Stanislaw Barszczak, Cheerful Catalan Prater
I had a car, not one, but four, though in the autumn of 1979, I usually walked to Joyland on foot from the relatively inexpensive Elwira Guest House in the town of Lloret del Mar. In fact, it could have been Heaven’s Bay on the US East Coast. Somehow I felt that it was necessary. And even that only so can you. At the beginning of September, the beach was almost empty, which suited my mood. It was the most beautiful autumn of my life. Even after forty years, I can say that. And I’ve never been more unhappy, so can I say. People think that the first love is beautiful and it is never more beautiful than when the first bond breaks. You’ve probably heard of a thousand country and pop songs that prove it; some fool had broken his heart. And yet this first broken heart always hurts the most, heals the slowest and leaves the most visible scar. What’s so beautiful? Listen to. Throughout September and the first days of October, the sky over Catalonia was clear and the air was warm even at seven in the morning when I left my flat on the first floor next to the external stairs. If I set off in a light jacket, before taking half of the five kilometers separating the city from the amusement park, I took it off and tied it around my waist. I made my first stop at Beata’s bakery, where I bought two still warm croissants. My shadow walked on the sand with me, at least six meters long. Gulls, attracted by the scent of croissants wrapped in wax paper, were hopefully circling above my head. And when I returned, usually around five (although it happened that I stayed longer – nothing waited for me in the town, which at the end of the summer practically fell asleep), my shadow walked by my side on the water. At high tide he trembled on her surface as if he was dancing a slow hula. Although I can’t be absolutely sure of it, I think the man, woman and their dog have been there since my first walk on this beach. Along the shore between the city and Joyland’s joyful, shimmering kitsch stretched the summer houses of the rich. Most after the first weekend of September were closed for four triggers. But not the largest of them, the one that looked like a green wooden castle. A walkway made of planks led from his wide back terrace to a place where the seagrass turned into fine white sand. At the end of the pavement was a picnic table sheltered by a bright green beach umbrella. In his shadow sat a man in a wheelchair, with a baseball on his head, covered with a blanket from the waist down even in the late afternoon when the temperature was above twenty degrees. I thought he was maybe fifty years old, certainly not more than sixty. The dog, terrier, usually lay next to it or watched at his feet. The woman sat on a bench at a picnic table and sometimes read a book, but more often just looked at the ocean. She was extremely beautiful. Going back and forth, I always waved my hand at them, and the dog wags its tail at me. I was a twenty-one-year-old virgin with literary ambitions. I had three pairs of jeans, four pairs of panties, a dilapidated Ford (with good radio), sporadic suicidal thoughts and a broken heart. Beautiful what? Zosia broke my heart and did not deserve me. It took me almost my whole life to come to that conclusion, but you know the old saying: better late than never. She was from Huciska in Przemyśl; me from Tarnowskie Gor, a small town in Silesia, in far away Poland. It meant that she was practically a het girl, het “from behind Bug”. Eastern repartants were a suspect group in our town. We started “walking together” (as it was said at the time) in the first year of study at the University of Silesia – we met at an integration event for the first year. Isn’t that beautiful? As in many a song. For two years we were inseparable, we walked everywhere, we did everything together. That means everything but “that.” We both worked out tuition fees at the university, she in the library, me in the university canteen. We were offered to stay in our positions for the summer of 1979, and of course we agreed. The money was not great, but the opportunity to be priceless together. I thought it would be the same in the summer of 1982, until Sophia- Wera announced that her friend Renya had arranged for them both to work in a clothing store in Bielsko Biala. – What about me? I asked. “You can come to visit,” she said. – I will miss you crazy, but to be honest, Leszek, it will do us some rest. This formulation is very often the first nail in the casket. It is possible that she read this thought from my face because she climbed on her toes and kissed me. – Separation strengthens feelings. Besides, since I will have my own corner, maybe you can stay with me. Saying this, however, she did not look at me and in the end I never stayed with her once. Too oo little time. Of course, this kind of difficulty can be overcome, but somehow we never did, which should have told me something; today, from the perspective of years, it tells me a lot. Several times we were very close to “this”, but “it” never happened. She always backed down and I didn’t push. God dear, I was a gentleman. Later, I often wondered what would change (for good or for bad) if I wasn’t. Now I know that women rarely sleep with young gentlemen. Sew it on a tapestry and hang it in the kitchen. The prospect of the next summer spent mopping the canteen floors and loading dirty plates into old dishwashers was not a big smile for me, especially since Zosia-Wera was supposed to be a hundred kilometers to the south, in the light of the Polish mountains, but it was a permanent job I needed, and I had no alternative for her. And suddenly, at the end of February, such an alternative literally came to me on a conveyor belt with dirty dishes. Someone left a letter on a tray and in this way it came to me along with the dishes. I was supposed to throw them in the trash, but I didn’t do it. It’s always something to read, and it’s free (I had to work out my tuition fees, I remind you). I put the letter in my back pocket and forgot about it until I returned to my dorm room. There it fell on the floor, open in the advertisement department, when I was changing my pants. Whoever read this magazine circled a few job offers … My eye was caught by the advertisement at the bottom of the page, even though it wasn’t circled. The first bold line encouraged: Work near the sky! What kind of English student would not be interested after reading something like that? And what a depressed twenty-year-old, tormented by the growing fear that he was losing his girlfriend, wouldn’t be tempted by the vision of working at a place called Joyland, an amusement park? In the land of joy? The announcement provided a phone number and on impulse I called there. A week later, a job application form landed in my mailbox in the dormitory. In the attached letter I was informed that if I want to get a full-time holiday (and I wanted to), I will have to do all kinds of work, mainly cleaning and maintenance, but not only. A valid driving license was required, and I was still interviewing. I could arrange it for the next spring break, instead of going to the place of childhood for a week. Only I planned to spend at least part of this week with Wera. Maybe we would even do “that” in the end. “Go to this conversation,” Wera advised when I told her. She didn’t even hesitate. – It’s always an adventure. “It would be an adventure to be with you,” I said. – There will be plenty of time for this next year. – She stood on her toes and kissed me (she always stood on her toes). Did she meet the other guy then? I don’t think so, but I bet she did pay attention to him because he attended sociology classes with her. Renia undoubtedly knew what it was like, and she would probably tell me if I asked – babbling was Renya’s specialty, she confused the priest at confession – but you don’t want to know certain things. For example, why did the girl whom you loved with all her heart stubbornly refused you, but with the latter she went to bed at the first opportunity. I am not sure if anyone can heal himself from his first love at all; it’s still in me today. Somewhere deep inside I am still wondering what was wrong with me. What I missed. I’m in my sixties, I have gray hair and I have had prostate cancer, but I still want to know why I wasn’t good enough for Wera Karon. I flew to Lloret del mar in Catalonia with the cheapest airlines (no adventure, but cheap), and then by bus from Girona to “my” chosen hotel by the sea. The interview was moderated by a man of medium height, who was – among others – a personal staff of Joyland, an amusement park. After fifteen minutes of questions and answers, and a glance at my driving license and the Red Cross’s lifeguard license, he handed me a plastic plaque on a lanyard to hang around my neck. – Go, look, ride a ferris wheel – said Mr Jan. – Most carousels are not yet working, but this one is. Tell Lukasz that I agreed. What I gave you was a day pass, but I want you to come back here at … ”He looked at his watch. – Let’s give it at one o’clock. Then you will tell me if you want this job. I still have five free places, all more or less the same job: Happy Helper. She thanked. He nodded, smiling. “I don’t know how you like it here, but Joyland suits me perfectly.” He may be old, maybe a little crumbling, but it still adds charm to him, at least I think. It is not commercial, too puffed up and smooth. That’s why I returned to Joyland a few years ago. I do not regret. We work here a bit more We work here a bit more spontaneously, on a sense … a bit like old touring amusement parks. See what you think about it. And, more importantly, how you feel here … Joyland was an independent amusement park, not as great as the Vienna Prater, a modern amusement park with over 250 attractions that provide adrenaline, which I have already watched. But big enough to impress, especially now that Joyland Avenue, the main promenade and the side passage, were almost empty and looked like four-lane highways. I heard the howling of power saws and saw many workers – the largest team was swarming at one of two roller coasters – but there were no customers because the amusement park wasn’t opened until May 15. Still, there were a few food outlets so that the workers would have a place to buy lunch and an old lady stood in front of the star-filled fairy house, who was eyeing me suspiciously. With one exception, everything was closed with four triggers … The Ferris wheel was fifty-two meters high (which I learned later) and turned very slowly. In front of him was a heavily muscled man in washed jeans, balding suede shoes smeared with grease, and a tank top. His jet-black hair was covered with a skewed bowler hat. There was a filterless cigarette behind the ear. The visitor looked like a fair beaters from an old newspaper comic. Next to him on the orange crate was an open tool box and a large portable radio. The guy kept his hands in his back pockets, he nodded to the music and rocked his hips. An absurd but perfectly expressive thought occurred to me: When I am grown up, I want to look like him. He pointed at the pass. – Mr. Jan sent you, huh? He told you that everything else is closed, but that you can ride on the Ferris wheel. – Yes sir. – A ride on the Ferris wheel is a sign that he has accepted you. He likes his chosen people to see everything from a bird’s eye view. Will you take this job? – I think so. He reached out. – I’m Jenaro. Welcome aboard, son. I shook his hand. – Patryk Jaki. – I am pleased to. He started up the ramp leading toward the unhurriedly rotating carousel, grabbed a long lever that looked like a gear stick, and pulled it lightly toward him. The merry-go-round slowly stood still and one of the colorfully painted carriages (each with the image of Huckellbury the Happy Dog) rocked at the loading place of passengers. – Get in, Patrick. I will send you into the sky, where the birds soar and the views are enchanting. I scrambled into the car and closed the door. Jenaro jerked them to see if they had slammed, lowered the safety bar, then returned to his primitive controls. – Ready to start, captain? – I think so. – Seventh heaven is waiting. He winked at me and pushed the control lever. The big wheel started and I suddenly saw Jenaro looking down at me. An old lady at the fairy kennel was also watching. She rubbed her head and shielded her eyes with her hand. I waved to her. She doesn’t come to me. After a while I found myself above everything but the fancy bends, slopes and hills of Lloret. I was rising into the cool early spring air and felt – stupid but true – as if I left all my worries and worries down there. Joyland was not a theme park, so he could have a little of everything. There was a roller coaster called (Cordillery) and a waterslide (Captain Nemo’s house). At the western end of the amusement park there was a special annex for small children, called the Village of Mrs Maya. There was also a concert hall in which – which I also learned later – there were mainly little-known country or rock musicians whose peak of fame came in the sixties and seventies. Jenaro drove me to the top and stopped the carousel. I sat in the swaying wagon, clutching the safety bar tightly, and looked at a whole new world. The plains of Catalonia stretched toward the west, unbelievably green in the eyes of a teen from distant Poland, who was accustomed to thinking of March only as a cold, muddy harbinger of real spring. In the east there was the dark, metallic blue of the ocean, breaking with beige impulses on the beach, after which a few months later I was to dance my battered heart. Directly below me I saw Joyland’s sunny chaos – larger and smaller carousels and queues, a concert hall and food booths, a swimming pool, souvenir stalls and a bus that transported customers to nearby motels and, of course, to the beach. From the vantage point high above the amusement park ( where the birds soar and the views are enchanting) the town looked like a cozy nest made of children’s blocks, at the edges of which corresponded to the four main sides of the world there were church towers. The wheel started again. Falling to the ground, I felt like the kid in the Rudyard Kipling story who rode the elephant’s trunk. Jenaro he stopped the carousel but did not deign to open the wagon door; after all, I was almost a local employee. – How did you like it? “Very,” I replied, pleased. In the meantime he had already started back to his machinery and did not answer. Maybe I was drowned out by the radio on which Julio Iglesias and his Galicia were flying. Or maybe he just wanted my future duties as a member of Joyland’s Happy Buddies to be a surprise for me. (On the motives of Steven King’s novel, the author)
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