My First Suicide. Jerzy Pilch

to turn forty—and with this age, which is most correctly seen as the apogee of feminity, comes the unconscious reflex of turning down the lights. It was, however, a luminous July dusk, and it was, in spite of the Venetian blinds, sufficiently light that I could appreciate, not only by touch, the artistry of her depilation, the simplicity and modesty of the coiffure under her belly button—thin like a watch band; the full moon of the evenly tanned breasts; the sternum between them, unsymmetrically wide and bumpy; the back, endlessly perfect and—as is usual with backs—marked with endless sadness.

      The sheet beneath us was intoxicated with our sweat. The light of day withdrew from between the Venetian blinds. Her skin was created for my hands. God had created her ribs and sides thinking about my arms. Her thighs were fantastic, but only once they were intertwined with mine did they form an absolute whole. We crooned a great love song in two-part harmony. We blurted out fiery filth in two whispers. The specters of my solitude left me once and for all. The superstition that you had to have intellectual communication with a woman fell to dust. I knew, I knew without a doubt that I had finally met someone (“someone,” my God!), with whom I would spend the rest of my life, who would give me strength, who would watch over me, and over whom I would watch. I had finally met someone with whom I would live in a house eternally buried in snow, feed the dogs and cats, watch films on HBO in the evenings, and drink tea with raspberry juice. I knew this without a doubt, and I immediately decided to share my new knowledge with The Most Beautiful Woman in the World (by now also The Only Woman in the World): “I will spend the rest of my life with you,” I whispered into her ear. “That’s impossible,” she replied with an unexpectedly strong voice. “Why?” I touched her wet hair with my lips. “Because I love my husband.” I don’t know whether she said this in a whisper or out loud. I don’t remember. I do remember the catastrophic silence that set in over the bed sheet, over us, and over the whole deserted city. Somewhere you could hear the sound of a child crying on a balcony, the far-off siren of an ambulance, a radio playing in a window, the rumble of a train leaving Central Station, then a sudden and interrupted car alarm. “I love my husband,” she repeated after some delay, or perhaps because of the sleepiness that slowly, after the amatory frenzy, had taken her in its grasp. “I love him. He just came back from Paris. That’s why I could come to you. Because today was his day to walk the dog. That’s how we arranged it.”

      VI

      Life consists in establishing the appropriate proportion between work and relaxation. After three weeks of relaxation, and real relaxation at that, even—I would say—extreme relaxation, after three weeks of complete rest from the world, after three weeks of truancy and absence from the world, I came back and got down to work. I wrapped my Spanish rifle in black plastic, I put a box of Diabolo Boxer sharp shot in my pocket, and an hour before the zero hour I set off in the obvious direction. The air rifle wrapped in black plastic looked, under my arm, like a curtain rod or some element of some piece of furniture. The dead expression on my face said nothing to anyone.

      Across from the gate in which I had madly kissed the divine lips of The Most Beautiful Woman in the World—several times goodbye, and twice in greeting; across from this gate, on the other side of the street, rose the two-story building of an elementary school. It was already the end of August, and from all sides feverish repair work was underway. Even now plasterers were bustling about before the front wall. In the back, however, on the side of the school playground, there wasn’t a soul. Emptiness and stillness, and heaping stacks of broken objects, up which I easily climbed onto the roof.

      With a couple lightning fast bounds, worthy of the special forces, I reached the opposite edge and lay down on my belly in the classic position of the sharpshooter. I removed the air rifle from the plastic, loaded it, and waited. I had about thirty minutes to wait. The roof under me had heated up like a pond toward the end of summer. Three red Fiats drove by below. A Fiat Seicento, a Fiat Brava, and a Fiat Punto. Along the sidewalk went a woman with a yellow plastic shopping bag, a bald guy in black, two workers carried a mirror that was turned in my direction. I hid in fear that they would catch sight of the reflection of my head. After a moment I looked out again—now there went a redheaded girl in a jean-shirt, after her another, black-haired in a black T-shirt and red slacks, then a guy with a black plastic shopping bag, and just when it seemed that black was beginning to predominate, again there appeared three red Fiats. My head was spinning. I was on the roof of a two-story pavilion, but my fear of heights bordered on insanity. Three red Fiats drove around my skull. I turned over on my back and looked up at the sky. When was the last time I had lain on a heated surface, on warm grass or on hot sand, and looked at the sky? Into space that became, supposedly, ever colder and darker? Forty years ago? The sun was shining, clouds scudded by. I half-shut my eyes, and I guess I fell asleep, for when I again opened my eyes, the air was one degree darker, and The Most Beautiful Woman in the World—I knew it without looking—was already standing by the gate. I turned over on my belly. At least you, my intuition, hadn’t let me down. There she was. In a white blouse, gray slacks, she stood in her full beauty and surrendered herself to thought. The dog, just like all living creatures, fawned at her feet. Calmly, I raised the weapon to my eye. I had one last minute, but a good full one. I knew quite well that The Most Beautiful Woman in the World would ponder for at least a minute whether to go left or go right. The dog sat motionless and frozen, as if in a canine presentiment of its final hour. I had him in my sights. From down below you could hear the even murmur of the engines of three red Fiats. In a moment the live round of Diabolo Boxer would pierce dog skin, dog muscles, and dog guts, and a terrible squeal would resound. I unlocked the safety, and I delicately touched the trigger, and I knew that I wouldn’t pull it. Genuine life was insuperable and impenetrable. And I raised the oxidized barrel of my air rifle, beautiful as a dream, and I guided it carefully upward in the direction of an analogous beauty. I passed by the thighs, belly, heart, and when I was at the height of the neck, I took aim very precisely. I could shoot with a clean conscience and without any fear that blood would flow—I had before me Beauty, as perfect as geometry and as permeable as air.

*Actually, it was precisely the professor who could have had it—and even, as I think about it now—most certainly did.

**“He is!”—the ecstatic text on a license plate of a certain American automobile noted in an essay by Stanisław Barańczak. I like this phrase, and I use it rather frequently in various forms and with various intents.

***The first position is analogous to Aristotelian prote philosophia, first philosophy. Of course, it is possible to gain practice in the understanding and occupation of the first position without knowledge of Aristotle, but then the taste of corporal relations will be less substantial.

      My First Suicide

      This year I am celebrating the fortieth anniversary of my first suicide attempt. By my count, I have been attempting to kill myself for exactly four hundred seventy-nine months, and, on account of various bits of misfortune, I haven’t been having any luck. I was twelve years old when, for the first time, the black thoughts teeming in me took shape, to the extent that I attempted to jump off the sixth floor. It happened at night. My folks were sleeping in the other room, and the main problem was not the jump itself, but getting out onto the balcony so silently that they wouldn’t wake up. Especially Mother, since my old man always slept the unwaking sleep of the dead.

      Mother slept incredibly lightly. Every slight vibration of air woke her. I don’t think she ever got used to the sounds of the city, even though we lived on an unusually quiet street; in fact, in the period I am talking about—in other words, during the sixties of the twentieth century—it was downright dead. Compared with what we have now, there wasn’t any traffic to speak of. Especially in Krakow. Especially on Syrokomla Street. Especially at night. Which was all the worse, since it seemed to me that, in the absolute silence, you could even hear when I lifted my bed cover. The main acoustic obstacle to going out onto the balcony was the drapes, which were hanging from metal curtain rods. At the least touch, the tin hooks to which they were attached made a crunching noise, like the tracks of an accelerating tank.