I Loved, When She Departed by Anna Augustyniak

Translated from the Polish by Danusia Stok

I loved him, I looked at my mother. Did she understand? She didn’t turn her head, didn’t lift
her eyelids. She was going through something. I loved him, I tried a second time. He loved
me too, you know? No response, mother was busy dying. When someone is busy dying,
they don’t have time for other things. Now I know. Then, it seemed there was still time for
everything. Talk to her, pounded in my head. Do you remember how much he meant to me?
You were with me right from the start, from the day I went to see him. I arrived an hour
early. It was a good thing I wore that blue sheepskin. Snow crunched beneath my feet. I
walked up and down in front of his house and when, at eight in the evening, I climbed the
stairs, he shouted: One can set one’s watch by you, you’re so punctual. I had bought a
sunflower with me. No idea why. It had these large, yellow petals. I found one on the stairs
on my way out. It was like a spent tear. I didn’t feel like crying. Maybe a little, with
happiness. I returned in a taxi like Cinderella in a pumpkin carriage. Blurred streetlights in
my eyes. They were my stars, which had suddenly sparkled when Amad kissed me. He sunk
his tongue into me without a word. And I ran away. You know why, mum? My mother said
something. Not to me. I took a risk: Really, mum? She confirmed. She was in some other
world. They brought some fruit compote. I gave it to her, spoonful by spoonful, so she
wouldn’t choke. See how it smells of ripe sour cherries. She made a move, as though
smelling it. She did it for me. Still demonstrating that she was with me. Not I with her, but
she with me. She no longer opened her eyes but she didn’t need to. We communicated more
through murmurs anyway. Besides, she never opened her eyes again before dying.

A flower appeared on your skin, mum. A deathlike rose blossomed on the left side of your
neck. As though you had had a tattoo. It was even pretty. We looked at it in detail, my sister
and I. She touched it with her finger. Nobody else paid the rose any attention. Everybody
was watching your lips, wanting you to smile. Wanting you to tell them that you were no
longer in pain, that you felt better. They wanted to feel relief. That’s why they had come, to
be comforted. My sister wanted to hold on to you: If she could lie in the coffin like that, I’d
visit her every day, caress her and do her hair. I’ve brought a brush and some hairspray. We
started to comb your hair. It wasn’t easy because your hair was dirty, someone had soaked it
in something sticky. But my sister insisted. She combed your fringe, put stray locks behind
your ears then released them, while I sprayed lacquer from a distance. Cover her eyes, I said
and immediately it flashed through my mind that lacquer doesn’t sting the eyes of those who
are dead. But my sister held both hands tightly over your eyes.

I dreamt of you again. Ever since you died, you’ve been with me every night. Maybe I’m
the one who’s not letting you go?

She was my whole life, said my sister. Now I no longer have anything. You have
everything, Amad used to say to me, you’ve got me. I was radiant then, although I didn’t
really have anything. All that was mine were words. I liked them, constantly hungered for
them.

I’m coming to see you. What kind of you? My father says that it’s raining again and
everything’s falling on you. What does that matter, I reply with feigned indifference. What
does it matter to you, mum? I didn’t protect you. Allowed all this. I didn’t scream, there
were no tears. A trumpet was playing while I stared at the surrounding hundred-year-old
oaks and pine forest. The call of birds filled the space between branches. Somehow it was so
dense despite the young leaves. The sun shone through. Fine and pleasant. Shall I tell you
all this, or do you already know? Before they lowered the coffin into the grave, I looked to
see what awaited you. A hiding place, as for an animal or Jew. A hollow, lined
with concrete. It’s now that we have to hide you? But you’re beautiful. Father boasted that,
wherever you went, you stood out. They say that about me, too, although I am only a little
like you. Bold and abrasive. I have your amazing legs and long, black hair. Except you
styled yours like Brigitte Bardot or, maybe, Sophia Loren, I don’t know anymore. I can
imagine you poring over their photographs. What could you know about the world then. You
cut photographs out and stuck them down between recipes for deep-fried biscuits and sponge
cakes. You dragged the huge notebook with you all your life, from house to house. The
yellowed pages are crumbling, the stains left by greasy fingers have smudged your lettering,
but Bardot with her full hips still poses sexily for what must now be half a century. My
mother between black covers of thick cardboard. I did not want to be like you at all; into my
scrapbooks I stuck stories about African animals.

I watched you gasping for air. You needed oxygen. No, it’s better not to give her any
otherwise she won’t die, I thought. And death was already lying in wait. The one from
Beksiński’s painting. I used to dream of having it up on my wall. Now it has crawled under
your bed. Kneeling in front of you, eyes bound in a bloodied bandage. It’s going to take you
away from me, I know that, I just don’t know when. Yet, in spite of that, I want to stroke it.
Not so as to tame it, simply as a gesture of gratitude for standing over you, too. See, mummy
dear, you can keep dying as long as you like. Barely panting, but not alone. Well, without
oxygen because why go on promising you life, why connect you to the world. Free, you were
passing away completely free.

Do spirits of the deceased respond to cries for help? Mum! Mum! It is not true that you’re
not here. You cannot not be, after all you have always been. You are my beginning. I
cannot go any further without your eyes holding me. No one else but Amad could look at me
like that. He would light a cigarette and sink his eyes into me. I blew at the smoke but
he grimaced and muttered: Stop it, nothing’s going to happen to you. He scrutinised me. I
loved the way he looked at me. I squirmed like a little girl, tensed like a woman. He was
evaluating me. I would have done anything to get top marks. I even stopped breathing. I
was a sculpture which never lowers its eyes. Waiting for Amad to turn away.

There are traces of hands in my garden. You stroked the euonymus and laughed when I
didn’t let you prune the branches. But shrubs like it, you said and formed ball after ball from
boxwood. They grew back unevenly; they waited for you in autumn. You didn’t come. They
continued waiting after winter. Spring passed. The magnolias didn’t blossom. The roses
overgrew with thorns. The crown imperials bowed their empty chalices. Where is mother,
who nurtured the catkins on the willows and the Himalayan wallichiana pinus tree with its
long, soft needles faintly coated in wax? Now its skin is covered with a layer of wax as
though stopping what remained of life from evaporating. Where is mother, now it is I who
ask. She’s dead, go and fetch somebody, says my sister. Whom? Whomever. Excuse me
madame, I think my mother has just died.

I always had a few pills of morphine in my jeans. In the event of sudden pain, I could
quickly give you one. But you weren’t very willing. You wriggled out of swallowing your
next dose. I have to see how much my system can take, you repeated, one shouldn’t give up
so easily, pain has to be controlled. Does control mean suffering, curling up in spasms and
screaming into the pillow? Why are you doing this, I asked. Go away, you said.

Her eyes. With black patches on the irises. Green or hazelnut? I have to recall their hue.
It’s hard, which is why I search for it in photographs. Is it possible that their colour could alter
so much? As though each photographer gave them his own tone. Or maybe it was clothes
that changed her eyes. They grew lighter when she wore beiges or creams. Filled with
warmth next to browns. But when she drank cognac, they dulled. No, first fear disappeared
so that mother’s eyes began to sparkle. Only later, when the bottle was nearly empty, did
they dull. For me, she died at those moments. She would stand the last glass of cognac by her
bed. Usually, the little glass just stood there and stood, while she slept. She never drank stale
alcohol later. Besides, she had a rule: the following day she would refuse whatever the
occasion. No, thank you, I always heard. I would run after her with the bottle; she would
turn her head away with repulsion. She would look at me as at a child who, without
understanding, was playing with adult objects. And she took offence at being photographed
with a glass in hand. I used to do it on purpose, waiting for the moment when she would part
her lips, pour the cognac down and grimace. That’s what I was looking for. But you don’t
like the taste, I would say, so why drink? Just like your father, you replied, you don’t even
know how to have fun.

God, who hath created heaven and earth and deceived me, death is not life. Since my mother
died forever, amen, I no longer believe you. I don’t give a shit for the rewards of martyrdom
and for meat which is raised from the dead. I want my worldly mother.

You said you heard music. What’s happening to my head, you asked. I wanted to pretend
that I heard it too, but I couldn’t. I, who had almost become an actress. Come closer, girl, let
your hair down. She looks more feminine straightaway, doesn’t she, rector? “Apart—but one remembers the other, Between us flies the white dove of sorrow Continually carrying
news…” No, it doesn’t go like that, said Amad, listen: “In every place, and at each time of
day, Where once we played, or where once we had wept, Everywhere, ever, with you I shall
stay – There, then, a part of my soul I had left.” And he was with me. And you were always
there where he was, with me.

Your body was fermenting, while I prayed to God, the three-in-one. Once, I spoke to him all
night. I wanted to hear: I am here who am. I wanted to hear: I will be here with you who
will be here with you. Yahweh, I needed neither manna nor quails. I sought a power which
would open my mother’s stomach. Who was I then that spoke your name with mortal lips?
Until you said: Still your pain, daughter. You were the God of my father, I listened to you.

Or else you’ll become a hunter, you laughed at me. Miss Hunter, Amad called me. Yes, I
wanted to dig something up from my head. From the fantasies with which I lived. Miss
Fantasist.

Has the cancer gone there with you? The son-of-a-whore.

The brain is short of oxygen, the lady doctor said, the convulsions have already started. I
never imagined it to be like this. In films, dying is always dignified. One can cry and hold
out a hand in farewell. Your hands were wrung by the convulsions. You flung yourself
around on the bed. Mum, you don’t have to get up, lie down a little longer, I said. With
difficulty, you lie down again. Apparently your ethereal body was retreating from you. You
can see it in the eyes, but yours were closed all the time. I looked around at the walls.
Maybe those little holes were scraped out by others who were dying? Didn’t they believe
that they’d penetrate the wall anyway? I touched your fingers. They were only a little older
than mine. I remember how you used to keep injuring them when washing glasses.

But what if she’s not dead? She’s definitely dead, said my sister. She hasn’t moved since
Saturday. It’s only the third day, I thought. I knew she wasn’t playing with us at pretending.
She wouldn’t know how to act in a comedy. She is lying motionless, as though the end of the
world has come. For mother’s body, this was the end of the world. She had crossed death
into a new life. What life, she’s lying there like a log. I’m cold, mum. I’m kneeling on the
floor. Get up, your knees will catch cold. It’s best you sit down. I’m cold. It has to be cold
for mum and the others. Don’t be frightened of her, I hear father’s voice, you don’t have to
touch her at all if you don’t want to. I wouldn’t touch her for the life of me. So you are
afraid. No, I’m just disgusted. Ah, yes.

She’s ready. She’s got gold rings on her fingers. In her right-hand pocket, a medallion
woven from silver thread. Inside are miniature photographs. Three little heads. We will be
with you wherever you go. We won’t leave you alone, I think. I lower my eyes as the lid
covers your face. I don’t try to cram anything into the coffin. It might seem I’m made of
stone. But I’m made from her, from her body. Even our bellies are identical. And that
similar absence of shame. It comes from indifference. Anybody can touch us.

The coffin stands in the middle. You are lying with your back to the angels in the picture.
Where are you, mum. It’s good she’s not suffering anymore, somebody says. There, look
how she’s smiling. I get up and see that you’re smiling. You’ve betrayed me. Our serial was
never supposed to come to an end.

She is looking at monkeys again, my father is furious. If the monkeys are there when I come
in the morning, you won’t get any breakfast, says my sister, give yourself a break, at least
over the weekends. Illusory monkeys which menstruate every four weeks. Rhesuses with
strong facial muscles and complicated facial expressions, which recognise their reflection in
the mirror. What were you looking for in their world, mum? The same as was in yours?
Infantine swamp monkeys. You took care of us possessively. The course in life lessons was
not wasted. We are strong and very well trained. You even gave us freedom but made sure
we did not leave your body. You had two embryos to the very end.

You are in a new reality. So what’s it like there, mum, with no bad spirits? At the beginning
of Mass, along with the angels and heavenly hosts, everybody sang, asking God to absolve
you of sins. What sins, I thought and pretended to sing. You’re pure, transparent. Before
you died, a Eucharistic minister came with the oleum infirmorum. I didn’t know how to
behave, should I leave the oil on your forehead? Because you immediately wiped it off your
hands. I was scared of touching it with a handkerchief, cleansing away its healing power.
This was already the second time you were anointed. I thought it was a sin. Maybe that’s
good, you would have something to your name, some little matters, prisoner of the body. You
sin in thought, another priest said one day, sitting in your armchair, but he absolved the
thoughts. You remember? He was talking about the sacrament in which God brushes against
a person’s skin. Timidly. The touch had to be tender because you were so clearly suffering.
I wanted a sign that you’d felt the finger of God. But nothing happened. Only pain. Your
consecrated pain. You lie like an effigy in van der Weyden’s painting. I looked for the
scene a long time. The figures in their enchanted positions. Like us. A game played out
between the living. You on the threshold of something. I in silent dread of it taking place.
“Through this holy anointing may the Lord in His love and mercy help you with the grace of
the Holy Spirit. May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up.
Amen.” Amen, I said.

You wandered through Nałkowska’s rooms, looked out of the window: Here’s where yuccas
could flower. You dug some out of your garden and brought them. Leaves like the swords of
palm in rosette form. Flowers on a three-metre long pole. A plume of cream-coloured bells.
The flowerbeds soaked up the sweet aroma. It was as a complete woman ought to be. And
only the head satiated with after-images. My head and yours. Whom did you love most?
What do you mean whom? My husband. Mother gazes at her reflection in the mirror.
Clumsily, she tries to tidy her hair. She assures me and herself: My husband, of course.
Tomorrow she will already be dead. She is still so beautiful that she could lie in a coffin with
a glass lid. All the more so as she will be wearing her cream blouse and pearl-buttoned
cardigan. Father says to dress her in her black or navy-blue suit. Like Aunty Dotty, I think.
Like they dressed Nałka. But she was about seventy, who would dress her in a polka-dot
frock? She’s got to have what she liked, says my sister, and we start to take knickers, bras
and tights out of the wardrobe. Not black at all. I watch my sister lay everything out on the
bed. As though packing mother’s bag for a holiday. There won’t be any more holidays. A
long dying of summer. Withered trees. That’s what lies ahead of us. You didn’t like
autumn. But I do. I used to wallow in leaves up to my ankles. Closed my eyes in rapture.
The rustle, crunch, decay. Is that why you raked the lawns around Nałkowska’s house? I did
it so as to be close to literature, I was fifteen. You nodded, amused. The other I from the house
on the meadows senses within herself the ability to reject all dogma. Later, I will also turn
away from God. Because of Amad, the first man in my life. But I’ll refuse when he wants
me to conceive his child so as to pass original sin on to it.

They cut your breast off, like St Barbara’s. Apparently God is very greedy for pain.
Apparently pain is punishment for sin. What did you have to be punished for? Saint
Amazon. Celestial better half. Proud woman, look around. See? You liked to come here.
Once a year, they opened the wooden gates to the three Renaissance altars of St Barbara. You
keep a photograph of the larch sanctuary in a casket. The presbytery facing east. That is
where Christ is to appear from. You were already waiting for his second coming then. So
don’t be surprised that persecutions had to be suffered in his name. I remember how you
showed me the sentenced breast. It was January. And how, without a word of complaint,
you showed me the place where the full breast with its pinkish nipple had once been. In
February. Did Christ take your misery upon himself? Or was it you who, attenuating for the
sins of the world, carried his cross? You were half resurrected with a pearl coloured scar
which changed colours when the sun fell on it. And with every year that passed, it kept on
shrinking. You said: Look, it’s disappearing, merging into the skin as though it was trying to
erase any trace of what used to be there. Mother, flat as a boy. And you, enchanting Barbara,
whose breast was torn out with iron talons. Succour of the dying. Patron of the graveyard. I
call you as the tempest rages within me. I peer into the eye sockets of your skull. Closed
within the reliquary as in a crown. And my mother’s head imprisoned in a coffin of knarled
wood.

We laughed when you got words wrong. You gazed at the dusty cabinet and said:
Everything’s covered in cream. Or: We’ve got to go and beg in the shop. You observed us
carefully as we fell about laughing. It was the same when we were children; a wiggle of the
finger was enough for us to make each other giggle as though wound up. Gigglers, you
called us then. When sounds terrified you, we called the doctor. We need to increase the
steroids. So we did. Look, we still want to laugh. You’ve died, and we can still laugh.
I couldn’t tell you about my best lover. I didn’t have the courage. Only in my dreams did I
confess to you that Amad took me from the back. This is what happened. We were going to
Lavender for lunch. He turned on the stairs and shouted: How beautiful you are! God, how I
fancy you, I’ve got to screw you. He caught me by the hand and pulled me into the
apartment. I gave in. Besides I was excited, because, in Lavender, he was going to tell me
whether I was going to become his wife. He needed three days to think it over. Later, we ate
fish and the sun was shining. In the evening, I called to tell you all about it. As usual, I
couldn’t.

Your red hair is sparkling on the brush. That’s how it’ll stay. What was it like to the touch?
I can’t remember. I washed and combed it before you died, but I’ve forgotten everything.
Even your Boo Boo fringe, as my sister and I called it when you used to come back from the
hairdresser. About your skin, I know everything. What it was like. Well, no, I didn’t touch
you needlessly. You didn’t like that. After all, there was no question of any familiarity.
Even in kissing you would offer one cheek then the other, as in the Bible. Your entire last
day, I coated your lips with lipstick as though I’d gone mad. Premortal fever burned your
lips. I painted and you puffed out your lips, created bumps and waves. You pouted. I could
see that it made you laugh, making you beautiful like that. Normally, if you had been able to
speak, you certainly wouldn’t have concealed your irritation. You kept losing consciousness;
that protected me. Maybe I even stroked your hair. I’m trying to find some memories. But
there is no image within me. As though I had never laid my hands on your head. Only once
you had died did I nestle into your neck and kiss your hair, wind it around my fingers and
whisper in your ear: Mum, mum.

Anna Augustyniak is a prolific print and radio journalist, biographer, and poet. Among her
many awards and honors are the 2015 “Złoty Środek Poezji” award for the best poetic debut
of the year and a fellowship from the Polish Ministry of Culture and National Heritage. Her
poetry, fiction, and nonfiction have been translated into Romanian, Russian, Serbian,
Spanish, Ukrainian, Hebrew, Turkish, Belarusian, Slovenian, and German. Anna
Augustyniak lives in Warsaw, Poland.

Danusia Stok was born and educated in England. She is the editor of Kieslowski on
Kieslowski, and has translated, among other authors, The Trilogy by K. Kieslowski
and K. Piesiewicz, I Remember Nothing More by Alina Blady-Szwajger, The
Journals of a White Sea Wolf by Mariusz Wilk, The Witcher and The Blood of Elves
by Andrzej Sapkowski, Death in Breslau, The End of the World in Breslau,
Phantoms of Breslau and The Head of the Minotaur by Marek Krajewski, Illegal
Liaisons by Grażyna Plebanek, and Polichrome by Joanna Jodełka.