I remember the bar in spring.
The windows were open. The air was wet. The snow was gone. The street outside was loud. People walking. Trams passing. Children shouting. Inside, the bar was dark. The same dark. The same bottles on the shelf. The same man behind the counter. The same smell of vodka and cigarettes and old wood. Mariusz was at his usual table. The one by the counter. His glass was half full. His jacket was open. The string was loose. He was not drunk. Not yet.
He was not alone.
I remember the first time I saw Tomasz.
He was sitting across from Mariusz. Young. Younger than me. His hair was light. His face was thin. His hands were on the table. They were clean. No cracks. No scars. He was wearing a new jacket. Blue. The zipper worked. His shoes were new. The soles were thick. He looked like someone who had not been here long. Someone who had not yet learned to wait.
Mariusz was talking. His voice was low. His words were slow. The young man was listening. His head was tilted. His eyes were on Mariusz's face. He did not drink. His glass was full. Vodka. Clear. Cold. He did not touch it.
I sat at the table by the door. The one where I always sat. I watched. The young man did not see me. Mariusz did not see me. They were in their own place. Their own conversation. Their own world.
I remember the night Tomasz bought Mariusz a drink.
It was late. The bar was empty. The man behind the counter was wiping glasses. Mariusz was at his table. His glass was empty. His head was low. Tomasz was sitting across from him. He called to the man behind the counter. "Two." He held up two fingers. The man brought two glasses. Filled. He put one in front of Mariusz. One in front of Tomasz.
Mariusz looked at the glass. He did not pick it up. He looked at Tomasz.
"You do not drink," Mariusz said.
"I do not," Tomasz said. "But you do."
Mariusz picked up the glass. He drank. One swallow. The glass was half empty. He put it down. He looked at Tomasz. His eyes were red. From the vodka. From something else.
"You want to go to Germany," Mariusz said. Not a question.
Tomasz nodded. "There is work. There is money. There is a future."
Mariusz laughed. The short laugh. The cough. "Future," he said. He picked up the glass. Drank the rest. He put it down. "Poland has no future. Germany has no future. No one has a future. There is only today. Only the glass in your hand. Only the vodka in your throat. That is all."
He called to the man behind the counter. "One more." The man brought another glass. Filled. Mariusz drank. He did not look at Tomasz. He did not look at me. He looked at the wall. The wall was dark. The paint was peeling.
Tomasz sat. His hands were on the table. His glass was still full. He did not drink. He watched Mariusz. His face did not change.
I remember what Mariusz said that night.
"I was like you," he said. His voice was low. His words were slow. The vodka was in them. "I was young. I had hands that worked. I had a back that did not bend. I had a wife. I had children. I had a future."
He looked at his hands. The thick fingers. The calloused palms. The scars from the factory. From the years.
"The factory closed," he said. "The work stopped. The money stopped. The wife left. The children left. The future left. Now I have nothing. I have this bar. I have this glass. I have these hands that do nothing."
He held up his hands. They were shaking. Not from cold. From something else.
"You want to go to Germany," he said. "You think Germany is different. You think the work is there. The money is there. The future is there. It is not. The work is the same. The money is the same. The hands get old. The back bends. The future goes."
He put his hands down. He looked at Tomasz. His eyes were red. His face was red.
"Stay," he said. "Stay here. Work here. Drink here. Wait. That is what we do. We work. We drink. We wait. That is Poland. That is all."
Tomasz did not answer. He sat. His hands were on the table. His glass was still full. He did not drink.
I remember what Tomasz said.
It was another night. The bar was full. Men from the street. Men from the factory that was still open. Men from the market. They were drinking. They were talking. The smoke was thick. The glasses were loud. Mariusz was at his table. His glass was full. His head was low. Tomasz was sitting across from him.
"You are wrong," Tomasz said. His voice was not loud. But it was clear. It cut through the smoke. Through the noise. Through the vodka.
Mariusz looked up. His eyes were red. His face was red. He did not speak.
"Poland has a future," Tomasz said. "I have a future. I will go to Germany. I will work. I will save money. I will come back. I will build something. A house. A shop. A life. That is the future. Not this."
He pointed to the bar. The dark walls. The peeling paint. The bottles on the shelf. The men with their heads low. The glasses in their hands.
Mariusz laughed. The short laugh. The cough. "You are young," he said. "You do not know. You will learn. The future is not a house. The future is not a shop. The future is a glass of vodka. That is all."
He drank. He put the glass down. He called for another.
Tomasz stood up. He put money on the table. More than the drinks cost. He looked at Mariusz. His face was not angry. His face was not sad. His face was something else. Something I did not have a word for.
"I will come back," Tomasz said. "One day. I will come back. I will sit at this table. I will buy you a drink. And you will see. Poland has a future. I have a future."
He walked to the door. He opened it. The light came in. Gray. Pale. The light of early morning. The light of a new day. He went out. The door closed. The bar was dark again. The smoke was thick. The glasses were loud. Mariusz sat at his table. His glass was full. His head was low. He did not speak.
I remember the night Tomasz left.
The bar was quiet. The men were gone. The glasses were washed. The counter was wiped. Mariusz was at his table. Alone. His glass was empty. His head was low. I sat at the table by the door. The one where I always sat. I did not drink. I watched.
"He is gone," Mariusz said. He did not look at me. He was looking at the glass. The empty glass. The glass that was not full. That would not be full again.
"He left today," Mariusz said. "Train to Berlin. Then to somewhere else. He did not say goodbye. He did not come to the bar. He just left."
He picked up the glass. It was empty. He put it down. He called to the man behind the counter. "One more." The man brought a glass. Filled. Mariusz did not drink. He looked at it. The vodka was clear. The glass was cold. The light was dim.
"He said he would come back," Mariusz said. "He said he would sit at this table. He said he would buy me a drink. He said I would see. Poland has a future. He has a future."
He laughed. The short laugh. The cough. But it was not a laugh. It was something else. Something that was not laughing. Something that was not crying. Something in between.
"I will not see," Mariusz said. "I will be here. In this bar. At this table. With this glass. That is my future. This bar. This table. This glass. That is all."
He drank. One swallow. The glass was half empty. He put it down. He looked at me. His eyes were red. His face was red. But his eyes were not red from the vodka. They were red from something else. Something that was not the glass. Something that was not the bar. Something that was not Poland.
"You will leave too," he said. "One day. You will go. You will not come back. That is how it is. The young leave. The old stay. The young have futures. The old have glasses."
He picked up the glass. He drank the rest. He put it down. He called for another. The man behind the counter brought it. Filled. Mariusz did not drink. He looked at it. The vodka was clear. The glass was cold. The light was dim.
"He will come back," Mariusz said. "Maybe. One day. He will come back. He will sit at this table. He will buy me a drink. He will tell me about Germany. About the work. About the money. About the future. And I will be here. At this table. With this glass. Waiting."
He picked up the glass. He did not drink. He held it. The light was dim. The bar was quiet. The man behind the counter was gone. The glasses were washed. The bottles were on the shelf. The door was closed. The street was quiet. The city was asleep. Mariusz sat at his table. The glass was in his hand. The vodka was clear. The light was dim. He did not drink. He waited.
I remember the last time I saw Mariusz.
It was before I left. Not the day I went to the station. Before that. The bar was quiet. The men were gone. The glasses were washed. The counter was wiped. Mariusz was at his table. Alone. His glass was empty. His head was low.
I sat across from him. The table where Tomasz used to sit. Mariusz looked up. His eyes were red. His face was red. He did not speak.
"I am leaving," I said. "Warsaw. Poland. I am going."
He nodded. He did not ask where. He did not ask when. He did not ask if I would come back. He picked up his glass. It was empty. He put it down.
"You will not come back," he said. Not a question.
I did not answer.
He called to the man behind the counter. "Two." He held up two fingers. The man brought two glasses. Filled. He put one in front of Mariusz. One in front of me.
"Drink," Mariusz said.
I picked up the glass. The vodka was clear. Cold. I had drunk before. Not many times. But I knew it now. The burn was still there. But I knew it.
"Na zdrowie," Mariusz said. He raised his glass.
I raised mine. "Na zdrowie."
We drank. His was gone in one swallow. Mine took two. The burn was there. My throat. My chest. My stomach.
He put his glass down. He looked at me. His eyes were red. His face was red. But he was smiling. Not the short laugh. Not the cough. A smile. Small. Quiet. Like the bread breaking. Like the pigeons landing. Like the leaves falling.
"You will go," he said. "You will go far. You will see many places. You will do many things. You will have a future."
He picked up his glass. It was empty. He put it down.
"I will stay," he said. "I will be here. In this bar. At this table. With this glass. I will wait. For Tomasz. For you. For the future. I will wait."
He called to the man behind the counter. "One more." The man brought a glass. Filled. Mariusz picked it up. He did not drink. He held it. The light was dim. The bar was quiet. The street was dark. The city was sleeping. He sat at his table. The glass was in his hand. He waited.
I remember the bar.
I do not remember the day I left. I do not remember the train. I do not remember the station. I remember the bar. The dark walls. The peeling paint. The bottles on the shelf. The man behind the counter. The glasses. The smoke. The vodka. I remember Mariusz. His red face. His leather jacket. His broken zipper. His short laugh. His cough. I remember his glass. Always half full. Always half empty. I remember what he said. "Poland has no future." I remember what Tomasz said. "I have a future." I do not know if Tomasz came back. I do not know if he sat at the table. I do not know if he bought Mariusz a drink. I do not know if Mariusz is still there. At the table. With the glass. Waiting. I do not know. But I remember. I remember the bar. I remember the glasses. I remember the words. "Na zdrowie." To health. To the future. To the ones who leave. To the ones who stay. To the ones who wait.