Swimming in the Dark - Tomasz Jedrowski Page 0,40

just below the window. I recognised the composition as one by Komeda, maybe from the soundtrack for Knife in the Water – tempting, chaotic, then languid. My mind listened to the story of the notes as my eyes wandered the crowd until they landed on you.

It was as if someone had turned off the music, like an electric shock in my mind. You and your perfectly shaven face, turned towards her, her earlobe between your fingers. Her long earrings reflecting the light in all the colours of the spectrum. A rush went through my belly like a snake. You moved together to the music, you holding her and her holding you. Her hands were on your shoulder, her painted fingernails flashing in the light, her long skirt shifting with the music. This is an image I cannot forget: your hands around her waist, your fingers sinking into the fabric of her skirt. They looked settled there, and I was struck by the tenderness in your eyes. I watched you both as if you were a pair of strangers. I tried to tell myself that it didn’t mean anything, that it wasn’t real. And yet I could no longer look at you without feeling absolutely drained of any power. I got to my feet, feeling light-headed, my vision blurred for a moment. I walked home, my heart beating twice for every step I took.

I guess you never knew that I saw you that night. Do you remember the music? Do you remember her earrings? Are there things you’ve forgotten, or things I’ve missed out? My memory has its limits, of course. It may colour in the blanks without admitting to it, dramatise or revise. I guess there is no photographic memory for emotions. But this is my truth right now, for better or worse.

I left work early today. The flat was a mess, so I tidied up. Here it is beginning to grow cold, but it’s still mild for the season. In the mornings it’s best to wear a coat, but the midday sun is strong and on the avenues of Midtown businessmen take off their suit jackets during lunchtime, their white shirts glistening in the winter light, their gym-trained asses pushing against the fabric of their trousers as they move purposefully down the street. Not like at home, where by now people must be wrapped in scarves and hats. I bet the air is already sharp, stings your face. I remember that cold, the merciless crisp cold of Warszawa in December. And for a moment it feels like I am there among the smell of diesel and burning coal, the long broad avenues with the Palace of Culture looming over us, you beside me. Of course I still see them here, the Poles, in the streets of Greenpoint, buying their poppy-seed cakes and pierogi and twaróg cheese. I spot them a mile off. So easily. Like recognising like. But the ones that come here are different – they have hope in their eyes, just as I did when I arrived. They are awake.

I switched on the TV at ten o’clock. A speech by Reagan, images of some space shuttle, Muhammad Ali falling to the ground in the ring. Then the image behind the presenter changed to a white-and-red flag and my insides turned weightless. ‘Martial law continues in Poland,’ said the lady with her bleached teeth and wide-shouldered blazer.

‘Despite the expulsion of foreign journalists, we have evidence that the Polish Army has stationed tanks and thousands of troops in the five largest cities across the country in response to a wave of protests. Experts say this move shows the government’s desire to solve the crisis without the help of the Kremlin, in an attempt to avoid an escalation of violence. Despite this, the Soviets’ military bases in Poland remain on call.’

A photo filled the screen for a moment, showing a tank parked on a snowy square, a couple of soldiers climbing out of its hatch. Right behind them a building I recognised with a pang of nostalgia – the Moskwa, a cinema where Karolina and I used to go sometimes. But most remarkable: the poster that hung above the tank, Apocalypse Now in bloody red type, the new film by Coppola. For a moment the absurdity of it filled my throat, threatened to suffocate me. All these years they’d let us watch foreign films, allowing us glimpses of the world across the Wall, of freedoms we didn’t have. Did they