The question of living quarters has been settled without
recourse to my cousin’s gypsy lawyer real-estate agent. I had begun to draft a
note to him in Polish, then, thinking better of the challenge, delayed. In the
meantime occasioned by this delay, my friend and colleague, Dr. hab. Monika,
has secured for me most suitable accommodations, a studio apartment on ul. Karmelicka, Carmelite Street, not
far from the order’s house, which gives name to the thoroughfare. So, the
Carmelite brothers will be my neighbors, and while not strictly avowed to
silence, but only more or less quiet contemplation, prayer, and activities that
keep them out of trouble, they strike me as my kind of brothers and neighbors.
The small cell that will house me for six months of Polish devotion has an
agreeable, monkish air of simplicity (though without austerity), utility, and a
corridor of rusticated masonry. Old brick, the touchstone, for me, of memory.
I learn, belatedly, and as a result of my own reluctance to
discover difficulties, especially bureaucratic ones, that I need a visa to
remain in Poland longer than 90 days. Duh. A country reasonably wants to know
why you might linger beyond the typical stay of a tourist. You might be up to
no good. Of course, if you were up to no good, you would merely need to invent
a lie to cover your ill intentions—thereby adding to your no-goodedness.
Fortunately though (because I’m a lousy liar, even of honest white lies), I have
perfectly good reasons; it’s just that now I have to make a special trip to the
Polish consulate in Chicago to file the application and pay the new fee.
Schedule an interview. Immerse myself in Chicago traffic. And I have to say
that after reading Gombrowicz’s fictional account of his encounters with Polish
officialdom in Trans-Atlantyk, I sigh
non-fictively. I’ve got about six weeks. Pick a Friday.
