Nine by Andrzej Stasiuk Page A

He asked for coffee. When she went into the little back room, he saw her slender calves, her feet in their dark flat shoes. She was never late and never made the least miscalculation; she spoke little, spoke sensibly and softly; she had brown hair and did not wear lipstick. He found her through an ad in
Gazeta Wyborcza
.
    The cup she handed him contained one level spoonful of sugar. The sight of the coffee made him sick, but he wanted to be nice and ask her for something. She smelled faintly of flower water; her fingernails were trimmed short and she wore a modest ring on the third finger of her left hand. She returned to her place behind the counter.
    â€œNo,” he said. “Close today at seven, Zosia, and don’t open tomorrow. We’ll take a short break. If something more comes in today, it’s an advance on what I owe you.”
    Someone passed by the window. It was growing dark. Lights came on in the apartment building opposite. A black man, bent, crossed the street. A tram whined as it braked. A cold wind blew and gradually uncovered the stars.
    â€œI forgot to turn on the light,” she said, flustered. The mirror reflected her figure distinctly, indifferently. His mind was a blank. He had a little more coffee before he left, looking out the window. In a first-floor apartment they were preparing a late dinner. He noticed the candy lamb.
    â€œYou brought the little sheep?”
    â€œI did, but it can come down . . .”
    â€œNo. It’s fine there. Looks nice.”
    It occurred to him that he could spend the night at her place. Somewhere in Ursynów in a two-room apartment: pine furniture, a braided runner in the hallway, a kitchen with a collection of wooden spoons, a portable television on the bookcase. He had known her for several months. A coffee table with red-and-white checkered tablecloth, a pink fluffy mat by the bathtub.
    â€œAre you in trouble, boss?” she asked softly.
    He smiled, put the cup and saucer back on the counter.
    â€œNothing much. Business.”
    â€œIf there’s any way I can help . . .”
    He got up, went to the door.
    â€œThanks, Zosia. You don’t need to stay to seven. You can close sooner.”
    Â 
    He crossed the street and zipped up his jacket because of the wind. The stars silver, sharp as needles. From Dobrzańskiego a car stopped at the store and two men got out. One had something in his hand. She stood in the window, and he could practically see her assuming a polite expression. He walked slowly, turned on Biała, and ran to Elektoralna.
    Â 
    Meanwhile Bolek was eating meat and Syl was drinking grape juice. They sat in the black-and-gold room, the TV on, he wearing what he wore that morning and she in a white T-shirt. The pork chop on salad leaves surrounded by fries; beside it a glass of beer. Syl, bored, sipped her juice, watched the people on television, let them talk awhile, then killed them with the remote and went to other people, in some story or other, but they were all men, so she kept searching, a German commentator saying
the names of Japanese motorcyclists, amusing for a moment, then a music channel, but they were songs from before she was born, so she tried a black-and-white Arabic channel where the same film had been on for three hours.
    â€œPorkie, let’s go out.”
    â€œYou made dinner,” said Bolek, pointing at the plate with his fork.
    â€œNot to a restaurant. Just out. To the movies, or dancing.”
    â€œI can’t. I’m expecting a call.”
    â€œYou can take your cell with you.”
    â€œI can’t. I might have to leave and take something from here.”
    â€œI’m bored, Porkie.”
    â€œWatch a video.”
    â€œI’ve seen them all.”
    â€œCall the store and have them bring new ones.”
    â€œI don’t like videos. I like the movie theater.”
    â€œNot today.”
    â€œAnd not yesterday, not the day before