Possessed hearts

We got to the main road and I saw three old Skodas, pressed up against the kerb, under a taxi sign. Next to them were three elderly men smoking.

– There was Ales. Hello, Ales! – Martin shouted hello to one of the three taxi drivers.

– I see you already have your own mafia network! – I joked quietly. – Do you know everyone and everyone who lives in Gdansk?

– Every last homeless person! – Martin said cheerfully. – Ales is a great guy, with a healthy sense of humour, and I always go only with him.

– Jesus, it's less than a minute's walk.

– Eight seconds. I timed it.

– Then why do you need Ales?

– I'm trying to understand the psychology of mortals.

– You're writing a report? – I laughed again.

Martin surprised me more and more: though we had been in touch very often, I heard the news only now.

– No. I'm just bored. I have to have fun somehow. Do you?

I realised what he was getting at: that when I'm bored, I sleep with mortals.

– Martin! – A man in his sixties, wearing dark trousers, a windbreaker and a cap, came to meet us. – Where have you been? Have you forgotten old Ales?

– Business, business. Here, I'd like you to meet him. This is my sister," replied my brother, shaking hands with the man.

– Good evening," I smiled politely, even though it was late at night.

– Good evening, good evening," Ales smiled. – Where to take you?

– Tonight – just her, and I'll walk myself, – said Martin. – She will tell me where.

– Then you're welcome. The car is not fancy, but you will be comfortable. – Ales opened the front door of his Skoda.

– I'll ride in the back seat," I told him as I approached the car.

– As you wish. – And the back door immediately opened in front of me.

– Bye, Martin. I'll call you. Enjoy the concert. – I got in the car.

– I'll get her home safe and sound," Ales told Martin.

– Just be careful: she's in a very bad mood today," he advised him. – Bye, sister! See you later!

– What did you say the name of this band was? – I asked, rolling down the window.

– Moonlight. Did you get it? – Martin asked with a sly smile.

– The lead singer has great make-up," I said instead of answering. – Bye!

– See you soon, grumpy! – And Martin disappeared round the corner.

– Where are we going? – Ales asked me, sitting down in the driver's seat.

– Kobza haus, – I answered. – A taxi is a part-time job, isn't it?

– Hehehe, you got me. Actually, I'm a mechanic, but my son is studying in Warsaw, at university. So, I have to take taxis after work. Education is expensive these days.

– I understand. But Martin must leave great tips, right?

– Yes, yes, my favourite customer, – Ales laughed good-naturedly. – Fasten your seatbelt, please.

We drove on a frankly bad road, which made me shake a little, along with the car.

I'm so used to bad roads!

Ales drove me to the hotel. We didn't speak. He's a great taxi driver – he stays out of trouble. I left him a very good tip, in dollars, which he accepted with a grateful smile, which made me smile too.

Well, doing good is interesting and satisfying, too.

Sometimes.

Three and a half hours had passed since I left the hotel. I'd spent them wandering around the old city. Even in the dim daylight, despite the rain, the puddles, my soaked sneakers and knee-length jeans that made me physically uncomfortable, Gdansk was worth seeing.

Martin was right. It is a very cosy city.

The city was badly damaged during World War II, like the rest of Poland, but the Polish government and patrons of the arts have allocated large sums of money to restore the old buildings to their original state, which is certainly pleasing to the eyes of both tourists and residents of my home country. The old town of Gdansk is a magical, childlike, slightly gloomy, but beautiful fairy tale. The houses are tall, standing in rows, striking in their uniqueness. There is not a single identical or similar to each other house. Each house is chiselled to the last detail, to the last curl on the stucco with folklore elements or human bodies and faces. This is an open-air museum. Everywhere there are paving stones, stone, stone railings, sculptures, everywhere you look at mythical creatures melded with stone. A beautiful long promenade lined with good cafes and restaurants. Ships in the harbour. Reminds me of my youth, when all this was familiar. Now that beauty has given way to technology. And while I love the modern world, the architecture and the convenience that civilisation and the best minds on the planet bring with each passing year, I am suddenly struck with a longing for the past. My youth. At that time nothing had bothered me, but now I was the food of a huge leech sitting inside me.

I wished I'd brought my camera. It would have been wonderful footage. Full of dark beauty. I saw it everywhere. She was all around me. I marvelled at her. My face was drenched with rain, my feet were soaked through, but I had been wandering around the Old Town for the third hour, studying every building, every house, watching the people. The smells of food, coffee, and alcohol wafted from the many cafes, all blending into one rather pleasant aroma, like something native, home, something I had known for a long time. Poland is the country where I was born and where my youth passed. This is its fragrance. It hasn't changed for more than two centuries.

My gaze fell on a large wooden sign that read in large black letters, in old-style Polish, "Martin invites", with a modest "Gdansk's best Eastern European cuisine" underneath. I gri

"I wonder if you cook yourself, you big mouth!" – I thought ironically as I entered Martin's restaurant.

I had to hand it to him: my brother was a smart guy. From the outside, the restaurant didn't look as cosy as it did inside: roughly chipped wooden tables (old-fashioned), imposing wooden chairs that looked more like thrones. On the tables – beautiful heavy antique copper candlesticks, with real burning candles. On the walls were folk-embroidered towels, wreaths of artificial flowers and red and white ribbons. But the centre of all this splendour was the fireplace. A real, dark stone fireplace, with a real fire lighting up the room. Despite the weather, the room was half full.

– Give me your mackintosh, Red Riding Hood. – Martin appeared from behind the door that led to the kitchen – I noticed it out of the corner of my eye – and came over to me. – I won't hug you yet.

– Blue Cap! – I parried, unbuttoning my mackintosh. It was dripping. So was my hair. – Look at my sneakers and jeans! Through and through!

– Take them off. Let's dry them off a bit. There's a fireplace.

– I noticed. But I'll make do.

– Suit yourself. I called you.

– My phone was left at the hotel.

– I understood that. Come on. – Martin took me under his elbow and sat me down at the cosiest table, next to the fireplace.

– The floorboards are creaking," I said.

– Only a little. People don't notice it at all," Martin gri

– Don't notice it or just don't hear it? – I gri

– That's the point. What do you think of the restaurant?

– Five stars, Martin. Named it after beloved yourself. How's it going?

– Not bad. As you can see.

I took a critical look at the audience.

– Not bad, huh?

– Yes. It's not full because it's a weekday. But it'll be packed tonight. – Martin's face lit up with such a smug smile that I realised how much he was in love with his restaurant and how proud he was of his success.

– By whom? I asked.

– Tourists, locals. Mortals, basically. And I have a fifty per cent discount for students, so young people like to meet here in the evening, after classes. And our beer is cheap and tasty. We brew it ourselves!