Nine by Andrzej Stasiuk Page B

yesterday, not tomorrow, not the day after tomorrow . . .”
    Syl’s glass banged on the glass tabletop.
    â€œYou keep me here like it was prison, and you only have one thing on your mind.”
    â€œLucynka, today I really can’t.”
    The phone tinkled, Bolek reached for it. He didn’t speak, just listened. “OK,” he said finally.
    â€œYou see, I told you.”
    â€œAt least lock Sheikh up. I don’t like the way he stares. You can’t move.”
    â€œHe’s a good dog.”
    â€œI know. But lock him up.”
    Bolek went out into the hallway and dressed. When he was done, he looked in the mirror. Everything was right.
    â€œI’m locking from the outside,” he said.
    â€œFuck, Porkie! You keep me here like—”
    â€œLucia, either I lock the door or I don’t lock Sheikh.”
    She picked up the remote and went back to her search. In the window, purple clouds.
    Â 
    Still running, like a few hours before. He didn’t slow down till Marchlewskiego, at a bus stop where two old women were waiting and now him. There were no trams to be seen coming from Å»oliborz. He considered a 17: it went directly south into the neighborhoods between Konstruktorska and Domaniewska, which would be deserted this time of day, with the terminus at the bottom of Marynarska where cars climb the overpass, close to heaven for a moment before they drop in defeat among the vegetable gardens. He could take refuge by the Cemia plant, on those creepy, windswept streets with not a soul around, a few caretakers at most, and nothing of interest for thieves. The cube warehouses and office buildings of Unitra with their dark, dirty windows, haunted at night by phantom robots. No one in his right mind had any business there. He’d go there if a 17 came. By the time it reached Woronicza it would be like an empty aquarium, cold as ice. He’d been there once. An early Sunday morning. Everything looked abandoned as soon as it was built. He’d heard about towns like that in America. No 17 showed, so he waited for a 29 to take him to Okęcie. A tram terminal in the early evening always circled a void. Shelters made of glass and tin over shadows and the glowing tips of cigarettes. Bills are riffled by fingers in pockets, to shorten the wait. Okęcie, he thought, where the city stops at Mineralna, then darkness from
there all the way to Grójec. To the left, drab grass and the giant X of the two runways; inky lights behind a chain-link fence summon the planes, and the distant control towers are like the tops of sinking ships. The roar in the sky makes the earth seem twice as large, and uninhabited. Three stops before he once slept with a woman. But no 29 showed.
    In the end, out in Muranów a single swinging light came into view. Then he remembered he didn’t have a ticket. From Hala Mirowska wafted the white stink of dead poultry. He went up to a woman in a light-colored coat and asked if she had a ticket she could sell him.
    â€œLeave me alone!” she barked.
    A number 19 finally.
    Â 
    He didn’t find a kiosk till Świętokrzyska. He bought tickets and two soft packs of Marlboro. He looked around for a large, dark car. He’d already counted five. They passed indifferently or sped by at the traffic circle. A Vento, a Vectra, an old Scorpio, and Christ knows what the other two were. He was gradually losing his fear, because he was losing hope. A glow spread from the right. Wola was almost extinguished; it was a little brighter in Poznań. A fringe of light over the skyscrapers near Central Station. A narrow black cloud, its sharp edge pointing down. The land was fading, the stars were coming out, and people were taking cover from the wind at bus stops. The sidewalks still wet. He guessed that in the night there’d be a frost and the puddles would ice over. He had a little over a million now, but it was too little to hide out somewhere