Free Nine by Andrzej Stasiuk

like a sick windpipe. The sounds are a reminder that space is infinite, it’ll swallow everything, that no Russki long-haul truck, no convoy from the Reich can smuggle through a human sound, there are only echoes on the stones, the rumble of garbage trucks, shouts, the whistle of
the wind in the overhead tram cables, the underground groan of trains, cars wailing, screeching around bends as they try to catch one another on the fog-slick curve of the Solec ramp then disappear in the darkness of the Wisłostrada, while the Vistula reflects sound and light as if it were quivering metal, as if this was what caused insomnia, the infinite nature of the world, in which any piece of shit can grow beyond the boundary of the visible.
    So they smoked and listened to it all, because it’s always a consolation to be here and not elsewhere, in an endless number of other places, which makes you nuts to think about.
    Jacek went to the window and closed the curtains. The red grew pale. He put his hands in his pants pockets and circled the table. The air moved. On the table, a plate with leftovers looked like a big ashtray. He went to the bathroom, came back right away. From the shelf he took a candle stuck to a saucer. “The bulb is out,” he said, and left again. A glow filtered through the glass door into the living room. Paweł thought someone was standing there. He went to check but didn’t find anyone. For a moment the darkness had taken on human form. He went back to his chair and lit up again. The pack was almost empty. It was quiet in the next-door apartments. Garlic in the air. The smell of her sweat lingering in the apartment. Jacek returned, blew out the candle, and put it back in its place.
    â€œThat girl,” Paweł began.
    â€œBeata.”
    â€œHave you known her long?”
    â€œSix months, a year. She comes here sometimes. You like her?”
    â€œShe talked nonsense, but I guess.”
    â€œI taught her.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWhat she says. All that crap about energy and everything.”
    Paweł looked at him intently, though it was too dark.
    â€œYou’re kidding. You believe all that?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen why?”
    Jacek laughed, went to the window, parted the curtain, looked down into the street.
    â€œWhat matters is that she believes it. Half a loaf is better. Am I right?”
    â€œI don’t get it.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter. You will. And you should get yourself a gun.”
    Paweł jumped up from his chair and shouted:
    â€œFuck that gun! What do I need a goddamn gun for? I’m a normal guy.”
    The neon went out, came on again, resumed its fifteen-second rhythm.
    â€œYou see? Sometimes a shout does it.” Jacek moved away from the window, continued: “Listen, I don’t have any money to give you. All I can offer is advice. That’s it. Theoretically I could sell something, but you see for yourself there can be problems with the buyer.”
    â€œThen at least let me stay here tonight,” murmured Paweł.
    Â 
    Meanwhile Beata was sleeping. In Praga. In the darkness, her body like the moon. Kijowska was quiet now. Cars entered Tysiąclecia, some never to return, a one-way trip. First to the viaduct at the Radzymińska intersection, then to Zabraniecka and on to Utrata, between the willow trees and the garbage cans, out under the starless sky, where the lads did what they had
toquickly and dawn found only the gutted chassis. The sheet covered her to the waist. The great sarcophagus of East Station in a dirty glow. The light rubbed the window but could not get in, because her body was too young, no thought of death yet, not even in a dream. Her mother slept in the other room. There was also a kitchen. That was it. On the floor, plastic tile and rugs; in the shiny credenza, crystal. Her room was cramped, cluttered, unlike her mother’s, where words thinned like cigarette smoke. Things all