Word has arrived that I am tentatively scheduled to depart
Philadelphia sometime during the weekend of January 11-13. My old friend the
Mayor, burmistrz, and my other old
friend, the Musician, muzyk, have
agreed to accompany me to the docks and see me off: the road trip we never took
in our youth, I alone venturing on to the old country to take up temporary
residence in Nowy Świat. The Mayor, now grown cranky and cynical in office (he was cranky
and cynical to begin with actually, in a good way), grumbles about my choice of
transport and grouses doubts of my return. I could fall overboard or in love. I
reassure him, “I’m 54 years old.” Other friends and colleagues likewise tease
that I won’t come back. Yes, well, I suppose I could fall overboard.
My doctor, lekarz,
has examined me and found the patient fit for duty, “in excellent health.” All
of the appropriate boxes on the FREIGHTER PASSENGER MEDICAL CERTIFICATE have
been checked, as well as that one particular walnut-sized and only obliquely
accessible internal organ. Taking one for Team Polska. I should probably visit the dentystę
as well. More fingers in another orifice.
I have spoken with a secretary of the Polish legation in
Chicago, who advises me of the necessary documents I will need to apply for an
extended-term tourist visa. I think I can make the trip mid-December.
Half of the necessary computer hardware has been acquired.
I’m reminded that to use it proficiently, I must acquire yet another language,
Technologuese.
Otherwise, I’ve made little further progress in Polish
acculturation. I have been reading Stefan Żeromski’s The Coming Spring, 1924, published in the year that my grandfather
returned to Poland. A sober book on the whole, the title yet implied some promise
of hope, and my father was born there in April, 1925; however, Żeromski
died in November of that year, and my grandfather ended his repatriation
efforts soon thereafter. The short-lived history of that republic nevertheless
produced this delightful passage and its attitude of sly restraint that I’ve
come to appreciate as consummately, literarily Polish. Cezary, the main character, has just
fallen into the arms of the yummy widow Kościeniecka, when the author
interrupts:
*The prudery of the author and his
profound respect for the prudery of the reader, and above all obsequiousness
toward the super-prudery of the critic, prevents the inclusion of details of
this evening in Mrs. Laura’s locked rooms. (p. 242)
Please, no shades of gray. Thank you.
