the hall, one night after I went to bed. He sounded drunk, slurring his responses. She was sharp and insistent. I don’t know what he was trying to do, but she wouldn’t let him into my room. She said, “Powiem Mikolaj!” which I’m pretty sure means, “I’ll tell Mikolaj.”
If I escape while Klara is supposed to be guarding me, they might punish her. I know they cut off fingers willy-nilly around here. I can’t let that happen to Klara.
So I head back to the east wing, thinking I’ll find a new book in the library. I’ve been ransacking both the little reading room in my wing, and also the larger library on the main floor.
Put together, there are thousands of books for me to read: fiction and non-fiction, classics and contemporary novels. Most of the books are in English, but there are French novels and German poetry, and a copy of Don Quixote in the original two-part Spanish set.
Someone here must be adding to the collection, because there are plenty of Polish translations, and also native works like Lalka and Choucas, which I read in one of my literature courses.
I’m missing all my classes at school. All my dance classes, too. It’s strange to think of my classmates walking around campus, studying and handing in assignments as usual, while I’m locked in suspended animation. It feels like I’ve been here for years, though it’s only been two weeks.
If it goes on much longer, I won’t be able to catch up. I’ll fail the whole semester.
Of course, if the Beast kills me, it won’t matter that I missed school.
I hunt through the smaller reading room, running my fingers down the dusty spines. The Age of Innocence, 1984, Catch-22, The Doll . . .
I pause. The Doll is the English translation of Lalka.
I pull it off the shelf, flipping through the pages. Then I tuck the little book under my arm and run back down to the main level, where I search the shelves for the original Polish version. There it is—the hardcover of Lalka, with its leather binding embossed in floral print. Now I have the same book in both languages.
My heart is racing from the run, and the excitement of what I’ve found. I take the books back up to my room, laying down on my bed to examine them. I set them side by side, opening each to the first chapter:
Early in 1878, when the political world was concerned with the treaty of San Stefano, the election of a new Pope, and the chances of a European war, Warsaw businessmen and the intelligentsia who frequented a certain spot in the Krakowskie Przedmieście were no less keenly interested in the future of the haberdashery firm of J. Mincel and S. Wokulski.
There it is: the same paragraph in English, and then again in Polish. I can read through sentence by sentence, comparing the two. It’s not quite as good as a language textbook, but it’s the next best thing. Pages and pages of sentences I can compare to learn vocabulary and syntax.
Polish is a damned hard language, I already know that from talking with Klara. Some of the sounds are so similar that I can barely distinguish them, like “ś” and “sz.” Not to mention its use of a case system, and the near-opposite word order, compared to English.
Still, I have all the time in the world to work on it.
I lay on my bed for most of the day, working my way through the first chapter of the book in both languages. Eventually I stop, when my eyes are aching and my head is swimming.
Just as I’m closing the books, Klara comes into my room, carrying my dinner tray. I stuff the books hastily under my pillow, in case she notices what I’m up to.
“Dobry wieczór,” I say. Good evening.
She gives me that short flash of a smile while she sets my tray down on the table.
“Dobry wieczór,” she replies, with much better pronunciation.
“Where is everyone?” I ask her, in Polish. Actually, what I say is “Gdzie mężczyźni?” or “Where men?” but let’s use the intent of the sentence, and ignore the fact that I have the verbal complexity of a caveman.
Klara understands me well enough. She gives a quick glance toward the doorway, like she thinks they might come home any second. Then she shakes her head, saying, “Nie wiem.” I don’t know.
Maybe she really doesn’t know. I doubt Mikolaj gives his maid a copy of his schedule. But