46:3 & 4           (FALL 2000)
"NEW   POLISH   WRITING"

NATASZA GOERKE
 
 

BEYOND FEAR

A little stone began falling down the southern slope. In the course of its fall, it grew bigger. What's this, Sherpa Tenzing asked, shifting anxiously. Another avalanche maybe? 
       No, it's just a rock falling, Sir Edmund Hillary replied and, without taking the toothbrush out of his mouth, mumbled: What, are you afraid?
       Me afraid? Tenzing guffawed. I'm beyond fear! And he, too, began brushing his teeth. 
       After they finished brushing their teeth, they both started to whistle, and then Sir Edmund Hillary struck up a conversation. Hey Tenzing, he joked, if we make it to the top, you'll go into history just like the queen. Oh you're making that up! Tenzing laughed. Do you know what "sir" means in Nepalese? No, I don't, Sir Edmund conceded and took out his notebook in order to jot down the new word. "Sir" means "head," Tenzing explained, and they both burst into laughter. 
        A stone was falling down the southern slope. O Himalayas, Sir Edmund thought to himself. Someday I'd like to see England, Sherpa Tenzing sighed, and then he, too, lost himself in thought. The snow was knee-high, so they were kneeling. 
       The stone rumbled as it rolled down. 
       What are you looking for? asked Tenzing, watching Sir Edmund rummage in the snow. It took my toothbrush, Sir Edmund mumbled. Oh that's too bad, Tenzing commiserated, and they both burst into tears. 
 
 
 

SIDDHARTHA

He had an extremely difficult personality. When he was born, it was raining.
       Maybe that was why.
       He was always falling asleep. He probably never really ever woke up. 
       A genius, but sick, the doctor's wife concluded. It's only a phase, the doctor reassured her; it'll pass, just like when his voice changed. 
       It did not pass. He kept sleeping ever more deeply. And so peaceful. But asocial, the lady at school whispered  in embarrassment. He never hits the other children, he never plays soccer. He only talks to this one other boy. 
       Why are you always with that Govinda, the doctor's wife asked angrily. It's not right, especially with so many girls around. 
       But he said nothing, he just cried a little and fell asleep. 
       He's depressed, the doctor suggested and retained a specialist. I'll snap him out of it, the specialist promised. Heh heh, he smiled craftily and without any warning pricked the boy's finger with a needle. Blood flowed out, but the boy slept on. 
       And he kept bleeding, sleeping, a blissful smile on his face.
       The bandages didn't help.
       Sir, Madam, your son is a hemophiliac, the specialist washed his hands, bowed quickly, and left. So he's not a homosexual after all, the doctor's wife jumped for joy and was immediately relieved. Don't be so sure, the doctor reprimanded her, thinking about heredity. 
       But he also quit nagging the boy. 
        And so, more or less, did the boy pass his youth. And adulthood. 
       He slept and slept; he slept through the doctor's passing away and the doctor's wife's long illness, and his own old age. 
       It wasn't until he was just about to die that for one moment he opened his eyes. Oh Govinda, he sighed, the rain never stops, the dream never ends, maybe we messed everything up. And he was gone.