At the first site gate, he is answered with a shaking head – no work here – before he has time to ask the question. At the next gate, it is the same story.
The third is even more worrying. The gate is closed, and chained. Through a gap between the gate and fence, Jerzy sees that there is no one there. Long steel cables stand up out of the foundations, but nothing has been built. Something is wrong here.
He is not completely lost or out of touch. He has read the Polish papers online. He talks to other people. A man outside the Polish supermarket near O’Connell Street made him laugh a few days ago when he pulled his empty pockets inside-out and introduced them as Downturn and Recession.
He has reassured Kasia in his emails to her. –There is no need to worry, he has written. A recession here will be like a boom time at home. He has enjoyed writing these lies. –My apartment overlooks the famous River Liffey, or it would if it had windows. Strangely – but perhaps not so strangely – writing the e-mails has made him feel quite successful and in control of his life, even if he makes them up. Or because he makes them up. As long as Kasia does not decide to join him here – in his apartment near the River Liffey. And as long as no one he knows from home sees him as he crawls out of his tent – which is also near the River Liffey.
By midday he has given up on work. Food and feet are his new priorities. He is hungry, so he walks to the Capuchin Friary. He moves slowly because his feet ache, and because he will be early. It is a quite a distance to Bow Street, back along the river. He is not a builder.
He is not a carpenter or bricklayer. He is honest, strong, and willing. These are the qualifications he brought with him to Dublin. And a degree in Polish history.
He should hate this river by now but, actually, he likes it. Even when it rains, as it does now – again. Ireland has a mild but changeable climate. He remembers reading this before he came here. But since he arrived the only thing that has been changeable is the rain’s intensity. It rains lightly or heavily, or very heavily – but it always rains. And mild? Can a man drown mildly? He will ask Kasia this question when he writes to her.
He turns right, into the area called Smithfield. About two weeks after he arrived here, as he began to run out of money, someone in an internet café suggested to Jerzy that he could pick strawberries and potatoes – he could buy a tent and work on the farms and market gardens north of the city. He regrets now that he said No. But does he, really? He can imagine the pain in his back, and the rain beating on him as he searches the muck with stiff, bleeding fingers. He did not leave his family to pick potatoes.
But then, he did buy a tent and the rain beats on him every day. He is out of the rain now, in the queue for the food that is given to him and hundreds of other men, and women, every day. The food is fine, but he hates this routine. He takes his plate, and acknowledges the smiles of the men and women who cook and serve the food. But gratitude is smothered by humiliation – always. To be queuing for charity – But he must. He must eat.
There is a priest here sometimes, a Polish priest. He has offered to pay for Jerzy’s flight to Poland.
He is not here today. But Jerzy cannot go home. He won’t smash the fantasy he has created in his e-mails to Kasia. He is a success here. He is a man who can look after his family.
Humiliated if he stays, humiliated if he goes home. At least the food is good. Mince, carrots, and mashed potato. He sees the man he met earlier at the bus station, Filip, the man he gave the money to. He nods, but Filip looks down at his plate. Even the simplest contact is humiliating.
There is another man, sitting opposite Jerzy. He points at Jerzy’s bowl. He says something.
–You want? Jerzy asks, in English.
–Yeah.
Jerzy pushes the bowl across the table. It contains a pie of some sort, stewed apple and wet pastry. He stands up. He never lingers here. He needs somewhere to go. As long as he has a goal, a destination, he can hold himself up. Even with sore feet. He will go to the art gallery. It is free
