The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [205]
Upon my word, I understand politics less and less! And who knows but what Staś Wokulski wasn’t right to lose interest in it (if he has?). But why am I going on about politics, when a great change has come about in my own life? Who would believe that for a week already I have not been concerned with the store? Temporarily, of course, otherwise I would surely go mad with boredom.
What happened was that Staś wrote to me from Paris (he also asked me to write to him) instructing me to look after the apartment house he bought from the Łeckis. ‘As if I didn’t have enough to do as it is,’ thought I, but what could I do? I left the store in the charge of Lisiecki and Szlangbaum, and set off for Aleje Jerozolimskie to gather information about the house. Before I went, I asked Klein (who lives in the house) to tell me what was going on there. Instead of replying, he made a significant gesture.
‘Is there a caretaker in the house?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ said Klein, with a grimace, ‘he lives on the third floor, front.’
‘That’s enough,’ I said, ‘enough, Mr Klein!’ (For I don’t care to hear other people’s opinions without seeing for myself. In any case Klein, a mere lad, might easily grow presumptuous if his elders start asking him for information.)
Hm, it can’t be helped …So I sent my hat to be cleaned, paid two zloty for it, took a pocket pistol with me just in case, and set off for behind Alexander’s Church.
There I beheld a yellow house with three storeys, its number coincided …and I even found Staś Wokulski’s name on the plate (old Szlangbaum must have had it put up). I went into the yard: oh my! It stank like a chemical factory. The garbage was piled up to the second floor, while all the gutters were overflowing with soapy water. Only now did I notice that there was a ‘Parisian Laundry’ on the first floor in the yard, with enormous girls like two-humped camels. This encouraged me to go on.
So I called out: ‘Caretaker!’ For a while no one was to be seen; finally a stout woman appeared, so sooty I could not for the life of me imagine how so much dirt could be found in the vicinity of a laundry, and a Parisian one, too.
‘Where’s the caretaker?’ said I, raising my hat.
‘What do you want to know for?’ the old woman muttered.
‘I’m here on behalf of the landlord.’
‘The caretaker is in jail,’ said the old creature.
‘Whatever for?’
‘Oh, wouldn’t you like to know?’ she cried, ‘because the landlord doesn’t pay his wages, that’s why!’
A nice thing to hear as introduction! Of course I went from the caretaker to the agent, on the third floor. Already on the stairs I could hear children howling, banging and the voice of a woman exclaiming: ‘You rascal! You idler! Take that! and that!’
The door was open, in it a female in a less than white wrap was beating three children with a leather strap until it whistled.
‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘am I interrupting?’
Catching sight of me, the children vanished into the depths of the apartment and the female in a wrap, concealing the strap, asked in some confusion: ‘Are you the landlord, sir?’
‘No, but I have come on his behalf to see your husband, madam. I am Rzecki.’
The female looked at me incredulously for a moment, then said: ‘Wicek, run to the warehouse for your father …Sir, pray step into the parlour.’ A ragged lad tore between me and the door, gained the stairs and began sliding down the banisters. Embarrassed, I went into the parlour, the main ornament of which was a sofa with the stuffing coming out.
‘This is what it means to be an agent,’ said the female,