Litro #126 Poland teaser

Poland 126

Tadeusz Różewicz • Zygmunt Miłoszewski Paweł Huelle • Jacek Dehnel Wioletta Grzegorzewska • A.M. Bakalar Grażyna Plebanek

Mystery Issue, March 2013 | 44

Summer Exhibition 2013 Until 18 August 2013 www.royalacademy.org.uk Friends of the RA go free Sponsored by

Detail of artwork by El Anatsui.

Courtesy October Gallery, London.

Photo: John Bodkin

126

Litro Magazine Poland

EDITORIAL Polish is now, after English, the second most widely-spoken language in England. But how many Polish books and authors have you read?

When I talk about Polish books people often tell me they are depressing, and assume they are mostly about the Second World War. And there’s a grain of truth in that reaction. Poles, with their turbulent and often tragic history, have not had an easy ride. The recent presidential plane crash, in which all 96 people on board were killed, was another powerful blow.

Poland’s accession to the European Union in May 2004 resulted in a mass exodus of hundreds of thousands of Poles which kicked off the ‘Stay With Us’ campaign back in Poland to counteract the brain drain of young and educated Poles. But Poland is a nation of proud and resilient people, of people who forge new paths with surprising ease, a land of contradictions.

In preparation for this issue Litro launched a short story competition inspired by the Polish writer Bruno Schulz, in association with the Polish Cultural Institute in London. I had the great pleasure of working with one of the judges of this competition—Tasja Dorkofikis.

This month’s Polish issue brings a fascinating collection of diverse texts from authors who live in both Poland and abroad, each offering a glimpse of a very different and unforgettable world. One of the most exciting aspects of the pieces included in this issue are the intriguing new ways Polish authors engage with the vastness of human experience in the context of the past and, unsurprisingly, the new migrant existence.

Tadeusz Różewicz is considered one of the greatest, most innovative Polish authors. His Mother Departs, devoted to his dying mother Stefania, won the NIKE Prize, often called the Polish Booker, in 2000. What makes a poet? What is the meaning of life and death?— these are the questions Różewicz ponders.

Novelist Zygmunt Miłoszewski is the new star in Polish crime fiction and the prosecutor Teodor Szacki’s relentless pursuit of the killer in A Grain of Truth will keep you awake at night. Miłoszewski is also a double winner of the High Calibre Award for the Best Polish Crime Novel. Be scared. Be very scared!

Paweł Huelle tells the absorbing story of his family through their cars in the very witty Mercedes-Benz. Illustrated with personal photographs, Huelle packs this short book with funny and tender stories. Mercedes-Benz will stay with you long after you have read it.

The beautifully crafted poetry of Wioletta Grzegorzewska mesmerises with its observations of the human spirit. The poetess, who settled on the Isle of Wight, navigates her existence between Poland and her new home in the UK. Grażyna Plebanek’s tantalising Illegal Liaisons breaks down barriers with its thrilling descriptions of sex and acute observations of life in Brussels where the author resides.

A father, husband and a writer caught in a relationship with two women. Need I say more?

Jacek Dehnel’s fictionalised version of the lives of Francisco Goya, his son Javier and grandson Mariano reveals a fascinating portrait of one of the greatest artists of the late 18th and early 19th century. Here’s a story of hate, jealousy and manipulation between a genius father and his son.

A poet’s confession, gruesome crime, the perseverance of human spirit, illicit sex, family history and a glimpse at the underworld of cannabis production—a collection of texts that will surprise and, I hope, delight you, from a land of astonishing contradictions. Enjoy!

A.M. Bakalar Guest Editor June 2013

CONTENTS Events

04

Tadeusz Różewicz

06

MOTHER DEPARTS excerpt

Zygmunt Miłoszewski A GRAIN OF TRUTH excerpt

Jacek Dehnel SATURN excerpt

Paweł Huelle MERCEDES-BENZ excerpt Litro magazine Poland short story competition winner.

Amanda Oosthuizen GLOVES OF GDAŃSK

Wioletta Grzegorzewska POETRY COLLECTION

A.M. Bakalar MADAME MEPHISTO excerpt

Grażyna Plebanek ILLEGAL LIAISONS excerpt

COVER ARTIST

10 15 19 23 24 28 34

Kasia Depta-Garapich Born Krakow, Poland studied History of Art at Jagiellonian University Krakow, Poland (1999), BA Fine Art Sculpture (First Class Hons) at University of the Arts London and MA in Fine Art Sculpture at the Slade School of Art, London (2012). Her practice merges drawing, sculpture and animation.

EVENTS THIS MONTH BOOKS London ABA International Antiquarian Book Fair The National Hall. Olympia Exhibition Center, Hammersmith Road, W14 8UX Saturday 15/06/13, 11am-5pm View, handle and buy books, maps, prints, photographs, manuscripts, ephemera and original artwork spanning the centuries.

Many items are of museum quality and available for inspection.

- you might just be able to get your hands on a remarkable piece of history.

Litro Live! 2013: St Pancras Take Over The Betjemen Arms, Unit 53, St Pancras International Station, Pancras Road, N1C 4QL Thursday 20/06/13, 6-11pm, FREE We’re taking over London’s iconic St Pancras Station! Join us on the Upper Concourse for an evening of readings, discussion and live music inspired by Polish Literature.

Speakers include: Grażyna Plebanek, Wioletta Grzegorzewska, A.M. Bakalar, Jacek Dehnel and performance poet Adam Kammerling.Tunes from avant-guard harpist Lucinda Belle and DJ Liminal Londoner.

An Evening with Jeffery Deaver Waterstone’s Picadilly Friday 21/06/13, 7pm, £5/£3 Bestselling crime writer Jeffery Deaver will be at Waterstone’s in Picadilly Circus to discuss The Kill Room, the latest installment in the Lincoln Rhyme series.

The Lady From Tel Aviv, Rabai al-Madhoun The Gallery at Foyles, Charing Cross Road Monday 01/07/13, 6:30-8:30pm, FREE The Arab British Centre, in partnership with Telegram and English PEN present: The Lady from Tel Aviv. Join Rabai al-Madhoun, a prominent literary figure (in the Arab world), as he discusses his novel The Lady from Tel Aviv, which was shortlisted for the International Prize for Arabic Fiction 2010.

POETRY The Josephine Hart Poetry Hour: the Poetry of Sylvia Plath

4 | Litro Magazine

(Poetry Hour) The British Library Monday 10/06/13, 6:30-8pm, £7.50/£5 concessions Josephine Hart hosts another event celebrating the talent of Sylvia Plath. The event marks 50 years since the publication of The Bell Jar. Guests include her daughter Frieda Hughes, Ted Hughes and Emilia Fox.

Spoken Word at Lunch: St Thomas Hospital, Inua Ellams and GREEdS St Thomas’ HospitalMonday 17/06/13, 1-2pm, FREE Apples and Snakes and Breathe Arts Health Research present an afternoon of poetry in celebration of Fathers’ Day at St Thomas’ Hospital.

Poetry Unplugged Poetry Café, Covenant Gardens Tuesday 25/06/13, 7:30-10pm, £5/£4 concessions Take part or simply come along and enjoy London’s premier open mic night. Sign up between 6 and 7pm to be in the lineup. The session is hosted by Niall O’Sullivan

EXHIBITIONS Climate Changing Stories Science Museum Until 27/06/13, FREE A new free exhibition that combines science, imagination and art to give insight into our ever-evolving planet.

FILMS Pompeii Live from The British Museum Check with Local Cinema Tuesday 18/06/13, 7pm Visit your local cinema for a special screening of Pompeii Live.

Find out what daily life was like for people living in the Bay of Naples in AD 79. It’s the first live cinema event produced by the British Museum from a major exhibition, so could prove an intriguing watch.

A Dream in the Making University College London Saturday 22/06/13, 7:30pm, £8/£6 A story of friendship and determination that proves everything in life is possible. The story is set in Warsaw's Wola district, one of the poorest areas of the Polish capital, and shows a young man’s determination to succeed in life.

Poland Issue, June 2013 | 5

MOTHER DEPARTS excerpt A rich and complex portrait of the author’s mother Stefania and of her indelible influence on her extraordinary family.

by Tadeusz Różewicz translated by Barbara Bogoczek now now, as I write these words, my mother’s eyes rest on me. The eyes, mindful and tender, are silently asking, ‘what’s troubling you, my darling…?’ With a smile I reply, ‘nothing…everything’s fine Mummy, really,’ ‘but tell me,’ Mother says, ‘what’s the matter?’ I turn my head away, look through the window…

Mother’s eyes which can see everything watch the birth watch throughout life and watch after death from the ‘other world’. Even if they turned her son into a killing machine or a beast a murderer mother’s eyes are looking at him with love…looking.

When a mother turns her eyes away, her child starts to stray, becomes lost in a world stripped of love and warmth.

Tomorrow’s Mother’s Day. I don’t remember if when I was a child there was an official day like that…When I was a child every day was Mother’s day. Every morning Mother’s day. And noon and evening and night.

You know Mummy, I can tell it only to you in my old age, and I can tell you now because I’m already older than you…I didn’t dare tell you when you were alive. I’m a Poet. It’s a word that frightened me, I never spoke it to Father…I didn’t know if it was decent to say something like that.

I entered the world of poetry as if into the light and now I’m preparing to exit, into darkness…I trekked across the landscape of poetry and have seen it with the eye of a fish a mole a bird a child a grown man and an old man; why is it so difficult to utter these words: ‘I’m a poet’, you search for synonyms to help you come out to the world. To Mother. Of course, Mother knows. But to say something like that to my father was unthinkable…So I never did tell Father ‘Dad…Father…I’m a poet’. I don’t know if my father would even have noticed… he’d be so remote…he’d have said (while he read the paper, ate, dressed, polished his shoes…) ‘what’s that you’re saying (Tadziu)?’ After all it was just silly ‘what’s that again?’ but of course I couldn’t repeat it, let alone louder, ‘Dad, Father, I am a poet’…Father might have looked up from his plate, his paper…looking surprised or perhaps not looking but nodding and saying ‘good…good’ or saying nothing at all. I wrote a poem called ‘Father’ (in 1954) ‘Walking through my heart goes/my old father…’ I never knew if Father read that poem, he never said a word…anyway I never read it to Father either…now it’s 1999…and my voice is so quiet that my Parents can’t hear my words ‘Mum, Dad, I’m a poet’…

‘I know, Darling’ Mother says ‘I’ve always known.’ ‘Speak up’ says Father ‘I can’t hear a thing’…

a poet’s promises For years I used to promise my Mum three things: that I’d invite her to Kraków, that I’d show her Zakopane and the mountains, that I’d take her to the seaside.

Mum never got to see Kraków. She got to see neither Kraków nor the moun6 | Litro Magazine

A GRAIN OF TRUTH excerpt A killing bears the hallmarks of legendary Jewish ritual slaughter— Prosecutor Szacki is on the case.

by Zygmunt Miłoszewski translated by Antonia Lloyd-Jones Chapter 2 Thursday, 16 April 2009 For Jews in the diaspora it is the solemnly observed final day of Passover, for Christians it is the fifth day of the Easter Week and for Poles it is the final day of national mourning following the tragic hotel fire. The Polish Army is celebrating Sapper’s Day, actress Alina Janowska her eighty-sixth birthday and the Warsaw stock exchange its eighteenth. In Włocławek the municipal guard picked up a priest and his altar boy, in their vestments, both roaring drunk and aggressive. They turned out to be laymen who had pinched the outfits from one of their mothers, a seamstress. A British firm has found enormous deposits of gas under Poznań, and according to the British press, the piece of music most often played at funerals is Frank Sinatra singing My Way; also high on the list is Highway to Hell

by AC/DC. In the second leg of the quarter-finals of the UEFA Cup the winners are Dynamo Kiev, Shakhtar Donetsk, Werder Bremen and Hamburg, who face fratricidal encounters in the semi-finals. Sandomierz is outraged by the relocation of its vegetable market, which must vacate its site to make way for a car park serving the new stadium. Whatever their views on this matter, all the citizens have another cold day. The temperature does not rise above fourteen degrees, but at least it is sunny, with no rain.

Prosecutor Teodor Szacki did not like cold weather, stupid cases, incompetent lawyers or provincial courts. That morning he got a triple dose of all of them. He glanced at the calendar: spring. He looked out of the window: spring. He put on his suit and coat, threw his gown over his shoulder and decided to take an invigorating walk to the courthouse.

By the time he reached Sokolnicki Street, where he slipped on the frosted cobblestones, he knew it was a bad idea. Somewhere near the Opatowska Gate his ears went numb, at the water tower he had no feeling in his fingers, and when at last he turned into Kościuszko Street and entered the dirty-green courthouse, he had to spend a few minutes recovering, blowing on his frozen hands. It was like the North Pole in this bloody, windswept dump—damn the place, he thought.

The courthouse was ugly. Its solid bulk may have looked modern when it was built in the 1990s, but now it looked like a gypsy palace converted into a public service building. Its steps, chrome railings, green stone and irregular surfaces didn’t suit the surrounding architecture, or even the building itself; there was something apologetic about its green colour, as if it were trying to hide its own ugliness against the cemetery trees. The courtroom consistently followed the style of the rest of the block, and the most eye-catching item in this space, which looked like the conference room at a second-rate corporation, were the green, hospital-style vertical blinds.

10 | Litro Magazine

SATURN excerpt The life of the legendary Spanish painter Francisco Goya and the toxic relationship with his son Javier.

by Jacek Dehnel translated by Antonia Lloyd-Jones Javier, son of the painter Francisco Goya, can never forgive his father for ruining his mother Pepa’s life. Francisco (known as Paco) sees own his role within the family differently, and when Javier’s wife Gumersinda takes in her cousin Leocadia as a nanny for their son, Marianito, the old painter takes advantage of the young woman’s presence.

Javier: He seemed to me to be getting weaker—he had been deaf since long ago, but gradually he started to lose his sight too, and to squint as he leaned over a copper plate, closely watching the motion of the etching needle. Doctor Arrieta made it plain to me that it wouldn’t be long now. How wrong he was.

He did more and more griping, in fact it was incessant—even my mother lost patience with him. She would come to see me, in the corner room where I used to sit for whole days on end, neatly attired or slovenly, in an old dressing gown, and launch into her litany of complaints about my idleness, about illness, about life in this house being like life in a convent, but at the same time, from underneath it all, hints of weariness and hesitancy broke through. She never attacked my father directly, but his outbursts of rage, his unfaithfulness and constant grudges against the entire world were well known to all.

Only once did I hear a real grievance from her; I had come to Calle de Valverde, my father wasn’t there, he had gone on a hunting trip, or maybe he was painting somewhere outside Madrid; she was on her second day of the spring cleaning.

Yes, it must have been during the spring cleaning, because only then, once a year, did my father agree to his studio being cleaned, though even so you could hear his angry grunts, curses and shrieks for a couple of days after his return when he couldn’t find some brush or etching needle; in fact, it was always hard to find anything in that mess, but after spring cleaning he had someone to blame it on.

We were standing in the corridor, by the door into the studio, watching as the maid swept out the dust from in there, the lumps of paint, strips of rag and white powder, which rose from the floor in small cloudlets.

“All because of this,” muttered my mother, “because of this white powder.”

I glanced at her and asked: “What’s that? All what?” And she smoothed a wrinkle from her sleeve and replied: “Well, everything. The little ones’ burials, the miscarriages. Your frailty. And other things I don’t even want to think about.

My brother, your uncle Francisco, knew all about it; he was indeed an artist, but he was interested in chemistry, he brought home books, from France even, and explained it to me, and to your father too, he wrote it down for him on bits of paper, because in those days already...it was after he came back from Cadiz, miraculously cured, but deaf...Except that he never did anything about it. Lead white and cinnabar. The cinnabar was only ever in the equivalent of medicinal quantities, but the white, how much of that white came in, arroba after arroba!

You can no longer remember how your father used to work on tapestry designs for the king—those were large canvases, six ells wide by four, by five, various sizes;

Poland Issue, June 2013 | 15

MERCEDES-BENZ excerpt One family’s obsession with classic cars: the outings, the races, the crashes and the inevitable repairs, amid life-changing historical events.

by Paweł Huelle translated by Antonia Lloyd-Jones One spring morning less than two months later a vast, colourful sphere came into bloom on the green behind the factory…

“Please slow down at once,” said Miss Ciwle, raising an eyebrow, “or we won’t have a chance to chat. So your grandfather’s next car was a Mercedes-Benz?” she asked, just as if our last conversation had only ended yesterday. “Was it really better than the citron?” “To be precise,” I said, slowing down to sixty, “not his next, but his next few cars, because at the time Mercedes was the first company to introduce a one-year system, based on the idea that after twelve months you could take back a used car and, for a supplement of five hundred zlotys, drive a brand new car out of their garage.” “Their garage?” wondered Miss Ciwle. “That’s what it was called in those days,” I said, not letting her interrupt, “because in those days the word ‘salon’ didn’t refer to a hairdresser’s for example, a shoe shop or a laundry, like today; in that era a salon was still exclusively for various forms of social intercourse, making music, drinking wine, perhaps a game of bridge. So every year,” I went on, “Grandfather Karol drove out of the Mercedes garage in a brand new car, but it was always exactly the same model, with the same moss-green body colour to boot, and if Grandfather was so very fond of the 170, it must have been because he was the undisputed winner of the fox hunt in it every single year.” “Never,” said Miss Ciwle, signalling that at the Kościuszko roundabout I should turn left into Slowacki Street, “now you’re talking through your hat—fox hunting’s an equestrian sport. How could you chase someone with a tied-on fox’s brush across the fields and open ground on four wheels? It doesn’t make sense, not even if the fox were motorised, and that’s impossible anyway. What a lot of stories you must cook up! Please do it well so I can’t feel it at all, clutch, change gear,” she instructed me, “let’s go up the hill in a lower gear!” As we zig-zagged up the moraine towards the airport a suburban scent of lilac and mown grass floated through the open car window, along with the cool shade of the beech woods, gloomy even in spring.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but you don’t appreciate the inventiveness of the pre-war engineers.

One day some balloon races were held in Mościce for the first time ever, no less than the national heats for the Gordon Bennett Cup, so when the engineers gathered at the club that evening, thrilled by the marvellous, fairytale sight of those spherical shapes in the sky, one of them came up with a revelation, the truly Wagnerian notion of combining their favourite sport of motoring, to which they were entirely devoted, with the sport of ballooning from now on. And in this simple way,” I said, looking deep into Miss Ciwle’s eyes, “the idea for a completely new kind of fox hunt was born, a revolutionary, democratic form of the sport, because after all,” I calmly explained, “just like his colleagues, Grandfather Karol might be invited by Prince Sanguszko to go shooting, for instance, or even to the spring ball at Gumniska, but to be asked to go fox hunting on horseback was not so likely—that was in the realm of the Almanach de Gotha; without at least seven batons on your crest, without sashes and maces, portraits too, in short, without high enough birth you were not comme il faut. So straightaway my grandfather and Engineer Krynicki devised the rules and regulations of the game, straightaway a collection was organised to cover all the costs of the

Poland Issue, June 2013 | 19

GLOVES OF GDAŃSK Litro magazine Poland short story competition winner.

by Amanda Oosthuizen Do you need gloves? Take the number 184 bus. Leave between Wood Green and Ally Pally. Folded shirts are tiered in the window, matching ties tucked into collars. You’ll need to knock. Eyes will appear above the old sheet. The door will open a crack.

Inside, you’ll glimpse a room, golden like the inside of an orange. The owner, in a black silk suit, will block your path. His head is shaved, a pink rawness to the scalp, slightly dewy. You wouldn’t want to touch it.

He’ll look you over. His criteria for judgment is a mystery so you’ll face him openly. But your secrets will tumble out forming a grotesque, steaming pile at your feet. He’ll kick them with his pointed shoes dividing the muck from the awkward. You’ll wish you were a child again, where time might unravel your mistakes and hope flavoured every breath.

You’ll tilt your head apologetically. A blink of derision will flit across his face but he’ll present the room with a sweeping arm.

Drawers cover the walls in syrupy oak; each labelled: Częstochowa, Łódź, Drohobych...You’ll enter its warm glow.

In a drawer named Gdańsk, he’ll reveal hands suspended palm down as if playing the piano. He’ll remove a pair with slender fingers, tapering nails waxen at the tips like magnolia petals. You’ll look at your own hands, the sturdy thumbs and scaly skin silver with cold, and wonder if they need replacing. Perhaps it’ll make all the difference.

To your surprise, he’ll insert a pin into the wrist. With a bang, the hand will collapse. He’ll slip the gloves onto your hands; they’ll turn the colour of your skin.

On the bus, you’ll bite the fingertip, intending to remove the gloves, but tasting bread, heck, you’ll nip off a finger.

Poland Issue, June 2013 | 23

POETRY COLLECTION

Poetry of the existential and visceral feminine experience in between two languages and two countries.

Wioletta Grzegorzewska translated by Marek Kazmierski

LOVERS ANGLING Drunks spreading themselves along the pier.

A girl impaling a worm on a hook with the help of swearwords.

A lad toying with a reel— slowly raising and lowering the bail.

Charcoal aroma set over the dock.

Blue fishing lines pulsating.

It is almost night, and yet I can still see their lures swaying in the depths.

CHRISTINA’S WORLD I will not be home tonight, not to where the air grows thick and every object swells in the amber light of the stove.

I will hide in ergot kernels, dazed by the smell of Pennsylvania herbs, open a world which will not be maimed by the horizon’s edge.

24 | Litro Magazine

MADAME MEPHISTO excerpt What would you talk about if you were stuck in a room with a drug dealer for five days?

by A.M. Bakalar Urban Dictionary on Poland: A nation that is unaware of its own collective backwardness, to its utter tragedy. It works efficiently only under occupation and dictatorship. Xenophobic and nationalistic.

You don’t believe me? It gets better. Have you heard of a country where twin brothers rule, one the president, the other the prime minister?

No? How about this one: the president dies in a plane crash, for which he was most probably responsible because he forced the pilot to land, killing himself, his wife, and ninety-four other people? Did I hear you right?

You say it’s a conspiracy theory? Not so fast.

It is your country we are talking about.

But maybe you are right. It is all fucked up anyway.

I am sorry, perhaps I shouldn’t swear. Not in front of you, at least. And we are going to a funeral in five days. But there is still time before we pay our respects.

You see, there are some things you should know about our country. And our family of course since, well, you and I are going to spend lots of time together. And I am not talking about those many hours before the last rites. Everybody is so busy with grieving and lamenting that they almost forget about you. You could say we have a lifetime ahead with each other.

What? Don’t look at me like that. There is nothing to be afraid of.

You will learn to appreciate me. Oh, for Christ’s sake, don’t cry now!

I am not a monster. But hold that thought. You see, my mother once said to me: ‘How can you be my daughter?’ A bit harsh, if you ask me, don’t you think?

If I were you I would listen to what I have to say in the coming days because I am doing you a favour. I like to think of it as a rescue operation.

Oh no, I did not ask for it. Believe me, taking care of you is the last thing I need in my life. I had no choice. Nobody asked for my opinion.

This family! It’s so much easier to love each other from a distance.

So here we are now, you and I. We will see about the future later.

Anyway, we may as well spend this time we have together getting to know each other, or you getting to know me. Here in this room, in my parents’ house. Did you know that it was built in 1928? Of course not. How would you know? Mind you, it is a very solid construction unlike what they build these days. They moved to this house in the late 1990s from a block of flats we used to live in.

Are you comfortable? Good. I will place a pillow under your head.

28 | Litro Magazine

Ewelina Muc

Poland Issue, June 2013 | 33

ILLEGAL LIAISONS excerpt Unstoppable physical obsession amongst a group of Brussels eurocrats.

by Grażyna Plebanek translated by Danusia Stok Jonathan’s thoughts rarely turned to the first time he had met Andrea. The moments in which they later immersed themselves occupied more space in his memory; and they had leapt into something more intense—they insisted—than ever before.

Jonathan’s memory turned out to be a clever device that didn’t prompt comparisons, at least not when he was with Andrea. She was his goal, his oxygen and his delicacy; he mounted her, lived by her breath, eagerly licked the nipples adorning the olive-skinned spheres of her breasts.

Images of the bodies of women with whom he had been in the past, including the pale recollection of his wife’s body, lay forgotten at the bottom of his memory.

Jonathan set out to climax with Andrea carrying no burdens, only his ego, which never physically let him down—something that filled him with pride. When later they lay side by side—and these were limited minutes of pure happiness, which disappeared as soon as they parted—Andrea, as women are wont to do, would say something like, ‘I remember the first time I saw you’. In her post-coital stupefaction, she could think of nothing else. She, so intelligent, witty, wise, wanted to whisper only about them. And so Jonathan, who had a similar vacuum in his head, hid behind the smoke of his cigarette and murmured, ‘Yes, yes, I remember’.

The truth came out when it turned out that ‘when I first saw you’ meant something different to him and to her. Andrea counted their days together from their first meeting, he from their first lovemaking.

‘Two different calendars!’ shouted Andrea, knitting her dark brows. Did they have anything in common whatsoever? She was angry but a moment later forgave him, and Jonathan suspected that the abyss which proved his masculine lack of sensitivity in some way excited her.

Jonathan did, in fact, remember the first time he saw Andrea but he didn’t tell her because he didn’t want her to have any power over him. He had already realised that she could be cruel when she caught a whiff of blind attachment. He didn’t want her to wave a sheet stained with blood, his blood, in front of his nose, so he let her refresh this ‘forgo_en’ memory for him.

Each time she spoke about the first time, Andrea added something new, some element she had previously overlooked. In this way she constructed their mythical beginning. Jonathan, meanwhile, silently struggled to hold on to his own. Frankly, he was afraid of her myth. He sensed that in repeating her story, his lover was spreading her web around him. And he was scared of it, just as every man is scared when he suspects he’s being trapped, even though all she tied him with was the thread of a story.

34 | Litro Magazine

Publisher & Editor-in-Chief: Eric Akoto eric.akoto@litro.co.uk Magazine Short Fiction Editor: Andrew Lloyd-Jones andrew.lloydjones@litro.co.uk Online Short Fiction Editor: Katy Darby katy.darby@litro.co.uk General Online Editor : Emily Cleaver litrolab@litro.co.uk Events Editor: Liz Cookman Book Reviews & Interviews Editor: David Whelan david.whelan@litro.co.uk Film & Arts Editor: Becky Ayre becky.ayre@litro.co.uk Contributing Editor: Sophie Lewis Magazine Layout & Design: Laura Hannum Sales & Marketing: Angelina Wangsha angelina.wangsha@litro.co.uk Litro sends a special thank you to our guest editor A.M. Bakalar of Stork Press The publisher gratefully acknowledges assistance from the Polish Cultural Institute in London for its support towards the publication of this magazine

Litro Magazine is published by Ocean Media Books Ltd. General inquiries: contact info@litro.co.uk or call 020 3371 9971.

Litro Magazine is a little lit mag with a big worldview, pocket-sized so you can bring it anywhere. Our mission: to discover new and emerging writers and publish them alongside stalwarts of the literary scene.

We also publish regular features on literature, arts and culture online at www.litro.co.uk. Please keep this copy of Litro safe or pass it on to someone else to enjoy—we like to think of Litro as a small, free book.

LITRO | 126 Poland Jonathan’s memory turned out to be a clever device that didn’t prompt comparisons, at least not when he was with Andrea.

She was his goal, his oxygen and his delicacy; he mounted her, lived by her breath, eagerly licked the nipples adorning the olive-skinned spheres of her breasts. Images of the bodies of women with whom he had been in the past, including the pale recollection of his wife’s body, lay forgotten at the bottom of his memory.

From Illegal Liaisons by Grażyna Plebanek Cover Art: Snail, Animation Still by Kasia Depta-Garapich www.litro.co.uk ISBN 978-0-9554245-5-7

43 | Litro Magazine