him: “Mr. Wieniawski . . . sh . . . sh . . . sh . . . you’re talking too much and too loudly. No use cursing. The walls have ears . . . .”
“There you go again, Mr. Stefański. I’ve told you time and again that it’s a free country here.”
“I have already heard . . . I’m warning you as a friend. Anyway, do you know who that man may be? That one, over there, the one who’s been waiting for you?”
“Mr. Stefański, over here we are . . . ,” began Wieniawski. But then he changed his mind and only shrugged.
“The client . . . that’s right,” he said. “I’m coming right away.”
“I can wait,” said Błażej. He took the letter from his pocket, smoothed it out with the back of his hand. “Bastards,” he muttered, “Damned vooltures . . . .”
“What can I do for you?” Błażej’s tired face seemed gray behind the screen of his cigar smoke. He hid behind it. Wieniawski looked at him closely—and saw nothing but the eyes of the stranger, two headlights of a car lost in the fog.
“An old-timer,” thought Wieniawski. “He wants to send a parcel to the old country.”
Safe behind his cigar, yet lost in the smoke screen, Błażej appraised the man before him. “Who’s he like?” he thought. “He reminds me of someone . . . .” But there had been too many people in Błażej’s long life to remember, and it was too tiresome to think.
“Can you read a letter in Polish?” he asked suspiciously.
“Sure.”
“And how much would you want for reading it?”
“For reading a letter?” Wieniawski was surprised. “Nothing.”
A spring afternoon was marching up Broad Street from the bay. It did not smell of leaves and freshly turned soil, but of fish from the market stalls and humid wind. Swatches of sun lay on the sidewalk outside the travel office windows. Once more, Błażej smoothed the letter with the back of his hand, as if wanting to erase the beer stains. Reluctantly, warily, he pushed the letter toward Wieniawski. And immediately he moved his big body and leaned over to watch intently while Wieniawski was reading the letter, scanning his face suspiciously all the while.
“Well, what is it she wants?” he asked at last. “Why is she writing?” he asked, even though he knew already what was in the letter. “Can you read it? Can you make it out?”
Wieniawski looked up.
“She writes that the government wants to take over that piece of land you inherited from your father; they want to take it over for the state . . . .”
“I know that. What else?”
“If you know, then why . . . .”
A gust of wind blew through the suddenly opened door. Attorney Dekrocki walked in. “It’s high time you showed up, Antek,” called Wieniawski. “You were to be in court at one o’clock, That’s a fine way to act.”
Dekrocki was a jovial man, fond of a good meal like the one he had just finished.
“Never mind,” he muttered.
“My respects, sir,” bowed Stefański.
Dekrocki made his way past Błażej and around Stefański.
“Blowing like the dickens out there,” he said, “On the corner it nearly blew me off my feet.” He went behind the partition. Błażej moved uneasily.
“What else does it say there?” he pressed.
“If you already know, why do you ask?”
“Go on, read it, don’t get your dander up. But we must hurry, I need your advice!”
“About what?”
“So they won’t take that land away.”
“Well, let’s see now,” mused Wieniawski. “We could save it, I suppose, if you ceded your rights to your niece.”
“To Gienia?”
“That’s right. To Gienia. She writes that we have ten days in which to do something. We would have to go to the embassy right away and certify that you made a gift of that land to Gienia. Then we’d have to wire her one hundred dollars, like she says.”
“How much will all this come to?” fretted Błażej.
“Of course, there’ll be some additional expenses. But perhaps you don’t want to give that land to your niece? Not that you’ll ever have any use for . . . .”
Błażej smiled craftily, an inward smile stretched his lips. He was taut and tense. His feet tingled. “Won’t give it to any strangers,” he said. “It’s better to let Gienia have it. But we must hurry or they’ll take it away from us. Let’s hurry!” He spoke excitedly.
He got up and paced back and forth, puffing impatiently on his cigar. Now Wieniawski could take a good look at him. The old man was powerfully built but worn with age. His head drooped to one side, as if it were too heavy for the neck that supported it. Wieniawski looked at him thoughtfully.
“How old are you, may I ask?”
“About seventy-eight. Why?”
Wieniawski said nothing. “He could be my father,” he thought, and felt a twinge of a forgotten emotion. It had been many years since his father had died.
“A handsome age,” he said aloud. “Do you have any children, either here or in Poland?”
“I have no one.”
“And that . . . Gienia Bolanowska?”
“That’s my late sister’s girl.”
Wieniawski pulled out a sheet of paper and began to prepare an act of donation. Błażej, meanwhile, put on his glasses, reached for the letter again, and strained once more to figure out its contents.
“What does it say here?” He pointed with his finger.
“I thought you knew what the letter says.”
“No, over here. Start reading from here, please.”
His work on Broad Street had taught Wieniawski patience. He smoothed out the crumpled sheets and began reading aloud:
Dear Uncle,
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Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
