LITMIR.BIZ

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Wieniawski you’ll have to wait.”

      “A miser,” he thought. “I know the kind. I won’t make a buck off him, anyway. If he wants to wait for Wieniawski, so much the better.”

      Błażej took no offense. Slowly, he began to feel a bit more sure of himself. Crossing the threshold had been the worst of it. “I know that man from somewheres,” he thought, looking at Stefański bent over the papers on his desk.

      “You’re just from the old country?”

      The organist gave a start. “Why?”

      “Nothing. Just thought maybe you came over a short while ago.”

      “It shows, huh? Do I look different?”

      “You talk different. Where did you come from?”

      “Warsaw.” He sighed. “Just sit there and wait. I’m busy.”

      Błażej turned away, but he did not sit down. He was standing against the map on the wall, his shoulders hunched, his hand exploring his pocket to see if the letter was still there.

      “When did you come over here?”

      “Anything else you’d like to know? Why don’t you mind your own business?”

      “Seems to me like you must be that new organist over at St. Agnes . . . .”

      “So what?”

      “Nothing. Heard people say he came over recently.”

      “Can’t you stop talking? I got work to do.”

      The truth was that Stefański—the Party’s prize pupil, the pride of the People’s Republic, the flower of the new communist elite, the respected and admired official—had chosen freedom.

      Błażej took out a half-smoked cigar, stuck it between his false teeth, smacked his lips, and lit it up.

      “Well, then . . . How are things over there now?”

      Stefański looked at him with bloodshot eyes. “Can’t you see I’m working? How can they be? Bad.”

      “It’s better over here?”

      “If only I could, I’d go back. I’d just as soon leave the United States. What sort of life can one have here? . . .”

      Wieniawski walked in briskly. “You want to see me?” He glanced at Błażej. “Just a moment, I’ll be right with you. One second.”

      Without taking off his coat, he went inside, behind a plywood partition that separated the attorney’s office.

      “Where is Dekrocki?” he called out. “Mr. Stefański, hasn’t Dekrocki been here at all?”

      “No, sir, he hasn’t been here today.”

      “Where in blazes does he keep himself? Why doesn’t he mind the shop?”

      Hanging up his hat and coat and inveighing loudly, Wieniawski turned an angry red.

      “That’s the American sense of duty for you, that’s the kind of responsibility . . . .”

      A shadow loomed up behind him—the organist was bigger and taller than Wieniawski—and leaned over him: “Mr. Wieniawski . . . sh . . . sh . . . sh . . . you’re talking too much and too loudly. No use cursing. The walls have ears . . . .”

      “There you go again, Mr. Stefański. I’ve told you time and again that it’s a free country here.”

      “I have already heard . . . I’m warning you as a friend. Anyway, do you know who that man may be? That one, over there, the one who’s been waiting for you?”

      “Mr. Stefański, over here we are . . . ,” began Wieniawski. But then he changed his mind and only shrugged.

      “The client . . . that’s right,” he said. “I’m coming right away.”

      “I can wait,” said Błażej. He took the letter from his pocket, smoothed it out with the back of his hand. “Bastards,” he muttered, “Damned vooltures . . . .”

      “What can I do for you?” Błażej’s tired face seemed gray behind the screen of his cigar smoke. He hid behind it. Wieniawski looked at him closely—and saw nothing but the eyes of the stranger, two headlights of a car lost in the fog.

      “An old-timer,” thought Wieniawski. “He wants to send a parcel to the old country.”

      Safe behind his cigar, yet lost in the smoke screen, Błażej appraised the man before him. “Who’s he like?” he thought. “He reminds me of someone . . . .” But there had been too many people in Błażej’s long life to remember, and it was too tiresome to think.

      “Can you read a letter in Polish?” he asked suspiciously.

      “Sure.”

      “And how much would you want for reading it?”

      “For reading a letter?” Wieniawski was surprised. “Nothing.”

      A spring afternoon was marching up Broad Street from the bay. It did not smell of leaves and freshly turned soil, but of fish from the market stalls and humid wind. Swatches of sun lay on the sidewalk outside the travel office windows. Once more, Błażej smoothed the letter with the back of his hand, as if wanting to erase the beer stains. Reluctantly, warily, he pushed the letter toward Wieniawski. And immediately he moved his big body and leaned over to watch intently while Wieniawski was reading the letter, scanning his face suspiciously all the while.

      “Well, what is it she wants?” he asked at last. “Why is she writing?” he asked, even though he knew already what was in the letter. “Can you read it? Can you make it out?”

      Wieniawski looked up.

      “She writes that the government wants to take over that piece of land you inherited from your father; they want to take it over for the state . . . .”

      “I know that. What else?”

      “If you know, then why . . . .”

      A gust of wind blew through the suddenly opened door. Attorney Dekrocki walked in. “It’s high time you showed up, Antek,” called Wieniawski. “You were to be in court at one o’clock, That’s a fine way to act.”

      Dekrocki was a jovial man, fond of a good meal like the one he had just finished.

      “Never mind,” he muttered.

      “My respects, sir,” bowed Stefański.

      Dekrocki made his way past Błażej and around Stefański.

      “Blowing like the dickens out there,” he said, “On the corner it nearly blew me off my feet.” He went behind the partition. Błażej moved uneasily.

      “What else does it say there?” he pressed.

      “If you already know, why do you ask?”

      “Go on, read it, don’t get your dander up. But we must hurry, I need your advice!”

      “About what?”

      “So they won’t take that land away.”

      “Well, let’s see now,” mused Wieniawski. “We could save it, I suppose, if you ceded your rights to your niece.”

      “To Gienia?”

      “That’s right. To Gienia. She writes that we have ten days in which to do something. We would have to go to the embassy right away and certify that you made a gift of that land to Gienia. Then we’d have to wire her one hundred dollars, like she says.”

      “How much will all this come to?” fretted Błażej.

      “Of course, there’ll be some additional expenses. But perhaps you don’t want to give that land to your niece? Not that you’ll ever have any use for . . . .”

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