We have a lot to do: I need to buy groceries and prepare dinner (as I promised Scarlett), we have to eat, and after that, we have two missions to complete. When I pull out my wallet to pay the waiter, a forlorn young woman puts her hand almost in my mouth, asking me something in Polish.
"I'm sorry, Miss. I don't speak Polish."
"Please, Sir. Give me money. You have so much. I have nothing.", the woman begs.
I look at the hand, the wrist, the first part of her arm, her skinny arm full of small round scars, injections, the arm of a junkie. I look at her eyes: sad, hopeless, a tear being the only liquid to clean her dirty cheeks… This is a woman who needs help, much more than Scarlett. What do I do? When I give her money, it will disappear into the hole in her arm; it will not help her, just her dealer.
I ask: "Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?"
No reply, just her empty hand and her empty face. Perhaps she doesn't understand English. Perhaps she just learnt a few words to ask for what she wants most. I take my spiPhone and start the MultiTranslate app. Now I can talk to the phone in English, and the phone translates it into spoken Polish.
"What's your name?"
"Anja."
"Where do you live?"
"I don't know."
"When was the last time you ate?"
"I don't know."
I ask the waiter to bring five sandwiches, coffee, milk and orange juice. He objects: "I don't want this woman on my terrace. She brings bad luck."
I show him some zlotys: "I bring you good luck, in hard currency, but if you don't start running now, I'll go to that restaurant over there."
He starts running. I take the woman to the bathroom, so she can wash her hands and face, and explain: "Tomorrow you come back here, at 9 o'clock. You will help the waiter, putting the tables and the chairs on the terrace. Can you do that?"
She can.
"If you do that, you can have breakfast. I'll pay for it. You come here every day, you do the terrace and you get breakfast when you're done. Do you understand?"
She understands.
I explain the deal to the waiter, pay him what we owe him, plus the costs of tomorrow morning's breakfast, and make him promise to look after the woman. If he helps me while I help her, I promise him a nice tip when my mission here is over.
When Scarlett and I leave the eating woman, Scarlett looks surprised: "Why do you do that? There are institutions that take care of people like her. That's why we pay taxes."
"Do you see any of those institutions here? Does that woman look like she's been taken care of? She's in the greedy hands of someone who is only interested in getting the lowest price for what she sells. Selling drugs is against the law, but the law isn't capable of avoiding it. I'm pretty sure Anja didn't choose to live like this. She had some bad luck at the wrong moment. If I was in her situation, I would like it very much when someone helped me. I can't stand women crying, Scarlett. I had to do something. So many people do nothing…"
Scarlett doesn't agree: "It's a waste of time and money. This woman is so far gone…"
I'm losing my patience: "You're doing nothing and you criticise me when I try to help somebody else? Am I not on my way to buy food and prepare your dinner? Is that wrong too?"
I send Scarlett home. My good mood has disappeared completely. I need some time alone, to think, to buy stuff, to overcome the anger I feel every time when I notice the world is not like I hope it is.
Selling drugs is making a living, like selling ice cream or cigarettes or used cars. Car salesmen don't care if their clients die in a traffic accident or if they kill somebody else when they drive drunk. Sellers of ice cream don't care if their clients die of overweight or diabetes. It's not the seller who's responsible for all the bad things that happen in our world; it's the buyer, the consumer, the one who pays for everything. If people wouldn't buy drugs, or cigarettes, and if they would behave more responsibly in traffic, the world would be a better place. The problems start when our selfish behaviour has a negative influence on other people, and we know that, but we don't care about the consequences of our own acts, we just care about having an easier life ourselves. By the time we found out we're on the wrong track, we want «others» to help us out, the same «others» we didn't care about earlier…
Mister Kowalski fired Scarlett, so he could have a higher profit. His greed causes a problem for Scarlett, but Mister Kowalski doesn't share the responsibility of solving that problem. He just makes sure he does nothing against the law and leaves it to others to solve the consequences of his acts. He's «just doing his job», believing that making money justifies doing evil things to others. I didn't sell drugs to Anja and I didn't make her a drug addict, but pointing at the dealers or at the government (that fails its responsibility to uphold the law against drugs) doesn't solve the problem. If everyone on our planet would only take the responsibility not to harm others and our environment, we wouldn't need no laws, no governments, no armies, no weapons, nothing. We would be free as a sparrow, with one condition only: take responsibility. Responsibility is the price we pay for freedom. Without responsibility, the world is like it is.
I can't change the world. All I can do is take my own responsibility for the little part of the world around me, for myself and my acts and the people I meet, for Scarlett, for Anja, for the waiter who expects to get paid for his service… I've done what I could. It will not solve the problems, but I've done something and I should feel good about it. With a deep breath, the worries fall off my back. I have a mission to fulfil and I have a dinner to cook. I should concentrate on that.
Chatting with Scarlett has made one thing clear: she has a problem with her weight. She went to the gym every day to fight off the calories that a sitting profession doesn't burn. As cooking her meals is now my responsibility, I'll see to it that she eats healthy, with lots of vegetables and fruits, good fat like fish, with nuts and dairy products instead of sugar. Some tasty ideas come up and make me smile. I like to cook. I love to have company for dinner. Scarlett is excellent company. My good mood is coming back…
* * *
The first thing I say when I enter Scarlett's flat is: "Sorry. My reaction was not very friendly. I'll try to make it up with you, with a tropical salad, full of fruits and nuts, that will surprise you. I got the recipe from a friend of a friend. The main course is Polish goosebumps sausages, poor in calories and rich in taste, with fresh carrots and peas."
Scarlett answers: "I'm sorry too. You tried to help me. You tried to be nice. I'm not used to that. You're a good man, Red."
"I try to be a good man, but it's not always easy. If you don't mind, I'll try to be a good cook first. At least, that's something one can learn from books."
* * *
After dinner, I toss Scarlett the clothes I bought for her: a cheap training jacket, a tight pair of leggings and a white t-shirt.
"Put on the oldest pair of running shoes you have. We are going on a mission."
"Do you want me to wear tiger-skin leggings?"
"It's leopard-skin. Tigers have stripes; these are dots."
"I'm not going to wear this." Scarlett throws the T-shirt at my head.
"Why not?"
"Didn't you read what's written on it?"
"Of course. That's why I bought it. What's wrong? Are you not handsome?"
"It's about the rest."
I read the text aloud: "«Handsome, hot 'n' horny». We're going to run eight kilometres. You'll be hot and sweating."
"And the horny part?"
"That's our protection. Nobody will be hostile when a hot and horny handsome lady shows up. This is a disguise, dear. You're a black woman. We can't give you a tan, we can't put a blond wig on your head and we can't hide your face behind a moustache or a beard; you can't even put on dark sunglasses because it's dark outside. So we distract the eyes of the world to the text on your T-shirt and the boobs inside it. Nobody will look at your face. Didn't I tell you to trust me? Trust me."
Scarlett doesn't completely trust me, but when we jog along the river a little later, when I explain what we're doing tonight, she admits the clothes fit the occasion.
"First we go east, to the Gold Coast, the expensive neighbourhood where Mister Kowalski has his residence. I want to see his house, get an idea or a plan or an impression about the man himself. After that, we turn north and visit the place where the sparrow can find her new nest. For both missions, we'll need to be invisible, disappear in the environment. I've seen what clothes you wear in the gym: far too trendy and flashy for a sparrow."
Although I've never visited Scarlett's gym, I have an idea about its social standards: it's «look and being looked at»; it's about impressing others with what you have, expensive brands and something new every week; it's daily episodes of Desperate Polish Housewives.
The Gold Coast is «look and being looked at» too. Extensive gardens, expensive houses, double garages, and all the protection for the owners to keep what they have. Mister Kowalski's house has a three-metre high concrete wall around it, with an automatic fence, made of thick steel bars with sharp points. Video cameras watch both inside and outside. We jog like old-timers on the other side of the street, close enough to get the big picture and far enough to stay away from the pictures on Mister Kowalski's hard disk.
"That's going to be a challenge. The house is a fortress. We can't storm in and take the place with force, unless you have the private phone numbers of Chuck Norris, Arnold Schwarzenegger and Sylvester Stallone."
Scarlett doesn't have those numbers.
"If we can't storm the castle, we have to wait until the prince goes for a walk. I have a few ideas. But first, we go left at that corner over there. We go uphill. Are you tired yet?"
Scarlett can't answer. She's breathing heavily to keep up with my (as I thought: relaxing) pace.
"I thought you passed all your free time at the gym?"
"Yeah… Half an hour… aerobics… on Monday and Thursday… Twenty minutes… treadmill… running machine… on Tuesday and Friday… Fifteen minutes… tai chi… on Saturday… and every day… two hours in the sauna… and two hours in the bar…"
Rostov! And we have six clicks to go, uphill most of the time. Scarlett needs a little motivation. Let's try some hate. Hate is a great motivator.
"What's Mister Kowalski's first name?"
"Adam."
"Imagine Adam Kowalski standing on the top of this hill. You can have him, do with him what you want, but… you have to get there first. You have to beat me. If you're not fast enough, he'll get away. It's a test. Can you do it?"
It's not fair. I run at least two hours a week. Scarlett is more than twice my age and already tired of the track we've covered. But she's running on emotions, on hate, on vengeance, on all those negative sentiments she's gone through today. It has to get out. Physical exercise is a great exhaust pipe for bad feelings. Running uphill, giving all you've got, letting out all that anger, hostility, injustice, is the best medication for Scarlett against her frustrating disappointment. She's a strong woman. Her physical strength pushes her forward, and the strength of her will gives her wings. The hill fights back; I try to go faster, a little, I don't want her to win, but she doesn't want to lose, she wants Adam Kowalski's head on a plate, and I'm not fast enough to leave her behind, I can't make the distance big enough, to let her give up, I'm even losing, my lead, she's gaining, I hear, her panting, come closer, next to me, and her hand touches the pole of the traffic light on the top of the hill just before mine.
"Rostov! You won…" is all I can gasp. Scarlett can't reply. We both stand there for several minutes, hands on our knees, panting like chain smokers in London smog, both grinning at each other.
Finally, my breath allows me to speak again: "If I were Adam Kowalski, I would be shaking in my running shoes by now. You're the best partner any spy could ever wish for, Scarlett. You never give up."
With a warning finger, Scarlett answers: "Next… time… I… kill you first…"
We walk along, following the road on the other side of the hill, until we reach some sort of park, lots of high trees and bushes where several footpaths give access to the six tall buildings in the centre.
"This is it. This is where you'll live from now on, for the time being, until things get better."
Scarlett looks at me with big eyes, scared, no, terrified: "You can't be serious!"
"Parkview, Oak Tower, Flat 18b. It's been vacant for more than a year, so the owner lowered the rent to 400 zlotys per month. That's 100 euros and about 10% of the rent that you pay now. The basic rule is: 25% of your income is for housing, 25% for supermarket, 25% for phone, car, clothes and other expenses, and the remaining 25% is for savings, big purchases and the exceptional unexpected. When your income goes back to 540 euros, you can afford 100 euros rent plus 35 euros for electricity, heating, house taxes and insurance. For that money, you can't get anything better than this."
"Didn't you wonder why this house is vacant for more than a year? Because nobody wants to live here, not even if someone pays you 100 euros a month. Officially, the name of this neighbourhood is Parkview, but everybody calls it Jungleland. Any idea why? Because this is where the drug addicts live, and their dealers, and the thieves, and the whores."
"Nonsense, Scarlett. This is just a place with low rents for poor people. Drug addicts can't afford the rents here and successful dealers live in the Gold Coast, close to their most addicted customers. Whores are just independent businesswomen who are smart enough to realise that your own body is the only merchandise you can sell and sell and sell without bothering to buy new stock. Whores are nothing to be afraid of. That leaves the thieves. Thieves don't steal from their neighbours. Thieves don't steal from poor people who just have enough to pay the rent for a house in Jungleland. Smart thieves go to places where you live now, the better neighbourhoods of the upper class. There's not one thief who will waste his time here. There's nothing to be afraid of. Trust me."
"I trust the newspapers, Red, and they tell me different stories. I trust that sign over there, the one that says «Don't feed the rats». And I trust my nose. Do you know this smell?"
The smell of ammoniac dominates the entrance hall of the Oak Tower: "It's probably one of those cheap cleaning products the people use here to clean the floor."
Scarlett knows more about cleaning than I do: "It's urine. Piss. Welcome to the jungle, where wolves mark their spot."
We find another attraction that wasn't in the folder: there's no lift. There was one, long ago, before World War Two, when this place was built. The good news is the staircase, which offers Scarlett an excellent daily opportunity to fight off a few extra calories. How many sugar lumps are eighteen floors?
Three sugar lumps later (1,5 for each of us) we knock on the door of flat 18b. No bell. No landlord. Nobody.
Behind us, a door opens and an elder lady peeps out: "Hello. If you're from the tax office: Mister Lewandowski has moved to Moldavia about a year ago." (my spiPhone picks up the Polish words and translates them to me)
"We're the new tenants. Well, my friend Scarlett here is going to be the new tenant. I'm just here to help her find her way.", I explain.
The lady is delighted: "Ah. A new neighbour. And what a pretty one. Come in. I'll make you a cup of coffee. Do you want to have a look inside the flat? I have the key. Mister Lewandowski asked me to water his plants whenever he went on a business trip, and nobody asked for the key when he moved to Moldavia, with all the money from the company he worked for as a bookkeeper. My name is Barbara, by the way. This is my husband, Lukasz. Lukasz worked at the metal factory until two years ago, but when he retired, we were told that the money for the pensions of the metalworkers had 'vaporised'. We were lucky we could rent this flat…"
Barbara is a literal piggy bank: after spending two years with silent Lukasz in their flat, she saved lots of words, and now she's found someone who wants to listen, she generously donates her complete stock. After we had coffee, she shows us Flat 18b. It's clean and well maintained. The door opens into a living room with a small kitchen, there's a bathroom with a shower, it has two bedrooms, enough space for a single woman, and it has a spectacular view. Barbara's flat looks over the city, but 18b faces east: green hills, divided by the blue ribbon of the river Vístula.
Barbara would easily beat any opponent in a real estate agent contest: "A small flat has big advantages: it only takes ten minutes to clean it, and you can always find your stuff because there is simply not enough space to lose anything. Are you an early riser? You'll love it here. I call this «the house of the rising sun». Every morning, you can see the sun coming up over the hills. Sometimes, when I couldn't sleep at night, I went over here, just to sit and admire the view. The view from my living room is pretty too, but I see that every day, you know, and I'm an optimistic person: I prefer to see the sun come up, a new day with new hope. The sunset on my side reminds me of my future; it's like looking at my funeral every night. It's depressing."
Scarlett generously gives her warmest smile to Barbara: "You should not focus on your funeral, Barbara. You should think of all the wonderful things that you can still do before your ultimate moment comes. I'm glad to have found a home with such a kind neighbour like you. If you like, you can come over and have breakfast with me now and then, so we can watch the sunrise together. But only in winter, please. Tomorrow, the sun comes up at 5 AM and I like to sleep until 6."
Best friends forever, Barbara and Scarlett. Barbara calls the landlord, to tell him she's found a new tenant for Flat 18b, and she expects a month of rent as a commission, make that two months (her naughty wink to Scarlett shows they'll share the benefit), and that the landlord should prepare the paperwork because the new tenant will move in tomorrow and he has to lower the rent because the flat has been vacant for so long and she has already told the new neighbour that she and Lukasz only pay 85 euros per month and the new girl will not take the place if she can't get the same conditions… And when we have another cup of coffee, Barbara explains that the couple on the 15th floor has a wireless Internet connection, and they give their access-code and password to everyone in the building for a monthly bottle of beer, so free Wi-Fi, and we should not worry about the strange smell because in 13d, they have some marijuana plants, about 200, so the guys have cracked the electricity from the streetlights to make sure they have enough light for the plants, and they've connected it to the fuse box for the rest of the building, so we all have free electricity as long as nobody finds out about the plants, and water is free too because the man who lives in 8c works for the town hall and he has made some 'arrangements' for his neighbours, that's how it works when you work at the town hall, and when you're poor, you help each other…
It's already late when we say goodbye to Barbara, who once again hugs us both and tells us how happy she is with her marvellous new neighbour.
On our way down the stairs, Scarlett confesses: "Well… That wasn't so bad. She's nice. A friendly neighbour is better than a far-away friend, they say. And the flat is in an acceptable shape too. It needs a firm scrub with green soap, and quite some painting, but I like the view. I also found a place to hang my photo of Scarlett O'Hara: on the left wall in the living room. But first, we'll have to do something about this smell here. I won't accept a daily pissing contest between all the male inhabitants of this building."
What's the first thing one does when she enters hor new house? Clean the place and put a few personal details where they belong. Scarlett has found her new nest, high above the world, the right place for a sparrow.
When we leave the building, I say to Scarlett: "Tomorrow we'll have a busy day: we need to move your stuff from your old flat over here, we'll have to tell your landlord you won't rent your old home next month, we'll have to deliver the packages, and we'll have to find a way to get close to Mister Kowalski too. And tonight, we haven't finished either: we have to put all your stuff in boxes and bags so we can transport them over here tomorrow."
"Do you want to do that tonight? Haven't we had enough for one day?"
We haven't had enough for one day. A dark figure waits for us on the path to the main road. I can't see his face, hidden in the shadows of the hood of his sweater, but I do see the shiny stiletto in his right hand.
Scarlett has seen it too. We stop. I look around: two hooded claws appear behind us, two modern monks step out of the shadows of the bushes on our left, three more come out of the building on our right and two others flank Brother Odd in front of us. This is a poor neighbourhood: it's dinner time but nobody can afford a fork, it's just knives they have, enough to cut the steak, but no decent table manners.
Almost inaudibly, I whisper: "No fear…" I hope Scarlett remembers my lessons of this afternoon: fear is a useless emotion. I hope she'll do the right thing: be brave.
I take one step forward, so my face is visible in the yellow glimmer of a lonely streetlight ahead, and ask: "Anything we can do for you?" Being polite is always the best way to make new friends.
The young man, the brother, the killer, explains: "You can give us your money. And your watch. And the woman's jewellery." Brother Odd juggles with his knife. The rest of the gang slowly loses its shyness; they close the circle, come closer, eager to become our closest friends…
"Money? A watch? Jewellery? Do you see something that I don't?" I turn the empty pockets of my trousers inside out. Then I show my hands, without rings, and my arms, without a watch. My spiPhone is hidden under my T-shirt, between the waistband and my back, and I have nothing else with me.
"You rich people from uptown always have money and expensive watches and jewels."
I cross my arms before my chest and say: "You make us feel so sad. We're not uptown people. My friend Scarlett lives here, in Jungleland. She calls it home, sweet home. She doesn't have money, she doesn't have jewels, she doesn't even have work."
But nobody listens because nobody cares. The brothers of the hood are «Show, Don't Tell»-style. They close in on us. It's ten against two. I wonder if I have to tell them, warn them, that I'm a trained professional who will not wait until they start to hurt me. These kids seem to be nice. I don't want them to make mistakes they'll regret for the rest of their lives. I don't want to make those lives a lot shorter either.
I say: "Do you want money? I can give you money. But not now."
Brother Odd is interested: "When?"
"As soon as you're out of the hospital."
"What hospital?"
With my right fist, I hit him hard, in his face, hard enough to break his nose. My left hand grabs his right wrist (the one with the knife) and turns his arm on his back. With my right hand, I catch the knife that falls out of his powerless hand, while we turn until I stand behind his back, facing the rest of the gang, and show them the knife on the throat of Brother Odd. The complete show took less than two seconds.
"Don't…", I say to the copycat who imitates my good example by putting his own knife on Scarlett's throat.
"Why not."
"Because you want money. I will not pay you if you hurt Scarlett. I will kill you if you hurt Scarlett, and that's the pleasant scenario, because if you fall into Scarlett's soft, sweet, black hands with blood-red nails…"
The hooded shadow behind Scarlett tries a poor imitation of superior laughter: "Ha, ha. Now I'm really scared."
"Scarlett, my dear. Please, tell our friend behind you what you do for a living, what you will do with Mister Kowalski when we find him."
Hate is a great motivator. Revenge is a drug; it consumes you; it makes you forget everything else. Scarlett forgets the arm around her neck and the knife at her throat. She shows that women are the cruel half of humanity, superior to men when it comes to violence, bloodthirst and vengeance.
Scarlett's dark, calm, controlled voice surprises me, and it scares the shit out of the hood, according to the increasing stink of ammoniac: "Mister Kowalski is rich. He lives in Gold Coast and he's the boss of an office. He has hurt me. First, I will staple him to the wall. Not with those little staples that you can find on every office desk. No. I'll do that with real nails, thirty centimetres long, about fifty of them, with one of these machines professional carpenters use. They nailed Jesus to the cross with three spikes. A horrible way to die. 2.000 years later, people still talk about it. But Mr Kowalski is no saint. He won't get away with it so easily. His death will be the main plot of horror films for a few millennia more…"
A voice behind me says something in Polish. My spiPhone MultiTranslator app turns me into a ventriloquist-translator: "What are you doing? Stop this!"
I know that voice. I know the woman who steps into the circle, between the two with the knives on their throats: "Stop fighting each other. Let her go. I know these two. They are good people. They are on our side."
It's Anja, the woman who asked for money at Café Curva this afternoon.
I lower the knife. When I see that my twin brother does the same with Scarlett, I let go of the arm of Brother Odd too.
Anja sees the blood on the face of my victim and worries: "Tomasz! What happened to you?"
Tomasz nods at me: "He did it."
Anja gets angry at me: "What did you do to my brother?"
"He needed money, so I offered him a job: we need ten men, tomorrow morning at eight o'clock, to move some stuff from an uptown flat to my friend Scarlett's house here in Jungleland. She pays each 400 zlotys when the job is done. I thought it was a pretty good offer, but Polish people negotiate with the knife on each other's throat."
Anja is a tough negotiator too: "Why do you come here? Professional movers do that work for half the price you're willing to pay."
"Responsibility and trust. We don't trust those professionals. They only do it for the money; when we don't check what they're doing, they might rob us. We don't have time to monitor the movers. We have to nail Mister Kowalski for what he did to Scarlett. The flat belongs to Mrs Kurczak, a widow with a nice insurance, and we have to move fast because she'll be back the day after tomorrow. Professional movers would ask all sorts of questions we can't answer. We prefer to do business with our own people, with people we trust, people from our own neighbourhood. Thieves don't steal from each other. When we do you a favour, you might help us out in the future. We pay 400 zlotys, to every one of you, a week's salary for a day's work. Are you interested or not?"
Odd Tomasz and the other brothers of the hood nod silently. Trust works both ways. We're not wasting time; Scarlett and I have to pack all the stuff in boxes and bags tonight. We have to move. We exchange address details and phone numbers, we shake hands, we promise a free beer for everyone when the work is done, we say goodbye, and we go, back to Scarlett's old flat.
A few blocks outside Jungleland, after checking we're not being followed, I compliment Scarlett for being so brave: "You were fantastic, Scarlett. If you would have panicked or cried or screamed, it would have made those punks more confident, and I doubt if it would have worked out as good as it did just now."
"I wasn't brave. I was boiling. We were going to die, but I didn't care. I was furious at myself, at you, and most of all at Adam Kowalski for putting me in so much trouble. I hated him so much that I couldn't think of anything else but revenge. When that punk pinched me with his knife, I swore a holy oath: either I'll survive this, or I'll return from the dead, but Adam Kowalski will pay for what he did to me."
Blessed are women, for being so beautiful and kind and caring, for being mothers and grandmothers, nurses and teachers and shoulders to cry on. I don't want to think about what could happen when women would decide to go to war…
I decide to stay optimistic: "Well, it worked out fine, and that's what matters. We have even found twenty hands to help us tomorrow with our busy schedule."
"Those punks are going to steal everything I have."
"No, they won't. Even thieves honour the trust that others have in them. They get paid for doing what you tell them to do, and they will keep the deal. Even thieves are honest people, most of the time. At night, they steal, it's true, but during the day, they pay for what they need. Robbing and stealing is just a job, like selling ice cream or cigarettes or second-hand cars. Everybody makes the same choices: good money for low risk is what we all want; if working hard and being honest is the most efficient way to get it, nobody will beg or steal or borrow. You'll see: it will work out fine, and we'll get a group of reliable friends as a bonus. Honesty works so much better than stealing. Economy works so much better than violence."
"And where do you get the 4.000 zlotys to pay your new friends?"
"Oh, that's easy. We use a little violence and steal them from Mister Kowalski."