Unrolling his sleeping bag almost hurts. Muscles protest – not again. Jerzy has been looking forward to clean sheets, a mattress, a roof. But he must endure two more days. He is hungry – and hungrier now because he does not have the opportunity to go the soup kitchens during the day. He has a job, he is too busy. He is too successful to eat! And he has absolutely no money. He spent his last euros in the internet café, when he wrote to his wife.
The bag feels damp. It is damp. He thinks of warm chicken and sex and a hot shower and a fat dressing gown and sheets and a warm body beside him. He thinks of his son running through sand dunes, catching him, swinging him, laughing, laughing, hugging.
He sleeps.
We wakes. He sleeps again. He wakes. It is bright inside the tent. The birds outside are loud and angry. He hears roaring from the nearby zoo – he thinks he does. He is quickly worried – an escaped lion, or a raging gorilla with an aching ear. He gets out of the tent; he almost falls. It is quieter outside, normal. It is raining – again, normal. One more day, he thinks, and then a new normality will start.
It is a hard day.
The final kilometer of the marathon – that is how he thinks of it. No energy left – he notices that he is gasping, even when he is not working. Jerzy and Filip sit side by side on cardboard, in one of the new apartments, but they say little. Two millionaires, they are actually starving.
–Will we continue to work here after tomorrow? Jerzy asks.
–No, says Filip. –I don’t think so.
–We might not be paid for the days we have worked.
Filip doesn’t answer. His silence is the answer.
Jerzy lies back on the cardboard. But he stops himself. Something suddenly frightens him: if he lies down he might not get up again. He’ll close his eyes for good. He knows this is ridiculous, stupidly dramatic. But he stands up.
He brushes sawdust and bent nails into a corner. He tries to care that the floor is becoming clear, that he can see the beauty of the wood. The bottom of the boat slides easily across the sand. We push the boat right onto the water. Soon, this wood will be his.
–This apartment, says Filip.
–Yes?
–We might have to buy it, says Filip.
It’s as if Jerzy’s thoughts have invaded Filip’s.
–My God, says Jerzy. –Why?
–I forgot to tell you, says Filip. –When we opened our bank accounts.
–Yes?
–We needed an address, says Filip.
He shrugs.
–I gave this one.
Jerzy points at the floor.
–This very one?
Filip shrugs again.
–I put number 7 on the application form, he says.
–Which apartment is that? asks Jerzy.
–I don’t know.
–So, in fact, says Jerzy. –We must continue to work here.
–Yes, says Filip. –I think so. Until we buy number 7. Then we can go and live anywhere we like.
They start to laugh.
–I think I am starving to death, says Jerzy.
–Me also, says Filip. –I miss being destitute.
–It was a better life.
–Yes, it was.
Their laughter seems to give them new energy. They clear the rubbish from the apartment that might soon be theirs and move on to the next apartment, which also might be theirs.
–I prefer this one.
–I miss the previous one.
–It is out of our hands, says Jerzy. –Whichever one is number 7.
–Perhaps there is no number 7.
–And you put the same address on both forms, yours and mine?
–Yes, says Filip.
-So, says Jerzy. –We must live together in an apartment that might not exist.
Filip shrugs.
–Perhaps.
–But, says Jerzy, –I have a family that exists. I want to live with them, even if the apartment is imaginary. I have a wife.
–A real wife. I understand. Me too.
–I’m starving.
–Try some imaginary food.
The foreman visits, looks in –
–Good lads.
– and goes.
They make it to the end of the working day. They walk to Pearse Street and their bible soup.
–What is it today? Jerzy asks.
–Leek and potatoes, says Filip.
–I meant the bible.
–Oh, says Filip. –I think it is Lazarus waking from the dead.
–I wish he’d hurry up, says Jerzy. –I want my soup.
It is later now and Jerzy is alone. He has reached the bandstand. There are other men there, as usual, sitting apart as if they’ve been directed where to sit. Jerzy decides to join them, this last time. He can see some faces, not others, as he approaches. He chooses a space at the edge of the stand. He sits.
He hears the voice.
–Jerzy?
© Roddy Doyle 2008
Roddy’s story continues next month in Metro Éireann
