a game of sorts. The cops were on Widok.
Large sheets of glass doubled the world like a window to the other side. That’s what infinity looks like. Enter, and you wander till you’re shitfaced. The ways through the city are without number. It’s always possible to find a door, because any hope is good.
    He reached Kniewskiego and turned at the Palladium to stand for a while in the recess by the entrance. Cars plunged into the tunnel with a screech. The view to the right was blocked by a furniture store where dummies fucked on leather sofas, because everything has to look real. A minute was enough, so he crossed and passed the Relax Cinema, remembering twenty-zloty tickets and the men with crafty and blank faces. They were always crowded in that dark walkway, their white T-shirts glowing like phosphorescent fish. They had cold blood and quick, self-possessed fingers. He feared them as he would dogs that don’t move.
    Then there was the building by the public toilet and the big Sezam department store. He recalled the smell that filled its floors, with the food down below and all the other stuff upstairs. A steamy aroma, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, simply strong. He recalled the dark, rough surface of the stairs, where your shoes stuck as if glued. It made walking difficult, because teenagers like to shuffle. To the side was a place where sausage and pasta were served for under ten zlotys. One day when it was raining he went there and dropped a plate.
    He waited for the green light, hopped on a number 18, and, eyes darting, rode for two stops.
    Â 
    He looked to either side before he went in. It was dark inside and warmer, the radio played Wolność with Szczota on drums, and the girl got up when she saw him.
    â€œGood afternoon, boss,” she said.
    He returned her greeting and carefully looked around.
    â€œWas anyone here?” he asked.
    â€œJust customers.”
    â€œHave there been many?”
    â€œThe usual.”
    Rain was slanting outside. The cloud would move on soon. His things lay on the shelves, worthless. He hadn’t yet paid for most of them. He went behind the counter, opened the till, counted the bills.
    â€œIs this all?” he asked.
    â€œAll.”
    â€œIt’s not much.”
    â€œAt noon Mr. Zalewski came to collect what was owed him. A week ago you said he was first in line.”
    â€œAll right, Zosia,” he said quietly, though he felt like grabbing the metal box and hurling it at the mirror on the wall, then dropping into an armchair and covering his face with his hands.
    â€œHow much did you give him?”
    â€œTen million.”
    He counted the bills once more: a thin bundle. As thin as death. He shuffled them, arranged them into pairs, threes, fours, but it didn’t change anything. He slammed the drawer and sat in a chair. When it creaked, he realized how still the place was. Just the radio playing; no sound of breathing.
    â€œZosia, I know I owe you for last month, but I’m taking this money. I need it now.”
    â€œThere has to be something in the till for the morning. I don’t have much of my own,” she said as if she were the one apologizing. Outside, the rain was almost over. Cars pulled the dust of drops behind them. A yellow Polonez passed a white
Ford. The trees on the other side of the street glistened brown. She wore a gray skirt and a green blouse fastened at the neck with a silver brooch. He told her several times to wear less—“You understand, Zosia, for the clients”—but the next day she’d turn up the same. At the most there’d be no brooch and the top button of her blouse would be undone. Or her hair would be down, like today.