And so Antoni sent the toll collector all the money he had, and in a generously apportioned letter to him, and a separate one to his wife, he promised to send more just as soon as he had earned it, and he entreated that foreigner to take care of Ma?ka and the child until his return. Then everything would work out. Let the child be an ordinary mamzer from an illicit relationship, albeit a lawfully wed one; let that Christian wedding be respected.
On a gray winter day, as he was setting off for Russia, he received a letter at the address he had given in Trakai. In an untrained hand, the toll collector had written to tell him that both Ma?ka and the child had died during labor, and he wished with his whole heart that the image of those two would not leave Kossakowski until the end of his days, that he would forever be haunted by the knowledge that he had been the cause of their deaths, and that nothing would ever free him from that sin. He read this letter under the great winter sky, in a cart where he was squeezed in among his fellow passengers, and he felt simultaneously despair and relief—as a swimmer borne by the river’s current feels terror until he reconciles himself to his own smallness and helplessness and becomes like a little twig upon whom nothing depends. And then comes peace.
The journey to Pskov lasted a month. Mostly he walked; sometimes wagons picked him up. He slept in stables, and sometimes he had the feeling that in his brain there was now a painful ulcer, but that he would be able to go on living with a brain ulcer so long as he didn’t disturb it in any way. This was in fact possible, aside from certain moments that came up without warning, and then the pain seemed to escape its magically defined borders, overwhelming him completely. There were also situations like those when he was traveling by sleigh with some Ruthenian peasants, freezing and filthy, and he cried the whole way, until finally the carter reined in his horse and went back to him, to hold and rock him. They stood intertwined like that in that great white emptiness, the horses steaming in the cold, the peasants in their warm wrappings waiting patiently. The carter never even asked him what was wrong.
In Pskov it turned out that he had come too late, and that there was already a tutor, who was also far more qualified than he.
After a long journey, he made it to Petersburg and realized that he could keep living just like this—being always in motion, in a cart, on a horse, every day with different people. He was pleasant, intelligent, conversant. People liked him right away, and, as if sensing that he was younger than he claimed, they looked after him, as well. He made the most of that care without ever crossing any boundaries. If you look at the matter honestly, a person needs little to live on—just a meal of some kind, and some clothing. You can sleep anywhere—and he was always being taken in by some merchant or other, for whom he would translate, do the accounting, tell some humorous tale. He was also taken in by ordinary peasants, to whom he pretended to be a mysterious nobleman in some difficulty, always treating them with the same respect he would have if they had had their own noble titles. Nor did he shy away from Jews or Greeks—he learned their languages and was always pleased to work as a translator. Sometimes he would say his name was—after his mother—Kamiński, sometimes ?mudziński, or he would invent some new surname for just a night or a couple of days. Since he expressed himself well, since he was polite and well mannered, the merchants he got to know on his travels would recommend him to their friends, and so he journeyed in caravans all over the Turkish lands. Tormented by his recurring melancholic moods, he enlisted at last in a Black Sea fleet. For almost three years, he sailed and visited many ports. He survived a shipwreck in the Aegean Sea, was confined to a Greek prison in Salonika—on a rigged conviction, of course. When he got out, he set off for the holy Mount Athos, believing he would find some solace there. But he didn’t find it. Then he was a dragoman in Smyrna, until finally he wound up with the Bogomils in Craiova, where he intended to spend the rest of his life.
“Until Jacob showed up. Until you discovered me,” Moliwda says now. They have drunk two jugs of wine, and Moliwda feels very tired. Nahman is silent for a long while, and then he rises and embraces Moliwda as the peasant once had in that barren winter.
“What do you think, Jakubowski, have I lived a good life?” Moliwda mumbles into Nahman’s collar.
As he staggers home, he sees a fire. He stops, and for a long while he stares into the burning building, which had held a musical instruments workshop. The guitar strings snap from the heat, and the tense skins of the drums shoot up into the air—the fire plays an infernal music, overheard by passersby, until with great pomp the fire brigade arrives.
29.
Of the little insect-like people who inhabit Offenbach am Main
The sight is so surprising that the local carriages on their own initiative pull over to the side of the road to let this bizarre cavalcade of men on horses and vehicles pass. At its head is a squad of soldiers made up of six men on horseback, armed with pikes and colorfully attired. They have bushy mustaches, and in spite of their serious, even threatening faces, they resemble town criers announcing the arrival of some circus. They are led by a man, also armed, whose mustache is twirled around fancifully, almost like a treble clef. After this front guard goes a sumptuous carriage with an elaborate coat of arms on the door, so elaborate it is hard to remember, and after this there are still a dozen multi-passenger carriages drawn by heavy, eastern horses. Last in line are full carts covered in tarps. After them there are just men on horseback—young, handsome men. The cavalcade is moving from Frankfurt over the bridge over the Main toward Oberrad, on the outskirts of Offenbach.
Mrs. von La Roche, who is visiting her family in Offenbach and close to deciding to settle down in this exceptionally tranquil little town that reminds her of a sanatorium, also tells her coachman to pull over. She looks on in curiosity: What can this be, these strange people traveling in this strange manner? The guards are wearing gaudy uniforms, as if they were Uhlans, mostly in shades of green and gold, covered in aiguillettes and buttons. Their tall hats are decorated with peacock feathers. These very young men, almost boys, remind Sophie von La Roche of longlegged, hopping insects. She would love to take a look inside that most lavish carriage, but the curtains on its windows are tightly drawn. She can, on the other hand, examine the new arrivals in the following carriages—they are mostly women and children, all of them dressed up and colorful, smiling and probably a little bit embarrassed by all this commotion they have caused.
“Who is that?” an intrigued Mrs. von La Roche inquires of a townsman who is staring at this procession.