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The
Brownstone Journal >>
Issues >> Vol.
VIII Spring 1999
The Armoire by Olga Tokarczuk
Malgorzata Wozniacki (CAS XX) is a
junior studying psychology and anthropology. She would like
to be a gardener someday. She wants to thank her translation
mentor, Danuta Borchardt, for her generous help.
When we relocated here, we bought the Armoire.
She was dark, old, and cost less than her transportation from
the consignment shop to our house. She had two doors adorned
with a flower ornament, while the third one was glazed and the
entire town reflected itself in the glass when we were moving
her in our rented pickup truck. We had to tie her up with a
rope, so that she would not unlock during the ride. It was then
that for the first time, standing next to her with this knotted
rope, I had the impression of my own absurdity. “She will fit
in well with our furniture,” said R., and he affectionately
patted her wooden body, just like a cow which one buys for the
new farm.
At first we put her in the hallway - this was to be a quarantine
before admission into the world of our bedroom. I injected turpentine,
this infallible vaccine against the crumbs of time, info the
barely visible splits. During the night, transplanted into a
new place, the Armoire moaned and creaked. The dying bark beetles
were lamenting.
The following days we spent arranging our new old apartment.
Jammed into a crack of the floor I found a fork with a swastika
engraved on the handle. The remains of a newspaper were sticking
out from behind the wood paneling and there was only one discernible
word: “proletarians.'' R. would open the windows wide to hang
the curtains, and then the racket of miners' orchestras, which
drew through town into the night, would flood our room. The
first night when the Armoire became a participant of our dreams,
we could not fall asleep for a long time. R.'s hand sleeplessly
strayed over my stomach. Afterward we had a dream. From then
on we always share the same dreams. We dreamt of absolute silence,
and that everything was hung in it like decorations in store
windows, and that we were happy in this silence, because we
were absent everywhere. In the morning, of course, we didn't
need to tell this dream to each other - one word was enough.
And from then on we don't tell our dreams to each other. One
day it became apparent that there is no more work to do in our
apartment Everything stood in its place, cleaned and arranged.
I was warming my back by the tile furnace and looking at the
doilies. But in the pattern of their embroidery there was no
order. Using a crochet hook, somebody made holes in the continuity
of matter. Through these holes I looked at the Armoire and remembered
the dream. It was She that emanated this silence. We stood across
from each other and I was the brittle one, agitated and temporary.
She simply embodied her own self. In an ideal manner, she was
what she was. With my fingers I touched the slippery know, and
the Armoire opened herself in front of me. I saw the shadows
of my dresses and R.’s two worn-out suits - in the darkness,
everything had the same color. In the Armoire, my femininity
was no different from R.’s masculinity. Neither did it matter
if something was smooth or coarse, oval or angular, distant
or close, strange or homely. Her of scent was of other places
and of a time foreign to me. O God, and yet it reminded me of
something, something so familiar, so intimate that I would not
be able to find words to name it (since one needs distance frown
words in order to name).
The mirror on the inside of the doors caught my figure in its
perimeter. I was reflected in it as a dark shape, barely distinguishable
from the dress hanging on the hanger. There was no difference
between the living and the inanimate. And thus I was inside
one of the glassy eyes of the Wardrobe. Now it sufficed only
to lift the foot and step inside. This I did. I sat on the plastic
bags filled with yarn, and I heard my own breath, strengthened
by the enclosed space.
When the mind remains with itself, one on one, it begins to
pray. Because such is the nature of the mind. “Angel of God,
my guardian dear, to whom God's love commits me here'' - I saw
my angel with a face so beautiful, that it had to be lifeless,
“forever this day, be at my side...” - his waxed wings lovingly
embrace the space around me. “In the morning” - the scent of
coffee and bright windows that wound the sleepy eyesight, “in
the evening” - time slowing down, when the sun is setting, “during
the day” - being becomes the same as experiencing, noise, movement,
a million of doings without meaning, “at night” - a body inert,
lonely in the darkness, “...to light, to guard, to rule and
guide” - an angel watching children walking over an abyss. “Defend
my soul and body frown all strife” - cardboard packages with
the sign ATTENTION FRAGILE, -“and lead me to eternal life, amen”
- dresses hanging in the half-darkness of the Armoire.
And from now on every day the Armoire sucked me into herself,
she was a big funnel in our bedroom. At first I would sit inside
her during late afternoons, when R. wasn't home. Later, in the
morning I did only the most essential things: shopping, laundry,
some telephone calls and then I entered the Armoire, quietly
shutting the doors behind me. Inside, it no longer mattered
what time of the day it was, what time of the year, what year.
It was always velvety. I fed on my own breath.
Once, I woke up in the middle of the night from a dream, heavy
like stifling air, and I desired the Armoire like one desires
a man. I had to intertwine my arms and legs around R.'s body,
I had to cling tightly to stay where I was. R. was talking in
his sleep, but his words had no meaning. And finally, one night
I woke him up. He didn't want to get out of the warm bed. I
dragged him behind me, and we stood in front of the Armoire.
She was unchangeable, massive and seductive. With my angers
I touched the slippery knob, and the Armoire opened herself
to us.
Inside there was enough room for the whole world. The inner
mirror reflected us both, unraveling our shapes from the darkness.
Our breaths, uneven and broken at first, found one rhythm, and
there was no difference between us. We sat inside the Armoire
across from each other. Our faces were veiled by the hanging
clothes. The Armoire closed the doors behind us. Thus we started
living inside her.
At first R. would go somewhere - shopping, a job, or something
of the sort. But soon this effort became too painful. Days became
longer. Sometimes the muffled music of miners' orchestras comes
from the street. The sun disappears and returns, and then the
windows try in vain to pull it inside. A thicker and thicker
coat of dust covers the furniture, the doilies, and the china,
while our apartment steadily drowns in the darkness. TBJ
Olga Tocarczuk's books include The Journey of the People of
the Book and Pre-Age and Other Times, in addition to a collection
of short stories, The Armoire. She is the winner of the National
Foundation of Koscieiskich. She lives its Poland, where she
works as a psychologist.
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