512
PARTISAN REVIEW
They both pummeled their fists on the table almost at the same
moment.
"What do you think!" roared the colonel with a Ph.D.
"Nothing," answered Tymoteusz Bryk. "Just want to tell you,
that you can stick this reaccreditation up yours .... " His voice was
high-pitched but forceful. Having finished his statement, he turned
around and stuck out his ass. "Fuck off," he said in English and
staggered out of the room, slamming the door and leaving the Com–
mission nonplussed.
"This hooligan should be put on trial." The representative of
the Department, a major in civilian clothes, was first to break the
silence. He looked at the chairman, the colonel with a Ph.D., who
was wiping his forehead with a handkerchief.
However, they had no time to analyze the problem and to make
an appropriate decision, since the door opened and journalist
Wysilek, quiet as a mouse, sneaked into the room.
He was by no means a drinking man and today's boozing had
devastated his organism. Saliva dripped from the corner of his
mouth, and the lapel of his jacket was seared with salad dressing or,
God forbid, something else. He hiccupped. Yes. Hiccupped every
now and again, at the same time trying to be polite and servile. He
bowed to every member of the Commission separately.
"And this state of war.... " he giggled idiotically, "1 knew
about it already on December 10th. From one comrade at the Com–
mittee. "
The representative of the Party moved in his chair.
"What was his name?" he asked, irritated.
"Rysiek was his first name," answered journalist Wysilek. "1
don't remember his second .... " He stopped giggling. Saddened.
Sniffed. Some snot was dangling at the tip of his nose. "It's all base ,
mean!" He straightened his thin, miserable body. His words came
out automatically. He evidently had worked on his speech at home.
"But I have a wife and children. Therefore I must . . ." He belched
loudly and reeled towards the table.
The chairman, the colonel with a Ph.D., rolled back with his
chair. The others tried to protect themselves with their hands. Fortu–
nately, journalist Wysilek's tortured stomach yielded nothing. The
colonel pulled himself together and looked at him with disgust. His
ideas of the intellectual life were quite different.
"Get out!" he snapped. "We shall talk about it some other
