I remember the last days.
Not the day I left. The days before. When I walked the streets without purpose. When I went to the market without needing tomatoes. When I stood at the church door without going in. When I sat at the bar without drinking. The days when I said goodbye without saying the word.
I went to the market first.
The old woman's stall was still there. The tomatoes were on the table. Three. Red. Round. Firm. She was behind the table. Her gray coat. Her flowered scarf. Her red hands. She looked at me. She did not smile. She reached into her basket. She put tomatoes in my hands. Three. Red. Round. Firm.
"You go," she said. Not a question.
I nodded.
She looked at my hands. The cracks were closed. The scars were white. She touched my fingers. Her hands were warm. Mine were cold.
"You come back?" she said.
I did not know. I did not know if I would come back to Warsaw. To the market. To her stall. To her tomatoes.
"Maybe," I said.
She nodded. She reached under the table. She took out the small jar. Glass. Metal lid. Rusted. She put it in my hands. On top of the tomatoes.
"For hands," she said. "Your hands. They work too much."
I held the jar. It was heavy. The glass was cold. The smell came through. Earth. Fat. Herbs.
"Dziękuję," I said.
She did not nod. She looked at my hands. Then she looked at my face.
"You eat," she said. She pointed to the tomatoes. "Good for you."
I walked away. The tomatoes were in my pocket. The jar was in my other pocket. I did not look back. But I knew she was there. Behind her table. Waiting. For someone to buy tomatoes. For someone to say thank you. For someone to come back.
I went to the church.
The small one. The old one. The one where I met Daniel. The one where he left his sweater. The one where Tsegaye sat in the last pew. The candles were low. The air was cold. The priest was not there. The soup was not there. Only the pews. Only the cross. Only the silence.
I sat in the last pew. Daniel's pew. Tsegaye's pew. The wood was cold. I put my hands on my knees. I did not pray. I sat. I remembered. Daniel's dark eyes. His thin fingers. His army coat. The hole in the pocket. The postcard. The mountains. The snow. The river. The word. "Acasă." Tsegaye's photograph. His mother. His father. His brother in Sweden. The letter I wrote. "I am in Poland. I am alive. I am waiting. I will come."
I sat for a long time. The candles burned lower. The light was dim. I stood. I walked to the door. I opened it. The cold came in. I went out. I did not look back.
I went to the bar.
It was afternoon. The bar was empty. The man behind the counter was wiping glasses. Mariusz was not there. His table was empty. The glass was gone. The chair was pushed in. I stood at the door. I did not go in.
The man behind the counter looked at me. He nodded. I nodded. I walked away. I did not need to go in. Mariusz was not there. He was in Germany. Or somewhere else. I did not know. But his table was empty. His glass was gone. That was enough.
I went to the corner.
The flower seller was there. Her bucket was white. Plastic. The flowers were different. Not tulips. Not roses. Not sunflowers. Dried branches. Gray. Bare. The snow was on them. On her shoulders. On her hair. Her coat was gray. Her hands were red. Her eyes were brown. Dark brown. Like the river.
She saw me. She did not smile. She reached into the bucket. She took a branch. Gray. Bare. She put it in my hands.
"For you," she said. "No money."
I held the branch. The wood was cold. The bark was rough. There were no petals. No leaves. Just a branch. Gray. Bare.
"I am leaving," I said.
She nodded. She did not ask where. She did not ask when. She did not ask if I would come back.
"You will remember," she said. Not a question.
I did not answer.
She smiled. Quick. Small. Like the snow that falls and melts. Like the sun that comes and goes. Like the flowers that bloom and die.
"I will not remember," she said. "The days are the same. The flowers change. But the days are the same. I will not remember. But you will."
I walked away. The branch was in my hand. Gray. Bare. Cold. I did not look back. But I knew she was there. Standing at the corner. Waiting. For someone to buy flowers. For someone to stop. For someone to remember.
I went to the post office.
The square was empty. The snow was falling. The bench was white. The old man was not there. The pigeons were not there. I stood at the bench. I put my hand on the wood. It was cold. The snow melted under my fingers.
I thought about the old man. His gray coat. His gray hat. His shaking hands. His pigeons. Maria. Jan. Wanda. Their names. Their stories. He said they do not leave. The pigeons. They stay. They remember.
I did not know if he was still there. I did not know if the pigeons were still there. I did not know if they remembered my name. He said he would tell them. "Shanhe." He said they would remember.
I stood at the bench for a long time. The snow fell on my shoulders. On my hands. On the wood. Then I walked away.
I went to the shoemaker's window.
The light was on. The yellow light. He was at the bench. Working. The hammer tapped. Tap. Tap. Tap. The shoes were in rows. Brown. Black. Laces tied. Heels worn. Soles thin. Waiting. I stood at the window. I watched his hands. Needle. Thread. Leather. Fast. Even. He did not look up.
I did not go in. I did not need to. The shoes were on my feet. The soles were thick. The leather was stiff. The shoemaker's work was in them. I stood there for a long time. The hammer tapped. Tap. Tap. Tap. Then I walked away.
I went to the back corner of the market.
The honey seller was there. His table was there. The jars were in rows. Light gold. Deep amber. Almost brown. The snow was on them. On the table. On his hands. He was sitting on his stool. His eyes were closed. I stood in front of his table. I did not speak. He opened his eyes. His eyes were brown. Light brown. Like the honey.
"You come," he said.
"I am leaving," I said.
He nodded. He reached for a jar. The one in between. The one that was not too light. Not too dark. The one that was just right. He put it in my hands. The glass was cold. The honey was cold. From the snow. From the winter.
"For you," he said. "No money. You take. You go. You remember."
I put the jar in my pocket. It was heavy. Cold.
"Thank you," I said.
He nodded. He closed his eyes. I stood there for a moment. Then I walked away.
I went to the basement.
Old Li's bed was empty. The sheets were gone. The photo was gone. The smell of cigarettes was still in the walls. Fading. I sat on my bed. The mattress creaked. The same sound. The first night. Old Li showed me where to sleep. Now I was leaving.
I packed my bag. The same bag. The one from Chongqing. The woven plastic bag. Blue. Faded. Inside: the dictionary. The cloth from the priest. The lighter from Old Li. The postcard from Daniel. The seeds from the sunflower. The jar from the old woman. The jar from the honey seller. The branch from the flower seller. The envelope for the shoemaker. Empty now. I had paid him.
I put them in the bag. One by one. I closed the bag. I tied the straps. I put the bag by the door.
I lay on the bed. The light was dim. The bulb buzzed. The water in the pipes was running. Low. Far away. Like the Jialing. Like the Vistula. Running somewhere. I closed my eyes. I remembered. The snow. The bread. The cigarettes. The vodka. The letters. The tomatoes. The shoes. The flowers. The pigeons. The honey. The faces. The hands. The words. "Dziękuję." "Na zdrowie." "Bóg zapłać." "Acasă." "Jia." "Do widzenia."
I opened my eyes. The light was dim. The bulb buzzed. The water was still running. I was still here. Not yet. Not yet.