Page 68 - WTP Vol. IX #6

Two Women (continued from preceding page)
Soon she brings him a tall glass with some beverage. It must be Coke. The color is unmistakable. The man takes a sip, looks at his watch, and begins drumming his fingers on the table.
Beata watches him through her sunglasses. That must be him. His hair is slightly longer than in the photo, but the newspaper is the identifying sign.
She hesitates for a moment; maybe she should take out her umbrella. Her eyes are riveted to the man’s hand beating some rhythm known only to him. Beata watches his fingers—not fingers, awful fat sausages. How could she shake hands with someone like that, feel those obscene appendages encircling her fin- gers? She can’t stand the thought of their touch. The umbrella will remain in her purse. She’ll finish the coffee and leave, with no haste. Everything has to look natural. How lucky it is that her hair is so much darker and shorter now. For the life of her she doesn’t want to be recognized.
The ice-cream is finished. Magda licks her lips and stretches her legs. Eryk hasn’t come. A coward as usual. It makes no sense to wait any longer. She waves at the waitress, but she’s talking to the couple with the young child. Magda looks at the photog- rapher. He keeps clicking as if in a trance. The café
is in a landmark building. He must be interested in some of its architectural details. At last the waitress comes. Magda takes out her wallet, counts the money, gets up, all the while staring at the photographer. He smiles at her. His camera is pointing at her.
She stops at the entry or exit, depending on which way one comes. Her next train is at 1:15. That gives her enough time to go to a discount bookstore. She can always find something good there. She adjusts her bag, looks at the photographer, and right then a strong blow to her side knocks her off her feet. She’s down on the ground, a shooting pain in her hip and leg. She doesn’t know what has happened. A few yards away there’s an overturned skateboard and a young boy with spiked hair squatting next to it. He looks dazed. He didn’t notice her, and Magda didn’t notice him, either. She was staring at the photogra- pher. The cobblestones look worn, even though they were replaced on the whole surface of the square barely a year ago. She’d better stand up. The pain re- turns. Magda grimaces and hisses through her teeth.
“Are you all right?” asks the face bent over her. Magda shakes her head.
Beata ran over there the minute she heard the scream and saw the young woman lying on the ground.
Those awful skateboards should be banned, at least
in the city center. She takes out her cell phone. “I’ll call an ambulance,” she says.
“Please, don’t. I’m fine, I’m getting up.” Magda pushes herself up with her hands and manages to stand. She feels wobbly. The strange woman picks up her bag and hands it to her. She begins to stroke her arm. “Do you want me to get you a taxi? Or maybe I’ll give you a ride. I’m parked nearby.”
“Thank you. Really. I’ll be all right.”
Magda brushes the dirt off her pants and blouse, hangs her bag on her arm, nods goodbye. She can see the photographer still shooting. She envies him his absorption.
Beata also looks at the photographer. He didn’t stop even for a moment. Typical. Such people will take pictures of African children dying of hunger. Noth- ing perturbs them. Beata watches the young woman walk slowly across the market square.
She returns to the café. She still hasn’t paid for her coffee. She sits down heavily in the wicker chair. She pays no attention to the man at the next table except to notice that he’s reading the newspaper that he brought with him. She had such hopes for this day. She’ll pay and drive home. She’ll make herself cham- omile tea and go to bed with earphones on to block all the outside noises.
Magda is at the railway station and walks to the plat- form. She skipped the bookstore. She has plenty to read. Besides, her hip and leg are sore. She sits down on a bench, takes the book out of her bag, opens it where the bookmark is but doesn’t read. Why did she come here at all? To prove to herself what she already knew? To make it easier to pack everything neatly into a box, place it on the shelf and never open it again?
~
Not much has happened so there’s no neat ending, in truth, not much of an ending at all. It’s a shame that the man who was supposed to meet Beata had such ugly fat fingers. It could have been otherwise: he could have had the elegant fingers of a pianist; Beata would have taken the umbrella out of her purse; he would have come to her table and sat down with her; they would have begun talking with growing fascina- tion, very much taken with each other. Eryk could have come to see Magda, carrying a bunch of asters that he just bought for her from one of the women selling flowers on the other side of the market square. The boy on a skateboard could have whizzed
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