Krakow - Monday, 28th of August 2017
I walk around as if the package in my hands is a box of chocolates, but I suspect it's a bomb. The instructions were: «place it on the desk in room 501 before 09:45 AM and get away as far as possible by 10:00 AM» Those are not instructions one puts on a box of Belgian pralines. These are not bonbons from Brussels. These are bomb-bombs from Luxembourg.
Offices are the same everywhere: the ozone buzz of laser printers, the work-encouraging pastel colours, the non-fashion indestructible carpet, the clinical neon light and the dressing codes can be found in every chrome and glass structure where the number of floors represents the height of the rent. Like species in danger of extinction, offices gather in special reservations, either in the centre of cities or in the surroundings where the ground is cheaper.
In the capital of Luxembourg, the country where I come from, the centre is full of beautiful old buildings; they give a dignity of ancient honesty and class to the companies that house there. Here in Krakow, in the south of Poland, the centre has that same dignity and class, but someone thought it would be a great idea to invoke some steel-and-glass monsters to guard the ancient castle that dominates the city.
The peacefulness in the lift tells me that the bomb in my package doesn't produce any ticking sounds. That doesn't ring a bell, and neither does it silence all those alarm bells in my head: modern clocks are digital; they don't tick. The digital clock on my spiPhone tells me it's 9:37, time enough to deliver the package and get out of here. No need to rush. Walk normal, as every other messenger would. I wear the UPS suit, even have the cap on my head. (Ridiculous. Who wears a cap?) Nobody here knows me. The lift stops on the fifth floor. There's no danger at all… for me… so far…
I walk down the corridor between the different offices when I hear a sound that worries me more than the ticking of a clock: somewhere inside one of these rooms, there's a woman crying.
I guess we all have our moments of weakness, sadness or stupidity; I can't stand a woman crying: my weakness for her sadness drives me into stupidities.
Stupidities are luxuries I can't afford. I'm on a mission. I'm walking around with a bomb (or perhaps it really is a box of chocolates) and over there, on the other side of that door, sits a human being who might need a kind word and a comforting arm around her shoulder. The only arm available at this hour is mine, and it's holding the package I have to deliver. They pay me to do that. They don't pay me to put comforting arms around shoulders of crying women. Is money and doing your job really so important that it justifies our neglecting of other people's pain and suffering?
Doubt enters my mind.
What should I do?
It isn't doubt. It's a weak spot in my character: I can't stand a woman crying. I have to go to her, to see if I can help or cheer her up.
I find her in room 507, a middle-aged, black lady, dressed to kill, but spoiling the image with tears that run away with her make-up. What do I do? I'm on a mission. I cannot stay here talking with well-dressed middle-aged women until my bomb explodes and blows her office away. This is not a moment to waste time with useless thinking. I put the package on the top of a filing cabinet, walk towards her, put my arm around her shoulder and ask: "Are you okay, Miss? Is there something I can do for you? Did someone hurt you? Can I get you a cup of coffee?"
The woman looks up, sees my unfamiliar face and, a little embarrassed, she wipes her tears away with her hands, making it only worse. I take a pack of paper handkerchiefs out of my pocket and hand them to her: "Ruining your make-up goes better with the correct paperwork. What's wrong? Can I help you?"
The woman takes the tissues with a soft "Thank you" and, with the help of a little mirror from her purse, she cleans the mascara from her cheeks. Before her, on the desk, I see a letter, that says:
"Dear employee,
The current economic situation forces us to take measures to lower the costs of our company. We can hire others for half the salary we pay you, therefore, we regret to inform you that we decided to let you go. We thank you for everything you have done for us and we hope you'll find another job soon.
Best regards,
A. Kowalski
(managing director)"
I take my arm off the shoulder of the woman, who starts crying again. I can't stand this: "Please, don't cry. Please. I'm sure it will all work out fine."
Between sobs, the woman produces some hardly understandable words: "No, it will not work out fine. My job is all I have. It supplies me with the money I need to pay for my present and the hope I need to face my future. I've been working for this company, all day and every day, for over twenty-five years. Not one day of sick leave. I studied to learn what was nesessary to do the job the best I could. I worked overtime and weekends when business was busy. And now they fire me, without reason. How do you think a black, 47-year-old, divorced woman like me can find a job in this country with over 20% of unemployment? I need this job. I need the money. I have two daughters who study at the university, I rent a house with bills for electricity, telephone and insurance. I will lose everything I have because I can no longer afford it. This is not about losing my job. This is about losing my life."
She takes a breath, tries to get herself together: "You must think that I'm a certified fool, to cry like this on the shoulder of a complete stranger. I guess it makes you wonder why I'm telling you all my troubles."
The waterfall starts running again. I look at the clock on my phone: 09:42. We'll have to hurry.
"Listen…"
How do I call her? Rapidly I scan the impersonal stationery on her desk, the cactus plants on the windowsill, the three make-up articles in her purse, looking for clues about her name or her character, but all I see is that this office belongs to an efficient woman who doesn't allow any distraction from her work.
My eyes fall on the decoration on the wall, three black-and-white posters of long-forgotten film stars: Leslie Howard, Vivien Leigh and Clark Gable, better known as Ashley Wilkes, Scarlett O'Hara and Rhett Butler in «Gone with the Wind». That's her. Scarlett O'Hara. A strong and beautiful woman who has to stand up and confront the crisis around her, a war between all the citizens of the country she lives in, an economic war, caused by different ideas about labour and freedom, productivity and rights, between two parties who should work together to find a solution, instead of killing each other with the conviction that the strongest, the one who survives, is always right.
The war in the times of Scarlett O'Hara was about slavery. The war in our times… well… it's about slavery too; it's a war between the ones who need to work against the ones who have everything, a war between the do'ers who fight for a decent salary and the hav'ers who want maximum profit, a war in which nobody gives a damn about the other. Humanity made one step forward since the years 1861-1865: the hunters stopped shooting the rabbits. They found a cheaper way: save bullets; just keep all the carrots for yourself, and the rabbits simply starve to death.
"Listen, Scarlett. I hate to see you cry. This is not the end. This is a new start. I want to help you. I will help you find another job, one that's much better than this one, in another company, one that's much better than this one. What kind of managing director starts the letter of resignation with «Dear Employee»? You deserve better than this, and I'll help you find it. But I need you to dry your tears, grab your things and come with me, okay? I have a bomb with me, in that package over there, and right now, I will deliver it to the office of that evil Mister Kowalski who used to be your boss until this morning, as am act of revenge for treating you so bad. You'll have one minute to pack. I'll pick you up on my way out. Okay?"
Scarlett nods, blows her nose and starts to stow away some things in her purse. I take the package, walk down the aisle to the empty office 501, place the parcel on the desk, and put a «do not disturb»-sign on the door after closing it behind me. When I return, Scarlett is ready to go. The only things she wants to take with her are her purse on her right shoulder and the photo of Scarlett O'Hara in her left hand. With an encouraging smile, I say: "You're a brave woman, Scarlett. You can call me Rhett, if you like. But now we have to run."
In the lift, Scarlett looks at me with those big, dark eyes, worried and curious at the same time, like only women can: "Why do you do this for me, Red? Why would a UPS messenger want to help someone he doesn't even know? Are you just one of those horny bastards who wants to get into my panties? A woman in need is easy to lead, right?"
This happens when 99% of the men ruin the reputation of all the others: women start to believe they are nothing but sex objects. Scarlett is good-looking and well-dressed; her full figure, her pretty features and her black skin make her stand out among the crowds of skinny shop-window dummies. She's just confessed she's divorced… But she's also my mother's age; she is a mother, with two daughters of my age who study at University. Does she really think I'm a motherfu— That I'm after her body?
"No. I'm not that kind of man. I don't want to be your lover. I just want to be your friend. I like to help people, and you can use some help here. Also: it's my job to help you."
"No, it's not. People earn money with their jobs. I don't pay you for helping me, your boss doesn't pay you to help me, and I can't imagine anyone else who would pay you for helping me, so you must have another reason. People don't do things without a reason. Why do you help me?"
What can I say? It would be easy to invent some story, or perhaps it would not be so easy because in one way Scarlett is right: people need a reason to do what they do, and nobody pays me to help her. Perhaps it's because I'm a fool who can't stand to see a woman cry, and it makes me wonder why.
"I will be honest with you. I promised to help you, and I will keep my promise, but you'll have to promise me back. You have to promise to keep it a secret what I will tell you. You can not tell anybody about it, not your parents, not your daughters, not your friends, nobody. Do you promise?"
The curiosity in Scarlett's eyes defeats her worries easily: "Okay, not one word. I promise."
"I'm a spy."
The lift doors open and people come in, so I hold my tongue until we're on the large and empty square before the building. I see a little terrace on the other side of the square, Café Curva: "I want to invite you for a coffee. You should start this day over again, but now with positive thoughts. This is going to be the best day of your life. There's no better way to start the day than with a nice hot strong black cup of coffee."
Scarlett accepts. We sit down, as far from being overheard as possible. I wait to continue my story until two cups of coffee are on our table.
The coffee is excellent, but the surprise that comes with it is even better: at exactly 10:00, a window on the fifth floor of the building in front of us shatters into pieces, thanks to a bright orange explosion. I take the cap off my head, look at the letters of the company who paid for it and sputter: "UPS… What I told you about that bomb… I made that up. Everybody uses bombs to get attention. I thought it would help to get you out of there."
Scarlett smiles and says: "Well, it looks like my past has just… gone with the wind."
We amuse ourselves, looking at how an innocent explosion turns into a disaster: people start screaming as they leave the building, police start shouting that others should do what they are already doing, ambulances and firemen arrive on the scene. Now, everybody wants to get as close as possible. Helicopters with cameras share all this free entertainment on national TV, so the world can enjoy it. The coffee in this little restaurant is so good that I ask the waiter if he can be so kind to serve us another one.
"Shouldn't you go back to work?", Scarlett asks.
"This is my work. I'm a medieval knight who accidentally entered the 21st century. It's my job to help noble women in need and I will not rest until you are fully well and recovered. And I won't allow any form of payment for saving you, except a smile and a thank you."
Scarlett pays in advance, with a true, stunning smile and a hopeful: "Thank you."
Now, with the required payment already done, there's no way back for me. I'm in debt with this woman. The square slowly returns to normal and I start to tell my story:
"I work for the LSD, the Luxembourg Spy Department. My codename is #5 (number five), The Runner. It's my job to save the world, gather information, and do small errands that help my colleagues with their missions. And what's the use of saving the world if it's not for the people who live here? You're one of those people, so helping you is a very important part of saving the world, a very important part of doing my job. And the part of my job that has to do with errands and missions and gathering information has been in the low season lately. As long as I can combine it with another mission, I don't have any problem with helping you. On the contrary: you're honest, hardworking, a responsible mother and a good person. People like you now and then need a little help from a friend."
Scarlett doesn't say a word, just nods to confirm that she understands and wants me to go on.
"My mission here in Krakow is a secret, even to me. I work undercover as a UPS courier, a disguise that makes it easy to enter everywhere, but my real job is to run errands for my colleague #3, The Diplomat, who attends the International Climate Conference that takes place in the Krakow Congress Centre right now. It's not as exciting as you imagine: the main weapon of The Diplomat is his mouth, both for talking and for drinking with important people, so once every two or three days I have to make sure that there is enough liquor and champagne available in the bar of his suite in the Hotel Bolesław Chrobry. Today was the first time that I actually did something, although I have no idea how putting a bomb in the office of your boss helps to save the world."
"I thought governments always help people."
"Governments and social non-profit organizations only help the Useless Parliament of idle citizens. Alcoholics and drug addicts can't resist our modern society's temptations, and modern society pays for their costly treatments. Criminals receive expensive trials, followed by long years of free food and lodging. Unemployed, old, sick and invalid people get money for doing nothing at all. Hard-working taxpayers finance all this fun, people like you, who pay taxes over their income and their savings, who pay VAT with every euro they spend. What are the rights of the working class? You have the right to remain silent and the right to spend money. That's unfair. It's an important part of my job as a spy to help you, and I promise to help you as long as I'm in the position to do so."
Scarlett is silent as a fox during the hunting season. She looks into her empty cup, reminding me of the fact that I offered to pay. I give a sign to the waiter, who goes inside and returns with the receipt on a little plate. I look at the total amount, decide that I really like Poland, for its excellent coffee, its friendly service and its low prices, and I leave a grateful tip.
Scarlett has found her voice again: "What do we do now?"
"First, we go tell the appropriate people you're unemployed, so they can find you another job and give you money to survive until next payday. Where is the office for unemployed workers?"
Scarlett makes a vague gesture: "In Stanislaw-street. I pass it every day when I walk from my house to the office. I want to go home anyway because I look quite ridiculous, walking around with a photograph from a seventy-year-old film. People will think I'm a certified fool."
Mentioning the unemployment office reminds her of being without a job. Mentioning the walk from house to office reminds her that now she's made that walk for the last time. Another tear escapes her eye.
"You're a fool to cry. It's better to control your emotions, my dear. I prefer to see your wonderful smile. It doesn't matter what other people think about you; it matters what they do for you: they should give you a job. I'm going to help you get what you want. I promised."
Scarlett tries to hide her tears behind an unconvincing smile and says: "I guess you're right. I should not shed tears about the past, but look forward and make plans for a better future. Visiting the unemployment office is the best idea in this situation."
* * *
"I think you don't have any idea about the situation, Miss. The unemployment in Poland is over 20% and the government faces over 7% budgets overspending. We're not here to hand out work and money because we don't have any work or money. We're here to help you register, so when the President needs information about the number of unemployed people, we can provide the correct data. When you fill in these forms, we can also make an appointment for you at the department of vacancies, where you can fill out forms with questions about the work you can do, but I do have to warn you that there's a 5 month's waiting list there. I will also give you the direction whereto you can send a letter with a request for the paperwork to file for financial support for unemployed workers. Those forms usually arrive within a month after receipt of the request, so I advise you not to wait too long with sending the letter."
Scarlett loses her patience, her temper and her self-discipline: "But, Miss…"
The lady expects some cooperation after everything she just did for her client: "If you don't like it, you can always go back to whoever fired you and ask him to take you back, Miss. These are the conditions and you're not the only one who's lost her job. If it's your plan to start complaining, I advise you to go to counter number 16 and ask there for forms to request an appointment with one of my colleagues from the complaints department. Now I hope you are finished here because there are others waiting for their turn. It's a pleasure to help you and we wish you all the luck with finding a job."
Scarlett is not finished. Scarlett is furious: "Now you listen to me, Miss. My boss has fired me today. I'm without a job and without income and I don't see how filling in papers will provide me with the money I need for rent and living costs. I want you to look in your computer and find me a new job, something at an office that pays as much as my last job. Here you have my social security number. With all your expensive systems, and with all my privacy in your computer, this service will cost you less than one minute. I will not leave here before you arrange at least a job interview for me."
Miss Desk Counter responds like you can expect: if someone kisses you, you kiss back and when someone attacks you with violence, you defend yourself at least as violently. That's how it works. That's why we put all that violence on the news every day, so every citizen in the world can learn how we should treat each other.
"No, Miss. You listen to me. I'm not responsible for you losing your job, I'm not responsible for the laws in this country and I'm not responsible for inventing the system to help unemployed people. All I know is that there is a system to help unemployed people, and I just explained to you how it works: you fill in forms and you wait until it's your turn. All I do is my job. That job is telling you about the procedures, explaining to you how you can file complaints, and where you can register for other services. I don't care if you like it or not; I've done my job perfectly and I'm sure that, if you treated your boss and your colleagues and your clients the way you've treated me, they were perfectly within the rights to fire you. Now, I'm not going to say anything else to you because there are people waiting and they have a right to receive my help too. Have a good day, Miss."
Like a referee at a football pitch, jumping between the players of two rival teams, I try to calm these two women down while steam comes out of their ears. I try to be gentle, reasonable, friendly. I try to push Scarlett away before she plants her fire-truck-red fingernails in the eyes of Miss Desk. Scarlet is taller and heavier than I. I don't want to use violence, but it's not easy to talk reason with a woman when she's lost all control over her emotions.
"Don't waste your energy on that woman, Scarlett. I have a better idea. Let it go. This is nothing personal. The woman is trained to treat you like this. You're much smarter. You don't need to behave like some trollop who sells fish at the street market. Come with me. Calm down, please. Don't get angry. I have handled much more complicated situations than this. Trust me. I've got it all under control. Come with me, please…"
I grab the papers from the desk and manage to get Scarlett out of the office. I let her mutter for a while, being angry about so much stupidity, but fifteen minutes later she still hasn't stopped with her broadside. It's time to interrupt: "Do you know what Pavilion E is?"
Surprised, Scarlett stops her monologue: "No? What is Pavilion E?"
"It's the building of a madhouse where they treat most difficult patients. It consists of two wings, A and B, and a square between them. On the A-side of the square lies an enormous pile of bricks. Right after breakfast, all the patients of wing A go out to the square. Their nurse says: «Look at all those bricks. We should take them to the other side of the square as soon as possible. It's important, and only you can do this responsible work. Can I count on you?» The patients work their ass off to get all those bricks to the other side of the square. If they do a good job, they get their lunch as a reward. After lunch, the patients of wing B go out to the square, find the vast pile of bricks and work hard to move them over to the other side before the end of the day, so the patients of wing A will have a pile of work tomorrow morning."
Scarlett is not sure what I want to say with this little story: "Do you suggest I'm ripe for treatment in a mental hospital?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Scarlett. I try to explain how the system works. The Polish government is the same as any other government in the world: they don't create jobs and they don't solve problems. All they do is raise taxes and prohibit things that were allowed before. The lady behind the desk was right, you know: she didn't fire you. She's just doing her job. It's not her job to invent a way to solve the problem. It's her job to be part of a system that gives work to hundreds, probably thousands, of people who get paid by a government to organize that the over-complete unemployed patients of Pavilion E move stacks of papers from one side to another. The government has done the best they can. They keep you busy with a pile of paperwork and they pay people to make sure you'll get more paperwork when you're finished with this pile."
Scarlett starts with the second part of her anger attack. She stopped blaming the lady behind the desk because she's found me as an acceptable replacement: "So you claim that our government treats us like we're a bunch of complete idiots?"
"I hope it's clear I don't think that just the Polish government treats their citizens like a bunch of complete idiots. I think every government treats their citizens like a bunch of idiots. That's because these citizens behave like a bunch of idiots. Who's responsible that these governments do what they're doing? These citizens have chosen them. Governments do what their citizens ask them to do. If nobody has a better plan, the majority decides what happens. Citizens want a free market, which includes the risk of being unemployed. If these citizens wanted a guaranteed job, they should never have abandoned the Soviet system in which the government took care that everybody had a job. All governments pile up bricks on one side of the square and make people move paperwork from one desk to another. Admit they did a good job: the unemployed citizens do most of the work for free. The civil servants on the payroll just tell the patients what to do. That saves a lot of taxes."
Once she realises how foolishly she behaved, Scarlett calms down. The shouting and getting angry had only one result: it made her feel worse. She can't change the system, she can't change the lady behind the desk, and the lady behind the desk can't change the system either. Sometimes, you'll need to accept that rules are like they are.
"You're right, Red. I'm sorry. It's just… I can't handle it anymore."
"I hope you can handle those forms, Scarlett. I promised to help you, but my Polish isn't good enough to understand all those questions."
"Don't worry. Filling in papers was one of my daily tasks during the last twenty-six years. The problem is that it won't solve my problem: I won't get a job and I won't get an income for filling in these forms. At best, it will add my number to the others in the bingo machine, but I won't have anything to eat until the moment I'm lucky and my number shows up."
"That's your first good idea of today: having something to eat. Didn't you tell me you wanted to go home first? If you give me two minutes, I'll visit that little grocery shop over there and buy everything I need to make lunch for both of us. While I prepare the food, you fill in the forms."
Scarlett takes the bait. She puts her hand on my shoulder and says: "You're right. Thanks, Red. You really are a good friend. I'm sorry. I'm glad you're here."
Eating together is such a great way to achieve world peace. We should not throw bombs; we should invite our enemies to dinner and find a better way to solve our problems.
"No need to apologise, dear. I know you're in a difficult situation and I know it's not your fault, but it's not my fault either. I just try to help you. Together we'll find a way. But first, we have lunch, then we'll have a look at that huge pile of bricks that we have to move to the other side, and when that's finished, we make plans to avoid repeating stupid work every afternoon. Whether we doubt if we're over-complete patients in a madhouse world, we should prove our true selves by doing intelligent things. Don't you agree?"
Scarlett agrees. We're in front of an ancient building, late 18th century, with beautiful masonry and tall windows on every floor. It looks like an urban palace that belonged to a rich family. A scent of fresh flowers welcomes our first steps inside, echoing on the marble floor of the empty hall. She opens the door of her flat and I leave her alone for a while, to do the shopping for lunch. When I come back ten minutes later, I see a different Scarlett, this time a lady who is calm and shows a confident smile, head up high, back straight, shoulders back. This is the woman I like, the woman who will not be stopped by anyone behind a desk with papers, a woman who doesn't mind losing her job because she knows she has the qualities to find a better one.
I smile back to encourage her and say: "You see how a little control over your emotions can make you feel better? You look wonderful. I'm sure you're already thinking about your next step forward. I'm sure you're already full of motivation to do everything needed to reach your goal."
Scarlett confirms that I'm right: "You're so right. You were right when you said I should not waste energy on that woman, and you were right when you told me to control my emotions and focus on making plans. I'm not a mental patient. I'm an intelligent, strong woman who knows what she wants. Thanks for your advice, Red, and thanks for offering your help. I know what I want, but I'm not sure if I can reach my goal without your help. Can I count on you?"
"You can count on me, Scarlett. What's your goal? What do you want?"
"I want justice."
"Justice is hard to find."
"I know. So I'll settle for revenge. I want to kill the one who did this to me. I want to grab Mister Kowalski by the throat, squash his balls until he starts to like it, torture him as long as he can survive, and then kill him for what he did to me. Nobody treats me like this. I will show him the consequences of his behaviour. I want revenge."
Rostov! If I really want to save the world, I better monitor this mortal monster I've just created…
"Nice plan, Scarlett. Do you want to eat Mister Kowalski raw right now? Or do you prefer the Mediterranean salad that I had in mind as an appetiser?"