ZAGAJEWSKI
395
access to a general, self-evident truth.
It
took me many years to return
to life's main current, to accept once more the simplest certainties, cer–
tainties that only charlatans and madmen call into question.
I CAME TO KRAKOW TO STUDY; it was fall, as it always is when a new school
year begins. I came to study, which was praiseworthy and pragmatic, but
something else drew me as well. I was propelled half-consciously by the
need to recover my city, the city that had-and I knew it-been lost for–
ever. But of course we always seek what's gone for good.
I HAVE A PHOTOGRAPH of Krakow's city center in front of me; it's an
aerial shot, taken from a plane or helicopter. I found it completely by
accident-the picture was used as the cover of a brochure meant for
foreign tourists. It's graced by stylized letters reading
Cracows Historic
Town Centre [sic] .
The English phrase serves a diversionary function:
it distances me from my city, it turns me into a tourist, it contradicts
the obvious fact that I'm looking at something very dear to me.
The plane, or helicopter, must have been somewhere over Stradom
Street, probably over the St. Catherine's Church. I'm not entirely sure,
especially since the stylized English caption obscures part of the city; it
covers the Bernardines' garden and orchard, reaches the bank of the Vis–
tula, and blocks both the Sports Club Stadium and the Church on the
Rock. The angle of vision coincides almost one hundred percent with a
map 's distinctive topological perspective, that is, with the notion that
north is up, west is left, and east is right. The town center thus resem–
bles a gigantic keyhole, while the Planty gardens look like the lush green
fur collar of a thriving dentist's wife.
I look at the aerial photograph of Krakow and realize that I'm the
pilot of that plane or helicopter; I'm flying over the city. I'm the pilot,
I'm wearing headphones and instead of a control panel I've got an old
typewriter, a pen, a pencil, or a slightly outdated computer. I have to
wear headphones. The room in which I work, read, and listen to
music-unless I'm in Houston-is located in the belly of an enormous
building. The other occupants generate an ungodly amount of noise.
A
housewife paces the kitchen in high-heeled shoes one floor above me.
The kitchen floor is tiled. Every so often one of my countless neighbors
renovates his or her apartment, using a drill for this purpose.
A
drill!
