Lovely Radeki,
It is so special to have you in my house, though I regret not being able to give you better accommodations. Anyhow, I hope you are comfortable. There are clean towels in the linen closet.
Do you know how much my life has changed since you came into it? Of course you don’t, because I have never told you. Radek: you have unravelled me. Sometimes I just sit here and cry, thinking about the Poland you envision. Will we ever get it? It doesn’t show (because I don’t let it), but I have a mini-breakdown on every one of our adventures. For an instant, I fall into a gloom that makes me cold all over. Then something you say revives me, and I want to cry with happiness. You bring my emotions full circle.
I try not to expose you to this because I don’t want to distract you from your work. But now you know.
Thank you for your letters.
They released a lot of blocked tears
and have given me insight into the man you are today: kind, gentle,
searching. It’s so tempting for a girl like me who grew up in the
university (my parents are both professors) to assume I know what
you need. To slot you into an archetype and say, “This will be your
downfall.” But if I believe all that schooling, dear boyfriend, I
will lose hope, and I can’t do that. Please understand that I have
never played anthropologist with you. You have made me queer by
teaching me that there are alternative options—for straight girls,
too. Jagiello
ski will never give me that. (Don’t worry— if I
drop out, I’ll make sure not to lose any credits.)
I keep thinking about the flashlight and the book. Your fire. I wish I had been there to hold your hand in the street. I cannot imagine the pain you have been holding inside all these years. Some days, I can almost see the hole in your chest, but I blind myself to it. I refuse to see you as a broken person.
Your last letter really shocked me, because it doesn’t sound like you. I must say that I find your idea of striking St Mary’s Basilica incredibly foolish.
Yes, a fire there would “carve the liver right out of the country,” as you wrote in the letter. My mind wanders to what you see: flames lighting up the blue panes of stained glass and the giant gold altarpiece. “A Gothic treat in a single swallow.” What you meant is an instant equalizer. You’re such an artist, I swear, and that’s why you never say what you mean.
In theory, I understand why this target makes sense to you. The church fought viciously for freedom from the Communists, but now refuses to grant gays and queers the simplest of freedoms. I hate the church as much as you do, but that’s the problem I see with this plan.
(I’m sorry I over-salted your kotlet mielony yesterday. It won’t happen again.)
An act of hatred, Radeki, will only draw more hatred toward us. Also, isn’t it pointless to burn down symbols so tied to the country’s history of rebellion—as an act of rebellion? Solidarity was born in the shipyards but grew up in the pews. A church fire would send such a mixed message. And please think of the physical danger: would you be able to escape in time? In the Middle Ages, a bugler would stand on the roof of St Mary’s and blow his horn to warn of fire and attacks. Would he have thought about looking for smoke below him? Would any of us?
Besides, it’s such a beautiful building. There are uglier churches in the city, you know. And I’m starting to wonder if fire is only regenerative and useful when it happens spontaneously.
My sweet one, I understand your need to gain closure regarding your mother, but I suspect you’re hoping to actually see her in the flames. Is that true? Radeki, people spend decades saying their Hail Marys, and they still never see the Virgin Mother. What makes you think you’ll see yours? I’m not trying to be mean. We can talk more about this in person.
Surprise time: I have purchased a copy of The Legend of the Smok Wawelski. Yes, the rare, Russian-issue first edition! It’s not easy to find Soviet memorabilia on eBay, but I managed. The spelling mistakes have made this book quite expensive, but it’s so worth it. I have placed it under the pillow in your sleeping bag because the book is rich in dreams, and you need to stay close to your subconscious these days. It might help you.
I would love to heal you with my own poetry one day, but I truly wonder if I’ll ever write anything worthwhile. I appear to be made of school, not neologisms.
Here’s a clipping you might like:
“Speaking with European Union
officials in Brussels, Jarosław Kaczyski said: ‘I ask you not to
believe in the myth of Poland as a homophobic and xenophobic
country ... People with such [homosexual] preferences have full
rights in Poland; there is no tradition of persecuting such
people.’”
Well. Jarek had better hope that gays have full rights in Poland, especially now that he’s been outed on the radio :)
What’s with those Kaczyski
brothers?
Dear boyfriend, we may not have much time before the government, with the help of the church, crushes us completely. But we will have to use something stronger than fire. We will use the Internet.
I’ll tell you more about it on the train tomorrow.
Now, let me ask you a few questions about the Smok Wawelski: why would the dragon prefer virgins? It baffles me. Wouldn’t a girl be more succulent with the additional vaginal mucus that comes with sex? And where would a ten-year-old boy get a calling card before the printing press was invented? Very funny. I’ve read the original version of The Legend, and I can see that you’ve re-imagined it much differently. Your version is ekstra.
I’ve taken the liberty of rewriting the ending. No offence. And I added a bit more dialogue because I was struck by inspiracja. (I agree that some things sound stupid in English.)
Chapter 3
The King realized that knights, princes, and other wastrels were impotent against the dragon. He was on the verge of giving up when a most powerful weapon skipped into his quarters: fifteen-year-old Stefcia, a nymphet in full bloom. She promised the King that she would be able to kill the dragon, “no problemo.”
“I don’t believe you,” the King said.
“Piece of ciastko. I’ll need thirty days alone with him, and someone to bring me books and meals and fresh clothes.”
“Foolish chickadee. He’ll munch you in a second!”
“Not with this,” Stefcia said, pulling a square of fibrous, handmade paper out of her dress, flicking nipples already swollen with excitement. Dragon-hunting, it would appear, was her thing.
“Paper,” his Majesty croaked. “You’re an idiot.”
“Are you really a king?” Stefcia asked, narrowing her eyes. “Where’s your crown?”
“Never mind that. How will paper save my kingdom?”
“First of all,” Stefcia said, “I’m foremost saving my ass, and then your stupid kingdom. Secondly, written on this paper is a secret that will change the way business is done, not only in caves but in castles as well.”
“What’s the secret?”
“It’s for dragons only.”
“Okay. Go ahead and try, but mark my words: there shall be no funeral for you.”
So brave Stefcia marched straight to the Smocza Jama and knocked on the cave wall with a discarded femur. “Hello?” The startled dragon ran to the mouth of the cave and opened his cage-like jaw over her head. “Uh, you don’t want to do that,” she said, and waved her piece of paper. The dragon ignored her and wrapped his pulpy lips around her ears.
“LISTEN!” she screamed.
The dragon stepped back and obeyed.
“On this paper I have the secret to how dragons can live forever. But you cannot kill me until I read it to you, and you cannot leave the cave to eat or drink, in case I read it while you’re gone.” Stefcia fixed his gaze with her own. “I will read the secret only once.”
So, the dragon camped in front of Stefcia while she read her books. He waited patiently, scrutinizing every movement of her delicious mouth for the moment when she would reveal the key to his immortality. Days passed, and she remained silent, taking her meals, bathing in the Wisła River, weaving daisy chains, and finger-painting on her naked body with pollen. The dragon studied her curves and clefts, salivating, imagining the hiding places where she kept the paper tucked away. But he kept his hunger in check, determined to hear the secret.
Ten days passed.
Twenty days passed.
Between chapters, Stefcia brewed tea with fresh chrysanthemums, dipped her toes in the river, and looked for words spelled out in the nighttime stars.
Thirty days passed. Still no secret.
[Watercolour illustration of the Smok Wawelski, dead at Stefcia’s feet. The corpse is shaded impeccably: scales pulled taut over his hollowed-out face, his parched, leathery tongue spread across her toes like a piece of roadkill. Green evaporated into halos of carbonic black. Stefcia, it appears, is still reading.]