Swimming in the Dark - Tomasz Jedrowski Page 0,33

come that very day. ‘Have a seat.’ He closed the book he was reading, slipping a pen between the pages. ‘You’ve come because of the doctorate, isn’t that right?’ He smiled knowingly.

I nodded. ‘Yes, Professor.’

‘You want to do it, then?’

He looked at me intently, almost too directly. It made me feel see-through.

‘Yes, Professor,’ I said, this time a little less assured.

‘Good.’ He smiled and leaned back, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes as if he was wiping something away. ‘You know what you’re getting yourself into?’

I hesitated. ‘Not really, sir.’ He laughed, deep and bearish. ‘But I want to try.’

‘That’s the right attitude.’ He leaned forward and put his chunky arms on the desk, his fingertips touching one another. ‘Because I cannot guarantee anything, you see. Ultimately, the board needs to accept your proposal, and they’re a tough bunch.’ He turned sideways in his chair, bent over, rummaged in a drawer. Finally, he pulled out a thin stack of papers. ‘Here, fill these out. And bring me a proposal by the end of the week. We’ll look it over together.’

Before he handed me the papers, he threw a careful look at the door, then back to me. He spoke with a lowered voice, a sort of thought-through whisper.

‘I need hardly tell you what the conditions are. Something that won’t be too upsetting, you see.’ He made a wave-like gesture with his hand. ‘Nothing controversial. Nothing remotely anti-socialist, no whiff of pro-Westernism, my dear. Recently they’ve been getting increasingly nervous about that sort of thing.’

‘I understand,’ I said, taking the papers from him.

We shook hands and I turned to leave.

‘And Ludwik?’

I turned back around. He was looking at me with almost paternal concern.

‘Make sure it’s good. Alright? There are other candidates. I want you to get this.’

I nodded and left his office, shutting the door behind me with trembling hands. Standing in the empty corridor, I let out a deep breath.

I walked home slowly. The air was suffocating. The sky was grey, and sticky wind blew through the streets, swirling up dust. The few people around looked hurried, caught inside their own minds even more than usual, their faces like masks. I was relieved to get home. Pani Kolecka wasn’t there. I sat and took out the papers the professor had given me. My head was empty but I started anyway, placed pen to paper. I forced myself to think. I didn’t really want this, but neither did I want to let it slip away. I had nothing else, no other path. And there was a certain pleasure in doing what I had not allowed myself before, a satisfaction in the forbidden, a challenge. I knew what I really wanted to write about, the book that had moved me more than anything, more than any book before. But I also knew I couldn’t write about Giovanni’s Room. It had never been published in Poland. I wasn’t even supposed to know about it. But I had read Baldwin’s other stories. They dealt mostly with the Negro in American society, of his discrimination and shunning. I could see its relevance, could see how it exposed the double standards of the West, how it showed racism and white supremacy behind the liberalism and democracy extolled by the capitalist powers. At the same time, of course, I could identify. I carried my difference, my shame, on the inside. It wasn’t visible – not to everyone straight away, at least – but it was there, and it was a danger. That’s what I began to write about.

I remembered what I’d read about Malcolm X, about his friendship with Baldwin, and his struggle, his radical views on oppression and self-defence. I wrote furiously, my body dissolving, my head spinning, losing all sense of time.

The keys turned in the lock, and Pani Kolecka stood in the door. I was struck by how short she was, how dwarfed by the size of her shopping net, which I took from her and placed on the kitchen counter.

‘Thank you, dear,’ she said, removing her beret. ‘The queues are getting longer. Or my legs are getting weaker. But I managed to get meat.’ She smiled her small smile that came through her eyes. ‘It’s a miracle.’

A moment later potatoes were boiling and I sat at the table, grating carrots.

‘Let’s be happy,’ she said, taking the meat out of its stained grey paper and placing it on to the counter. ‘If things continue this way, any kotlet might be our last.’