or, awaiting inspiration, for hours on end roamed the hallways with their manuscripts, which grew ever thicker during the course of their stay in the clinic, tucked under their arms. In the afternoon they had therapeutic conversations with the she-therapists, with Dr. Granada, or with the male therapist Moses Alias I Alcohol, and they listened to talks and took part in discussion groups. In the evenings they attended public readings, after which fierce debates erupted. During one such exchange the sizeable gathering put before the alco Marianna the charge that the drinking confession she had just presented to them was eerily reminiscent of the confession of the alco Joanna they had listened to the week before. Since both sides defended themselves with the aid of mutual accusations, the matter of whether the alco Marianna had copied the description of her drunken night from the alco Joanna or vice versa could not easily be resolved. The community of alcos unanimously insisted that the next day there be a showdown in which the two women would read their work; after, there would be a discussion, followed by a vote, in which a verdict would be determined.
The piece by the alco Marianna went roughly as follows: “It was December 21st, 1985. I woke up in the middle of the night. I had an awful hangover; I was sweating and shaking all over. I didn’t have a penny. I knew my husband, who was asleep in the next room, had money. I crept in, went through his clothes and found his wallet in the back pocket of his pants. I took out fifty zloties, then I got dressed quietly and went out to the all-night store, which was close by. In the store I bought a bottle of champagne, which I took home. In the kitchen, without turning on the light—it was bright enough in there as it was, since we live on the first floor and there’s a neon street lamp right outside the window—in the kitchen, then, I opened the champagne, though the whole time I was afraid that the cork would pop out and the sound would wake my husband. But I managed to open the bottle without making a noise, and in half an hour I’d finished it all. I felt a lot better. I had the usual rush of courage, and, no longer exercising any caution and even daring to turn the hall light on, I boldly left the building to throw the bottle into the dumpster. On the way, however, it occurred to me that it would be a good idea to have some supplies for the rest of the night, and since I still had some money, I went back to the all-night store and bought a quarter-liter of regular vodka. This time, after I got back home I went into the kitchen again, but I no longer intended to drink there. From the cupboard I took a half-liter bottle of raspberry juice, which, by the way, I had made myself in the summer with raspberries grown on our allotment. I poured half the contents of the bottle of juice down the sink, then I took a funnel and poured the quarter-liter of vodka from the all-night store into the half-empty juice bottle. Actually, it wasn’t even a whole quarter-liter—I started feeling sad while I was pouring the juice down the sink, and so I took a sizeable swig straight from the bottle before I made the mixture. I gave the bottle several good shakes, both to make sure the vodka and the juice were properly mixed together and to make sure the bottle looked as if it simply contained juice; I planned to take it to my room and drink it in bed. I knew it would help and that I’d sleep well, and that if I woke up I’d be able to have a drink whenever I wanted, which would help me. But I took into consideration the fact that I might fall soundly asleep, and just in case my husband woke up before me in the morning and saw the bottle standing by my bed, I wanted him to think it was just regular juice. I didn’t take the empty quarter-liter bottle out to the trash chute, but instead hid it behind the couch. I went to bed, and although I woke up from time to time, when I did I took a drink and the whole time I felt fine. In the morning, though my husband didn’t notice either the bottles or the fact that I’d gone out in the middle of the night to buy alcohol and drink it, he did notice that fifty zloties were missing from his wallet and he began shouting at me. Since I had another really bad hangover, this time with an element of aggression, I made a huge scene, got dressed, packed some things, and that was the beginning of my wanderings around the country, which in reality were nothing more than one gigantic drunken binge.”
Marianna read her composition in a faltering voice, continually wiping away supposed or perhaps genuine tears; with every means available to her she gave her listeners to understand that it was she who had been robbed, that it was her work which had been copied by Joanna.
“I’m really hurt,” she said at the end, “that I’ve been robbed of my life. In a moment I’m going to hear what was stolen from me and I don’t know if I can take it.” This time her voice faltered uncontrollably, and this time, beyond a shadow of a doubt, she burst out crying in an absolutely genuine fashion.
But her adversary acted in exactly the same way.
“It was me who was robbed of my life,” said Joanna, “and when a moment ago I heard someone else brazenly reading about my own life, that they stole, I thought I’d die.” And Joanna read her drinking confession exactly as Marianna had; her voice faltered in exactly the same manner, and with exactly the same gestures she wiped away exactly the same supposed or genuine tears. Furthermore, to underline the grotesque symmetry, they both wiped away their tears with identical pale pink lace handkerchiefs.
Joanna’s version went roughly as follows:
“It was the middle of November, 1997. I woke up at three o’clock in the night and I was in an awful state. My hangover was terrible, which was hardly surprising since I’d been drinking the whole of the previous day. I was trembling and soaked in perspiration. I knew that I had no money whatsoever. At the time I was living with my sister and her husband, and I felt in my bones that my brother-in-law would have some money. My brother-in-law hardly drank at all and always had money.
“Cautiously, so as not to wake them, I opened the door to their room and tiptoed in. My brother-in-law always hung his clothes neatly in the wardrobe, and I knew that that was where I needed to look. I was afraid the wardrobe door would creak as I was opening it and would wake either my sister or her husband, or both of them together. But I was lucky, and the wardrobe door opened without a sound. I felt my brother-in-law’s wallet in the pocket of one of his jackets. Without removing it from the pocket I took out a bill at random. I didn’t know what kind of bill it was, and I was afraid it would turn out to be of too low a denomination. When I got back to my room and checked, however, it turned out that I’d managed to take a whole hundred zloties. I was pleased, but also scared: I actually had more than enough money, but at the same time there was the worry that my brother-in-law would notice such a large sum missing. Yet my dilemma didn’t last very long; I didn’t even consider the possibility of returning to their bedroom and putting the hundred-zloty bill back in my brother-in-law’s wallet and trying to find some smaller amount. I got dressed quietly, left the apartment, and took the elevator downstairs, because it so happens there’s an all-night store on the first floor of our building. I went into it and bought a bottle of champagne. Since my thirst for alcohol was so terrible, and since I was afraid that as I was opening the champagne at home the cork would pop and wake people up in the apartment, I opened the champagne by the door of the elevator. My fears were uncalled-for: the cork did not pop. I got in the elevator and pressed all twelve buttons, as we live on the twelfth floor. Thanks to this the elevator kept stopping, and the whole ride I kept drinking the champagne. I must have been knocking it back a bit too greedily, however, because when the elevator eventually reached the twelfth floor it turned out there was very little champagne left in the bottle. Since I still had a lot of money, and the bubbles I’d drunk had made me pretty lively, I decided to make some additional purchases. I rode downstairs once again and went back to the all-night store.
“This time I bought two quarter-liter bottles of regular vodka. One of them I intended to stash away for a rainy day, and the other I meant to mix with Coca-Cola, of which I also bought a half-liter bottle. After I got back home I continued to exercise caution, though I was also a lot more at ease. I drank some of the Coca-Cola and poured some of it down the sink; I tried to arrange it so that exactly half the contents were left in the bottle, and I was entirely successful. To the quarter-liter of Coca-Cola I added a quarter-liter of vodka, so that it looked as though I were drinking straight Coke. I hid the empty quarter-liter bottle behind the refrigerator. The supposed Coke, which I planned to leave by the head of my sofa bed and drink through the night, looked a little watery, but this didn’t
