Nine by Andrzej Stasiuk Read Free Book Online

could also work . . .”
    â€œThe problem is, I borrowed money and now I have to pay it back. But I don’t have it. Brussels sprouts won’t help.”
    â€œIf you started right, you never would have ended up in a situation like this. Me, I divided my body into seven zones, and every day I nourish myself with vegetables from one of the seven groups. In this way I live in total harmony. I mean, we’re cosmic beings, aren’t we?”
    â€œGagarin?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe cosmonaut.”
    â€œOh, you mean those fascist technocrats. You know what Lao-tzu said?”
    â€œYeah. You can’t jump higher than your prick.”
    â€œWhat?”
    It occurred to him that in ten minutes the plane from Prague would be landing at Okęcie. Long ago, he recalled, in the main hall of the airport, when the crowd thinned, they’d hunt for empty packs of foreign cigarettes. They’d look in the trash cans or see the little colored boxes in ashtrays. Finders keepers, and they didn’t care who was watching. Green-and-white Suezes, white-and-red Winstons, brown plastic Philip Morris boxes, yellow, gold, and dark blue 555s, the kind that Mao smoked. If they’d only known then that the price would shoot up and for one pack you could get a green LM box with the carriage on it plus a dark-blue Dunhill. The black-and-silver Desires and the brown Kazbeks no one wanted. Tall men in dark suits and blue shirts watched them with a smile. Once, when he was picking through an ashtray, a dark-skinned guy gave him half a pack of
Marlboros, but they were the red ones, nothing special. Out on the concrete viewing terrace, a fine rain fell, and the planes emerged from the fog—silver, smooth, glistening—and disappeared back into it. Perhaps it all began then. They would take out the crumpled packets in the 175 bus, examine them, and pronounce their names.
    â€œNothing,” he said, and went to the living room. In the next apartment someone was hammering, or knocking someone’s head against the wall. He read the spines of the books. There was a large black Jack London, a dark red Buster, a white Suchecki. The minutes hit the ground at his feet like droplets of mercury, quivering, rolling into the corner under the coffee table with the radio. “The floor’s crooked,” he thought.
    She stuck her head out of the kitchen and asked if he wanted some chicory coffee.
    â€œIt’s made of thickly ground grains, so the structure hasn’t been destroyed and—”
    â€œI’ll take the massage,” he said.
    â€œAll right, but go to the bathroom first. You need an empty bladder to reduce the tension. Then the energy can flow freely. In general, fluids have a negative effect . . .”
    â€œOK.”
    The bottom of the bathtub was rust red, the toilet as yellow as an old bone. He pissed into the sink, pulled the chain, washed his dick. The water was cold. A green tracksuit hung on a line. Next to the toilet was a pile of magazines. He squatted to look at them:
Razem, Perspektywy, ITD, Panorama
. Whoever lived here was freeing himself from the passage of time. There was no mirror to show change.
    â€œA perfect spot,” he thought. Now safety had the smell of wet concrete and chlorine.
    Â 
    She told him to take his clothes off and lie on his stomach. From her bag she took a small bottle.
    â€œThis is a special oil,” she said.
    She rubbed the yellow liquid on her hands, poured a little on his back. It felt cold, but when she touched him, he didn’t mind. She started from his sides, kneaded firmly, almost roughly. Short fingernails. Then she moved lower, to his buttocks, and up again. She pinched his flesh as if handling fabric or the rubber of a shop dummy. He grew warm. Again thought about safety, which now had the acrid smell of her sweat. She did not use a deodorant. He closed his eyes, pressed his face into his arm, imagined her