Fragment książki

CHAPTER ONEŁ I
The Interview
**

“He wasn’t simply a human. There was something extraordinary about him, something noble.”

“Namely?”

“He could perfectly discern the human soul with his motives, and he saw what’s unseen with his bare eye. He could penetrate your mind.”

“How did you meet him?”

“As far as I remember, it all started one winter night… yes, for sure it was winter. I was walking along, looking at the colorfully adorned shopping windows. The street was extremely loud and lively — typical Christmas fever. People buying last-minute gifts, merry Christmas wishes, and so on. You can picture the scene, can’t you?”

“Sure, just as it is every other year.”

“Merry Christmas wishes felt so empty and meaningless. I was there, but somehow not present. I was devastated, and there was a tremendous sadness within me. In the middle of nowhere, and without any sense, it seemed like I went through all the bad feelings I could ever imagine: pain, misery and disappointment. Stooped as usual, shuffling my sneakers along the pavement with my hood on. I was just wandering around to nowhere, to the senseless world, without faith in humanity. I was mad, angry, and the whole world looked like a nightmare. I’d call myself a rebel that time.”

“What made you feel so low? I guess you were a young man back then.”

“Right, young… I was just twenty three. It might sound trivial, but I was in need —”

“In need of what?”

“In need of love… Yeah, I would put it this way now. But let’s get back to that day. So, wandering about I saw an older man. His age and infirmities were consuming him. But there was something in the way he was moving. Proudly, steadily, with grace according to his age, using his long, mahogany cane with horse-carved ending. At that point something came to my mind: how is it possible that this sick, old man is so proud holding his head up high, and I… though I’m young, I’ve lost meaning in my life. “It was so intrigued by him, so I decided to learn more about what gave that old man such power. I’ve followed him. He lived in an aged tenement-house. As I was staring at that house, and light switched on, I saw white, attic walls with its yellow rays. After that I used to go and observe him. I don’t know why. I guess it was the only purpose in my life back then.”

“Watching somebody is kinda weird. Why didn’t you just talk to him?”

“Well, yeah, it was a bit strange. But what was I supposed to say? ‘I was so interested in your life that I decided to follow you, and stare at your windows every day?’ Noo… I was too shy. But something unexpected happened. At least in my opinion. One day this man stopped me. You can just imagine how shocked I was. He’d known all along what I was doing. “’Why do you follow me?’ he muttered harshly, glaring at me. I totally didn’t know what to say, so I began to stammer. He turned around, walked a few steps and stopped. Standing still he finally asked, ‘You’re going to stand there all day? Come on, we’ll have a cup of tea. My bones are freezing today.’ “So, that’s how it all started. Later I was the most frequent, and I guess, the only guest in his house. I loved listening to his stories. He was different; he never judged me as others used to. After several years I figured it out. He had a goal. He was teaching me what’s right and wrong, but he never imposed on me what I suppose to do. He was the first person I ever opened up to — he knew everything about me. “Once, I wanted to tell him what happened to me the previous day. I knocked on his door, but he wasn’t there. After a while his neighbor, Ms. Sophie — gray-haired, older woman, extremely nice — told me with her mild voice that Mr. Ivanovich is not there anymore. Most likely he moved away. “I couldn’t understand anything. How could he?! How could he leave without saying a word. It didn’t make any sense. I stopped dead. My mind couldn’t bear it. Yesterday we were talking as usual, and now… I felt like someone hit me so hard I couldn’t move. Then finally, I realized that I lost my best and only friend, the one I knew nothing about. “A few days later I received a letter… I guess the first one in my life, or actually, it was a tiny package wrapped in manila. You can imagine how surprised I was when I saw that my friend left his diary for me. Thanks to that gift I could know him better, learn about his life, and understand myself more. It was amazing to have some more time with that great man. Now, I’d like to pass this diary to you. I hope the story of that unique human being, the person I loved so much, will interest you as much as me.”

“Well, that’s why we’re here. So, tell us please, what exactly was Peter occupied with?”

“Fine, let me tell you his story based on his own diary…”

CHAPTER ONEŁ II

Anna

Accra

I like going to work early, before anyone else comes. My office is quite cozy. I designed it myself, and it turned out just as I wanted it to be. One needs to feel comfortable first, in order to help others, and here I do. There are several things I really dreamed of. Above all, I wanted a big window facing east, and here I have a white, wooden window divided with many thin mullions. I have a view over a large, oak park which now, during the fall, covers with absolutely stunning colors. I often stand here watching passersby and families playing in the park. My antique, renaissance style desk stands right in front of the window. Made of premium oak in 1890, with several handy drawers, and doors adorned with carved, intricate patterns. Ever since I remember, I dreamed of owning such a beautiful piece of furniture, and finally I could afford it. I sit on a massive, leather, and comfortable armchair. Slightly to the right side of my desk there’s a comfy, gray, Louis-Philip’s style armchair with floral design. There’s a bookcase on the wall behind. On the left side of the room I put a cozy, dark-brown, leather couch. There’s also a wooden chair that I use when my patient is lying on the couch. I’m sitting now behind my desk with my hands forming triangle, leaning my chin on them. Feeling a bit exasperated because my patient is late. I can hear no sound. On the wall in front of me clock is showing ten minutes past nine. She should have been here at nine. In this dead silence I could only hear clock ticking.

Suddenly she rushed in, almost breathless. Her dark hair is greasy and not styled. She has bags under her eyes.

“Forgive me. I know you hate latecomers, but it’s not my fault today.”

“Welcome Anna! What happened? Tell me, please. A cup of coffee or tea?” Anna has been attending the therapy for some time now. Unfortunately, there is no detectable progress in her case. I feel like she doesn’t fully trust me, hence, it’s hard for her to confide in me. And the longer she hides the truth, the harder it is to choose the right approach as to therapy. Of course it’s not a yet no-win situation, but it takes much longer to help the patient. I take two paths. One is to build trust gradually, hoping the patient reveals the mysteries of his soul. Another is trying to deduce the problem on the basis of information already collected from the patient. Which way do I choose? Usually both at the same time.

“Coffee please,” she said with her pretty, high-pitched voice, but with a sound of sorrow.

“Please sit down or lay on the couch, Anna. I see that you didn’t have a good sleep last night,” I tried to sustain conversation while brewing coffee in my espresso machine. I poured it to the cup and put it on the coffee table, close to the chair where she usually sits. The aroma of Peruvian coffee hung in the air.

Without rushing I sat behind my desk. I felt tension. The sun coming through the window enlightened her face, keeping mine in the shade. That’s good because I’m least important during the therapy. I see her clearly right now. Anna is a tall and slim young woman. Her elongated face is adorned with beautiful, but sad, brown eyes. Her cheeks are bony, sharp-ended. Her hair reach below her shoulders. It suits her slouched posture. She held the cup with her slightly trembling hand, and took a slow sip.

“The bus was late. Nothing can be done easily in this city. Madness! I hate my life! Everything I do is a complete disaster!” she screamed with her emotions running high.

“But has something serious happened? You’re here, and that’s what matters. Little late, but it doesn’t mean the whole world is bad. There are just some things in life we can’t control. We have to accept it, and that’s all…” She was still annoyed. “You see, many of our problems are caused by the way we were brought up. I mean not only our home, but also here in Europe. We modern Europeans are ME and I generation. ‘I am the most important’, ‘It belongs to ME’, ‘You must do it as I want’. People want to subdue everything, to put everything under their feet. They want to have everything immediately, here, and now. We desire and consume everything we want. We strive for comfort all the time, and that’s why we lose it —”

“Everything is so easy for you, huh?!” she cried out, interrupting me. She caught my bait. I caused her to blow up because people in anger are more likely to say what they really think. And I had to move our conversation to Africa, because I believe this is where her problems are hidden. “You believe that you know everything. That you’ll give me some of your psychological bullshit lectures about how world works, and it will change anything. I’ll tell you something new! No it won’t! You know nothing about me!” her anger had grown up, which was my intention, but I shortly regretted it. “You play God. You think I’m selfish, rich, drama queen.”

“What am I supposed to think since that’s how you behave?” I tried to stop her. She was puzzled for a second, but then she continued angrily:

“You know nothing! You don’t know how it feels when you hear that you’re worthless, a complete zero, and then…” with shaking voice she almost broke down, “and then really feel like nothing, and become truly worthless.”

Her words hit me in the face, and moved me far into my childhood. Life wasn’t so nice back then. I remember the time when I started school. For most kids this would be an adventure, and it was for me too, but I knew that something was wrong with this school. At the beginning of the school year my father got mad. He slammed into my attic bedroom, pulling my shaggy hair, dragged me out of my bed. He made me stand up, coming close with his unshaven, ugly face to mine. The smell of alcohol made me turn my face away from him, but pulling his face to mine he said:

“You are a zero, remember that you’re nothing. Don’t you dare say a word about us outside this house, or you’ll regret it. You understand me?!” He kept repeating this through his clenched teeth, all the time shaking me. I didn’t understand why he was so angry (he was always angry anyway). I wasn’t aware how much I could do by revealing everything… Everything that he had done to me and Olivia. I remained silent.

At the beginning of the school year I was wearing shabby jeans with torn legs and muddy knees. This was the result of kneeling on the ground, a punishment regularly given by my father. I also put on my dingy shirt with jagged collar. My ragged, greasy hair was too long, way way too long. Actually, I looked like that every day back then. I got used to it, and felt normal with it. It had to be so, but why today? Before, these kids all looked like me now, but today they had on clean, navy trousers; white ironed shirts; and girls had their nice skirts on. I had no clue why they looked so pretty, and why I was so odd. I was wondering, watching kids with their parents. Some even came with both of them, and these parents also looked pretty nice. Their mothers had neatly styled hair and fancy suits. On the other hand my mom was straggly, exhausted, having circles under her puffed up eyes; and old, washed-out flower skirt. A voice was calling kids who were supposed to stand in pairs, and form a new class. Finally, the voice read my name: Peter Ivanovich. I was standing still, and I couldn’t move. I was watching all those nice kids. The voice called me once more, and mum pushed me forward. I headed toward my group with heavy, slow steps; my heart was beating like a bell; my eyes were pulsing; legs shaking. I felt like all eyes were on me as if to say: ‘Just look at that weirdo!’ Others started to laugh at me, or took a step back and stood away. I felt overly ashamed. I started to hate that place and these people, and hated the attention I was drawing. I stood in line with a boy who had floppy ears and freckles, recalling the words of my father: ‘You are NOTHING!’ Then I realized he was right. I was zero, and as a seven-year-old I understood that I was nobody.

 I guess I had frowned heavily, because when I came back from my memory trip Anna was way calmer, and stared at me with a little surprise.

“Anna, let’s talk about Africa. I know that you were a humanitarian worker there. Please, tell me more about it. Where did you go? What were you doing exactly?” I saw her awkwardness arising with each question. Definitely this subject wasn’t too comfortable for her.

“Have you been to Africa?” she asked sharply.

“No, I haven’t.”

“So you don’t know—” she said reluctantly.

“I don’t know what?” I asked with curiosity.

“You don’t know how Africa smells.” She was watching me intently, her eyelids were half-closed, focused.

“So how does Africa smell like?” The intensity of my voice revealed my interest.

“When the door of the plane opens, you stand at top of the stairs, and you get hit by a heatwave, like the air from Sahara. The wind blows at you with pervasive dust, and you start to crush it between your teeth. Parched, red ground gives out the smell of burnt vanilla, and it sounds nice, but it’s not. This mixes with the smell of the spices, hot pepper, and roasted ground nuts. All of these blend together, and create one specific,” she held her voice, “smell of Africa. “I was in various parts of Africa, and saw things I’ve never wanted to see. Ghana was one of those places. Accra is the capital city. There’s one peculiar site. Maybe you’ve heard of it on Youtube or somewhere.

"Not really," I said frankly.

I call this place cancer factory. It’s very obvious to us, but not as much to them. They disassemble electronics over there. The rubbish from US and Europe. They search for anything that can be of any use from things we’ve thrown away. The rest of it, all that plastic, they burn. Not aware that they’re breathing the toxins into their lungs. Or they’re aware, but can’t help it; they have to do that for living. At least till the next day.” Here she paused, leaned her back steadily in the chair, tightly gripping the chair’s arms. “You see, the problem is that nobody cares! We don’t give a shit because we have our big-big problems!” she exclaimed with a tone of sarcasm. “We understand the sorrow of others only vaguely, and only if something similar happened to us. We worry about the color of the newly released Play Station: ‘Why is it white?! It won’t suit my furniture’. We go out on the streets to protest against racism, because one black person was killed by the police. That’s funny to me. You get that? It’s ridiculous.” I understood her sensitivity. “We are all racists. We believe that we are better than others. And people who live five or eight thousand miles from us we treat as rubbish, stupid punks. Oh God! What I’m saying… We don’t even think about’em. Just one thing would move us to reflection. We have to see them. With our very own eyes!”

“I think often about them,” I wanted to take part in her monologue, “but I haven’t seen them. Since you have, please, tell me about it,” I said with a mild voice. She took a deep breath and began her story: “When I met her she was eighteen. Long lashes, eyes glassy as onyx, dainty figure. On her head she wore a black-red covering decorated with giraffes and elephants. It caught my eye. She smiled, revealing her pearly-white teeth out of delicate, mobile mouth. One would say she was like every other girl in Africa, but… There was something about her that intrigued my soul. “As a humanitarian worker for UN, I was taking care of the education sector. We were applying different programs, organizing training for teachers, visiting various schools, and other educational establishments to check how things are going over there. We met her for the first time in one of those schools, but it wasn’t the last.”

I was looking at Anna, listening attentively. I was surprised, because she’d never told me so much at once. Apparently she calmed down, speaking with a lowered tone. I could feel this story was really close to her heart.

“So when was the next time?” I asked to help her continue.

“Our stay in Accra was not limited to the mission only. After work we’d go to the beach, roam around the city. The city was strange. There’s a huge electronics dump site. In Ghana using children to work is not legal, but sadly it’s not applied there. Damned place!” she shouted suddenly. “Everyone works there! Old people, adults, teenagers and children. “I was in quite a good mood that day. We wanted to see the electronics dump that we’d heard so much about. So we arrived there, and began to walk through it. We were watching these people separating what was still useful: a pile for sell, a pile for reuse, or whatever else. The burning plastic created smoke, and I was not able to breathe; I held a cloth over my mouth and nose. They were breathing this in their lungs just like that… They were black not only because of color of their skin, but also because of the dirt and smoke from that plastic. That place looked horrible, like the pictures you see after a tsunami. That was when I saw her again. Now she didn’t have that beautiful cloth on her head, and I could see her short, almost shaven hair. Previously white tank top was now black with dirt. Scrawny body, rather puny. When she bent down, I could see the bones of her spine. I asked her name. She replied: ‘Akos’. I asked what she was doing there. That sounded stupid, but she told me that she’s working. I asked her why she was working there, and she explained she’s working there to finish her schooling. I don’t know how she was able to do that, I could hardly stand up. The heat mixed with that smell was unbearable. “You get that? She worked to sustain her family, and at the same time she went to that dump to gain some money for school. She told me that she has a dream to finish school, find a job, and take her parents, two sisters, and younger brother from the slums. She wanted,” her voice shaking, “to have normal life. This is nothing special to us, and to her that was a dream. I don’t know how she was able to reconcile all of these, but somehow she could. I looked at her with pity. I felt so sorry for her. But what could I do, there are plenty like her there. I wished her good luck and left. “Time went by, but I couldn’t forget about her. Her look at school, that smile. Later when we were crossing Accra with our Land Rover I seemed to see her everywhere. I would wake up in the night after seeing her in my dreams: dirty, working, searching for copper in that dump. I lost my peace.”

“Well, I see she was like printed in your memory.”

 “I told you that she was just like millions of Africans, but she wasn’t. Most of them just drift through life. They earn money just to survive another day. Fill their stomachs. Give their family something to eat. They don’t think what to do to improve their existence. They copy the lifestyles of others around them. You could say that poverty and misery is in fashion there. They wait for someone to give them the answer, to offer them a solution like: ‘I will pay for your school’; ‘Oh, great, so maybe I’ll go’. She was doing something more, something beyond… She had dreams, but she didn’t only have dreams, she was also trying to reach them. That’s why she wasn’t ordinary. Her horizons were way above others’ way of thinking.” Anna’s thoughts surprised me. “Nightmares were tormenting me each night. I thought I had to find her. I didn’t know exactly why. I didn’t know if I could, or… if I really wanted to help her. But something was telling me that I should find her. We left to look for her. It was logical to start from school where I saw her for the first time. I went to the classroom where I met her. As always it was hot, and warm wind brought sand into the classroom. I stood there watching briefly something so odd, so weird to me, so different from what we know. We live in times when teachers have interactive boards, students have books, exercises on their tablets. Here, education was in another century. The youths were seated at old desks, perhaps used already by three or four other schools. There was no chalk, and the pupils were using old and battered textbooks, it looked like half of the pages were missing. “A teacher asked if he could help me. He was tall, black, with thick, plastic glasses on, and had a long stick in his hand, like a pointer. I told him I was looking for Akos, which I met there the last time. The children laughed at me because it’s a very popular name, and there are several Akos in the class. Quickly I found out what’s the problem, and described her giraffes and elephants head covering. I thought somebody would know her from that description. One of the girls told me that she doesn’t come to that school anymore. I asked if she knew where she was, and she said: ‘At the hospital, I guess.’ She wasn’t sure which hospital it was, maybe Tema Polyclinic. I wanted to know more information, and she told me her full name is Akos Appiah."

"What was next?" I was quite excited by her story. "Did you find her?"

“I thanked her, and ran off to the car. The hospital was quite far from the school. I remember that we were riding for some time until we reached the hospital. The place was shabby, but it’s normal over there. Old beds, yellowish bedsheets, and cockroaches crossing the hall. I noticed a small window behind the grids, and I thought this should be a check-in desk. The lady sitting inside seemed to be bored, cleaning her teeth with a wooden stick. I asked her if Akos Appiah was there. She continued cleaning her teeth while checking the books. ‘There’s someone in the left wing room 276,’ she said indistinctly with the stick in her mouth. “I remember walking to that room very confused. I was asking myself: ‘What happened to her? Why is she here? Maybe malnutrition? Maybe she collapsed? Why didn’t I look for her earlier? She worked too hard.’ I had a million thoughts in my mind. I tried to reassure myself that it was nothing serious, and she’ll get better. As I approached the proper room, I met a nurse in the hall, she was short, and she seemed to be nice, so I asked her: ‘Do you know maybe which room is Akos Appiah?’ She replied: ‘Oh, yes. Second room on your left. But I doubt if she’d be able to talk.’ “I hurried there without waiting for further explanations. When I saw her… It was so frightening.” As Anna recalled this story her chin was shaking. She was talking through tears. “She had closed eyes, sunken cheeks, and cheekbones were sticking out. She was terribly skinny. She had completely lost her hair. Her head was tilted to the right. Her face was pale, completely lost her previous glow. “I approached the bed with tears like rain flowing from my eyes. I couldn’t stop. She was so young. On the cabinet next to her bed there was a slip of paper. It was a note.

Dear Buba! I couldn’t make it! I tried so hard for you to have better life, but it beat me. My last advice: NEVER EVER COME CLOSE TO THE DUMP! Love You, Your sister Akos.

“I put the note back on the cabinet. I took her hand. I sat on the chair, leaning my head on her arm. And I asked myself: ‘God, why? Why she? Why do you always take good people? I hate you and your whole world!’ I felt increasing wrath. ‘You were so brave and strong,’ I whispered, weeping. “I felt a touch on my arm. It was the nurse. ‘She has brain cancer. Detected too late… but even if it had been detected earlier, we don’t have the means to do anything about it. She fell asleep in the afternoon. She got morphine. It will soothe her pain.’ Then I said: ‘But.. She is so young, how’s that possible?’ ‘It’s more common now. We don’t know about many of them just because they don’t have enough money to come here. The whites’ dump takes a toll.’ “I kissed Akos’ hand and left,” Anna ended. There came a small break. I listened to all she said, and made some notes. “You see Peter, this world is not for me. It’s not a place where I can find myself. People say: ‘It’s normal, it happens’. But it’s not normal, they are not normal. This world has no attraction for me, it has nothing to offer. It represents nothing of human love and sensitivity.”

“Anna, You are sensitive and tender. And this story really touched my heart. You’re right, death isn’t something normal. It’s the opposite to what we’re created for.”

“So what, it moved you? You’ll forget it right away. This is who we are, rotten to the bone and insensitive. Nobody cares what happens to other people. We think only ‘bout ourselves!”

“But remember, she’s not the only one. We make choices in our life. We decide who we are, what, and how we think. So stop saying what others do. Look what you can do for her.”

**

“Do for her? She was dead already. What could she do something for her?”

“Mmm… I see you didn’t get that. We can do something in behalf of their memory. We can help to realize their dreams.”

“Okay, I know what you mean. However, the sensitive struggle a lot in our world. They worry about the things they can’t help. Actually, we can’t help people living thousands miles away.”

“This is exactly how we explain ourselves, because it’s easier. We feel excused —”

“What you mean?”

“Just look how we led ourselves into consumerism.”

“I don’t see the link between these two.”

“We became selfish. We believe that the whole world belongs to us, and we can do whatever we like. We don’t care about consequences, and how our behavior would affect others. Do you realize that most of the things you buy were made by slavery, the work of children and women?”

“Well, I know. But I can’t help it. It wasn’t me who organized this in such awful way.”

“Yeah, you can help by changing your lifestyle: what and why you buy. Do you change your phone simply because a newer one came up, or you really need it? Do you buy a new dress because you’re in the mood for shopping, or you really need a new one? You got that? That’s how it works. We should buy things when we really need’em, when something got broken. Huge companies earn billions of dollars each year using commercials to stir greedy desires in us. And we give in to that propaganda. We gather things we don’t really use. So, you’re right. We can’t help those people directly, but we can show by our lifestyle that we don’t accept their propaganda; that we don’t agree to treating people as slaves, and treating our environment as a dump site. Your deeds will show who you really are. Peter knew that because life taught him to appreciate the smallest things in life.”

“Surely in his time people had a different attitude. Well, it seems like we really lost ourselves. From what he said, we understand that his family was difficult, filled with domestic violence, right?”

“Oh yeah, definitely. Extreme domestic violence.”

“Was Peter the only child?”

“Not really, he had an older sister, Olivia. His mum miscarried a few times. His father used to beat her terribly if he found out she was pregnant. Such a tyrant. He worked her over. He never had any respect for her. She had to work on the farm regardless of being sick. When she even had no strength to get up, he used to pull her out of bed, and told her to prepare supper. She had to serve him even when she had a high fever; that was awful. She really had a hard life.”

“In your opinion, what had made his father so bad?”

“Peter wasn’t keen on talking about him. But he did mention that his father had lost his parents during the war. Then one guy, managing a massive farm, took him under his roof. Used him for work. Allegedly he was a despot, and was beating him without mercy. I don’t know how else he hurt him. It could affect his later life, taking out his anger on his family.”

“What of Peter’s mother?”

“She was born into a poor family. Her parents died when she was still a girl. She got married early. She was delicate and inexperienced; lacking any support. Probably, that’s why she didn’t leave him.”

“Alright, getting back to Peter. What sort of man was he personally? How would you describe him?”

“Above all he was a connoisseur, and he had class. He placed a high importance on details, and hated kitsch. He was the type of man who never gave in, and always reached his goals. If he started something, he had to finish it. Sometimes he was a bit crazy, and innocent as a child.”

“Crazy? I can’t imagine him being crazy.”

“Well, once I remember how we went to the electronics shop. Peter saw a music player. You know, the one you choose a track, put the headphones on, and listen. Insane scene: a man in his fifties sat on the floor, forgot about the whole world, and sang aloud. He was totally in a world of his own. Just as if he thought that wearing headphones made everybody deaf. After a while he noticed that something was wrong. People were staring at him, but he just got up, took the headphones off, adjusted his jacket, walked away with his head high as though nothing had happened. That was awesome, he was mature and childish at the same time. I felt free in his company.”

“That must have been a funny moment. But how would you describe Peter’s treating his patients?”

“I guess the next patient will answer your question. Let me introduce Tommy.”