If I escape while Klara is supposed to be guarding me, they might punish her. I know they cut off fingers willy-nilly around here. I can’t let that happen to Klara.
So I head back to the east wing, thinking I’ll find a new book in the library. I’ve been ransacking both the little reading room in my wing, and also the larger library on the main floor.
Put together, there are thousands of books for me to read: fiction and non-fiction, classics and contemporary novels. Most of the books are in English, but there are French novels and German poetry, and a copy of Don Quixote in the original two-part Spanish set.
Someone here must be adding to the collection, because there are plenty of Polish translations, and also native works like Lalka and Choucas, which I read in one of my literature courses.
I’m missing all my classes at school. All my dance classes, too. It’s strange to think of my classmates walking around campus, studying and handing in assignments as usual, while I’m locked in suspended animation. It feels like I’ve been here for years, though it’s only been two weeks.
If it goes on much longer, I won’t be able to catch up. I’ll fail the whole semester.
Of course, if the Beast kills me, it won’t matter that I missed school.
I hunt through the smaller reading room, running my fingers down the dusty spines. The Age of Innocence, 1984, Catch-22, The Doll . . .
I pause. The Doll is the English translation of Lalka.
I pull it off the shelf, flipping through the pages. Then I tuck the little book under my arm and run back down to the main level, where I search the shelves for the original Polish version. There it is—the hardcover of Lalka, with its leather binding embossed in floral print. Now I have the same book in both languages.
My heart is racing from the run, and the excitement of what I’ve found. I take the books back up to my room, laying down on my bed to examine them. I set them side by side, opening each to the first chapter:
Early in 1878, when the political world was concerned with the treaty of San Stefano, the election of a new Pope, and the chances of a European war, Warsaw businessmen and the intelligentsia who frequented a certain spot in the Krakowskie Przedmieście were no less keenly interested in the future of the haberdashery firm of J. Mincel and S. Wokulski.
There it is: the same paragraph in English, and then again in Polish. I can read through sentence by sentence, comparing the two. It’s not quite as good as a language textbook, but it’s the next best thing. Pages and pages of sentences I can compare to learn vocabulary and syntax.
Polish is a damned hard language, I already know that from talking with Klara. Some of the sounds are so similar that I can barely distinguish them, like “ś” and “sz.” Not to mention its use of a case system, and the near-opposite word order, compared to English.
Still, I have all the time in the world to work on it.
I lay on my bed for most of the day, working my way through the first chapter of the book in both languages. Eventually I stop, when my eyes are aching and my head is swimming.
Just as I’m closing the books, Klara comes into my room, carrying my dinner tray. I stuff the books hastily under my pillow, in case she notices what I’m up to.
“Dobry wieczór,” I say. Good evening.
She gives me that short flash of a smile while she sets my tray down on the table.
“Dobry wieczór,” she replies, with much better pronunciation.
“Where is everyone?” I ask her, in Polish. Actually, what I say is “Gdzie mężczyźni?” or “Where men?” but let’s use the intent of the sentence, and ignore the fact that I have the verbal complexity of a caveman.
Klara understands me well enough. She gives a quick glance toward the doorway, like she thinks they might come home any second. Then she shakes her head, saying, “Nie wiem.” I don’t know.
Maybe she really doesn’t know. I doubt Mikolaj gives his maid a copy of his schedule. But Klara is smart. I bet she knows a lot more about what goes on around here than the men would expect. She just doesn’t want to tell me. Because it’s pointless. Because it will only get us in trouble.
I sit down in front of the tray, which as usual is loaded with far more food than I could actually eat. There’s grilled rosemary chicken, lemon potatoes, sautéed broccolini, fresh rolls, and then a little side plate that looks like dessert.
The meals are always fantastic. I point to the tray and say, “Ty robisz?” You make?
Klara nods. “Tak.” Yes.
Knowing that Klara went to the trouble to cook the meals makes me feel guilty for all the times I refused to eat.
“Your food is amazing,” I tell her in English. “You should be a chef.”
Klara shrugs, blushing. She hates when I compliment her.
“You remind me of Alfred,” I tell her. “You know Alfred, from Batman? He’s good at everything. Like you.”
Klara smiles her Mona Lisa smile—inscrutable but, I hope, pleased.
”Co to jest?” I ask her, pointing to the dessert plate.
It looks like a folded crepe, dusted with powdered sugar.
“Nalesniki,” she says.
I cut off a piece, though I haven’t finished my dinner yet. It does taste like a crepe, with some kind of sweet cream cheese mixture inside. Actually, it’s better than any crepe I’ve ever had—thicker, and more flavorful.
“Pyszne!” I tell her enthusiastically. Delicious!
She grins.
“Mój ulubiony,” she says. My favorite.
When I’m done eating, I look around for my bodysuit. I want to change clothes so I can practice dancing before bed.
I find the bodysuit, washed and folded inside the chest of drawers. But I don’t see any of my other clothes—the hoodie, jeans, or sneakers.
“Gdzie są moje ubrania?” I ask Klara.
Klara flushes, not meeting my eye.
“Jest dużo ubrań,” she says, gesturing to the wardrobe and the chest of drawers. There’s plenty of clothing.
How odd. Why did she take my clothes?
Well, it doesn’t matter. It’s the bodysuit I need the most.
I wish I had proper pointe shoes. Dancing barefoot is alright, but I can’t practice everything I’d like to.
I need a better space for it, too.
Once I’ve changed clothes, I go poking around in my wing, looking for a better dance room. Nobody comes into the east wing except me and Klara. I’ve come to see it as my own space, even though Mikolaj never actually said I could use the other rooms.
After examining all the spaces, I think the art room will be best. It has the most natural light and the least furniture in the way.
I spend about an hour rearranging it to suit my purpose. I drag all the chairs and tables to one side of the room, then roll up the ancient rugs, exposing the bare wood floors. I stack the easels and the loose canvases, and put away all the spare art supplies, most of which are ruined anyway—tubes of dried paint, moldering brushes, and stubs of charcoal.
Now I’ve got plenty of space. But I’m still missing the most crucial thing of all.
I go downstairs to find Klara. She’s in the kitchen, bleaching the countertops. She’s wearing gloves to protect her hands, but I know her skin still gets raw from all the work she does around this place. It’s not her fault that it’s still dusty and gloomy—it’s just way too much work for one person. You’d need an army to keep this place clean. Especially at the rate idiots like Jonas mess it up again.