It’s autumn - and the lengthening nights wrap themselves around us ever closer. All Saints’ Day, 1st November, will soon be upon us: the perfect time for a moment’s reflection and introspection. All across the land, in cities, towns and villages, Poles will make pilgrimages to place thousands of multi-coloured candles on gravestones, family tombs, mausoleums, graves of unknown soldiers, victims of communist oppression as well as poets, priests and painters. In the larger cemeteries, such as Krakow’s Rakowicki, you are arrested by the sight: spectral lights of red, white, yellow and green, conjure up shadows which dance and flicker like wood nymphs in the night as, in a forgotten corner, the branch of a willow gently drapes across a sleeping sarcophagus, ‘Here lies Jaciek’, long since gone. And in a ceremony repeated throughout the land, from the middle of it all, a church is overflowing, its open doors bathing the quick and the dead alike with kind and holy words, as mysterious and beautiful as an Arab call to prayer.
On a dry, warm night I walk slowly around the cemetery: cutting quickly off from the main avenues, finding quiet delight in discovering ever-smaller paths, which become quickly clogged with autumn leaves and roots of trees. I trip, regain my balance and check the unlit candle in my pocket. It’s still there, waiting for that empty grave. It’s a tradition to place a candle on an empty grave and say a prayer for its owner. But, as you could warm your hands by the candle heat from most graves, finding an unlit one is no mean feat. Still, it is good fun looking, all the same.
Most graves and tombs have several carefully and tastefully arranged candles in shaped glass jars, reverently placed by family members. Fresh pots of flowers, too, are provided, in remembrance of the dearly departed. And lest you think my picture a little too rosy, I’ve heard all about the Joneskis next door. You know, the ones you need to keep up with, especially in the village, where appearance is all. It gets like a competition, apparently: the biggest and most impressive candles, wreaths and flowers. But beneath the surface lies something deeper, pagan almost. In the villages especially, every square inch of a grave may sometimes be covered with candles and flowers in the firm and solemn belief that such an over-abundance of familial love and good wishes will itself ensure the soul’s ascent to heaven. Christianity of course, like all religions and cults before it, supplanted and suppressed pre-existing festivals, labelling them inferior, or ‘pagan’. And yet our intuition lives on: throughout the long dark days of clerical, communist and now capitalist oppression, we cannot but feel the occult pull to recognise, if only once a year, the need to connect, either with our ancestors or some part of ourselves, hidden deep within the rest of the year.
It is not surprising that human beings should light fires at this time of year, pause and turn away from the maelstrom of everyday life. It feels right to stop for a moment and reflect as we settle down for the long winter night. But why can similar scenes be found repeated across the world, not just in the autumn, but also on the very same day, 1st November? Is there indeed some truth to the mystical belief that, on this day, the worlds of the living and of the dead draw close, overlap, even?
I once blithely informed an inquiring Pole that, in England, we have only Halloween, a modern, American-influenced, tradition to our name. Of course I was wrong: both All Saints’ Day, 1st November, and All Souls’ Day, 2nd November, were once celebrated in Britain just as much as in the rest of Europe and many other parts of the world besides. All Saints’ Day remembers all the saints in heaven while on the second, All Souls’ Day, prayers are given for those in purgatory, neither in heaven nor in hell. However, back in the English revolutionary mind of the seventeenth century, such concepts smelt far too much of Popery and were discouraged as popular festivals as Protestantism became the norm and Protestant Englishmen became a little more ignorant of, and removed from, their own history and culture.
But it’s never too late to rediscover that which was, temporarily perhaps, lost, and in Krakow, one chilly November night hundreds of years later, at least one Brit could be seen mingling among the reverent, but slightly footsore crowds, glad that extra trams had been laid on from the cemetery to ferry Krakowians between family graves and family homes. As always in any Polish crowd, there was character and style. Smart men with dickie-bows and pork-pie hats, who in England would look rather old-fashioned, strolled proudly past, escorting fur-coated women of a certain age, balancing freshly-sculpted bouffants through the crowds. Mothers hold their smiling children’s hands as fathers struggle beneath plastic bags overflowing with candles for second cousins, twice removed. United in their memories, All Saints’ Day allows the Poles a time of reflection, of quiet and mutual respect which some other countries would do well to observe.
Sunday 29 November 2009
PODGORZE: A WALK ON THE WILD SIDE
“South of the river! At this time of night?!” It’s a good job Krakowian taxi drivers are braver than London cabbies or us Podgorzians would never get home after a late one. Yes, there is indeed life after Kazimierz. Just five minutes south of Plac Nowy is the district of Podgorze, founded as an independent township in 1784 by the Austrian King Joseph II and long remaining independent until its merger with the city of Krakow in 1915.
On entering Podgorze, via either Piłsudskiego Bridge (from Krakowska) or Powstańców Śląskich Bridge (from Starowiślna), you immediately notice the difference. This oldest part, Stare Podgorze, nestles cosily between the river and the wide green stretches of the hill (gora, from which the area takes its name) just a few hundred metres away. It has a very villagey feel, as I thought when I first set foot here, flat hunting, a couple of years ago. Mind you, the district managed pretty well before I came along and Podgorze is, in fact, currently celebrating its 225th birthday, with many varied events such as open-air concerts, street theatre, fireworks and, in late September, the eighth annual ‘Podgorze Open Door Days’ event.
It cannot be denied that, to foreign visitors to Krakow, Podgorze is perhaps most well known - infamous - for its wartime history. Both the Jewish Ghetto and Oscar Schindler’s factory (fully renovated as a modern museum and opening in full in November this year) are grim, but necessary, stops on the tourist trail. During World War Two, the Nazis created the ghetto in a small area of Stare Podgorze, forcing Krakow’s Jewish population of approximately 10,000 to live for years in squalid conditions, before enacting ‘the final solution’ in 1943. Cross Powstańców Śląskich Bridge, leave the tram at Plac Bohaterow Getta (‘the square of the heroes of the ghetto’) and walk slowly, silently, among straight, orderly lines of cold, oversized metal chairs, which stand as artistic tribute to the murder of thousands and the absence of a culture and community lost to Krakow, and to Poland, forever.
However, the history of Podgorze is, mercifully, long and rich and I, like many foreigners and Krakowians alike, am keen to learn about other aspects about my new neighbourhood. The three-day event ‘Podgórskie Dni Otwartych Drzwi’, (roughly, ‘Podgorze Open Door Days’), which takes place annually in late September, was the perfect opportunity to stroll around: popping into galleries, dipping into local museums and taking in the area’s many green spaces. Depending on your native tongue, we’re either in the middle of an Indian Summer or the beginning of a Złota polska jesien - golden Polish autumn. Either way, a free English-speaking tour guide and a sunny Sunday morning was an opportunity not to be missed.
A good a place as any to start a tour of Podgorze is Rynek Podgorski, which, together with a style of low-rise architecture unique to Krakow, is dominated by the beautiful redbrick Saint Joseph’s Church. Taking my dog for a slow, meandering walk late one night, I estimated the towering structure’s number of bricks at about one and a half million. However, I now believe this figure, like my state of mind at the time, to have been wildly inaccurate.
Being the greenest of Krakow’s eighteen official districts, Podgorze is a great place for dog walking. Just above the church is Park Bednarski, a spacious park populated by dog-walkers, lovers, squirrels, birds and giant multi-coloured animals, drawn on the paths by tiny children with massive chalk crayons. Take tram number 3, 8 or 10 to ‘Korona’ tram stop (just three stops from the Wawel) and you really feel that you’ve left the city behind.
But don’t relax for too long. Just around the corner is Lasota Hill, home to a 19th century Austrian fortification and a modern church on the site of the original, which dates back to the 11th century, shortly after Poland’s official conversion to Christianity. From here, you have a fine view of central and northern Krakow. But for one of the most spectacular views of the city, take a ten-minute walk from there to Krakus Mound. Kopiec Krakusa, in the Polish, is an earthwork, believed to date from the 7th century and to contain the grave of the legendary founder of Krakow, Prince Krakus. It looks just like a (slightly smaller) Glastonbury Tor: an amazing and magical sight, here in (supposedly) non-Celtic Central Europe. Your short climb around its winding path rewards you with a majestic 360-degree panorama of the city: to the north, Stare Miasto and the northern suburbs; to the east, the smoking chimneys and steelmills of Nowa Huta; whilst, turning your head to the south, you may even catch a glimpse of snow on the Tatras - the start of the Carpathian Mountains. Now, that’s not a bad reward for a stroll south of the river!
On entering Podgorze, via either Piłsudskiego Bridge (from Krakowska) or Powstańców Śląskich Bridge (from Starowiślna), you immediately notice the difference. This oldest part, Stare Podgorze, nestles cosily between the river and the wide green stretches of the hill (gora, from which the area takes its name) just a few hundred metres away. It has a very villagey feel, as I thought when I first set foot here, flat hunting, a couple of years ago. Mind you, the district managed pretty well before I came along and Podgorze is, in fact, currently celebrating its 225th birthday, with many varied events such as open-air concerts, street theatre, fireworks and, in late September, the eighth annual ‘Podgorze Open Door Days’ event.
It cannot be denied that, to foreign visitors to Krakow, Podgorze is perhaps most well known - infamous - for its wartime history. Both the Jewish Ghetto and Oscar Schindler’s factory (fully renovated as a modern museum and opening in full in November this year) are grim, but necessary, stops on the tourist trail. During World War Two, the Nazis created the ghetto in a small area of Stare Podgorze, forcing Krakow’s Jewish population of approximately 10,000 to live for years in squalid conditions, before enacting ‘the final solution’ in 1943. Cross Powstańców Śląskich Bridge, leave the tram at Plac Bohaterow Getta (‘the square of the heroes of the ghetto’) and walk slowly, silently, among straight, orderly lines of cold, oversized metal chairs, which stand as artistic tribute to the murder of thousands and the absence of a culture and community lost to Krakow, and to Poland, forever.
However, the history of Podgorze is, mercifully, long and rich and I, like many foreigners and Krakowians alike, am keen to learn about other aspects about my new neighbourhood. The three-day event ‘Podgórskie Dni Otwartych Drzwi’, (roughly, ‘Podgorze Open Door Days’), which takes place annually in late September, was the perfect opportunity to stroll around: popping into galleries, dipping into local museums and taking in the area’s many green spaces. Depending on your native tongue, we’re either in the middle of an Indian Summer or the beginning of a Złota polska jesien - golden Polish autumn. Either way, a free English-speaking tour guide and a sunny Sunday morning was an opportunity not to be missed.
A good a place as any to start a tour of Podgorze is Rynek Podgorski, which, together with a style of low-rise architecture unique to Krakow, is dominated by the beautiful redbrick Saint Joseph’s Church. Taking my dog for a slow, meandering walk late one night, I estimated the towering structure’s number of bricks at about one and a half million. However, I now believe this figure, like my state of mind at the time, to have been wildly inaccurate.
Being the greenest of Krakow’s eighteen official districts, Podgorze is a great place for dog walking. Just above the church is Park Bednarski, a spacious park populated by dog-walkers, lovers, squirrels, birds and giant multi-coloured animals, drawn on the paths by tiny children with massive chalk crayons. Take tram number 3, 8 or 10 to ‘Korona’ tram stop (just three stops from the Wawel) and you really feel that you’ve left the city behind.
But don’t relax for too long. Just around the corner is Lasota Hill, home to a 19th century Austrian fortification and a modern church on the site of the original, which dates back to the 11th century, shortly after Poland’s official conversion to Christianity. From here, you have a fine view of central and northern Krakow. But for one of the most spectacular views of the city, take a ten-minute walk from there to Krakus Mound. Kopiec Krakusa, in the Polish, is an earthwork, believed to date from the 7th century and to contain the grave of the legendary founder of Krakow, Prince Krakus. It looks just like a (slightly smaller) Glastonbury Tor: an amazing and magical sight, here in (supposedly) non-Celtic Central Europe. Your short climb around its winding path rewards you with a majestic 360-degree panorama of the city: to the north, Stare Miasto and the northern suburbs; to the east, the smoking chimneys and steelmills of Nowa Huta; whilst, turning your head to the south, you may even catch a glimpse of snow on the Tatras - the start of the Carpathian Mountains. Now, that’s not a bad reward for a stroll south of the river!
Krakow Chronicles Summer Quiz
How well do you know Krakow and its people? Test yourself with the Krakow Chronicles Summer Quiz ...
1. The most famous river in Poland flows through Krakow on its way to Warsaw and, eventually, on to the Baltic Sea. What is the name of Krakow’s river?
a) The Wisła
b) The Vistula
c) The Mississippi
d) Krakow has a river?
2. Kazimierz was once a run-down, neglected district, where only brave souls dared walk at night. How things have changed! What is your impression of the modern Kazimierz?
a) It’s a cool, bohemian place to hang out and meet my friends
b) The parking is a joke and there are few facilities for the local community
c) I can remember when you could buy a beer, a vodka chaser, a zapiekanka with extra ketchup and still have change for a two-bedroom flat on Plac Nowy
d) I prefer Galeria Krakowska
3. The Poles are naturally proud of their extensive range of fine, golden beers. I, for example, support the Okocim brewery. Which is your favourite Polish beer?
a) Tyskie
b) Lech
c) Żywiec
d) Polish beer …?
4. Few are those who leave Krakow without experiencing the Heynal at least once. But what is the Heynal?
a) An informal goral (mountain-man) form of address
b) A trumpet call
c) A strumpet call
d) A spicy Polish kebab
5. A visit to the smallest room in Krakow’s bars, cafes and restaurants can lead to confusion and embarrassment: what should you do when faced with two doors, one marked with a triangle and one marked with a circle?
a) Wait patiently until someone enters or exits, thereby ascertaining which is ‘gents’ and which is ‘ladies’
b) Rattle the doorhandles, bang loudly and insistently on both doors, then suddenly lose all interest and walk back into the bar, all the time shouting inanities to your boyfriend down your mobile phone
c) Use whichever room is free: it’s two in the morning, for God’s sake!
d) Put the vodka back in the fridge, go straight to bed and never try to turn your flat into a nightclub again
6. Some countries queue, some countries don’t. Poland doesn’t. What should you do if, while waiting patiently in line, someone jumps the queue ahead of you?
a) Tap them politely on the shoulder, smile diplomatically and say ‘Przepraszam, ale czy mogł(a)by pan(i) stać na kolej? (Excuse me sir/madam, but could you please take your place in the queue?‘)
b) Pretend to ignore it: you’re only here for the weekend and you don’t want any trouble
c) Quietly slip back in front of the queue-jumper (‘When in Rome …’)
d) Write about the incident on internet forums and / or English-language newspapers
7. Krakow is home to foreign nationals from nearly every country in the world. What are you doing here?
a) Just visiting
b) Teaching English
c) Working in real estate
d) 4 to 5, with time off for good behaviour
8. For what is the nearby town of Wieliczka famous?
a) Its amazing salt mine, listed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site
b) The only surviving statue of Lenin tying his shoelaces
c) The longest bar in Poland (over 200 miles long, every inch hand-cut from living rock)
d) Its world-famous ready salted crisps
9. Noone should leave Krakow without seeing the famous Wawel. What is the Wawel, pride of all Poland?
a) The name of a famous bar in Wieliczka
b) A well-established chain of language schools
c) Krakow’s castle: the former seat of the Polish monarchy
d) A Polish traditional wedding dance
10. The Poles are great animal-lovers and it’s no secret that Krakowians love their dogs (cf. daschund parade, 6th September). In Krakow, many dogowners allow their dogs to ‘do their business’ …
a) anywhere they want
b) wherever they want
c) anywhere they like
d) wherever they see fit
SCORING
1 A4 B3 C2 D1
2 A2 B4 C3 D1
3 A1 B1 C1 D4
4 A2 B4 C3 D1
5 A1 B3 C2 D4
6 A4 B1 C2 D3
7 A1 B3 C2 D4
8 A4 B1 C1 D1
9 A1 B1 C4 D2
10 A4 B4 C4 D4
0 - 10
Tourists may be forgiven their lack of Krakowian knowledge; the rest of you obviously live in a shadow-world of unknowing, from which a throwaway quiz in a newspaper cannot ever hope to rescue you.
11 – 20
Congratulations! You’ve done your homework. Take a moment to look smugly around before returning to your guidebook.
21 - 30
You’ve obviously been here some time and should be proud of yourself. But beware that experience does not turn to cynicism.
31 - 40
Impressive: it seems you know Krakow like the back of your hand. However, there’s more to life than the back of your hand. Krakow is a fine city. Never forget it.
1. The most famous river in Poland flows through Krakow on its way to Warsaw and, eventually, on to the Baltic Sea. What is the name of Krakow’s river?
a) The Wisła
b) The Vistula
c) The Mississippi
d) Krakow has a river?
2. Kazimierz was once a run-down, neglected district, where only brave souls dared walk at night. How things have changed! What is your impression of the modern Kazimierz?
a) It’s a cool, bohemian place to hang out and meet my friends
b) The parking is a joke and there are few facilities for the local community
c) I can remember when you could buy a beer, a vodka chaser, a zapiekanka with extra ketchup and still have change for a two-bedroom flat on Plac Nowy
d) I prefer Galeria Krakowska
3. The Poles are naturally proud of their extensive range of fine, golden beers. I, for example, support the Okocim brewery. Which is your favourite Polish beer?
a) Tyskie
b) Lech
c) Żywiec
d) Polish beer …?
4. Few are those who leave Krakow without experiencing the Heynal at least once. But what is the Heynal?
a) An informal goral (mountain-man) form of address
b) A trumpet call
c) A strumpet call
d) A spicy Polish kebab
5. A visit to the smallest room in Krakow’s bars, cafes and restaurants can lead to confusion and embarrassment: what should you do when faced with two doors, one marked with a triangle and one marked with a circle?
a) Wait patiently until someone enters or exits, thereby ascertaining which is ‘gents’ and which is ‘ladies’
b) Rattle the doorhandles, bang loudly and insistently on both doors, then suddenly lose all interest and walk back into the bar, all the time shouting inanities to your boyfriend down your mobile phone
c) Use whichever room is free: it’s two in the morning, for God’s sake!
d) Put the vodka back in the fridge, go straight to bed and never try to turn your flat into a nightclub again
6. Some countries queue, some countries don’t. Poland doesn’t. What should you do if, while waiting patiently in line, someone jumps the queue ahead of you?
a) Tap them politely on the shoulder, smile diplomatically and say ‘Przepraszam, ale czy mogł(a)by pan(i) stać na kolej? (Excuse me sir/madam, but could you please take your place in the queue?‘)
b) Pretend to ignore it: you’re only here for the weekend and you don’t want any trouble
c) Quietly slip back in front of the queue-jumper (‘When in Rome …’)
d) Write about the incident on internet forums and / or English-language newspapers
7. Krakow is home to foreign nationals from nearly every country in the world. What are you doing here?
a) Just visiting
b) Teaching English
c) Working in real estate
d) 4 to 5, with time off for good behaviour
8. For what is the nearby town of Wieliczka famous?
a) Its amazing salt mine, listed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site
b) The only surviving statue of Lenin tying his shoelaces
c) The longest bar in Poland (over 200 miles long, every inch hand-cut from living rock)
d) Its world-famous ready salted crisps
9. Noone should leave Krakow without seeing the famous Wawel. What is the Wawel, pride of all Poland?
a) The name of a famous bar in Wieliczka
b) A well-established chain of language schools
c) Krakow’s castle: the former seat of the Polish monarchy
d) A Polish traditional wedding dance
10. The Poles are great animal-lovers and it’s no secret that Krakowians love their dogs (cf. daschund parade, 6th September). In Krakow, many dogowners allow their dogs to ‘do their business’ …
a) anywhere they want
b) wherever they want
c) anywhere they like
d) wherever they see fit
SCORING
1 A4 B3 C2 D1
2 A2 B4 C3 D1
3 A1 B1 C1 D4
4 A2 B4 C3 D1
5 A1 B3 C2 D4
6 A4 B1 C2 D3
7 A1 B3 C2 D4
8 A4 B1 C1 D1
9 A1 B1 C4 D2
10 A4 B4 C4 D4
0 - 10
Tourists may be forgiven their lack of Krakowian knowledge; the rest of you obviously live in a shadow-world of unknowing, from which a throwaway quiz in a newspaper cannot ever hope to rescue you.
11 – 20
Congratulations! You’ve done your homework. Take a moment to look smugly around before returning to your guidebook.
21 - 30
You’ve obviously been here some time and should be proud of yourself. But beware that experience does not turn to cynicism.
31 - 40
Impressive: it seems you know Krakow like the back of your hand. However, there’s more to life than the back of your hand. Krakow is a fine city. Never forget it.
Monday 20 July 2009
The Cut-Out-And-Keep Guide To Modern Poland: No. 2 Customer Service
First published in Krakow Post, August 2009
Those of you who have spent any time in Poland will probably have noticed something about Polish customer service: it’s pretty lousy. Of course, there are many exceptions to this generalization. But that is precisely what they are: exceptions. During a typical week of shopping, bill-paying and visiting government departments we are all too likely to encounter apathy, laziness, boredom and even downright rudeness.
Firstly, a tip for the tourists, refreshing themselves perhaps in the Main Square. Your time is precious. Don’t waste it waiting for the three waitresses chatting idly by the till to deign to serve you. Each waitress has their own tables - and you’re on the wrong table. Even frantic handwaving will result merely in the kind of thousand-yard stare that leads you to question both the girl’s eyesight and your actual existence upon the planet. But look at it from her side: why should she help you when it’s much, mush easier to ignore you? And remember that when you finally do get served, it’s as well to ask for the bill straight away - that is if you want to get to the Salt Mine today, not tomorrow
But having thrown the book at Polish customer service, let us not immediately throw away the key. Rather, let us first examine the case(s) for the defence. Firstly, Poland is still, in many ways, emerging from a centrally-planned, Communist command economy, which shut up shop barely a generation ago. The concepts of free trade, competition and customer service all need time to take root within the collective consciousness. It’s a fair point - and to prove it you need merely take a walk to your local street kiosk. There, as in most other countries of the world, you might expect to make contact - eye contact - with the proprietor of the establishment. Instead, you are greeted merely by endless rows of cigarettes. And it is only after having been exposed to such subtleties of emerging market capitalism that you notice the small dark hole beneath. It is here that you must supplicate yourself to the All-powerful Keeper of Cigarettes and Bus Tickets, who crouches, troglodyte-like, inside. They have it; you want it. That’s customer service, central European style.
Me being me, of course, I refuse to bow down to such low tricks. Consequently, any transactions I am forced to make involve me addressing myself to sun-bleached packs of Lucky Strike. Although it can be frustrating and takes me twice as long to get what I want, I rest easy in the knowledge that I am completely in the right. Indeed, I am confident that my corrective attitude has already been noticed by kiosk designers and I fully expect the kiosks to be redesigned in a more customer-friendly manner within a matter of months.
Of course were I a little shorter none of this would be necessary and I would be able to see just how charming and friendly the kiosk-dweller actually is. Maybe I’ve been missing out all this time. Because I love to see a smile on a shop assistant’s face. Really I do. But unfortunately they’re about as rare as pubs which actually do serve ‘until the last customer’. And here the Polish defence calls its second witness: an excuse for a common lack of humanity which has been repeated to me many times by Poles themselves: shop and government workers rarely smile because – duh! – they’re at work! The inference being that nobody actually likes their job, and because you’re at work you must therefore be miserable, so what should the customer expect? Just be glad you get served at all!
I disagree. Surely, as a customer (the guy with the money), I have a right not to be made to feel guilty for someone’s educational underachievement and / or existential crisis. However, I fully sympathise with anyone working the Saturday night / Sunday morning graveyard shift at 24 hour off-licence / delicatessens. (Had Dante been Polish and not Italian, he would surely have described an eighth circle of hell, illuminated by the cold half-light of dawn and populated by confused, mumbling souls condemned to wander for all eternity in search of potato chips and alcohol.)
In the end, is it so impossible to brighten up the day with a smile and a friendly attitude? It doesn’t have to be false. The tepid English ‘Hello, sir. And how are you today?’ or the ubiquitous American ‘Have a nice day!’ are regarded by many Poles as meaningless insincerities and we are, perhaps justifiably, derided for them. But we’ve all got to get through our days one way or another and, rather than be greeted with a blank expression, scowl or grimace from my fellow man, I’d much rather both give and receive courtesy, respect and a nice big smile!
Those of you who have spent any time in Poland will probably have noticed something about Polish customer service: it’s pretty lousy. Of course, there are many exceptions to this generalization. But that is precisely what they are: exceptions. During a typical week of shopping, bill-paying and visiting government departments we are all too likely to encounter apathy, laziness, boredom and even downright rudeness.
Firstly, a tip for the tourists, refreshing themselves perhaps in the Main Square. Your time is precious. Don’t waste it waiting for the three waitresses chatting idly by the till to deign to serve you. Each waitress has their own tables - and you’re on the wrong table. Even frantic handwaving will result merely in the kind of thousand-yard stare that leads you to question both the girl’s eyesight and your actual existence upon the planet. But look at it from her side: why should she help you when it’s much, mush easier to ignore you? And remember that when you finally do get served, it’s as well to ask for the bill straight away - that is if you want to get to the Salt Mine today, not tomorrow
But having thrown the book at Polish customer service, let us not immediately throw away the key. Rather, let us first examine the case(s) for the defence. Firstly, Poland is still, in many ways, emerging from a centrally-planned, Communist command economy, which shut up shop barely a generation ago. The concepts of free trade, competition and customer service all need time to take root within the collective consciousness. It’s a fair point - and to prove it you need merely take a walk to your local street kiosk. There, as in most other countries of the world, you might expect to make contact - eye contact - with the proprietor of the establishment. Instead, you are greeted merely by endless rows of cigarettes. And it is only after having been exposed to such subtleties of emerging market capitalism that you notice the small dark hole beneath. It is here that you must supplicate yourself to the All-powerful Keeper of Cigarettes and Bus Tickets, who crouches, troglodyte-like, inside. They have it; you want it. That’s customer service, central European style.
Me being me, of course, I refuse to bow down to such low tricks. Consequently, any transactions I am forced to make involve me addressing myself to sun-bleached packs of Lucky Strike. Although it can be frustrating and takes me twice as long to get what I want, I rest easy in the knowledge that I am completely in the right. Indeed, I am confident that my corrective attitude has already been noticed by kiosk designers and I fully expect the kiosks to be redesigned in a more customer-friendly manner within a matter of months.
Of course were I a little shorter none of this would be necessary and I would be able to see just how charming and friendly the kiosk-dweller actually is. Maybe I’ve been missing out all this time. Because I love to see a smile on a shop assistant’s face. Really I do. But unfortunately they’re about as rare as pubs which actually do serve ‘until the last customer’. And here the Polish defence calls its second witness: an excuse for a common lack of humanity which has been repeated to me many times by Poles themselves: shop and government workers rarely smile because – duh! – they’re at work! The inference being that nobody actually likes their job, and because you’re at work you must therefore be miserable, so what should the customer expect? Just be glad you get served at all!
I disagree. Surely, as a customer (the guy with the money), I have a right not to be made to feel guilty for someone’s educational underachievement and / or existential crisis. However, I fully sympathise with anyone working the Saturday night / Sunday morning graveyard shift at 24 hour off-licence / delicatessens. (Had Dante been Polish and not Italian, he would surely have described an eighth circle of hell, illuminated by the cold half-light of dawn and populated by confused, mumbling souls condemned to wander for all eternity in search of potato chips and alcohol.)
In the end, is it so impossible to brighten up the day with a smile and a friendly attitude? It doesn’t have to be false. The tepid English ‘Hello, sir. And how are you today?’ or the ubiquitous American ‘Have a nice day!’ are regarded by many Poles as meaningless insincerities and we are, perhaps justifiably, derided for them. But we’ve all got to get through our days one way or another and, rather than be greeted with a blank expression, scowl or grimace from my fellow man, I’d much rather both give and receive courtesy, respect and a nice big smile!
The Cut-Out-And-Keep Guide To Modern Poland: No. 1 The Security Guard
First published in Krakow Post, July 2009
You know what my problem is? Authority. I don’t like authority. Or rules. Or barriers. Or short, ungrammatical sentences. And definitely no quasi-military uniforms. I see red when I see a blue light. It’s wrong, it’s self-defeating and I should just get over it. Thanks for telling me. Now stop telling me! I can make my own decisions, dammit!
Why the sudden rush of blood? Well, I recently made the mistake of slipping casually under a rather flimsy piece of tape, taking a few steps into ‘the forbidden zone’ and ignoring a scary, muscle-bound guard’s command to return. Sure, I was wrong, but was he in the right to bolt after me, grab my skinny wrist tight and start radioing for backup, all the while aggressively shouting phrases that I’m sure both his and my mother would both have been ashamed of? A little excessive, perhaps. However, it seemed he was soon satisfied that – like a trusty guard dog – he had successfully protected his patch and now couldn’t be bothered dealing with a stupid Englishman with broken Polish and a deathwish: he let go of my wrist, turned his back and allowed me to melt once again into the crowd. Fortunately for me.
‘Course, it’s a problem being a middle-aged proto-anarchist in the twenty-first century, especially in a country like Poland. Sometimes it seems that everything – and I mean everything – is ‘protected’. You cannot even pass a busstop without seeing the words ‘obiekt ochrony’ - protected object – slapped on the glass. (Is it even the busstop that’s protected or merely the sticker itself?) Actually, I’ve never seen a security guard at a busstop. There’s not really much to ‘guard’, is there, apart from the odd empty crisp packet and the occasional sleeping drunk? And, anyway, they’ve all got cars now – the guards, that is, not the drunks … although when you consider some of the driving in Krakow …)
Still, at least the ticket inspectors are reasonably civilized. Even open to a joke and a little bribery, on a good day. I can’t say the same about private security guards, though.
These guys (and they are, of course, mostly male) are everywhere! Let’s take a moment to examine the species, starting with those seen pulling up quietly in front of banks, in white mini Hummers, with helmets and guns. This particular genus is guarding that most precious of our commodities: money. As such, they’re hand-picked for their professionalism, attention to detail and muscle size. If you’ve ever messed with one of these, chances are you’re reading this article from either Intensive Care or from Secure Wing B.
Next in the pecking order are the many varieties of black-clothed, big-booted guard. Equipped with hard exo-skeletons and formidable nightsticks, they possess varying levels of energy and testosterone. Their natural habitat is any public event or temporary structure deemed to be worth more than about 5 zlotys as scrap metal. Whilst apparently docile creatures, be warned that they may bite if threatened.
A little further down the genealogical tree and we come across the nocturnal guard. These ‘all-nighters’ are so-called due to their habit of guarding, for example, an impromptu ‘stage’ (in reality some bits of old scaffolding and a few hastily erected floorboards) throughout the long hours of darkness. They often achieve this by spending all night sitting together in a semi-circle, playing cards and smoking cigarettes, whist speaking a secret language that even the Polish mountain-people would find a mystery. Comprised mainly of individuals with – unusually for the security guard - the correct balance of X and Y chromosones and even the odd pony-tailed student, the all-nighter may be approached - albeit with caution – by those curious as to the future function of the guarded object, or else by tramps trying to cadge a fag after midnight.
And now we come to the guard that perhaps all of us are most familiar with: the shop and office security guard. This subspecies is itself strictly hierarchical, with a guard at a government or corporate head office snobbishly refusing to even look at the Kefirek or Biedronka guard, come the security guards’ Christmas party (incidentally, the one unsupervised event in the whole of Poland). These guards are solitary creatures and spend their time incessantly patrolling the same small patch of territory, the more domesticated individuals occasionally helping to weigh fruit and vegetables when needed. They lead a routine, even boring, life. And so, without wishing to seem in any way irresponsible, I would like to take this opportunity to ask, nay implore, some of our more impressionable readers to attempt to steal an item of small worth from one of these neighbourhood shops. The ensuing commotion would make the guard’s day, week or even year. Believe me. You’d be doing him a favour - as well as helping to smash the tyrannous forces of state authority, into the bargain.
You know what my problem is? Authority. I don’t like authority. Or rules. Or barriers. Or short, ungrammatical sentences. And definitely no quasi-military uniforms. I see red when I see a blue light. It’s wrong, it’s self-defeating and I should just get over it. Thanks for telling me. Now stop telling me! I can make my own decisions, dammit!
Why the sudden rush of blood? Well, I recently made the mistake of slipping casually under a rather flimsy piece of tape, taking a few steps into ‘the forbidden zone’ and ignoring a scary, muscle-bound guard’s command to return. Sure, I was wrong, but was he in the right to bolt after me, grab my skinny wrist tight and start radioing for backup, all the while aggressively shouting phrases that I’m sure both his and my mother would both have been ashamed of? A little excessive, perhaps. However, it seemed he was soon satisfied that – like a trusty guard dog – he had successfully protected his patch and now couldn’t be bothered dealing with a stupid Englishman with broken Polish and a deathwish: he let go of my wrist, turned his back and allowed me to melt once again into the crowd. Fortunately for me.
‘Course, it’s a problem being a middle-aged proto-anarchist in the twenty-first century, especially in a country like Poland. Sometimes it seems that everything – and I mean everything – is ‘protected’. You cannot even pass a busstop without seeing the words ‘obiekt ochrony’ - protected object – slapped on the glass. (Is it even the busstop that’s protected or merely the sticker itself?) Actually, I’ve never seen a security guard at a busstop. There’s not really much to ‘guard’, is there, apart from the odd empty crisp packet and the occasional sleeping drunk? And, anyway, they’ve all got cars now – the guards, that is, not the drunks … although when you consider some of the driving in Krakow …)
Still, at least the ticket inspectors are reasonably civilized. Even open to a joke and a little bribery, on a good day. I can’t say the same about private security guards, though.
These guys (and they are, of course, mostly male) are everywhere! Let’s take a moment to examine the species, starting with those seen pulling up quietly in front of banks, in white mini Hummers, with helmets and guns. This particular genus is guarding that most precious of our commodities: money. As such, they’re hand-picked for their professionalism, attention to detail and muscle size. If you’ve ever messed with one of these, chances are you’re reading this article from either Intensive Care or from Secure Wing B.
Next in the pecking order are the many varieties of black-clothed, big-booted guard. Equipped with hard exo-skeletons and formidable nightsticks, they possess varying levels of energy and testosterone. Their natural habitat is any public event or temporary structure deemed to be worth more than about 5 zlotys as scrap metal. Whilst apparently docile creatures, be warned that they may bite if threatened.
A little further down the genealogical tree and we come across the nocturnal guard. These ‘all-nighters’ are so-called due to their habit of guarding, for example, an impromptu ‘stage’ (in reality some bits of old scaffolding and a few hastily erected floorboards) throughout the long hours of darkness. They often achieve this by spending all night sitting together in a semi-circle, playing cards and smoking cigarettes, whist speaking a secret language that even the Polish mountain-people would find a mystery. Comprised mainly of individuals with – unusually for the security guard - the correct balance of X and Y chromosones and even the odd pony-tailed student, the all-nighter may be approached - albeit with caution – by those curious as to the future function of the guarded object, or else by tramps trying to cadge a fag after midnight.
And now we come to the guard that perhaps all of us are most familiar with: the shop and office security guard. This subspecies is itself strictly hierarchical, with a guard at a government or corporate head office snobbishly refusing to even look at the Kefirek or Biedronka guard, come the security guards’ Christmas party (incidentally, the one unsupervised event in the whole of Poland). These guards are solitary creatures and spend their time incessantly patrolling the same small patch of territory, the more domesticated individuals occasionally helping to weigh fruit and vegetables when needed. They lead a routine, even boring, life. And so, without wishing to seem in any way irresponsible, I would like to take this opportunity to ask, nay implore, some of our more impressionable readers to attempt to steal an item of small worth from one of these neighbourhood shops. The ensuing commotion would make the guard’s day, week or even year. Believe me. You’d be doing him a favour - as well as helping to smash the tyrannous forces of state authority, into the bargain.
Saturday 13 June 2009
Rainbows And Wreaths
First published in The Krakow Post, June 2009
© John Marshall 2009
Picture the scene: you’re with your girlfriend, relaxing in the Main Square on a sunny Saturday, enjoying some fine Balkan folk singing and dancing; each performer striving to achieve perfect harmony and synchronicity with his/her partner. Then, in the corner of your eye you glimpse something most unharmonious: riot police, visors down and tails up, shuffling around the back of the Sukiennice. Curious, you decide to follow them. And, before you know it, you’re taking part in Krakow’s annual March For Tolerance March. And to think I only went out for a coffee …
It was my first ‘gay march’ and I felt conflicting emotions. Pride at standing up for tolerance and the right of everyone to lead their own lives, free from fear and persecution. But also distinct apprehension: we were tightly ringed by scores of scary-looking riot police whose militaristic get-up was perfectly matched by the aggressive manners and chanting of the far-right boot-boys. These self-appointed guardians of ‘Polish values’ were baying for the marchers’ blood only metres away from bewildered tourists. Knuckled fists were raised and primeval, guttural noises were spat out of angry throats. We banged our drums, waved our Rainbow flags, danced and, most importantly, were there. A little later, honour satisfied, the gathering broke up peacefully and my friend and I caught a beer, gawping (from a safe distance) at the fascists.
It was a strange sight to see both neo-Nazis (sporting the fascist organisation Combat 18 t-shirts) and riot police on the streets of my adopted Krakow, city of culture and learning. But after four years, I’m getting used to this annual face-off. At least the march is allowed now (they have been banned in Poland from time to time, always on spurious grounds) and it must be said that the police do a good – although slightly heavy-handed - job of keeping the peace. I only saw one ‘incident’: a well-dressed middle-aged Polish ‘gentleman’ decided to throw a plastic plant pot (complete with a flower – oh, the irony!) at us. Before you could say ‘strong-arm tactics’, a policeman broke ranks, rushed over and had granddad pinned up against the kebab stall. I caught his eye, smiled and blew the old git a sarcastic kiss as we marched merrily past. Here’s to next year’s march!
On to things less controversial …
Saturday 20th June, (Midsummer’s Day) sees the annual party called Wianki. It’s big, loud and heaps of fun. The main event is a free open-air music concert (Lenny Kravitz this year, no less!) by the Wawel and the river, followed by some spectacular fireworks. More sedately, you will have the chance to observe some ancient pagan traditions during the day.
Dating back to Pagan times, Wianki (meaning 'wreaths') celebrates all the usual midsummer themes of life, renewal and, er, virginity. Unsurprisingly, it was rebranded "Noc Świętojańska" (St. John's Night) by the early Church, which, no doubt, toned down some of the more earthy practices such as young lovers consummating their love in nearby woods. However, some elements have remained, such as jumping over the huge ceremonial bonfires (sobotka) which are lit along the riverbank and, of course, young women casting their wreaths upon the river.
Traditionally, Polish girls wear wreaths of flowers and throw them into the river. According to folklore, if the wreath comes back to shore, the girl will never marry, if it sinks, she will die young and if it flows down the river, she will be married. Oh, if only modern dating was so easy! Fortunately for all, the Wistula is a fast-flowing river and, traditionally, most girls went away happy.
Back in the 16th Century, Jan Kochanowski wrote the following description of Wianki traditions and beliefs:
In Poland the Eve of St. John's is fraught with miracles and magic. Animals talk to each other with human voices. The earth shows the enchanted riches … plants take on magical properties ... Wreaths to which are fixed lighted candles are cast in the waters … From the course and fate of the wreaths auguries of marriage are made. The special promise of St. John is youth, love and general fertility.
(I wish I’d read that last line years ago. It would have made a cracking chat-up line!)
It’s almost impossible not to get caught up in it all: my advice is simply to allow the crowds to gently sweep you towards the river, the lights and the sounds of one of the biggest nights in Krakow’s diary.
Oh, and just because you’re sitting in the middle of the biggest open-air event of the year doesn’t mean you’re legally free to drink alcohol. Take a tip from the locals: buy a bottle of coke, top it up with vodka and let some other dozy ex-pat get fined 200 zloty for open-air drinking!
© John Marshall 2009
Picture the scene: you’re with your girlfriend, relaxing in the Main Square on a sunny Saturday, enjoying some fine Balkan folk singing and dancing; each performer striving to achieve perfect harmony and synchronicity with his/her partner. Then, in the corner of your eye you glimpse something most unharmonious: riot police, visors down and tails up, shuffling around the back of the Sukiennice. Curious, you decide to follow them. And, before you know it, you’re taking part in Krakow’s annual March For Tolerance March. And to think I only went out for a coffee …
It was my first ‘gay march’ and I felt conflicting emotions. Pride at standing up for tolerance and the right of everyone to lead their own lives, free from fear and persecution. But also distinct apprehension: we were tightly ringed by scores of scary-looking riot police whose militaristic get-up was perfectly matched by the aggressive manners and chanting of the far-right boot-boys. These self-appointed guardians of ‘Polish values’ were baying for the marchers’ blood only metres away from bewildered tourists. Knuckled fists were raised and primeval, guttural noises were spat out of angry throats. We banged our drums, waved our Rainbow flags, danced and, most importantly, were there. A little later, honour satisfied, the gathering broke up peacefully and my friend and I caught a beer, gawping (from a safe distance) at the fascists.
It was a strange sight to see both neo-Nazis (sporting the fascist organisation Combat 18 t-shirts) and riot police on the streets of my adopted Krakow, city of culture and learning. But after four years, I’m getting used to this annual face-off. At least the march is allowed now (they have been banned in Poland from time to time, always on spurious grounds) and it must be said that the police do a good – although slightly heavy-handed - job of keeping the peace. I only saw one ‘incident’: a well-dressed middle-aged Polish ‘gentleman’ decided to throw a plastic plant pot (complete with a flower – oh, the irony!) at us. Before you could say ‘strong-arm tactics’, a policeman broke ranks, rushed over and had granddad pinned up against the kebab stall. I caught his eye, smiled and blew the old git a sarcastic kiss as we marched merrily past. Here’s to next year’s march!
On to things less controversial …
Saturday 20th June, (Midsummer’s Day) sees the annual party called Wianki. It’s big, loud and heaps of fun. The main event is a free open-air music concert (Lenny Kravitz this year, no less!) by the Wawel and the river, followed by some spectacular fireworks. More sedately, you will have the chance to observe some ancient pagan traditions during the day.
Dating back to Pagan times, Wianki (meaning 'wreaths') celebrates all the usual midsummer themes of life, renewal and, er, virginity. Unsurprisingly, it was rebranded "Noc Świętojańska" (St. John's Night) by the early Church, which, no doubt, toned down some of the more earthy practices such as young lovers consummating their love in nearby woods. However, some elements have remained, such as jumping over the huge ceremonial bonfires (sobotka) which are lit along the riverbank and, of course, young women casting their wreaths upon the river.
Traditionally, Polish girls wear wreaths of flowers and throw them into the river. According to folklore, if the wreath comes back to shore, the girl will never marry, if it sinks, she will die young and if it flows down the river, she will be married. Oh, if only modern dating was so easy! Fortunately for all, the Wistula is a fast-flowing river and, traditionally, most girls went away happy.
Back in the 16th Century, Jan Kochanowski wrote the following description of Wianki traditions and beliefs:
In Poland the Eve of St. John's is fraught with miracles and magic. Animals talk to each other with human voices. The earth shows the enchanted riches … plants take on magical properties ... Wreaths to which are fixed lighted candles are cast in the waters … From the course and fate of the wreaths auguries of marriage are made. The special promise of St. John is youth, love and general fertility.
(I wish I’d read that last line years ago. It would have made a cracking chat-up line!)
It’s almost impossible not to get caught up in it all: my advice is simply to allow the crowds to gently sweep you towards the river, the lights and the sounds of one of the biggest nights in Krakow’s diary.
Oh, and just because you’re sitting in the middle of the biggest open-air event of the year doesn’t mean you’re legally free to drink alcohol. Take a tip from the locals: buy a bottle of coke, top it up with vodka and let some other dozy ex-pat get fined 200 zloty for open-air drinking!
Monday 11 May 2009
Polish Landscapes: Magazine Article
I first set foot in Poland four years ago, spending a couple of weeks in Poznan. It was my longest trip outside England and everything was wonderfully strange and exotic. Later, I was charmed by Krakow: its main square, charming streets and old town architecture. I fell in love with it immediately, the hot summer sun quickly burning away any Cold War stereotypes about the country or its people.
Mind you, those who choose to stay soon discover there’s more to life than tourist trails and there are some less than pretty residential areas in Polish cities. Many’s the time I’ve got lost in a sea of grey apartment blocks whose only identifying features were the massive adverts plastered on the sides. No, give me green, any day. I love a bit of green, especially after a long winter (minus twenty-seven Celsius?! Nobody warned me about that one!). So my dog obligingly pulls me around the nearby park three times a day, I stack my balcony with flowers in the spring, and get out of the city whenever I can.
Take a slow train journey between cities. You’ll soon get the hang of the Polish landscape. It’s flat! Really flat! And kind of plain, too. I mean, even the Poles call it Polska, and everyone knows that pol means ‘field’ in Polish. I rest my case.
Of course, Poland is not actually billiard-table flat. Of course not. That would be silly. The south of the country is a huge area of rolling hills, uplands and, of course, the Tatras, which are a magnet for the foreigner just as much as the Poles. I was only in the country for two weeks before climbing Rysy, one of the range’s highest peaks at 2499m. I didn’t expect that. ‘Beats the English Pennines, that’s for sure!
And, unlike England, there are many landscapes here that seem hardly touched by Man at all, an almost primal wildness still lingering in many of the hills and valleys. Taking a moonlit sleighride along a remote snowy forest track, the sound of wolves echoing along the valley was a wonderful, slightly unnerving brush with the raw Poland that I shall never forget.
Copyright John Marshall 2009
Mind you, those who choose to stay soon discover there’s more to life than tourist trails and there are some less than pretty residential areas in Polish cities. Many’s the time I’ve got lost in a sea of grey apartment blocks whose only identifying features were the massive adverts plastered on the sides. No, give me green, any day. I love a bit of green, especially after a long winter (minus twenty-seven Celsius?! Nobody warned me about that one!). So my dog obligingly pulls me around the nearby park three times a day, I stack my balcony with flowers in the spring, and get out of the city whenever I can.
Take a slow train journey between cities. You’ll soon get the hang of the Polish landscape. It’s flat! Really flat! And kind of plain, too. I mean, even the Poles call it Polska, and everyone knows that pol means ‘field’ in Polish. I rest my case.
Of course, Poland is not actually billiard-table flat. Of course not. That would be silly. The south of the country is a huge area of rolling hills, uplands and, of course, the Tatras, which are a magnet for the foreigner just as much as the Poles. I was only in the country for two weeks before climbing Rysy, one of the range’s highest peaks at 2499m. I didn’t expect that. ‘Beats the English Pennines, that’s for sure!
And, unlike England, there are many landscapes here that seem hardly touched by Man at all, an almost primal wildness still lingering in many of the hills and valleys. Taking a moonlit sleighride along a remote snowy forest track, the sound of wolves echoing along the valley was a wonderful, slightly unnerving brush with the raw Poland that I shall never forget.
Copyright John Marshall 2009
Tuesday 28 April 2009
Krakow Chronicles: Easter 2009
Hmm .. from the warm look of content on your face I see that you’re reading April’s Krakow Post. Well, that must mean one of two things: either you’ve made it through another winter (and if it was the Polish winter, double brownie points to you) or you’re rereading this article at some future point as a distraction to doing something else – probably cleaning the windows or starting your thesis. Either way, welcome (once again) to the Polish spring, which officially started on Saturday 28th March.
Spring is, for most Poles, the finest season of the year. Autumn’s ok, they say, summer’s too hot and winter is … well … winter. Spring days are simply longer, warmer and brighter. And now the streets and parks are full of people enjoying the return of both sunlight and birdsong.
But it’s not quite summer yet, down here in Central Europe. For no sooner does winter give away to spring than attention is turned to serious matters. For, in the Christian calendar, March means Lent (the traditional 40-day period of abstinence echoing Christ’s ordeals and temptations in the wilderness) and April means Easter and the Resurrection of Christ.
Let’s be honest, most Western Christians’ observance of Church festivals is limited – at best – to Christmas and Easter, and even then more often in a purely secular manner: expensively-bought presents at Christmas, expensively-bought chocolate eggs for Easter. Our experience and knowledge of the church, its yearly rites and festivities is, for many, fading fast. Twice a year we may perhaps pop our heads into the local church, shakes hands nervously with the local vicar (just how do you address him / her?) before curtseying backwards into the Women’s Institute flower display, but that’s about it. Or, at least, that’s how it used to be. For as anyone who either lives in Poland or lives near a community of ex-pat Poles knows very well, there are some churches where the cup runneth over - Polish churchgoers standing and even kneeling in the streets outside.
Huge church attendances were one of the first things to hit me when I came to Poland. And Sunday services repeated several times, with people queuing outside a la Harrods on Boxing Day morning?! You just don’t see it in Britain. And, as an occasional church-goer myself, I love to see it: just the sight of so many cheers the soul. However, removing my rose-tinted spectacles for a moment, I wonder how it was ten or twenty years ago. For many, going to church is merely ‘the done thing’. Where the church was once the source of comfort and an alternative to spiritually empty and morally bankrupt Communism, many Poles no longer seek nor, in fact, need such a solidarity and worship instead at the new churches of Ikea and the Galeria shopping centres. In this, of course, Polish society is merely ‘catching up’ with those in the West.
But Easter, at least, is a time of genuine celebration. And Poles fill every part of Holy Week with meaning and tradition. On Easter Saturday, for example, people take baskets of food into church to be blessed by the priest, and children paint eggs, giving them to members of their family. Another of the many family-related traditions is the all-day breakfast on Easter Sunday, when kitchen tables are laden with all manner of tasty foods, to be enjoyed from dawn to dusk. Traditionally, a moderate intake of alcohol from morning onwards helps ensure a particularly cheery Sunday.
Although the Slavs are great churchgoers, Christianity came late to this part of the world, with paganism only beginning to be replaced in the tenth and eleventh centuries. And pagan customs are much more evident in Poland than in the West. For example, the pagan Pole used to sprinkle water on the fields to awaken the Earth Mother after her long winter sleep. This custom has – with some slight modification, it’s true - survived to this day in the custom of throwing (sometimes sizeable quantities of) cold water over innocent passers-by. It’s called Wet Monday, or Śmigus-dyngus (after two mythical pagan gods), and you’d better be on your guard on Easter Monday when any random citizen – usually a child – decides to cover you in water, balconies of flats being a popular launching-pad. Although tradition dictates that you’re not allowed to be angered by this, you are allowed to retaliate. Sales of water pistols, AK47s and orange plastic rocket-launchers are predicted to rise over the Easter period.
First published in the Krakow Post newspaper 2009
Spring is, for most Poles, the finest season of the year. Autumn’s ok, they say, summer’s too hot and winter is … well … winter. Spring days are simply longer, warmer and brighter. And now the streets and parks are full of people enjoying the return of both sunlight and birdsong.
But it’s not quite summer yet, down here in Central Europe. For no sooner does winter give away to spring than attention is turned to serious matters. For, in the Christian calendar, March means Lent (the traditional 40-day period of abstinence echoing Christ’s ordeals and temptations in the wilderness) and April means Easter and the Resurrection of Christ.
Let’s be honest, most Western Christians’ observance of Church festivals is limited – at best – to Christmas and Easter, and even then more often in a purely secular manner: expensively-bought presents at Christmas, expensively-bought chocolate eggs for Easter. Our experience and knowledge of the church, its yearly rites and festivities is, for many, fading fast. Twice a year we may perhaps pop our heads into the local church, shakes hands nervously with the local vicar (just how do you address him / her?) before curtseying backwards into the Women’s Institute flower display, but that’s about it. Or, at least, that’s how it used to be. For as anyone who either lives in Poland or lives near a community of ex-pat Poles knows very well, there are some churches where the cup runneth over - Polish churchgoers standing and even kneeling in the streets outside.
Huge church attendances were one of the first things to hit me when I came to Poland. And Sunday services repeated several times, with people queuing outside a la Harrods on Boxing Day morning?! You just don’t see it in Britain. And, as an occasional church-goer myself, I love to see it: just the sight of so many cheers the soul. However, removing my rose-tinted spectacles for a moment, I wonder how it was ten or twenty years ago. For many, going to church is merely ‘the done thing’. Where the church was once the source of comfort and an alternative to spiritually empty and morally bankrupt Communism, many Poles no longer seek nor, in fact, need such a solidarity and worship instead at the new churches of Ikea and the Galeria shopping centres. In this, of course, Polish society is merely ‘catching up’ with those in the West.
But Easter, at least, is a time of genuine celebration. And Poles fill every part of Holy Week with meaning and tradition. On Easter Saturday, for example, people take baskets of food into church to be blessed by the priest, and children paint eggs, giving them to members of their family. Another of the many family-related traditions is the all-day breakfast on Easter Sunday, when kitchen tables are laden with all manner of tasty foods, to be enjoyed from dawn to dusk. Traditionally, a moderate intake of alcohol from morning onwards helps ensure a particularly cheery Sunday.
Although the Slavs are great churchgoers, Christianity came late to this part of the world, with paganism only beginning to be replaced in the tenth and eleventh centuries. And pagan customs are much more evident in Poland than in the West. For example, the pagan Pole used to sprinkle water on the fields to awaken the Earth Mother after her long winter sleep. This custom has – with some slight modification, it’s true - survived to this day in the custom of throwing (sometimes sizeable quantities of) cold water over innocent passers-by. It’s called Wet Monday, or Śmigus-dyngus (after two mythical pagan gods), and you’d better be on your guard on Easter Monday when any random citizen – usually a child – decides to cover you in water, balconies of flats being a popular launching-pad. Although tradition dictates that you’re not allowed to be angered by this, you are allowed to retaliate. Sales of water pistols, AK47s and orange plastic rocket-launchers are predicted to rise over the Easter period.
First published in the Krakow Post newspaper 2009
Krakow Chronicles: May 2009
How time flies (or ‘runs’, in Polish)! No sooner have we finished Easter (painted eggs, baskets of food, interminable hours around the family table) than summer’s just around the corner! With the longer and warmer days, Krakow has become a sensual feast. In winter, the stone kamienica across the street was inhabited only by shadows, who scuttled quickly up staircases. Now, the sun has made them flesh and blood, painted smiles on their faces and you notice details in the stone you’d somehow missed before. Double-windows are thrown open to catch the sun and your attention is pleasantly captured by the strains of an unexpected violin or clarinet, wafting through the net curtains and rolling gently down the street. You realize that even shadows have lives, and colourful ones, in fact. Like flowers, they only need the right conditions. And, closer to home, balconies blossom with bratki (‘brother’) and begonias, carefully tended by babcia owners.
Though far from the Main Square and Mariacki Church, I hear the Hynał (the mournful tune played by the trumpeter on the hour, every hour) drifting along my street. It’s maybe the radio, a practicing musician or perhaps a daydream. Whatever it is, like a friendly, sleepy, dragon, ‘Krakow’ - the thought of it, the feel of it - has awoken from its long slumber and permeates once again the souls of its people.
And not only the souls, but their bodies too. Towards the end of April, I received an SMS from a friend. A short message; innocent enough in its way. Did I want to run the Krakow marathon? Well, yes, the thought did appeal to me. After all, I’m not in bad shape and I’ve always wanted to see more of Krakow. And here was my chance. I should leap at it, gazelle-like. And so I did - metaphorically. Sort of. Almost. That is to say that, for a couple of hours or so, I let the idea run around my head for a while, before reluctantly coming to the conclusion that running a dog up and down the local riverbank two or three times a week hardly qualifies me for the remake of Chariots Of Fire. Not to mention the fact that, fortunately for me and all the serious, well-prepared, runners, I discovered that the invitation had arrived just twentyfour hours too late for me to register and pay good money for that particular kind of self-inflicted madness. Not that that stopped nearly four thousand brave souls from taking part on a hot Sunday morning, the winners coming from as far afield as Ukraine, Kenya and Ethiopia. World-class indeed!
However, I personally prefer my pursuits to be more artistic than athletic. Just as well I live in Krakow then: a city with a fine intellectual and artistic heritage – a heritage the City Government is determined to capitalise upon. I recently interviewed an international marketing executive on the City’s behalf. A man who has set foot in more cities than McDonald’s, he was very impressed by Krakow, telling me it had taken him precisely eighteen minutes to fall in love with the place (not, presumably, including baggage-handling and the taxi ride from Balice). According to him, we Krakowians live in ‘a mini-Florence’ (albeit one with its fair share of concrete blocks). Kind words – and no doubt heartfelt – but, as a lifelong Krakowian had, coincidentally, explained to me only a few days previously, Florence – like many historical cities - is a victim of its own success, left wondering where to go now. In the city centre, its winding medieval streets are snarled up with traffic and its overdependence on tourists inevitably impacts upon the local atmosphere. Apparently, it’s even rare to hear a native-to-native Italian conversation there.
The same colleague then recounted how, ten or fifteen years ago, it was, in contrast, extremely rare to hear any foreign language on Krakow’s streets. And, if we go back a little further, twenty years ago would have seen the Rynek Głowny (Main Square) dark and lifeless at 8pm, even at weekends. Impossible now to imagine that huge and vibrant public space, where everything happens and everyone meets, so devoid of life. How the city has changed in a generation – and how the new generation is changing the city!
Though far from the Main Square and Mariacki Church, I hear the Hynał (the mournful tune played by the trumpeter on the hour, every hour) drifting along my street. It’s maybe the radio, a practicing musician or perhaps a daydream. Whatever it is, like a friendly, sleepy, dragon, ‘Krakow’ - the thought of it, the feel of it - has awoken from its long slumber and permeates once again the souls of its people.
And not only the souls, but their bodies too. Towards the end of April, I received an SMS from a friend. A short message; innocent enough in its way. Did I want to run the Krakow marathon? Well, yes, the thought did appeal to me. After all, I’m not in bad shape and I’ve always wanted to see more of Krakow. And here was my chance. I should leap at it, gazelle-like. And so I did - metaphorically. Sort of. Almost. That is to say that, for a couple of hours or so, I let the idea run around my head for a while, before reluctantly coming to the conclusion that running a dog up and down the local riverbank two or three times a week hardly qualifies me for the remake of Chariots Of Fire. Not to mention the fact that, fortunately for me and all the serious, well-prepared, runners, I discovered that the invitation had arrived just twentyfour hours too late for me to register and pay good money for that particular kind of self-inflicted madness. Not that that stopped nearly four thousand brave souls from taking part on a hot Sunday morning, the winners coming from as far afield as Ukraine, Kenya and Ethiopia. World-class indeed!
However, I personally prefer my pursuits to be more artistic than athletic. Just as well I live in Krakow then: a city with a fine intellectual and artistic heritage – a heritage the City Government is determined to capitalise upon. I recently interviewed an international marketing executive on the City’s behalf. A man who has set foot in more cities than McDonald’s, he was very impressed by Krakow, telling me it had taken him precisely eighteen minutes to fall in love with the place (not, presumably, including baggage-handling and the taxi ride from Balice). According to him, we Krakowians live in ‘a mini-Florence’ (albeit one with its fair share of concrete blocks). Kind words – and no doubt heartfelt – but, as a lifelong Krakowian had, coincidentally, explained to me only a few days previously, Florence – like many historical cities - is a victim of its own success, left wondering where to go now. In the city centre, its winding medieval streets are snarled up with traffic and its overdependence on tourists inevitably impacts upon the local atmosphere. Apparently, it’s even rare to hear a native-to-native Italian conversation there.
The same colleague then recounted how, ten or fifteen years ago, it was, in contrast, extremely rare to hear any foreign language on Krakow’s streets. And, if we go back a little further, twenty years ago would have seen the Rynek Głowny (Main Square) dark and lifeless at 8pm, even at weekends. Impossible now to imagine that huge and vibrant public space, where everything happens and everyone meets, so devoid of life. How the city has changed in a generation – and how the new generation is changing the city!
Saturday 14 March 2009
A spring in my step!
Copyright John Marshall 2009
First published in Karnet Magazine, April 2009
The sun is shining, birds are singing, the tables are out in the Rynek Głowny and lovers stroll hand in hand along the Planty, drinking in the Poles’ favourite season: spring. For after its long, cold dominion, winter - its beautiful anger spent - has given way once more, sinking gently back into the earth, safe from the sun’s warm rays and longer days.
Unlike my native England, with its mild, clement weather, Poland has four distinct seasons, each with its own particular hue. And, whilst deep snowy winters and long blazing summers have their own particular charms, spring is when the city comes alive.
Saturday morning and I pull back the curtains. The sun beams down from a clear blue sky and my dog Rosie, her lead in her mouth, scampers impatiently back and forth between me and the front door. And so it is that, ten minutes later, I find myself ‘dog-jogging’ for the first time this year, both of us shaking the cobwebs from sleepy muscles and limbs.
My route takes in Rynek Podgórski, the river and the Waweł. We pass the splendid gothic Saint Joseph church, and Rosie is soon galloping along the riverbank like a racehorse, easily outrunning a cruise boat which chugs slowly past us. Its passengers trail their fingers in the water and the sunlight dances over the boat’s wake which fans out gracefully behind it. On the bank below, small children throw bread at ducks and swans. Above them, a hundred cameras click in unison as the Wawel dragon obligingly breathes its fire. We sprint past, our throats also dry. I don’t notice the small, excited dog snapping after Rosie. His babcia (old lady) owner admonishes him as I perform a delicate hop over the pocket-sized pup. Regaining my balance, I turn my head back to see the ubiquitous Polish daschund (jamnik) looking up blankly, yet kindly, into the woman’s yapping mouth. She doesn’t seem to realize the dog can’t speak Polish. But neither does she know dog, and yet they understand each other just fine.
Little old ladies and tourists, lovers, joggers and dogs: enjoying the sun and the beautiful Polish spring.
First published in Karnet Magazine, April 2009
The sun is shining, birds are singing, the tables are out in the Rynek Głowny and lovers stroll hand in hand along the Planty, drinking in the Poles’ favourite season: spring. For after its long, cold dominion, winter - its beautiful anger spent - has given way once more, sinking gently back into the earth, safe from the sun’s warm rays and longer days.
Unlike my native England, with its mild, clement weather, Poland has four distinct seasons, each with its own particular hue. And, whilst deep snowy winters and long blazing summers have their own particular charms, spring is when the city comes alive.
Saturday morning and I pull back the curtains. The sun beams down from a clear blue sky and my dog Rosie, her lead in her mouth, scampers impatiently back and forth between me and the front door. And so it is that, ten minutes later, I find myself ‘dog-jogging’ for the first time this year, both of us shaking the cobwebs from sleepy muscles and limbs.
My route takes in Rynek Podgórski, the river and the Waweł. We pass the splendid gothic Saint Joseph church, and Rosie is soon galloping along the riverbank like a racehorse, easily outrunning a cruise boat which chugs slowly past us. Its passengers trail their fingers in the water and the sunlight dances over the boat’s wake which fans out gracefully behind it. On the bank below, small children throw bread at ducks and swans. Above them, a hundred cameras click in unison as the Wawel dragon obligingly breathes its fire. We sprint past, our throats also dry. I don’t notice the small, excited dog snapping after Rosie. His babcia (old lady) owner admonishes him as I perform a delicate hop over the pocket-sized pup. Regaining my balance, I turn my head back to see the ubiquitous Polish daschund (jamnik) looking up blankly, yet kindly, into the woman’s yapping mouth. She doesn’t seem to realize the dog can’t speak Polish. But neither does she know dog, and yet they understand each other just fine.
Little old ladies and tourists, lovers, joggers and dogs: enjoying the sun and the beautiful Polish spring.
Thursday 26 February 2009
Buying A Flat In Krakow: Part Two
INTRODUCTION
With the "credit crunch," rising interest rates and falling property prices raising the spectre of recession in the West, there have certainly been better times to contemplate buying a home. Whether - or just how far - the Polish real estate market will be affected, within the context of an otherwise bullish economy, remains to be seen.
In the July issue of the Krakow Post, I set out my personal reasons for choosing to buy a flat in Krakow. What follows here are the experiences of a first-time property buyer in Poland.
AGENT / OFFER
So, you've spent the usual weeks and months trekking around and now you've actually found that special house or flat. Assuming the property, like most, is being sold through an estate agent (nierochumosci), the first thing you need to do is to agree their commission. Now, in Poland, estate agents charge both the seller and the buyer. The typical fee is 3% (plus tax). However, they are open to negotiation, especially in a quiet market. This done, you put in your offer for the property. This is done formally, with a document being prepared by you and the estate agent (this is not a verbal process, as it is in, say, the UK). Detailed in the offer document are the dates and amounts of the part-payments that, if your offer is accepted, you must legally adhere to as part of the buying process, together with a final hand-over date. All this is regardless of whether the owner accepts your initial offer or not. If not (as in my case), you and the estate agent then tear up the old offer and prepare a new, similar document, with details of the new, higher offer.
So, after several phone calls between all three parties, the owner accepts your offer and you, the owner and the estate agent sign to show acceptance of the offer. Now it's time to arrange the mortgage. Note that, unlike in some Western countries, you must have an offer accepted on a particular property before being offered a mortgage. It is not possible to get a mortgage offer in principle, allowing you from the offset to confidently scour the streets for the property of your dreams. This is important for the unwary foreigner to note, as in Poland it is common practice to pay a non-refundable deposit (zalicki), typically 10% of the agreed price, from your own funds to secure the property, often before receiving confirmation that you will be given a mortgage. Buyer beware.
REGISTRATION
One thing you will definitely need before seeking a Polish mortgage is to be registered (zameldowany) at a Polish address. To be registered is a legal requirement for any foreigner living in Poland longer than three months. Whilst failing to register is quite common and does not usually cause any day-to-day problems, it is very handy to be registered and essential when seeking a mortgage. To register, you need to go to the appropriate local government office (urzad miasta) with, if necessary, a Polish-speaking friend to translate. You must present either the tenancy agreement for the property in which you live or take with you the owner of the property who will then present their proof of ownership and state that you are living there (as, for example, in the case of a foreigner living in his/her Polish partner's flat).
Similarly, if you happen to be in possession of a NIP (tax) or PESEL (social insurance) number, so much the better.
CREDIT
In my case, the process of applying for and being granted a mortgage was a long and tedious one. Not, in fairness, because of any particular problem with the bank (although the usual Polish bureaucracy and inflexibility were much in evidence), but mainly because of my personal circumstances. Although I had been banking with a major Polish bank for three years, my major stumbling block was that I didn?t have a work contract. Now, proof of future earnings is a standard and reasonable requirement for any bank, of course, but not something that every aspiring property-owning ex-pat may have. I needed advice, and so began my association with an independent financial adviser (doradca finansowy).
ADVISERS
Polish financial advisers take their commission from the lender, not from the borrower. As such, using their services you are safe in the knowledge that, should you, for any reason, pull out of the process, you will not be charged even 1 zloty. But check and be clear on this point from the start.
FRANCS VS. ZLOTYS
Now, ideally, reader, you do have a work contract (or your own business) and a long Polish banking history (twelve months minimum is the norm). But if, like me, you don't, you will be severely limited in your options. At the beginning, I wanted to buy a 25-year mortgage, payable in Swiss francs. Perhaps a trifle exotic for this homeboy, but quite common in Poland and, due to low and stable Swiss interest rates, much cheaper than a similar mortgage based on zloty. However, in my case, my financial adviser could find only one bank willing to offer me any kind of mortgage (with each separate application seemingly necessitating reams of documents to sign, email and fax ? all in Polish, of course): a 30-year term, payable in zloty. We filled out the necessary documents, including the crucial estate agent's "offer document" and, in due course, I received the loan, complete, of course, with a four-figure bank commission charge, which I was able to add to the term of the loan. Note that, should you wish to switch from a zloty to a Swiss franc mortgage, you are typically free to do so after twelve months.
SELF-DECLARATION
Perhaps I should say that, lacking a work contract, it was probably only the fact that I had a 40% cash deposit that secured me the remaining 60% from the bank. Without such a contribution, I may not have been deemed so credit-worthy. Of course, some Polish banks allow you to make a "self-declaration." Self-declarations dispense with the need for proof of earnings providing you can provide something like a minimum of 40% cash. However, such documents have, in the West at least, received bad press over the years, encouraging buyers to over-extend themselves (remember the term "credit crunch?"). If offered credit in this way, be realistic with your ability to repay.
I was also required, by the bank, to have the flat valued. Again, this is not, as far as I am aware, standard practice for many Polish properties, but your bank may require it, at your own cost (around 600 to 800 zloty), so be prepared.
SOLICITORS
If all goes well, you now have your mortgage offer and a hand-over date. The estate agent takes details of both parties' bank accounts and arranges a three-way meeting with a local solicitor. If your Polish is poor, you will need to arrange a sworn translator to be in attendance (this cost, a few hundred zloty, is borne by you, although the estate agent will no doubt help you to locate one). All parties meet at the solicitor's office - cost to you, several hundred zloty - and you take legal ownership of the property on an agreed future date. Take great care with the document (Akt Notarialny) you receive as you walk out of the office: this is your title deed and it will need to be shown to utilities, banks and government offices on many occasions.
When, finally, the bank transfers the money shortly after, you may allow yourself a smug grin and a house-warming party (parapetowka). But with the post-party hangover, the real fun begins: dealing with the block's administration department, sorting out utilities, discovering problems with the flat that, somehow, the previous owner forgot to tell you about and, possibly, a disruptive and costly process of renovation. I wish you luck.
With the "credit crunch," rising interest rates and falling property prices raising the spectre of recession in the West, there have certainly been better times to contemplate buying a home. Whether - or just how far - the Polish real estate market will be affected, within the context of an otherwise bullish economy, remains to be seen.
In the July issue of the Krakow Post, I set out my personal reasons for choosing to buy a flat in Krakow. What follows here are the experiences of a first-time property buyer in Poland.
AGENT / OFFER
So, you've spent the usual weeks and months trekking around and now you've actually found that special house or flat. Assuming the property, like most, is being sold through an estate agent (nierochumosci), the first thing you need to do is to agree their commission. Now, in Poland, estate agents charge both the seller and the buyer. The typical fee is 3% (plus tax). However, they are open to negotiation, especially in a quiet market. This done, you put in your offer for the property. This is done formally, with a document being prepared by you and the estate agent (this is not a verbal process, as it is in, say, the UK). Detailed in the offer document are the dates and amounts of the part-payments that, if your offer is accepted, you must legally adhere to as part of the buying process, together with a final hand-over date. All this is regardless of whether the owner accepts your initial offer or not. If not (as in my case), you and the estate agent then tear up the old offer and prepare a new, similar document, with details of the new, higher offer.
So, after several phone calls between all three parties, the owner accepts your offer and you, the owner and the estate agent sign to show acceptance of the offer. Now it's time to arrange the mortgage. Note that, unlike in some Western countries, you must have an offer accepted on a particular property before being offered a mortgage. It is not possible to get a mortgage offer in principle, allowing you from the offset to confidently scour the streets for the property of your dreams. This is important for the unwary foreigner to note, as in Poland it is common practice to pay a non-refundable deposit (zalicki), typically 10% of the agreed price, from your own funds to secure the property, often before receiving confirmation that you will be given a mortgage. Buyer beware.
REGISTRATION
One thing you will definitely need before seeking a Polish mortgage is to be registered (zameldowany) at a Polish address. To be registered is a legal requirement for any foreigner living in Poland longer than three months. Whilst failing to register is quite common and does not usually cause any day-to-day problems, it is very handy to be registered and essential when seeking a mortgage. To register, you need to go to the appropriate local government office (urzad miasta) with, if necessary, a Polish-speaking friend to translate. You must present either the tenancy agreement for the property in which you live or take with you the owner of the property who will then present their proof of ownership and state that you are living there (as, for example, in the case of a foreigner living in his/her Polish partner's flat).
Similarly, if you happen to be in possession of a NIP (tax) or PESEL (social insurance) number, so much the better.
CREDIT
In my case, the process of applying for and being granted a mortgage was a long and tedious one. Not, in fairness, because of any particular problem with the bank (although the usual Polish bureaucracy and inflexibility were much in evidence), but mainly because of my personal circumstances. Although I had been banking with a major Polish bank for three years, my major stumbling block was that I didn?t have a work contract. Now, proof of future earnings is a standard and reasonable requirement for any bank, of course, but not something that every aspiring property-owning ex-pat may have. I needed advice, and so began my association with an independent financial adviser (doradca finansowy).
ADVISERS
Polish financial advisers take their commission from the lender, not from the borrower. As such, using their services you are safe in the knowledge that, should you, for any reason, pull out of the process, you will not be charged even 1 zloty. But check and be clear on this point from the start.
FRANCS VS. ZLOTYS
Now, ideally, reader, you do have a work contract (or your own business) and a long Polish banking history (twelve months minimum is the norm). But if, like me, you don't, you will be severely limited in your options. At the beginning, I wanted to buy a 25-year mortgage, payable in Swiss francs. Perhaps a trifle exotic for this homeboy, but quite common in Poland and, due to low and stable Swiss interest rates, much cheaper than a similar mortgage based on zloty. However, in my case, my financial adviser could find only one bank willing to offer me any kind of mortgage (with each separate application seemingly necessitating reams of documents to sign, email and fax ? all in Polish, of course): a 30-year term, payable in zloty. We filled out the necessary documents, including the crucial estate agent's "offer document" and, in due course, I received the loan, complete, of course, with a four-figure bank commission charge, which I was able to add to the term of the loan. Note that, should you wish to switch from a zloty to a Swiss franc mortgage, you are typically free to do so after twelve months.
SELF-DECLARATION
Perhaps I should say that, lacking a work contract, it was probably only the fact that I had a 40% cash deposit that secured me the remaining 60% from the bank. Without such a contribution, I may not have been deemed so credit-worthy. Of course, some Polish banks allow you to make a "self-declaration." Self-declarations dispense with the need for proof of earnings providing you can provide something like a minimum of 40% cash. However, such documents have, in the West at least, received bad press over the years, encouraging buyers to over-extend themselves (remember the term "credit crunch?"). If offered credit in this way, be realistic with your ability to repay.
I was also required, by the bank, to have the flat valued. Again, this is not, as far as I am aware, standard practice for many Polish properties, but your bank may require it, at your own cost (around 600 to 800 zloty), so be prepared.
SOLICITORS
If all goes well, you now have your mortgage offer and a hand-over date. The estate agent takes details of both parties' bank accounts and arranges a three-way meeting with a local solicitor. If your Polish is poor, you will need to arrange a sworn translator to be in attendance (this cost, a few hundred zloty, is borne by you, although the estate agent will no doubt help you to locate one). All parties meet at the solicitor's office - cost to you, several hundred zloty - and you take legal ownership of the property on an agreed future date. Take great care with the document (Akt Notarialny) you receive as you walk out of the office: this is your title deed and it will need to be shown to utilities, banks and government offices on many occasions.
When, finally, the bank transfers the money shortly after, you may allow yourself a smug grin and a house-warming party (parapetowka). But with the post-party hangover, the real fun begins: dealing with the block's administration department, sorting out utilities, discovering problems with the flat that, somehow, the previous owner forgot to tell you about and, possibly, a disruptive and costly process of renovation. I wish you luck.
Buying A Flat In Krakow: Part One
© John Marshall 2008
First published in Krakow Post, July 2008
Being quite satisfied with my three years in Poland and feeling the Cancerian need to put down a few roots, I decided last January to put things on a more permanent footing. Having recently sold my house in England I was looking for a good home for my money. Now, being a stereotypical Englishman semi-obsessed with property ownership and with a healthy distrust of banks, there was only one solution: buy a flat - both to live in and, possibly, as an investment.
Now, I can see some of the more longer-serving ex-pats already shaking their heads. “Oh, you should have bought a few years ago, John”. You see? “A friend of mine had the chance to buy the Wawel and St Mary’s Church not three years ago for only ninety-five thousand ...”. You get the picture.
Yes, property in Poland has risen two or three-fold over the last five years, particularly in the desirable areas of the larger cities. So much so that the market has, in many areas, peaked. In Krakow at least, prices have stagnated for the past year and there has even been a general reduction in asking prices, of at least 10%. It is a buyer’s market right now and will continue to be so for the rest of the year. (Ahem: This would seem to be the right point to declare that, as an English teacher and writer, all my business knowledge has been gathered from old reruns of ‘The Apprentice’ and snatched episodes of ‘Location Location Location’, glimpsed in moments of weakness.)
And so, more through intuition than any penetrating market knowledge, another bold statement: prices are set to rise again. Why? Because the Polish economy (and the zloty) is booming, British and Irish property prices have peaked (encouraging foreign investment), and, most importantly, many emigrant Poles are starting to return home intent on developing land or putting a deposit on their own flat. And, whilst primarily seeking somewhere to live rather than to invest in, I was encouraged to try my luck in this buyer’s market.
Of course, anticipated problems with language, bureaucracy and doing business in a different culture were all to play their part. But the first question was: where to live? Now, on my budget the choices were rather limited: a two-roomed fairly modern flat in a middling district. Well, ok, it’s not the Wawel, but then again who wants to pay the administration on that?
As we all know, buying somewhere to live is, for most of us, the biggest financial decision of our lives – and I’m very picky. Frankly, I was not impressed with what I regarded as different variations on the ‘box in the sky’ theme. In England there is a wide range of styles to be had, for all but the smallest budget: flat, semi-detached, terraces, bungalow, for example. I’m not making value judgments here: thirty-odd years surrounded by certain styles of architecture and built environment can’t help but form, or even skew, your opinions. So I kept going: checking out estate agents windows, listening to each new agent telling me s/he has exactly what I want (which always amazed me, considering I hadn’t a clue myself), and generally seeing more new streets than a London cabbie doing ‘the knowledge’.
I wanted character (budget allowing, of course) and perhaps a park, if possible (to walk in, not to own). A tall order but not insurmountable. As an unmarried man, I’m generally able to disregard the well-rehearsed dinner-party conversations regarding the absolute minimum number of bedrooms, distances to the local shops and school league tables, and concentrate instead on actually finding somewhere that I know I’m going to enjoy living and spending time in (there’s the Cancer again, you see).
And now I’ve found it; my very own flat. I can relax, kick back, make myself at home! No more schlepping around town, picking up out-of-date Post Office messages from ex-girlfriends’ flats, trying to remember if I’m registered or not and just who the hell is supposed to change the light bulbs in the hall, anyway? From now on, life seems set to be much simpler.
Of course, nobody ever said it would be easy, right? And between incompetent (yet expensive) banks, an elusive financial adviser, unavoidable (yet all too common) trips to urzad miasta (local government offices) and the signing of seemingly hundreds of documents, it nearly didn’t happen. But it did. And, in part two next month, I’ll tell you how I did it.
First published in Krakow Post, July 2008
Being quite satisfied with my three years in Poland and feeling the Cancerian need to put down a few roots, I decided last January to put things on a more permanent footing. Having recently sold my house in England I was looking for a good home for my money. Now, being a stereotypical Englishman semi-obsessed with property ownership and with a healthy distrust of banks, there was only one solution: buy a flat - both to live in and, possibly, as an investment.
Now, I can see some of the more longer-serving ex-pats already shaking their heads. “Oh, you should have bought a few years ago, John”. You see? “A friend of mine had the chance to buy the Wawel and St Mary’s Church not three years ago for only ninety-five thousand ...”. You get the picture.
Yes, property in Poland has risen two or three-fold over the last five years, particularly in the desirable areas of the larger cities. So much so that the market has, in many areas, peaked. In Krakow at least, prices have stagnated for the past year and there has even been a general reduction in asking prices, of at least 10%. It is a buyer’s market right now and will continue to be so for the rest of the year. (Ahem: This would seem to be the right point to declare that, as an English teacher and writer, all my business knowledge has been gathered from old reruns of ‘The Apprentice’ and snatched episodes of ‘Location Location Location’, glimpsed in moments of weakness.)
And so, more through intuition than any penetrating market knowledge, another bold statement: prices are set to rise again. Why? Because the Polish economy (and the zloty) is booming, British and Irish property prices have peaked (encouraging foreign investment), and, most importantly, many emigrant Poles are starting to return home intent on developing land or putting a deposit on their own flat. And, whilst primarily seeking somewhere to live rather than to invest in, I was encouraged to try my luck in this buyer’s market.
Of course, anticipated problems with language, bureaucracy and doing business in a different culture were all to play their part. But the first question was: where to live? Now, on my budget the choices were rather limited: a two-roomed fairly modern flat in a middling district. Well, ok, it’s not the Wawel, but then again who wants to pay the administration on that?
As we all know, buying somewhere to live is, for most of us, the biggest financial decision of our lives – and I’m very picky. Frankly, I was not impressed with what I regarded as different variations on the ‘box in the sky’ theme. In England there is a wide range of styles to be had, for all but the smallest budget: flat, semi-detached, terraces, bungalow, for example. I’m not making value judgments here: thirty-odd years surrounded by certain styles of architecture and built environment can’t help but form, or even skew, your opinions. So I kept going: checking out estate agents windows, listening to each new agent telling me s/he has exactly what I want (which always amazed me, considering I hadn’t a clue myself), and generally seeing more new streets than a London cabbie doing ‘the knowledge’.
I wanted character (budget allowing, of course) and perhaps a park, if possible (to walk in, not to own). A tall order but not insurmountable. As an unmarried man, I’m generally able to disregard the well-rehearsed dinner-party conversations regarding the absolute minimum number of bedrooms, distances to the local shops and school league tables, and concentrate instead on actually finding somewhere that I know I’m going to enjoy living and spending time in (there’s the Cancer again, you see).
And now I’ve found it; my very own flat. I can relax, kick back, make myself at home! No more schlepping around town, picking up out-of-date Post Office messages from ex-girlfriends’ flats, trying to remember if I’m registered or not and just who the hell is supposed to change the light bulbs in the hall, anyway? From now on, life seems set to be much simpler.
Of course, nobody ever said it would be easy, right? And between incompetent (yet expensive) banks, an elusive financial adviser, unavoidable (yet all too common) trips to urzad miasta (local government offices) and the signing of seemingly hundreds of documents, it nearly didn’t happen. But it did. And, in part two next month, I’ll tell you how I did it.
Tuesday 24 February 2009
Winter Holidays
Writing in a Winter Wonderland
Copyright John Marshall 2009
You know, there seems an inordinate number of wide-eyed, innocent-looking faces wandering unescorted around town at the moment. This must mean one of two things: either Ryanair’s having another ticket sale or the Polish schools are closed again. Yes, if it’s February, it must be ferie, (winter holidays), the mid-winter school break enjoyed by Poles everywhere (well, those still living in Poland, anyway).
What a wonderfully relaxed country this is! A mere six weeks after Christmas and New Year holidays and schools the length and breadth of the country shut down for two weeks.
So, while Britain grinds to a halt in the snow, Polish sportshops empty quicker than wallets in a January sale. Snow-chained cars piled high with snowboards, skis, hats and gloves, are driven deep into wooded valleys. Everywhere wooden chalets, guest houses and multi-storied hotels, all with steep rooves groaning under months of snow, are packed to the rafters with tourists dreaming of clear blue skies, powder snow and short queues for the skilifts. And this year, like every year before, I have decided to join them.
It’s easy to forget that there’s more to life (and Poland) than Krakow. Whether you’ve settled into a nice domestic routine or continue your intoxicating journey of Krakowian discoveries, the city continues to cast a spell over many of us. But there is no denying that Polish winters are cold and long, and the cities can seem grey, pale in the washed-out sun. For the sake of your health and your sanity, you need to get out for a while, if only for a weekend. And there is no better way to banish those winter blues than to strap on a snowboard or a pair of skis.
Before coming to Poland, my experience of skiing was limited to childhood viewing of Ski Sunday, a British tv programme. While we sat all cosy on the sofa, foreigners with badly-spelt names, dressed in day-glo spray-on costumes, would launch themselves down unfeasibly steep mountainsides in the hope of not breaking one of their 216 bones in the process. It was all very exotic and exciting back then, when my knowledge of Europe and Europeans in general was very limited, fashioned by such reliable sources as Allo!Allo!, old war films and occasional Olympics, featuring scary-looking, steroid-packed eastern European women.
Still, that was thirty years ago, and both me and Europe have changed a lot since then. I’ve actually become a skier! Me, from the flattest county in England! And, you know, I’m actually rather good at it - taking to skiing like a duck to frozen water. I knew all those hours of Ski Sunday would pay off. Now, I zigzag (or, at least, zagzig) my way to the bottom of the slope, to be greeted (in my imagination) by a herd of cowbells and a horde of adoring fans noisily beating their fists against advertising hoardings.
Mind you, skiing’s very tiring, as is snow in general, in fact. Here, as in much of Poland, the snow falls relentlessly. Outside my chalet window, every couple of hours I see inhabitants shovelling snow from the roads, in a show of defiance which makes King Canute’s stand against the rising tide seem like a valuable use of time.
I couldn’t spend half my winter clearing the path just so I could remember where I left the dog. It takes me all my energy just to wade through the snow to get to the ski slopes and put on my skiboots (starość nie radość, as the Poles say). So we decided to take a break yesterday and strolled in one of the area’s many beautiful valleys. Mind you, even this was not without its dangers, complete with signs warning of hungry wild animals and a four-star risk of avalanches. Fortunately, we managed to disturb neither wild bears nor towering walls of snow, the white stuff merely crunching underfoot, echoing softly against the rockfaces which loomed all around us in the gathering dusk. Sleighs lit with flaming torches, made merry by jinglebells, and driven by barrel-chested goralski (mountain men) trotted gently by, daytrippers tucked up beneath thick woolen blankets. They, like we, would later eat heartily in one of the hundreds of karczma (inns) before sleeping it off and dreaming of the next day’s travails.
The pace of life is slower in the sticks than in the city – especially in winter. At breakfast, there’s always time to chat around the dinner table. And I always enjoy having (as opposed, in the city, to choosing) to speak Polish. Out here too, English-speaking Poles are about as rare as Polish-speaking Englishmen, so a little book-learnin’ goes a long way, wherever you choose to stay. Because, let’s face it, there is no shortage of winter holiday destinations for the intrepid tourist. And if it’s your first time, just pop on your thermals and rucksack and take the bus to the main mountain town, Zakopane. The season continues until April, so swap the sludgy streets for the snow-clad peaks and see what a real winter is all about!
Copyright John Marshall 2009
You know, there seems an inordinate number of wide-eyed, innocent-looking faces wandering unescorted around town at the moment. This must mean one of two things: either Ryanair’s having another ticket sale or the Polish schools are closed again. Yes, if it’s February, it must be ferie, (winter holidays), the mid-winter school break enjoyed by Poles everywhere (well, those still living in Poland, anyway).
What a wonderfully relaxed country this is! A mere six weeks after Christmas and New Year holidays and schools the length and breadth of the country shut down for two weeks.
So, while Britain grinds to a halt in the snow, Polish sportshops empty quicker than wallets in a January sale. Snow-chained cars piled high with snowboards, skis, hats and gloves, are driven deep into wooded valleys. Everywhere wooden chalets, guest houses and multi-storied hotels, all with steep rooves groaning under months of snow, are packed to the rafters with tourists dreaming of clear blue skies, powder snow and short queues for the skilifts. And this year, like every year before, I have decided to join them.
It’s easy to forget that there’s more to life (and Poland) than Krakow. Whether you’ve settled into a nice domestic routine or continue your intoxicating journey of Krakowian discoveries, the city continues to cast a spell over many of us. But there is no denying that Polish winters are cold and long, and the cities can seem grey, pale in the washed-out sun. For the sake of your health and your sanity, you need to get out for a while, if only for a weekend. And there is no better way to banish those winter blues than to strap on a snowboard or a pair of skis.
Before coming to Poland, my experience of skiing was limited to childhood viewing of Ski Sunday, a British tv programme. While we sat all cosy on the sofa, foreigners with badly-spelt names, dressed in day-glo spray-on costumes, would launch themselves down unfeasibly steep mountainsides in the hope of not breaking one of their 216 bones in the process. It was all very exotic and exciting back then, when my knowledge of Europe and Europeans in general was very limited, fashioned by such reliable sources as Allo!Allo!, old war films and occasional Olympics, featuring scary-looking, steroid-packed eastern European women.
Still, that was thirty years ago, and both me and Europe have changed a lot since then. I’ve actually become a skier! Me, from the flattest county in England! And, you know, I’m actually rather good at it - taking to skiing like a duck to frozen water. I knew all those hours of Ski Sunday would pay off. Now, I zigzag (or, at least, zagzig) my way to the bottom of the slope, to be greeted (in my imagination) by a herd of cowbells and a horde of adoring fans noisily beating their fists against advertising hoardings.
Mind you, skiing’s very tiring, as is snow in general, in fact. Here, as in much of Poland, the snow falls relentlessly. Outside my chalet window, every couple of hours I see inhabitants shovelling snow from the roads, in a show of defiance which makes King Canute’s stand against the rising tide seem like a valuable use of time.
I couldn’t spend half my winter clearing the path just so I could remember where I left the dog. It takes me all my energy just to wade through the snow to get to the ski slopes and put on my skiboots (starość nie radość, as the Poles say). So we decided to take a break yesterday and strolled in one of the area’s many beautiful valleys. Mind you, even this was not without its dangers, complete with signs warning of hungry wild animals and a four-star risk of avalanches. Fortunately, we managed to disturb neither wild bears nor towering walls of snow, the white stuff merely crunching underfoot, echoing softly against the rockfaces which loomed all around us in the gathering dusk. Sleighs lit with flaming torches, made merry by jinglebells, and driven by barrel-chested goralski (mountain men) trotted gently by, daytrippers tucked up beneath thick woolen blankets. They, like we, would later eat heartily in one of the hundreds of karczma (inns) before sleeping it off and dreaming of the next day’s travails.
The pace of life is slower in the sticks than in the city – especially in winter. At breakfast, there’s always time to chat around the dinner table. And I always enjoy having (as opposed, in the city, to choosing) to speak Polish. Out here too, English-speaking Poles are about as rare as Polish-speaking Englishmen, so a little book-learnin’ goes a long way, wherever you choose to stay. Because, let’s face it, there is no shortage of winter holiday destinations for the intrepid tourist. And if it’s your first time, just pop on your thermals and rucksack and take the bus to the main mountain town, Zakopane. The season continues until April, so swap the sludgy streets for the snow-clad peaks and see what a real winter is all about!
Valentine's Day
VALENTINE’S DAY
Copyright John Marshall 2009
John Marshall is a writer and teacher who has had the great fortune to live in Krakow for several years. Krakow’s been good to him and, he hopes, he’s been good to Krakow.
Well, it’s that time of year again: Valentine’s Day. February 14th, the night which lovers celebrate and singletons dread almost as much as New Year’s Eve. Well, maybe ‘dread’ is too strong a word. But you know what I mean. On that most romantic of nights, anyone who dares to appear in public without a significant other bearing a classic Polish long-stemmed rose will be given a suspicious, sideways look by the silent majority, that is to say couples.
Valentine’s Day: not a good time to be single. But you can’t always time these things, can you? Well, you shouldn’t! I have a Polish friend whose love life ebbs and flows not according to the procession of the moon and stars across the heavens but to his rather more mundane state of his bank balance and, were he to be in a relationship, whether he thinks he would receive or have to give more presents. This cynical and arcane science of his includes many calculations regarding Valentine’s Day, his and her forthcoming birthdays, Polish namedays and, of course, Christmas.
Mind you, many relationships break up over Christmas. Perhaps it’s the imminent new year or ruinous credit card bills that focuses hearts and minds. Whatever it is, after the hangovers, wound-licking and self-imposed exile that, for many, constitutes the month of January, by February there is an inordinately large number of people sending and hoping to perhaps receive a Valentine’s card or two.
Probably most Post readers grew up celebrating – or sometimes trying to avoid – Valentine’s Day. For sure, in the West, advertisers and marketers have long cherished the tradition, giving as it does a warm tingly feeling to otherwise grumpy post-Christmas sales figures. However, in its modern form at least, Valentine’s is a relatively recent addition to the Polish year.
Prior to the fall of Communism some twenty years ago, dewy-eyed Poles had nothing more romantic to look forward to on the socialist calendar than Women’s Day: a Communist invention celebrating the unflagging industry and tightly-knotted headscarves of the sturdy Slavic woman. This athletic archetype was usually portrayed, on posters, sleeves rolled up and with folded arms, rosy cheeks fresh from the fields and leaning nonchalantly against an unfeasibly large combine harvester, the size of which would have Lenin spinning with disbelief in his grave (that is, turning his body around very quickly, as opposed to spinning cloth, which had, prior to The Revolution, traditionally been arduous, low-paid work for an unmarried young woman (c.f. spinster), and was therefore an outmoded symbol of the bourgeoisie’s repression of the proloteriat).
In fact, it wasn’t until the fall of Communism in 1989 that Poles really took the Christian martyr Saint Valentine to heart, promoting him within the pantheon of Polish saints. Previously, he had languished, largely unnoticed, as the admired yet not much loved patron saint of epileptics and cholerics. Now, in his new romantic form, his story (whichever of the many versions is true) is celebrated in all the usual ways.
One of the most popular and international signs of affection is, of course, to give the object of your affection flowers, usually red roses. But be careful if the lucky woman is Polish: it is considered bad luck to proffer an even number of flowers in your bouquet. Actually, this presents something of a problem. (Western) tradition suggests twelve red roses for your true love. Well, twelve’s an even number, so that’s out. Thirteen? I don’t think so. So what about eleven? What! Risk the suspicion that you couldn’t help slipping number twelve to some rival for her affection along the way? Be careful, reader, for the road to hell is paved with good intentions.
Along with the flowers must go, of course, The Card. Poles send Valentine’s cards just as other nations do, with younger people exchanging most and also specializing in the unsigned variety. Actually, I’ve always thought it strange that the time when most people send Valentine’s cards is during their teenage years, the years of puberty and raging hormones - precisely the time when parents are doing all they possibly can to make sure that any pubescent urges are not, repeat not, consummated.
For most of us, the later adult experience is – at best - a one-card reality: the expectation from both you and your partner that there will be one, and only one, card waiting on respective (or shared) doormats come the 14th. Any more, and there will be trouble. Laying out a handful of Valentines on the restaurant dinner table and asking for a sample of your girlfriend or wife’s handwriting, ‘just to be sure, kochanie’, is, in most cultures, frowned upon.
And especially in Poland, where the women are, well, Polish. An English-Polish male friend once shared with me the stereotype that Polish women were twice as feminine as those from many other cultures: in looks and in character, traits both positive and negative. Romantic, certainly: you only have to look at the number of long-stemmed roses proudly carried around on any one day by adoring girlfriends. But woe betide any boyfriend or husband who is found romantically-lacking this Valentine’s Day!
But what if you’re lacking more than a nice red nose? A partner, for example? Because, for some reason known only to yourself and half of Facebook, you find yourself single this Valentine’s Day. Available (merely awaiting the opening of your life’s next chapter) yet certainly not desperate (remembering just how life’s rich tapestry can easily tie you up in knots). What to do on the big day / night? Well, you could just treat it as any other day, whether that means crawling around the Rynek Glowny drunkenly on all-fours and crying for your mama (you know who you are) or whether it means finally finishing that matchstick model of the Wawel Castle, before retiring early with the BBC Shipping Forecast and a cup of hot chocolate.
Or you could always take a romantic break in Chelmno, in northern Poland, where a reliquary (allegedly) containing a part of Saint Valentine’s skull has been kept in a parish church for centuries. Apparently, the relic is famed to this day for its miraculous powers. Hopeful parishioners (some, no doubt, looking for a little Valentine’s magic) travel the whole country to kiss its silver container. OK, slapping your lips on a box with a bit of old bone inside in the hope of finding the love of your life is a bit of a long shot, but don’t knock it; it might be the only kiss you get this year!
Well, ok, perhaps things aren’t quite that bad. Maybe something less extreme is called for. Given the heightened sense of boy-girl excitement that hovers, Cupid-like, over February 14th, perhaps this is the night to finally banish those winter blues and finally start the new year with a bang. You arrive in the carefully-selected establishment of your choice and suddenly you see Mr or Miss Right (or, less romantically, Mr or Miss Right Now). It’s February 14th, it’s now or never. Take a deep breath, walk up boldly and – providing you’re not a Pole - impress them with your patchy yet amusing knowledge of Polish. S/he can only say ‘no’, right? But a quick word of warning to the green ex-pat: ‘no’, as well as ‘tak’, can in Polish sometimes mean ‘yes’, depending on the situation and your standard of personal hygiene, neither of which I can actually help you with.
Please note that John Marshall takes no responsibility for relationships either begun or broken as a result of the advice contained in this article. However, he would be quite pleased if you happened to name your first-born son ‘John’.
Copyright John Marshall 2009
John Marshall is a writer and teacher who has had the great fortune to live in Krakow for several years. Krakow’s been good to him and, he hopes, he’s been good to Krakow.
Well, it’s that time of year again: Valentine’s Day. February 14th, the night which lovers celebrate and singletons dread almost as much as New Year’s Eve. Well, maybe ‘dread’ is too strong a word. But you know what I mean. On that most romantic of nights, anyone who dares to appear in public without a significant other bearing a classic Polish long-stemmed rose will be given a suspicious, sideways look by the silent majority, that is to say couples.
Valentine’s Day: not a good time to be single. But you can’t always time these things, can you? Well, you shouldn’t! I have a Polish friend whose love life ebbs and flows not according to the procession of the moon and stars across the heavens but to his rather more mundane state of his bank balance and, were he to be in a relationship, whether he thinks he would receive or have to give more presents. This cynical and arcane science of his includes many calculations regarding Valentine’s Day, his and her forthcoming birthdays, Polish namedays and, of course, Christmas.
Mind you, many relationships break up over Christmas. Perhaps it’s the imminent new year or ruinous credit card bills that focuses hearts and minds. Whatever it is, after the hangovers, wound-licking and self-imposed exile that, for many, constitutes the month of January, by February there is an inordinately large number of people sending and hoping to perhaps receive a Valentine’s card or two.
Probably most Post readers grew up celebrating – or sometimes trying to avoid – Valentine’s Day. For sure, in the West, advertisers and marketers have long cherished the tradition, giving as it does a warm tingly feeling to otherwise grumpy post-Christmas sales figures. However, in its modern form at least, Valentine’s is a relatively recent addition to the Polish year.
Prior to the fall of Communism some twenty years ago, dewy-eyed Poles had nothing more romantic to look forward to on the socialist calendar than Women’s Day: a Communist invention celebrating the unflagging industry and tightly-knotted headscarves of the sturdy Slavic woman. This athletic archetype was usually portrayed, on posters, sleeves rolled up and with folded arms, rosy cheeks fresh from the fields and leaning nonchalantly against an unfeasibly large combine harvester, the size of which would have Lenin spinning with disbelief in his grave (that is, turning his body around very quickly, as opposed to spinning cloth, which had, prior to The Revolution, traditionally been arduous, low-paid work for an unmarried young woman (c.f. spinster), and was therefore an outmoded symbol of the bourgeoisie’s repression of the proloteriat).
In fact, it wasn’t until the fall of Communism in 1989 that Poles really took the Christian martyr Saint Valentine to heart, promoting him within the pantheon of Polish saints. Previously, he had languished, largely unnoticed, as the admired yet not much loved patron saint of epileptics and cholerics. Now, in his new romantic form, his story (whichever of the many versions is true) is celebrated in all the usual ways.
One of the most popular and international signs of affection is, of course, to give the object of your affection flowers, usually red roses. But be careful if the lucky woman is Polish: it is considered bad luck to proffer an even number of flowers in your bouquet. Actually, this presents something of a problem. (Western) tradition suggests twelve red roses for your true love. Well, twelve’s an even number, so that’s out. Thirteen? I don’t think so. So what about eleven? What! Risk the suspicion that you couldn’t help slipping number twelve to some rival for her affection along the way? Be careful, reader, for the road to hell is paved with good intentions.
Along with the flowers must go, of course, The Card. Poles send Valentine’s cards just as other nations do, with younger people exchanging most and also specializing in the unsigned variety. Actually, I’ve always thought it strange that the time when most people send Valentine’s cards is during their teenage years, the years of puberty and raging hormones - precisely the time when parents are doing all they possibly can to make sure that any pubescent urges are not, repeat not, consummated.
For most of us, the later adult experience is – at best - a one-card reality: the expectation from both you and your partner that there will be one, and only one, card waiting on respective (or shared) doormats come the 14th. Any more, and there will be trouble. Laying out a handful of Valentines on the restaurant dinner table and asking for a sample of your girlfriend or wife’s handwriting, ‘just to be sure, kochanie’, is, in most cultures, frowned upon.
And especially in Poland, where the women are, well, Polish. An English-Polish male friend once shared with me the stereotype that Polish women were twice as feminine as those from many other cultures: in looks and in character, traits both positive and negative. Romantic, certainly: you only have to look at the number of long-stemmed roses proudly carried around on any one day by adoring girlfriends. But woe betide any boyfriend or husband who is found romantically-lacking this Valentine’s Day!
But what if you’re lacking more than a nice red nose? A partner, for example? Because, for some reason known only to yourself and half of Facebook, you find yourself single this Valentine’s Day. Available (merely awaiting the opening of your life’s next chapter) yet certainly not desperate (remembering just how life’s rich tapestry can easily tie you up in knots). What to do on the big day / night? Well, you could just treat it as any other day, whether that means crawling around the Rynek Glowny drunkenly on all-fours and crying for your mama (you know who you are) or whether it means finally finishing that matchstick model of the Wawel Castle, before retiring early with the BBC Shipping Forecast and a cup of hot chocolate.
Or you could always take a romantic break in Chelmno, in northern Poland, where a reliquary (allegedly) containing a part of Saint Valentine’s skull has been kept in a parish church for centuries. Apparently, the relic is famed to this day for its miraculous powers. Hopeful parishioners (some, no doubt, looking for a little Valentine’s magic) travel the whole country to kiss its silver container. OK, slapping your lips on a box with a bit of old bone inside in the hope of finding the love of your life is a bit of a long shot, but don’t knock it; it might be the only kiss you get this year!
Well, ok, perhaps things aren’t quite that bad. Maybe something less extreme is called for. Given the heightened sense of boy-girl excitement that hovers, Cupid-like, over February 14th, perhaps this is the night to finally banish those winter blues and finally start the new year with a bang. You arrive in the carefully-selected establishment of your choice and suddenly you see Mr or Miss Right (or, less romantically, Mr or Miss Right Now). It’s February 14th, it’s now or never. Take a deep breath, walk up boldly and – providing you’re not a Pole - impress them with your patchy yet amusing knowledge of Polish. S/he can only say ‘no’, right? But a quick word of warning to the green ex-pat: ‘no’, as well as ‘tak’, can in Polish sometimes mean ‘yes’, depending on the situation and your standard of personal hygiene, neither of which I can actually help you with.
Please note that John Marshall takes no responsibility for relationships either begun or broken as a result of the advice contained in this article. However, he would be quite pleased if you happened to name your first-born son ‘John’.
Poland, parties & police
John Marshall is a writer and teacher who has had the great fortune to live in Krakow for several years. Krakow’s been good to him and, he hopes, he’s been good to Krakow. Anyway, here’s something he wanted to say about parties …
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a new flat in Krakow is in need of a party. Not to throw a housewarming (parapetwka), dinner party, or a simple soiree would be a clear waste of a practically-empty flat (no furnishings or carpets for your guests to spill wine on) as well as an early opportunity for Krakow’s police to become acquainted with both the flat and the contents of your wallet. Because, if you’ve ever thrown a party in Krakow, chances are that, like me, you have at least once had to pay the police 200 zlotys for the privilege.
Now, I don’t actually throw that many parties these days. Indeed, I freely admit that I have reached the age when I don’t seem to understand anybody under the age of about thirty: metaphorically, due to my age, and literally, due perhaps to my still less-than-perfect command of the Polish language. However, this reluctant middle-aged ex-pat still likes to get down with ‘the kids’ and have a good old knees-up every now and then (it’s good for the circulation, or so my doctor tells me). And, with the festive season in full swing, kitchen annexes groan under the weight of vodka, wine and beer, whilst, outside, balconies the length and breadth of Poland play host to clinking glasses and roars of laughter.
Inside the flat the scene is a cheery one. Guests and host alike are happy, relaxed: old friends make new friends, they celebrate and mingle. What could possibly be missing from this idyllic scene? Your neighbours.
Now, maybe you have wonderful neighbours. Good. Like reliable tradesmen, hold onto good neighbours, for they are golddust. The old lady across the hall who insists on carrying your heavy shopping up the stairs; the otherwise feral gang in the stairwell who doff their baseball caps and, with lowered heads, refer to you as ‘Pan’, and the elderly gentleman next door who, tragically for him though mercifully for you, lost his entire sense of hearing in the pierogi storm of ’86.
I envy those Poles who grew up, cheek by jowl, alongside their neighbours, playing in stairwells and courtyards. They may party all night with nary a murmur from outside. For the relative newcomer, a much more typical party experience involves twenty to thirty minutes of hopeless hallway negotiations with Krakow’s police, having been summoned by a nameless, faceless, yet all-powerful neighbour, their alarm permanently set for one minute past ten and anybody who’s having more fun than they are.
It begins with a cold, official-sounding knock on the door, followed by a rush to the stereo and a hushed, respectful welcome (compliant faces and lots of nodding all around). There follows, perhaps, a gentle, yet misguided, attempt at flattery, the arrival in your hallway of one or two of the more radically-minded guests, last heard praising the Baddher-Meinhoff movie (‘Leave it to me, John, you’ve just got to know how to handle these people’), you asking said guests to stop shouting at the police and shutting them back in the sitting-room, groveling apologies on your part and, lastly, your parting with 200 zlotys for the heinous crime of having played music at three and a half at 10:30 on a Friday night.
Now, lest you think I’m merely a rotten apple with a case of sour grapes mixing up my metaphors, allow me to elucidate. Yes, it is true that I have, in the past, hosted parties of such debauchery and shame that – had the police turned up at any time over the course of those twelve hours - I would gladly have driven myself to the cells, personally, were there not a law in Poland against drink-driving in a stolen police car. But then I have also politely sipped wine from crystal glasses, sat around low glass coffee tables, urbanely discussing politics and Ikea’s latest share price, with John Coltrane murmuring gently in the background, only for our hostess to fall victim to the ire of the unhappy neighbour and the police’s seemingly insatiable desire to cover every square inch of Poland with tickets, fines and receipts.
A friend of mine, recently moved from Warsaw to Krakow, says Krakow parties see much more of the police than in the great metropolis. Are Krakowians, therefore, more intolerant of others’ fun? Are they more sensitive to discopolo than the average music-lover? Or are the neighbours simply angry at not having been invited (even when they have: tip number one)? Whatever it is, houseparties in Krakow can be an expensive affair. So, as you carefully plan the last of those festive bashes, here are a few tips to avoid an expensive New Year financial hangover.
Firstly, and most importantly, invite the neighbours, or at least all those you suspect of having 999 on speeddial. Of course they won’t come but, having been invited, they’d likely feel guilty about calling the police. Second tip: no matter how wise it seems at the time, it is never a good idea to turn the music up after midnight. To avoid those unwanted visits, you must remain king or queen of your own volume control! Thirdly, try to keep to a maximum of eight people per square meter of balcony, especially where grills are concerned. (You know how easily sound – and flames – travel). And fourthly, if all else fails, arrange for one of your better-looking guests to flirt outrageously with any member of the law not sporting a wedding ring. It worked at the party with the grill: the police left without writing a single ticket and I have it on good authority that one of the policemen returned at six o-clock the next morning, off-duty and freshly-shaven, bottle in hand, looking for the party and the girl. Unfortunately for him, both the party and the girl had long gone. Now that’s what I call justice!
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a new flat in Krakow is in need of a party. Not to throw a housewarming (parapetwka), dinner party, or a simple soiree would be a clear waste of a practically-empty flat (no furnishings or carpets for your guests to spill wine on) as well as an early opportunity for Krakow’s police to become acquainted with both the flat and the contents of your wallet. Because, if you’ve ever thrown a party in Krakow, chances are that, like me, you have at least once had to pay the police 200 zlotys for the privilege.
Now, I don’t actually throw that many parties these days. Indeed, I freely admit that I have reached the age when I don’t seem to understand anybody under the age of about thirty: metaphorically, due to my age, and literally, due perhaps to my still less-than-perfect command of the Polish language. However, this reluctant middle-aged ex-pat still likes to get down with ‘the kids’ and have a good old knees-up every now and then (it’s good for the circulation, or so my doctor tells me). And, with the festive season in full swing, kitchen annexes groan under the weight of vodka, wine and beer, whilst, outside, balconies the length and breadth of Poland play host to clinking glasses and roars of laughter.
Inside the flat the scene is a cheery one. Guests and host alike are happy, relaxed: old friends make new friends, they celebrate and mingle. What could possibly be missing from this idyllic scene? Your neighbours.
Now, maybe you have wonderful neighbours. Good. Like reliable tradesmen, hold onto good neighbours, for they are golddust. The old lady across the hall who insists on carrying your heavy shopping up the stairs; the otherwise feral gang in the stairwell who doff their baseball caps and, with lowered heads, refer to you as ‘Pan’, and the elderly gentleman next door who, tragically for him though mercifully for you, lost his entire sense of hearing in the pierogi storm of ’86.
I envy those Poles who grew up, cheek by jowl, alongside their neighbours, playing in stairwells and courtyards. They may party all night with nary a murmur from outside. For the relative newcomer, a much more typical party experience involves twenty to thirty minutes of hopeless hallway negotiations with Krakow’s police, having been summoned by a nameless, faceless, yet all-powerful neighbour, their alarm permanently set for one minute past ten and anybody who’s having more fun than they are.
It begins with a cold, official-sounding knock on the door, followed by a rush to the stereo and a hushed, respectful welcome (compliant faces and lots of nodding all around). There follows, perhaps, a gentle, yet misguided, attempt at flattery, the arrival in your hallway of one or two of the more radically-minded guests, last heard praising the Baddher-Meinhoff movie (‘Leave it to me, John, you’ve just got to know how to handle these people’), you asking said guests to stop shouting at the police and shutting them back in the sitting-room, groveling apologies on your part and, lastly, your parting with 200 zlotys for the heinous crime of having played music at three and a half at 10:30 on a Friday night.
Now, lest you think I’m merely a rotten apple with a case of sour grapes mixing up my metaphors, allow me to elucidate. Yes, it is true that I have, in the past, hosted parties of such debauchery and shame that – had the police turned up at any time over the course of those twelve hours - I would gladly have driven myself to the cells, personally, were there not a law in Poland against drink-driving in a stolen police car. But then I have also politely sipped wine from crystal glasses, sat around low glass coffee tables, urbanely discussing politics and Ikea’s latest share price, with John Coltrane murmuring gently in the background, only for our hostess to fall victim to the ire of the unhappy neighbour and the police’s seemingly insatiable desire to cover every square inch of Poland with tickets, fines and receipts.
A friend of mine, recently moved from Warsaw to Krakow, says Krakow parties see much more of the police than in the great metropolis. Are Krakowians, therefore, more intolerant of others’ fun? Are they more sensitive to discopolo than the average music-lover? Or are the neighbours simply angry at not having been invited (even when they have: tip number one)? Whatever it is, houseparties in Krakow can be an expensive affair. So, as you carefully plan the last of those festive bashes, here are a few tips to avoid an expensive New Year financial hangover.
Firstly, and most importantly, invite the neighbours, or at least all those you suspect of having 999 on speeddial. Of course they won’t come but, having been invited, they’d likely feel guilty about calling the police. Second tip: no matter how wise it seems at the time, it is never a good idea to turn the music up after midnight. To avoid those unwanted visits, you must remain king or queen of your own volume control! Thirdly, try to keep to a maximum of eight people per square meter of balcony, especially where grills are concerned. (You know how easily sound – and flames – travel). And fourthly, if all else fails, arrange for one of your better-looking guests to flirt outrageously with any member of the law not sporting a wedding ring. It worked at the party with the grill: the police left without writing a single ticket and I have it on good authority that one of the policemen returned at six o-clock the next morning, off-duty and freshly-shaven, bottle in hand, looking for the party and the girl. Unfortunately for him, both the party and the girl had long gone. Now that’s what I call justice!
The Trouble With Jack (A Devilish Short Story)
THE TROUBLE WITH JACK: A DEVILISH SHORT STORY
Copyright John Marshall 2008
Part One
“5, 4, 3, 2, 1, Happy New Year!” In the cold winter sky, all over the city, countless fireworks illuminated the darkness. In that great metropolis, people were joyful, laughing and singing. Relationships were being made, some permanent and some not so. It was a time of happiness and of relaxation: for most, but not for all. In the center of it all, in the rooftop garden of a penthouse apartment, a figure leant casually against the wall, pondering. He lit his first cigar of the year and breathed in, contentedly, the sulphur which rained down all around him. Nathaniel, as he was known, loved the new year. It was always a very … enriching … time for him. In the street far below the apartment, a stray dog barked. Nathaniel tipped his head back and laughed at the dumb animal. In so doing, he accidentally swallowed his cigar. He choked and curls of smoke began to drift slowly from his ears. Pausing only to curse the dog, he searched the pockets of his dinner jacket for another Havana.
The french door behind him swung open violently and the balcony was flooded with the soft colours of party lights and the sound of drunken people intent on getting drunker. Nathaniel made a small hissing sound and instinctively backed away from the light, sitting quietly on a carved metal chair in the shadows. At that moment, a smartly-dressed young man rushed onto the balcony, tripped on Nathaniel’s extended left leg and careered towards the railings of the tenth-storey flat, from where he proceeded to relieve his body of an unholy mixture of alcohols and expensive party snacks, carefully selected, prepared and presented on little wooden sticks not three hours earlier by the host’s beautiful yet neurotic wife. Somewhere in the street below, a slightly soiled and surprised dog had finally stopped barking and began to slope off home, a little sadder and a little wiser.
“Feel better now?”, called a voice from behind. With difficulty, the young man slowly lifted his head, and, fighting both sickness and vertigo, turned to the voice. In the shadows, a cigarette lighter flared up, dazzling him. He stumbled forward, caught the back of a chair and found a face, hovering, it seemed, in the darkness. “You look a little pale”, said the face. “If you don’t mind me saying. Won’t you sit for a moment – with me?” Nathaniel pushed forward a seat with his foot. At the same time, he shot a gaze at the open french door, which slammed instantly shut. He allowed himself a brief devilish smile before rearranging his features into what people seemed to think a ‘friendly’ look. It wasn’t easy and it took a moment of his time.
The young man smiled a stupid, drunken smile. Nathaniel smiled back and, doing so, coughed politely, and nodded faintly in the direction of the young man’s trousers. The owner of the trousers looked down and, embarrassed, scrabbled about to do up his trouser zip.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure nobody noticed … Mr …?” There was something about the older man which made the young man suddenly very wary. Was it something in the eyes, a little too dark; the man’s general demeanour, at once controlled yet nervous; or was it the fact that he had just smoked a whole cigar in five puffs and was on his way to lighting another?
Whatever it was, the young man decided to ignore it. He was on his best behaviour tonight. He was keen to impress himself upon his girlfriend’s parents, the hosts of the New Year’s Eve party, so he was determined to be sociable - no matter how strange the company. Besides, he needed to sober up. He took a deep breath of the cold January night air.
“Jack Ashton”, he smiled, offering his hand to the man. Nathaniel merely stared back at him, his eyes flickering red in the light of the fireworks overhead. A moment later, he offered his hand.
“Nathaniel Hopkinson. My mother’s little joke. You smoke, don’t you, Jack?” The question was more of a confirmation than a question.
“Yes. I mean, no. It’s my New Year’s Resolution. I told Jenny …”
“Oh, come on, Jack. One little cigar? I won’t tell if you won’t.” From nowhere, it seemed, Nathaniel was holding out a cigar before Jack’s hungry eyes. “Tempted, Jack?”
For a moment - just a moment - Jack hesitated. But then his body – his whole lower nature - betrayed him. His index finger twitched and a moment later, he was sat back in the chair, smoking contentedly. He coughed. “It’s my first”, he explained. “First of the year.”
Nathaniel nodded his head slowly, his eyes softly closed.
Jack felt comforted by this small shared secret between the two men. He shook his head violently, and sniffed, like a wet dog, trying to move the alcohol lower down his body. He looked up at his new confidante. “So who do you know. Nathaniel, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, everybody. Nobody. You know how it is at these things.”
“Keeping a low profile, huh?”
“I don’t do families. Like you, hey, Jack?”
“It depends.”
“On?”
“The family. You know Mister Tyler? The guy throwing this bash?”
“We’ve done some business together”, said Nathaniel, knocking back a glass of champagne. “A long time ago. Just before he met his wife, if memory serves.”
“Whoa. That must be about twentyf –“
“You in business, Jack?”, said Nathaniel.
“Me? Hell, no! I hate business! Wouldn’t know where to start!”
“Then you must be family.”
“Me - with all this?” Jack cast a quick look around. “No. ’Like to be”, he said.
“Pardon me?”
“I’m Jenny’s boyfriend. Sorry, ‘partner’. Mister Tyler’s daughter. Jenny.”
“Yes, I know her. Very pretty young woman. You’ve done well for yourself, Jack. I congratulate you.”
“Thanks. Listen, I don’t want to be rude, but who did you say you were again?”
“Just an old friend of the family. That’s all.”
“Right”, said Jack. He looked closely at Nathaniel, wondering. “’Bet you’re wondering what I’m doing here, right? Guy like me in a fancy place like this?”
“Not at all”, Nathaniel replied. He held out a fresh handkerchief. “You’ve got caviar - on your chin.” Jack took the handkerchief, mopped up the caviar from his chin and put it in his mouth. Nathaniel smiled politely and poured two glasses of champagne.
“Thanks”, said Jack, taking the glass. “I’m Jenny’s bit of rough, you see.”
In all his many, many years dealing with the human race, Nathaniel had never heard that particular phrase before. “Excuse me?”, he asked.
“Wrong side of the tracks”, said Jack. “She’ll get bored soon enough. Nice girl, though. I shall miss her.”
‘Really?’, thought Nathaniel, ‘The girl or the money?’
“You know what I mean, Nat?” Nathaniel raised a very bushy eyebrow at this last remark. He’d never been called Nat before. He searched for an appropriate response, something sympathetic.
“Women”, he said, shrugging his shoulders. “Can’t live ‘em, can’t live with – “
“Be different if I had money, Nat. Like this.” Jack waved his arm, unsteadily, across the full-length of the balcony, taking in the swimming pool, the fountain and a thousand city lights below. “Even this suit’s borrowed! She’ll never marry me without some serious money and that’s the end of it!”
Nathaniel’s unnaturally-pointed ears twitched at this last remark. Unlike Jack, he was a businessman and this sounded rather like a business opportunity. He didn’t waste a second.
“What if you could have both?” he asked the young man, leaning forward. There was a glint in his eye.
“What?”
“What if you could get the girl and the money - together?”
Jack leaned back in his chair and put his glass down clumsily on the table. “Now that would be the ideal scenario, my friend”, he said. “But this is reality, right? And you ain’t no Father Christmas, Nat!”
Nathaniel smiled, leaned back and refilled their glasses. Jack had a great capacity for alcohol, especially the free and expensive sort. With a speed most unbecoming to the quality of the crystal and the champagne, he took the glass, tipped back his head, shut his eyes and drained the glass in one loud gulp. As he set the glass back down on the table, something caught his eye. A square, dark piece of card. “A business card? Don’t you guys ever rest? It’s New Years’ Eve, Nat!”
“Pick it up, Jack. Take a look”.
Jack picked up the card. “This you? Nathaniel Z. Hopkinson? What’s the ‘Z’ for?”
“Zachary. It’s from the Bible. Old Testament. Check the other side.”
Jack turned the card over. It was black, completely black.
“There’s nothing there”.
“Look again”, Nathaniel said. Jack held the card closer as a firework exploded noisily above. A thousand points of fiery red light lit up the sky as, on the card, tiny red letters appeared in a flowing script:
“Demon, 2nd class: For all your nefarious needs, short or
long-term, individual or group rates. No time-wasters.
(Card not transferable for cash or part-relief from pergatory).
As the letters glowed, the card grew hot between Jack’s fingers.
“Cute”, he said, dropping the card. “Where d’you get it? A fancy Christmas cracker?”
Nathaniel smiled politely, as to a child. Jack looked back at him, trying to figure out if he was mad, dangerous or both. However, whilst he had told Nathaniel the truth that he was no businessman, he was streetwise and smart enough never to let an opportunity, however strange, pass him by. This stranger had, as Jenny would no doubt say, piqued his interest. So, when another guest then tried to open the french door, Jack quickly jammed his foot against it. “Does this help at all?”, asked Nathaniel, fetching a key from his pocket. Jack quickly locked the door.
“Skeleton key, huh?”, said Jack. “Not sure what old Tyler would think of that.”
“Like I said, we go back a long way”, said Nathaniel. He stared at Jack, who was sobering up quickly. He felt a little nervous and looked again at the card laying on the table, whose letters still glowed faintly.
Jack decided to humour the man. “So you’re a demon, Nathaniel?” Nathaniel tipped his head a little, by way of introduction. “But only 2nd class, huh?”, continued Jack sarcastically. “Don’t I deserve a 1st class demon, then?” As the last words fell out of his mouth, Jack knew it was a mistake. Nathaniel slapped a heavy hand upon the thick metal table. He leaned forward and fixed his gaze upon the young man in the borrowed suit as the red-hot metal beneath his fingers smoked and cracked.
“If, Mister Ashton, I was a 1st class demon, you would be dead by now”. He spoke calmly, but through sharp, gritted teeth. His gaze felt like cold steel and, for a moment, Jack’s blood turned to ice. But, a moment later, the storm seemed to pass, the gaze softened and the older man leaned back in his chair, smiling. “Think of this as your lucky night, Jack”. He placed his hand on Jack’s. It was as cold as ice.
“What do you want?” he asked, the sarcasm all gone from his voice.
“I want to help you, Jack. With your situation.”
“Oh, my situation!” said Jack. “And who says I need any help?”
“’Course you do, Jack, it’s as plain as that chip on your shoulder. Besides, I’ve got to be a very good judge of human character over the years. I like you. You see, there’s something not quite right about you, Jack. Dishonest, even. And I respect you for it.”
“Do you? Well, I’m Sorry that I can’t return the compliment, Nat”, said Jack. “In fact, I think if you’ll excuse me, I should go back to the party with the real people.” Jack stood up and walked towards the french door. “Demon”, he muttered contemptuously, shaking his head. He reached out to the door handle. Someone tried the door from the other side. As they touched the handle, they let out a sharp cry of pain. Through the glass, Jack could see the handle glowing red-hot. He looked back at Nathaniel.
“I should leave it to cool for a minute, if I were you”, said Nathaniel. Jack looked at him. Nathaniel was used to the good life, that was clear enough: he was out of condition and at least twenty years older than Jack. But Jack had had too much champagne and, after all, that trick with the door-handle, and those eyes ... He sat down again.
“How long do you want her for, Jack?”
“What?”
“Your beautiful girlfriend, Jack – and her money. How long do you want them for?”
A chill ran through Jack’s body and his throat felt suddenly dry. With difficulty, he forced himself to say the word, “Forever?”
“Sorry, we don’t do ‘forever’. Like the card says, ‘Short or long-term’ only.”
Jack took a drink and then a deep breath. “If this is what I think it is, and you are a real demon – which I’m still not convinced about, even though that was a clever trick with the door - then we’re talking about my soul, right? You give me the girl and the money and you get my soul when I die. Forever. Am I right?”
Nathaniel hit his bony knuckles against his forehead. “No!”, he shouted, his leathery flesh sizzling. “Why does everybody think that?” All that eternal damnation crap! That’s just the church trying to scare you. They don’t like the competition. Look, Jack, nothing’s eternal, nothing. Except possibly … him”, he said, his voice and his anger dropping, looking up through stiff bushy eyebrows to the heavens above.
“You’re afraid of God?”, Jack asked, doubtfully.
“You haven’t seen him! You think I’m scary? He makes me look like the tooth fairy! You got a cigarette?”
“Why? No more cigars? What about your magic pockets?”
“Too many keys, too few cigars. Technical stuff.” Jack reached across and gave him an unlit cigarette. Nathaniel put it in his mouth and sucked, fire appearing immediately at the tip.
“I bet you’re great at parties”, said Jack.
But Nathaniel wasn’t listening. Instead, he was gazing up at the clear night sky. It was brilliant with thousands of glittering stars. He breathed out a long trail of cigarette smoke, tracing perfectly the long, lazy arc of the Milky Way. He snorted, turned away from the wonder of infinity and spat horribly into a nearby plant pot. “Like I said, Jack, we’re not interested in keeping souls for all eternity. We just don’t have the space any more. No, you should think of it more as a lease arrangement - like renting a house or a car. Just tell me what you want, how long you want it for and we agree the terms.”
“No catch?”
“Nothing.”
“No penalty clauses? First-born child, that sort of thing?”
“That’s him, Jack, not us. It was a good one, though, first-born child, I’ll give him that. Beat the hell out of the locusts! Whatever happened to God, hey, Jack? He was a lot more fun in the old days.” Nathaniel chuckled quietly to himself. “Ah well, we all get old, I suppose.”
“The contract?”, asked Jack.
“Oh, yes. The contract. Actually, there is one thing. It’s not a catch, exactly, but, er, if you exceed the terms of the rental we are fully entitled to call into effect Clause 66.”
“Clause 66?”
“Yes, that’s the bit everybody always thinks about. You know, keeping your soul in everlasting torment and all that. But, like I say, Jack, that’s only in very extreme circumstances. We always prefer to work out some kind of deal first. Now how about it? Are we gonna do some business here tonight or what?”
“Are you for real, Nat? I mean, you look the part an’ all. Not that I ever met a real-live demon before, but …”
“So I’m a champagne hallucination! OK. But what if I’m not? Then I make sure that the beautiful Jenny falls – what is it you people say? – ah, yes, head over heels in love with you, you marry into more wealth than you ever dreamed of and you live happily ever after. And, in return, once you die, you spend one day with us –“
“In hell.”
“Please, Jack! That is where I live! I do wish people wouldn’t call it that. Makes it sound so negative. Spend one day with us for every day you spent with the girl. No more, no less. Then you’re free to go. Now how’s that for a deal?”
“Sounds fair enough. But what if I wake up one day and I don’t love her any more? What if she doesn’t love me?”
“Oh, she’ll always be in love with you, Jack. Don’t worry about that. But you’ll always have your free will. And if you want to end the contract at any time, just call me and tell me you wish to cease our business relationship there and then. ‘Number’s on the card.” He nodded towards Jack’s breast pocket from which, somehow, was protruding the demon’s business card. Jack’s eyes flicked towards it and back again to the smooth-talking, champagne and cigar-loving demon in front of him.
“And once the deal’s up, I get to go to Heaven, right?”
“You can go to the tenth dimension for all I care, Jack!”
Jack sat for a moment, thinking. It certainly seemed a good offer, even too good to be true. He stood up and looked through the french doors. Across the dancefloor, he could see Jenny. She was surrounded by several good-looking men, no doubt all very eligible and all very rich. He wanted what they had, what he had never had a chance to get. “Yes”, he said, almost under his breath. And then louder: “Do it! The girl and the money! I want it now, Nathaniel! Do it now!”
Nathaniel was standing right behind him. He smiled a devilish smile and cleared his throat as if about to make a speech. “An excellent decision, Jack. Jack, my boy, let me be the first to congratulate you! As of this moment, you now have a very beautiful and, if I may say, obscenely wealthy wife! Behold!” Slowly, the french door swung open. Jenny turned around and, across the room, saw Jack, smiled at him, and looked at the glittering diamond wedding ring on her finger. She blew a long and sexy kiss to her new husband. Jack straightened his tie, took a quick look at the wedding ring which had magically appeared on his finger and then walked out of the cold dark night and into the warmth and light of his new life to claim his new bride.
Part Two
“I hate you, Jack! You are the most boring, money-obsessed little man that I ever met in my life! God knows what I ever saw in you!”
“Well, there must have been something, darling, or you wouldn’t have married me!”
“Marrying you was the biggest mistake of my life! You know, Jack, I look back two years ago and I don’t understand myself. I really don’t! It must have been the drugs! That’s the only way I can explain it!”
“No, darling. You didn’t start the drugs until after we married. The Kenyan safari, remember? When that Masai warrior offered me half his ancestral homeland to sleep with you.”
“When you agreed, you mean!”
“Jenny, we’ve been through all this. That land is rich in minerals. I tell you, it’s one of the best deals we ever made!”
“You never used to care about money, Jack! Not like all the others! That was the thing I liked about you! I must have been brainwashed. Or hypnotism. I’d never have married you if I’d known what kind of mean little man - !”
“Jenny, I do wish you’d calm down! I know, why don’t we sit down and pray? You know, the family that prays together, stays together!”
“Don’t you ‘pray’ me, Jack! Do you think I’d have even looked at you if I’d known you were going to turn into a Jesus freak!”
“Well, the Lord moves in mysterious ways.”
“Yeah, as fast as this?”
Incensed, Jenny looked around for the nearest thing to throw at her husband, and found an antique vase, given to Jack, now a very successful businessman, by the Sultan Of Brunei.
“Jenny, put that down! That’s worth at least fifty thousand pounds!”
“Was, you mean!”
Jenny, tall and supple, used to play beach volleyball before she married Jack. With perfect poise, she calculated distance, angle and trajectory and then threw the vase with all her might straight at her husband’s head. He, however, had become an expert in dodging priceless antiques and the vase whistled an inch past his head, smashing against the full-length Louis XIV gold-framed mirror behind.
“You know, if this carries on, Jenny, the insurance company is bound to increase our premium again!”
This last remark was too much for Jenny. She stood up straight, put her shoulders back and took a deep breath. She was about to scream and Jack knew it. Before their marriage, she had been an excellent swimmer. She had a fine figure and excellent lung capacity. Jack knew what was coming. He put his fingers in his ears and closed his eyes as his wife opened her mouth wide and let out a great cry, somewhere between a scream and a wail. In the extensive gardens around the villa, several heavily coiffured pedigree dogs began to bark.
“I’m going out!”, she cried, storming across the room.
“Good!”, said Jack. “See how your boyfriend likes you in this mood!”
“It would serve you right if I was having an affair!”, she replied, flinging open the carved wooden doors before her. “At least I’d get some fun!”
Jack sighed and walked slowly over to the bookcase. Whilst not a particularly well-read man, he had one of the largest collections of bibles in any private collection. He had, after all, made a deal with a demon two years ago to spend time in hell in exchange for worldly wealth and a trophy wife. However, with his streetwise logic, Jack had figured that becoming a born-again Christian might just swing things in his favour come the day of reckoning. And so that’s why he found himself, not two months before, pledging one hundred thousand dollars and – not for the first time – his eternal soul, in the Los Angeles Pearly Gates Church Of The Really Rich And Famous. In the meantime, being a Christian had the added benefit of annoying the hell out of his beautiful, yet very neurotic, wife. He picked up a bible and opened it at random. Jesus was telling the guys that story about the prodigal son. Whilst not a true believer, Jack was up on all the stories, rules and creeds. He had an idea. A moment later, he was dialling his father-in-law’s Malibu beachhouse.
‘Hello?’
‘Harry’, said Jack. ‘It’s Jack’.
‘Not so loud!’, said Harry. ‘I’ve got you on speakerphone.’
‘Oh’, said Jack. And then, ‘Why, Harry?’
‘Sarah threw a rock at me yesterday. Caught me right on the ear. Blown up like a cabbage, it has.’
There was a pause. ‘Your wife threw a rock at you, Harry?’ said Jack.
‘Yeah, but it’s not really her fault, Jack. I’d hidden all her guns, you see. I wasn’t getting any sleep. Anyway, what can I do for you, buddy?’
‘Well, I was wondering if maybe perhaps Jenny could stay with you two for a while - just a little while. You know, things are a bit tight between us. I thought that if she spent some time with you, then maybe she’d relax a little and –‘
‘Oh, no you don’t! I mean, I’m sorry, Jack. I understand your situation. Of course I do. But you’ve only had two years of it. I’ve had to live with her mother for over twenty-seven and a half years now. Do you know, since I got married, I’ve lost four inches in height, Jack?’
‘Four inches?!’
‘And shoes! I can’t get anything to fit these days!’
‘Right’. The conversation was not going in exactly the direction Jack had envisaged.
‘Look, Jack, I’m sorry, boy, but it’s not just me. Believe it or not, Sarah’s been a lot better since Jenny left home. If she was to come back to us … no, no, it’s just too awful to contemplate.’ Harry gently pressed the bandage around his head. It was still very sore. ‘Listen’, he said, his voice dropping to a whisper: ‘Why don’t you get yourself a couple of girlfriends, Jack? You know, ease the pressure. That’s what I do!’
‘You do?’
‘Sure! If I had to spend every night with Sarah, I’d be as crazy as she is!’
‘I wish I could, Harry. But adultery is a sin!’
‘Yeah? Well so’s murder, Jack. And I gotta tell you: sometimes, when my little cherry-pie starts screaming and throwing things, like they do, well I just feel like doing something – Jack, I gotta go. Sarah’s just walked in. I’ll send you this month’s money. Bye’. He hung up.
Jack didn’t really mind the idea of adultery, or divorcing his wife for that matter, but all his bibles suggested that God, rather selfishly, objected to both. Unfortunately, so did Jenny, who, in a very smart move by her parents, stood to lose her inheritance should she ever file divorce papers. It now seemed to Jack that by making deals both with God and the devil, he had painted himself into a corner. If he spent another two years married to Jenny, he too would be covered in bandages and whispering on his own answerphone, like Harry. Try as he might, there was no other way out. ‘Though he hated to lose all the riches his pact with the demon had given him, sooner or later he would have to call Nathaniel and cancel their arrangement. Preferably sooner, while he still had his sanity. He flicked open a secret drawer in the Chippendale writing desk and, for the first time in two years, held a small black business card in his hand.
“Nathaniel Z. Hopkinson.
Demon, 2nd class: For all your nefarious needs, short or
long-term, individual or group rates. No time-wasters.
(Card not transferable for cash or part-relief from pergatory).
There was a phone number underneath. With a heavy heart, Jack took a long last look around him. Priceless antiques, statues, eight sports cars in the garage. All this was about to go. But then so was his crazy wife. He took a deep breath and dialled the demon.
‘Hello? said the demon.
‘Nathaniel?’, asked Jack. ‘Is that you?’
‘Last time I looked. It’s been a while! What can I, er, do for you?’ He sounded a little nervous somehow – nervous or distracted.
‘Who’s that, Nat?’, said a woman’s voice.
‘No-one, honey. Just business. You carry on.’
‘OK baby’.
‘Sorry, Jack, er, I’m a little busy right now, if you know what I mean. Can I call you back in an hour – or two?’
‘No, don’t do that! I might change my mind.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I want to cancel our arrangement, Nathaniel. I don’t want the money. I don’t want to be married to Jenny any more.’
‘You don’t? But she’s one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever, I mean, you’ve ever seen. Are you crazy?’
‘No, I’m not, but she is.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that’, said Nathaniel. ‘A little feisty perhaps, but once you get on top, she’s not so – ‘
‘Look, Nathaniel, you’re not married to her. Now, I’ve thought it all out. I can’t divorce her and I don’t want a mistress – ‘
‘Why not?’, asked Nathaniel.
‘Jenny hates the idea of infidelity’, said Jack. ‘It would kill her, I know it would.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that’, said the demon. And then, to his companion, ‘A little bit lower. Watch the gearstick. That’s it.’
‘Nathaniel, I want you to kill Jenny. I mean, I appreciate we’d have to work out some kind of contract. An extra clause. I spend a few extra months in hell perhaps – ‘
‘Sorry, friend. No can do. I’m not killing anyone.’
‘Why not? You’re a demon, aren’t you? And I bet you could get up to 1st class with a few murders, right?’
‘Why should I? I got your soul when we made the contract.’
‘Yes, but only part-time. One day in hell for each day of the contract, right?’
‘Oh, come now, Jack! You didn’t really take the word of a demon, did you? I own your soul, Jack. Eternal damnation. Just like the church says.’
‘Forever! You evil, lying - ’
‘My advice, Jack? Enjoy yourself while you can, and stop trying to get your wife killed. You know, women can be touchy about that kind of thing, can’t they, honey?’ A woman laughed in the background, before being drowned out by the sound of a dog barking.
‘Nathaniel!’, called Jack. ‘Nathaniel!’ But the line was dead. The demon had returned his attention back to his ladyfriend.
Jack stared out of the French doors, his eyes taking in the tennis court, croquet lawn, nine-hole golf course. So he was going to burn in hell, forever, for this, for his crazy wife. Even the nine sports cars in the garage. What use were they now? He looked over at the garage. Strange, the doors were open and Jenny’s awful yapping little dog was jumping around excitedly by the doors. Was he being burgled? He went to the writing desk and picked up his gun. In a few moments, he was out of the house and standing by the open garage door. As he looked inside, it seemed to Jack that there was someone inside one of the cars, the Maserati MC12. Whoever it was must have flicked one of the switches accidentally, because at that moment the roof on the convertible folded back. And, to Jack’s amazement, the head of one Nathaniel Zachary Hopkinson, demon 2nd class, popped up over the top.
‘Ah, Jack’, he said. ‘Long time, no see.’
‘Jack?’ said a woman’s voice. ‘Is that you, Jack?’
‘Yes, Jenny. It’s me.’
‘Ah’, said Jenny. She slowly, sheepishly, raised her head above the roofline. Her fingers were frantically trying to do up buttons on her dress. ‘This isn’t what it looks like, honey.’
‘Do you know who this is, Jenny?’, he asked his wife, gesturing to Nathaniel. ‘Or, rather, what he is?’ He took a step forward. Both Jenny and Nathaniel saw the gun in his right hand.
‘Look, Jack’, said Nathaniel, ‘I’m sure you’re feeling all kinds of things right now–‘
‘He’s a demon’, interrupted Jack. ‘A servant of hell. Aren’t you, Nathaniel? Go on, tell her.’
‘Well, yes, it’s true. I am. 2nd class’, said Nathaniel, also doing up the buttons of his shirt. Whilst immortal and thus immune to bullets, Nathaniel was feeling a little embarrassed at having being caught in such a compromising situation, especially with a client’s wife. Jack opened the driver door and Nathaniel fell out onto the floor, trousers flailing around his ankles.
‘Get up, Nathaniel.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m going to shoot you. You lied to me about the contract and now I find you having sex with my wife in my favourite sports car. You don’t just take a Maserati to the dry cleaners, Nat.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry, Jack. Sorry. Most unprofessional’, said Nathaniel, staggering to his feet.
‘According to you, I’m going to spend eternity in hell, anyway, so I might as well kill you.’
‘Shoot Nathaniel and I’ll shoot you, Jack!’, said Jenny, peering out from behind Nathaniel. She was holding a gun, which she had hastily found in the glove compartment. Jack wished he hadn’t been so security-conscious.
‘What?’, he exclaimed. ‘I’m your husband, Jenny. This … thing … ‘s a demon!’
‘You’re telling me!’, she said, a broad grin on her face. ‘Besides, he’s promised to make me the richest woman in the world! Even you can’t offer me that, Jack!’
‘What you doing, Nathaniel? First Jenny’s father, then me, now Jenny. Who’s gonna be next? Little Flossy here?’ Jack turned his head and gestured to the cocker spaniel, who was yapping widely with all the excitement. This was Nathaniel’s chance: he ran at Jack and launched himself at him. But Jack caught a glimpse of this flying demon in the wing mirror of a 1958 Pontiac Firebird. He span around and fired his gun. This was followed by a second shot, but not from Jack’s, from Jenny’s. Jack’s bullet passed clean through the undead body of the demon and into his wife. Jenny’s bullet, equally, struck her husband right in the heart. They were both dead.
Nathaniel staggered to his feet. He was not hurt, except perhaps for his pride, and that only a little. He decided such a scene would be hard even for a demon to explain to the police. So he took the keys for the Maserati off the shelf, dumped Jenny’s body on the garage floor and drove into the night.
And that is where you might think the story ends. And I would agree with you, were it not for something strange I saw not long after that. I was drinking coffee in a diner one Saturday afternoon, waiting for the parade. I was a journalist on the county paper. Anyway, I noticed there was a funny-looking group at the table in the corner. They were very animated, all talking at once. I put on my glasses to see better. There was an old guy, a youngish fellah and a woman – a beautiful woman, at that. They were all desperately trying to get the attention of a young guy and his girlfriend in the next booth. I suppose they must have upset them, because, a moment later, the young couple left in a hurry, leaving their fries and coffees untouched behind them.
I called the waitress over. ‘Hey, Dorothy. Do you know those three?’
‘Sure, Ben’, she said. ‘Been coming in here for a couple of weeks now.’
‘Out-of-towners?’ I asked.
‘Crazies, more like’, said Dorothy, shaking her head. ’Get this. See the old one? Well, he thinks he’s a demon.’
‘A demon?’
‘Yeah. 3rd class, though. Demoted from 2nd, apparently, by the devil himself!’
‘The devil himself!’
‘That’s right!’
‘And the other two?’ I asked.
‘Well, it’s kinda complicated but, as far as I can tell, they were married once. But now he’s an angel sent by God as a punishment to keep an eye on the demon for some reason, and she’s a ghost.’
‘A ghost?’
‘As God’s my witness. She’s pissed at both of them, apparently, so she’s decided to haunt them both.’ Dorothy pursed her lips and looked at me with a ‘now-what-do-you-think-of-that’ expression on her face.
‘Surely you don’t believe that, do you?’ I asked.
Dorothy coughed and looked down at the ground. They trio passed between us: the second-rate demon, the reluctant angel and the angry ghost, squabbling and fighting like three cats in a bag. Just before they got to the door, the wind must have caught it and it whipped open, just like it’d been told to.
I watched them leave and then jumped up out of my seat. I decided that, whatever these guys were, there was a story there somewhere. And that’s how I got to be the best and most famous journalist in the world. But I suppose that’s a whole other story, isn’t it!
Copyright John Marshall 2008
Part One
“5, 4, 3, 2, 1, Happy New Year!” In the cold winter sky, all over the city, countless fireworks illuminated the darkness. In that great metropolis, people were joyful, laughing and singing. Relationships were being made, some permanent and some not so. It was a time of happiness and of relaxation: for most, but not for all. In the center of it all, in the rooftop garden of a penthouse apartment, a figure leant casually against the wall, pondering. He lit his first cigar of the year and breathed in, contentedly, the sulphur which rained down all around him. Nathaniel, as he was known, loved the new year. It was always a very … enriching … time for him. In the street far below the apartment, a stray dog barked. Nathaniel tipped his head back and laughed at the dumb animal. In so doing, he accidentally swallowed his cigar. He choked and curls of smoke began to drift slowly from his ears. Pausing only to curse the dog, he searched the pockets of his dinner jacket for another Havana.
The french door behind him swung open violently and the balcony was flooded with the soft colours of party lights and the sound of drunken people intent on getting drunker. Nathaniel made a small hissing sound and instinctively backed away from the light, sitting quietly on a carved metal chair in the shadows. At that moment, a smartly-dressed young man rushed onto the balcony, tripped on Nathaniel’s extended left leg and careered towards the railings of the tenth-storey flat, from where he proceeded to relieve his body of an unholy mixture of alcohols and expensive party snacks, carefully selected, prepared and presented on little wooden sticks not three hours earlier by the host’s beautiful yet neurotic wife. Somewhere in the street below, a slightly soiled and surprised dog had finally stopped barking and began to slope off home, a little sadder and a little wiser.
“Feel better now?”, called a voice from behind. With difficulty, the young man slowly lifted his head, and, fighting both sickness and vertigo, turned to the voice. In the shadows, a cigarette lighter flared up, dazzling him. He stumbled forward, caught the back of a chair and found a face, hovering, it seemed, in the darkness. “You look a little pale”, said the face. “If you don’t mind me saying. Won’t you sit for a moment – with me?” Nathaniel pushed forward a seat with his foot. At the same time, he shot a gaze at the open french door, which slammed instantly shut. He allowed himself a brief devilish smile before rearranging his features into what people seemed to think a ‘friendly’ look. It wasn’t easy and it took a moment of his time.
The young man smiled a stupid, drunken smile. Nathaniel smiled back and, doing so, coughed politely, and nodded faintly in the direction of the young man’s trousers. The owner of the trousers looked down and, embarrassed, scrabbled about to do up his trouser zip.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure nobody noticed … Mr …?” There was something about the older man which made the young man suddenly very wary. Was it something in the eyes, a little too dark; the man’s general demeanour, at once controlled yet nervous; or was it the fact that he had just smoked a whole cigar in five puffs and was on his way to lighting another?
Whatever it was, the young man decided to ignore it. He was on his best behaviour tonight. He was keen to impress himself upon his girlfriend’s parents, the hosts of the New Year’s Eve party, so he was determined to be sociable - no matter how strange the company. Besides, he needed to sober up. He took a deep breath of the cold January night air.
“Jack Ashton”, he smiled, offering his hand to the man. Nathaniel merely stared back at him, his eyes flickering red in the light of the fireworks overhead. A moment later, he offered his hand.
“Nathaniel Hopkinson. My mother’s little joke. You smoke, don’t you, Jack?” The question was more of a confirmation than a question.
“Yes. I mean, no. It’s my New Year’s Resolution. I told Jenny …”
“Oh, come on, Jack. One little cigar? I won’t tell if you won’t.” From nowhere, it seemed, Nathaniel was holding out a cigar before Jack’s hungry eyes. “Tempted, Jack?”
For a moment - just a moment - Jack hesitated. But then his body – his whole lower nature - betrayed him. His index finger twitched and a moment later, he was sat back in the chair, smoking contentedly. He coughed. “It’s my first”, he explained. “First of the year.”
Nathaniel nodded his head slowly, his eyes softly closed.
Jack felt comforted by this small shared secret between the two men. He shook his head violently, and sniffed, like a wet dog, trying to move the alcohol lower down his body. He looked up at his new confidante. “So who do you know. Nathaniel, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, everybody. Nobody. You know how it is at these things.”
“Keeping a low profile, huh?”
“I don’t do families. Like you, hey, Jack?”
“It depends.”
“On?”
“The family. You know Mister Tyler? The guy throwing this bash?”
“We’ve done some business together”, said Nathaniel, knocking back a glass of champagne. “A long time ago. Just before he met his wife, if memory serves.”
“Whoa. That must be about twentyf –“
“You in business, Jack?”, said Nathaniel.
“Me? Hell, no! I hate business! Wouldn’t know where to start!”
“Then you must be family.”
“Me - with all this?” Jack cast a quick look around. “No. ’Like to be”, he said.
“Pardon me?”
“I’m Jenny’s boyfriend. Sorry, ‘partner’. Mister Tyler’s daughter. Jenny.”
“Yes, I know her. Very pretty young woman. You’ve done well for yourself, Jack. I congratulate you.”
“Thanks. Listen, I don’t want to be rude, but who did you say you were again?”
“Just an old friend of the family. That’s all.”
“Right”, said Jack. He looked closely at Nathaniel, wondering. “’Bet you’re wondering what I’m doing here, right? Guy like me in a fancy place like this?”
“Not at all”, Nathaniel replied. He held out a fresh handkerchief. “You’ve got caviar - on your chin.” Jack took the handkerchief, mopped up the caviar from his chin and put it in his mouth. Nathaniel smiled politely and poured two glasses of champagne.
“Thanks”, said Jack, taking the glass. “I’m Jenny’s bit of rough, you see.”
In all his many, many years dealing with the human race, Nathaniel had never heard that particular phrase before. “Excuse me?”, he asked.
“Wrong side of the tracks”, said Jack. “She’ll get bored soon enough. Nice girl, though. I shall miss her.”
‘Really?’, thought Nathaniel, ‘The girl or the money?’
“You know what I mean, Nat?” Nathaniel raised a very bushy eyebrow at this last remark. He’d never been called Nat before. He searched for an appropriate response, something sympathetic.
“Women”, he said, shrugging his shoulders. “Can’t live ‘em, can’t live with – “
“Be different if I had money, Nat. Like this.” Jack waved his arm, unsteadily, across the full-length of the balcony, taking in the swimming pool, the fountain and a thousand city lights below. “Even this suit’s borrowed! She’ll never marry me without some serious money and that’s the end of it!”
Nathaniel’s unnaturally-pointed ears twitched at this last remark. Unlike Jack, he was a businessman and this sounded rather like a business opportunity. He didn’t waste a second.
“What if you could have both?” he asked the young man, leaning forward. There was a glint in his eye.
“What?”
“What if you could get the girl and the money - together?”
Jack leaned back in his chair and put his glass down clumsily on the table. “Now that would be the ideal scenario, my friend”, he said. “But this is reality, right? And you ain’t no Father Christmas, Nat!”
Nathaniel smiled, leaned back and refilled their glasses. Jack had a great capacity for alcohol, especially the free and expensive sort. With a speed most unbecoming to the quality of the crystal and the champagne, he took the glass, tipped back his head, shut his eyes and drained the glass in one loud gulp. As he set the glass back down on the table, something caught his eye. A square, dark piece of card. “A business card? Don’t you guys ever rest? It’s New Years’ Eve, Nat!”
“Pick it up, Jack. Take a look”.
Jack picked up the card. “This you? Nathaniel Z. Hopkinson? What’s the ‘Z’ for?”
“Zachary. It’s from the Bible. Old Testament. Check the other side.”
Jack turned the card over. It was black, completely black.
“There’s nothing there”.
“Look again”, Nathaniel said. Jack held the card closer as a firework exploded noisily above. A thousand points of fiery red light lit up the sky as, on the card, tiny red letters appeared in a flowing script:
“Demon, 2nd class: For all your nefarious needs, short or
long-term, individual or group rates. No time-wasters.
(Card not transferable for cash or part-relief from pergatory).
As the letters glowed, the card grew hot between Jack’s fingers.
“Cute”, he said, dropping the card. “Where d’you get it? A fancy Christmas cracker?”
Nathaniel smiled politely, as to a child. Jack looked back at him, trying to figure out if he was mad, dangerous or both. However, whilst he had told Nathaniel the truth that he was no businessman, he was streetwise and smart enough never to let an opportunity, however strange, pass him by. This stranger had, as Jenny would no doubt say, piqued his interest. So, when another guest then tried to open the french door, Jack quickly jammed his foot against it. “Does this help at all?”, asked Nathaniel, fetching a key from his pocket. Jack quickly locked the door.
“Skeleton key, huh?”, said Jack. “Not sure what old Tyler would think of that.”
“Like I said, we go back a long way”, said Nathaniel. He stared at Jack, who was sobering up quickly. He felt a little nervous and looked again at the card laying on the table, whose letters still glowed faintly.
Jack decided to humour the man. “So you’re a demon, Nathaniel?” Nathaniel tipped his head a little, by way of introduction. “But only 2nd class, huh?”, continued Jack sarcastically. “Don’t I deserve a 1st class demon, then?” As the last words fell out of his mouth, Jack knew it was a mistake. Nathaniel slapped a heavy hand upon the thick metal table. He leaned forward and fixed his gaze upon the young man in the borrowed suit as the red-hot metal beneath his fingers smoked and cracked.
“If, Mister Ashton, I was a 1st class demon, you would be dead by now”. He spoke calmly, but through sharp, gritted teeth. His gaze felt like cold steel and, for a moment, Jack’s blood turned to ice. But, a moment later, the storm seemed to pass, the gaze softened and the older man leaned back in his chair, smiling. “Think of this as your lucky night, Jack”. He placed his hand on Jack’s. It was as cold as ice.
“What do you want?” he asked, the sarcasm all gone from his voice.
“I want to help you, Jack. With your situation.”
“Oh, my situation!” said Jack. “And who says I need any help?”
“’Course you do, Jack, it’s as plain as that chip on your shoulder. Besides, I’ve got to be a very good judge of human character over the years. I like you. You see, there’s something not quite right about you, Jack. Dishonest, even. And I respect you for it.”
“Do you? Well, I’m Sorry that I can’t return the compliment, Nat”, said Jack. “In fact, I think if you’ll excuse me, I should go back to the party with the real people.” Jack stood up and walked towards the french door. “Demon”, he muttered contemptuously, shaking his head. He reached out to the door handle. Someone tried the door from the other side. As they touched the handle, they let out a sharp cry of pain. Through the glass, Jack could see the handle glowing red-hot. He looked back at Nathaniel.
“I should leave it to cool for a minute, if I were you”, said Nathaniel. Jack looked at him. Nathaniel was used to the good life, that was clear enough: he was out of condition and at least twenty years older than Jack. But Jack had had too much champagne and, after all, that trick with the door-handle, and those eyes ... He sat down again.
“How long do you want her for, Jack?”
“What?”
“Your beautiful girlfriend, Jack – and her money. How long do you want them for?”
A chill ran through Jack’s body and his throat felt suddenly dry. With difficulty, he forced himself to say the word, “Forever?”
“Sorry, we don’t do ‘forever’. Like the card says, ‘Short or long-term’ only.”
Jack took a drink and then a deep breath. “If this is what I think it is, and you are a real demon – which I’m still not convinced about, even though that was a clever trick with the door - then we’re talking about my soul, right? You give me the girl and the money and you get my soul when I die. Forever. Am I right?”
Nathaniel hit his bony knuckles against his forehead. “No!”, he shouted, his leathery flesh sizzling. “Why does everybody think that?” All that eternal damnation crap! That’s just the church trying to scare you. They don’t like the competition. Look, Jack, nothing’s eternal, nothing. Except possibly … him”, he said, his voice and his anger dropping, looking up through stiff bushy eyebrows to the heavens above.
“You’re afraid of God?”, Jack asked, doubtfully.
“You haven’t seen him! You think I’m scary? He makes me look like the tooth fairy! You got a cigarette?”
“Why? No more cigars? What about your magic pockets?”
“Too many keys, too few cigars. Technical stuff.” Jack reached across and gave him an unlit cigarette. Nathaniel put it in his mouth and sucked, fire appearing immediately at the tip.
“I bet you’re great at parties”, said Jack.
But Nathaniel wasn’t listening. Instead, he was gazing up at the clear night sky. It was brilliant with thousands of glittering stars. He breathed out a long trail of cigarette smoke, tracing perfectly the long, lazy arc of the Milky Way. He snorted, turned away from the wonder of infinity and spat horribly into a nearby plant pot. “Like I said, Jack, we’re not interested in keeping souls for all eternity. We just don’t have the space any more. No, you should think of it more as a lease arrangement - like renting a house or a car. Just tell me what you want, how long you want it for and we agree the terms.”
“No catch?”
“Nothing.”
“No penalty clauses? First-born child, that sort of thing?”
“That’s him, Jack, not us. It was a good one, though, first-born child, I’ll give him that. Beat the hell out of the locusts! Whatever happened to God, hey, Jack? He was a lot more fun in the old days.” Nathaniel chuckled quietly to himself. “Ah well, we all get old, I suppose.”
“The contract?”, asked Jack.
“Oh, yes. The contract. Actually, there is one thing. It’s not a catch, exactly, but, er, if you exceed the terms of the rental we are fully entitled to call into effect Clause 66.”
“Clause 66?”
“Yes, that’s the bit everybody always thinks about. You know, keeping your soul in everlasting torment and all that. But, like I say, Jack, that’s only in very extreme circumstances. We always prefer to work out some kind of deal first. Now how about it? Are we gonna do some business here tonight or what?”
“Are you for real, Nat? I mean, you look the part an’ all. Not that I ever met a real-live demon before, but …”
“So I’m a champagne hallucination! OK. But what if I’m not? Then I make sure that the beautiful Jenny falls – what is it you people say? – ah, yes, head over heels in love with you, you marry into more wealth than you ever dreamed of and you live happily ever after. And, in return, once you die, you spend one day with us –“
“In hell.”
“Please, Jack! That is where I live! I do wish people wouldn’t call it that. Makes it sound so negative. Spend one day with us for every day you spent with the girl. No more, no less. Then you’re free to go. Now how’s that for a deal?”
“Sounds fair enough. But what if I wake up one day and I don’t love her any more? What if she doesn’t love me?”
“Oh, she’ll always be in love with you, Jack. Don’t worry about that. But you’ll always have your free will. And if you want to end the contract at any time, just call me and tell me you wish to cease our business relationship there and then. ‘Number’s on the card.” He nodded towards Jack’s breast pocket from which, somehow, was protruding the demon’s business card. Jack’s eyes flicked towards it and back again to the smooth-talking, champagne and cigar-loving demon in front of him.
“And once the deal’s up, I get to go to Heaven, right?”
“You can go to the tenth dimension for all I care, Jack!”
Jack sat for a moment, thinking. It certainly seemed a good offer, even too good to be true. He stood up and looked through the french doors. Across the dancefloor, he could see Jenny. She was surrounded by several good-looking men, no doubt all very eligible and all very rich. He wanted what they had, what he had never had a chance to get. “Yes”, he said, almost under his breath. And then louder: “Do it! The girl and the money! I want it now, Nathaniel! Do it now!”
Nathaniel was standing right behind him. He smiled a devilish smile and cleared his throat as if about to make a speech. “An excellent decision, Jack. Jack, my boy, let me be the first to congratulate you! As of this moment, you now have a very beautiful and, if I may say, obscenely wealthy wife! Behold!” Slowly, the french door swung open. Jenny turned around and, across the room, saw Jack, smiled at him, and looked at the glittering diamond wedding ring on her finger. She blew a long and sexy kiss to her new husband. Jack straightened his tie, took a quick look at the wedding ring which had magically appeared on his finger and then walked out of the cold dark night and into the warmth and light of his new life to claim his new bride.
Part Two
“I hate you, Jack! You are the most boring, money-obsessed little man that I ever met in my life! God knows what I ever saw in you!”
“Well, there must have been something, darling, or you wouldn’t have married me!”
“Marrying you was the biggest mistake of my life! You know, Jack, I look back two years ago and I don’t understand myself. I really don’t! It must have been the drugs! That’s the only way I can explain it!”
“No, darling. You didn’t start the drugs until after we married. The Kenyan safari, remember? When that Masai warrior offered me half his ancestral homeland to sleep with you.”
“When you agreed, you mean!”
“Jenny, we’ve been through all this. That land is rich in minerals. I tell you, it’s one of the best deals we ever made!”
“You never used to care about money, Jack! Not like all the others! That was the thing I liked about you! I must have been brainwashed. Or hypnotism. I’d never have married you if I’d known what kind of mean little man - !”
“Jenny, I do wish you’d calm down! I know, why don’t we sit down and pray? You know, the family that prays together, stays together!”
“Don’t you ‘pray’ me, Jack! Do you think I’d have even looked at you if I’d known you were going to turn into a Jesus freak!”
“Well, the Lord moves in mysterious ways.”
“Yeah, as fast as this?”
Incensed, Jenny looked around for the nearest thing to throw at her husband, and found an antique vase, given to Jack, now a very successful businessman, by the Sultan Of Brunei.
“Jenny, put that down! That’s worth at least fifty thousand pounds!”
“Was, you mean!”
Jenny, tall and supple, used to play beach volleyball before she married Jack. With perfect poise, she calculated distance, angle and trajectory and then threw the vase with all her might straight at her husband’s head. He, however, had become an expert in dodging priceless antiques and the vase whistled an inch past his head, smashing against the full-length Louis XIV gold-framed mirror behind.
“You know, if this carries on, Jenny, the insurance company is bound to increase our premium again!”
This last remark was too much for Jenny. She stood up straight, put her shoulders back and took a deep breath. She was about to scream and Jack knew it. Before their marriage, she had been an excellent swimmer. She had a fine figure and excellent lung capacity. Jack knew what was coming. He put his fingers in his ears and closed his eyes as his wife opened her mouth wide and let out a great cry, somewhere between a scream and a wail. In the extensive gardens around the villa, several heavily coiffured pedigree dogs began to bark.
“I’m going out!”, she cried, storming across the room.
“Good!”, said Jack. “See how your boyfriend likes you in this mood!”
“It would serve you right if I was having an affair!”, she replied, flinging open the carved wooden doors before her. “At least I’d get some fun!”
Jack sighed and walked slowly over to the bookcase. Whilst not a particularly well-read man, he had one of the largest collections of bibles in any private collection. He had, after all, made a deal with a demon two years ago to spend time in hell in exchange for worldly wealth and a trophy wife. However, with his streetwise logic, Jack had figured that becoming a born-again Christian might just swing things in his favour come the day of reckoning. And so that’s why he found himself, not two months before, pledging one hundred thousand dollars and – not for the first time – his eternal soul, in the Los Angeles Pearly Gates Church Of The Really Rich And Famous. In the meantime, being a Christian had the added benefit of annoying the hell out of his beautiful, yet very neurotic, wife. He picked up a bible and opened it at random. Jesus was telling the guys that story about the prodigal son. Whilst not a true believer, Jack was up on all the stories, rules and creeds. He had an idea. A moment later, he was dialling his father-in-law’s Malibu beachhouse.
‘Hello?’
‘Harry’, said Jack. ‘It’s Jack’.
‘Not so loud!’, said Harry. ‘I’ve got you on speakerphone.’
‘Oh’, said Jack. And then, ‘Why, Harry?’
‘Sarah threw a rock at me yesterday. Caught me right on the ear. Blown up like a cabbage, it has.’
There was a pause. ‘Your wife threw a rock at you, Harry?’ said Jack.
‘Yeah, but it’s not really her fault, Jack. I’d hidden all her guns, you see. I wasn’t getting any sleep. Anyway, what can I do for you, buddy?’
‘Well, I was wondering if maybe perhaps Jenny could stay with you two for a while - just a little while. You know, things are a bit tight between us. I thought that if she spent some time with you, then maybe she’d relax a little and –‘
‘Oh, no you don’t! I mean, I’m sorry, Jack. I understand your situation. Of course I do. But you’ve only had two years of it. I’ve had to live with her mother for over twenty-seven and a half years now. Do you know, since I got married, I’ve lost four inches in height, Jack?’
‘Four inches?!’
‘And shoes! I can’t get anything to fit these days!’
‘Right’. The conversation was not going in exactly the direction Jack had envisaged.
‘Look, Jack, I’m sorry, boy, but it’s not just me. Believe it or not, Sarah’s been a lot better since Jenny left home. If she was to come back to us … no, no, it’s just too awful to contemplate.’ Harry gently pressed the bandage around his head. It was still very sore. ‘Listen’, he said, his voice dropping to a whisper: ‘Why don’t you get yourself a couple of girlfriends, Jack? You know, ease the pressure. That’s what I do!’
‘You do?’
‘Sure! If I had to spend every night with Sarah, I’d be as crazy as she is!’
‘I wish I could, Harry. But adultery is a sin!’
‘Yeah? Well so’s murder, Jack. And I gotta tell you: sometimes, when my little cherry-pie starts screaming and throwing things, like they do, well I just feel like doing something – Jack, I gotta go. Sarah’s just walked in. I’ll send you this month’s money. Bye’. He hung up.
Jack didn’t really mind the idea of adultery, or divorcing his wife for that matter, but all his bibles suggested that God, rather selfishly, objected to both. Unfortunately, so did Jenny, who, in a very smart move by her parents, stood to lose her inheritance should she ever file divorce papers. It now seemed to Jack that by making deals both with God and the devil, he had painted himself into a corner. If he spent another two years married to Jenny, he too would be covered in bandages and whispering on his own answerphone, like Harry. Try as he might, there was no other way out. ‘Though he hated to lose all the riches his pact with the demon had given him, sooner or later he would have to call Nathaniel and cancel their arrangement. Preferably sooner, while he still had his sanity. He flicked open a secret drawer in the Chippendale writing desk and, for the first time in two years, held a small black business card in his hand.
“Nathaniel Z. Hopkinson.
Demon, 2nd class: For all your nefarious needs, short or
long-term, individual or group rates. No time-wasters.
(Card not transferable for cash or part-relief from pergatory).
There was a phone number underneath. With a heavy heart, Jack took a long last look around him. Priceless antiques, statues, eight sports cars in the garage. All this was about to go. But then so was his crazy wife. He took a deep breath and dialled the demon.
‘Hello? said the demon.
‘Nathaniel?’, asked Jack. ‘Is that you?’
‘Last time I looked. It’s been a while! What can I, er, do for you?’ He sounded a little nervous somehow – nervous or distracted.
‘Who’s that, Nat?’, said a woman’s voice.
‘No-one, honey. Just business. You carry on.’
‘OK baby’.
‘Sorry, Jack, er, I’m a little busy right now, if you know what I mean. Can I call you back in an hour – or two?’
‘No, don’t do that! I might change my mind.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I want to cancel our arrangement, Nathaniel. I don’t want the money. I don’t want to be married to Jenny any more.’
‘You don’t? But she’s one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever, I mean, you’ve ever seen. Are you crazy?’
‘No, I’m not, but she is.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that’, said Nathaniel. ‘A little feisty perhaps, but once you get on top, she’s not so – ‘
‘Look, Nathaniel, you’re not married to her. Now, I’ve thought it all out. I can’t divorce her and I don’t want a mistress – ‘
‘Why not?’, asked Nathaniel.
‘Jenny hates the idea of infidelity’, said Jack. ‘It would kill her, I know it would.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that’, said the demon. And then, to his companion, ‘A little bit lower. Watch the gearstick. That’s it.’
‘Nathaniel, I want you to kill Jenny. I mean, I appreciate we’d have to work out some kind of contract. An extra clause. I spend a few extra months in hell perhaps – ‘
‘Sorry, friend. No can do. I’m not killing anyone.’
‘Why not? You’re a demon, aren’t you? And I bet you could get up to 1st class with a few murders, right?’
‘Why should I? I got your soul when we made the contract.’
‘Yes, but only part-time. One day in hell for each day of the contract, right?’
‘Oh, come now, Jack! You didn’t really take the word of a demon, did you? I own your soul, Jack. Eternal damnation. Just like the church says.’
‘Forever! You evil, lying - ’
‘My advice, Jack? Enjoy yourself while you can, and stop trying to get your wife killed. You know, women can be touchy about that kind of thing, can’t they, honey?’ A woman laughed in the background, before being drowned out by the sound of a dog barking.
‘Nathaniel!’, called Jack. ‘Nathaniel!’ But the line was dead. The demon had returned his attention back to his ladyfriend.
Jack stared out of the French doors, his eyes taking in the tennis court, croquet lawn, nine-hole golf course. So he was going to burn in hell, forever, for this, for his crazy wife. Even the nine sports cars in the garage. What use were they now? He looked over at the garage. Strange, the doors were open and Jenny’s awful yapping little dog was jumping around excitedly by the doors. Was he being burgled? He went to the writing desk and picked up his gun. In a few moments, he was out of the house and standing by the open garage door. As he looked inside, it seemed to Jack that there was someone inside one of the cars, the Maserati MC12. Whoever it was must have flicked one of the switches accidentally, because at that moment the roof on the convertible folded back. And, to Jack’s amazement, the head of one Nathaniel Zachary Hopkinson, demon 2nd class, popped up over the top.
‘Ah, Jack’, he said. ‘Long time, no see.’
‘Jack?’ said a woman’s voice. ‘Is that you, Jack?’
‘Yes, Jenny. It’s me.’
‘Ah’, said Jenny. She slowly, sheepishly, raised her head above the roofline. Her fingers were frantically trying to do up buttons on her dress. ‘This isn’t what it looks like, honey.’
‘Do you know who this is, Jenny?’, he asked his wife, gesturing to Nathaniel. ‘Or, rather, what he is?’ He took a step forward. Both Jenny and Nathaniel saw the gun in his right hand.
‘Look, Jack’, said Nathaniel, ‘I’m sure you’re feeling all kinds of things right now–‘
‘He’s a demon’, interrupted Jack. ‘A servant of hell. Aren’t you, Nathaniel? Go on, tell her.’
‘Well, yes, it’s true. I am. 2nd class’, said Nathaniel, also doing up the buttons of his shirt. Whilst immortal and thus immune to bullets, Nathaniel was feeling a little embarrassed at having being caught in such a compromising situation, especially with a client’s wife. Jack opened the driver door and Nathaniel fell out onto the floor, trousers flailing around his ankles.
‘Get up, Nathaniel.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m going to shoot you. You lied to me about the contract and now I find you having sex with my wife in my favourite sports car. You don’t just take a Maserati to the dry cleaners, Nat.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry, Jack. Sorry. Most unprofessional’, said Nathaniel, staggering to his feet.
‘According to you, I’m going to spend eternity in hell, anyway, so I might as well kill you.’
‘Shoot Nathaniel and I’ll shoot you, Jack!’, said Jenny, peering out from behind Nathaniel. She was holding a gun, which she had hastily found in the glove compartment. Jack wished he hadn’t been so security-conscious.
‘What?’, he exclaimed. ‘I’m your husband, Jenny. This … thing … ‘s a demon!’
‘You’re telling me!’, she said, a broad grin on her face. ‘Besides, he’s promised to make me the richest woman in the world! Even you can’t offer me that, Jack!’
‘What you doing, Nathaniel? First Jenny’s father, then me, now Jenny. Who’s gonna be next? Little Flossy here?’ Jack turned his head and gestured to the cocker spaniel, who was yapping widely with all the excitement. This was Nathaniel’s chance: he ran at Jack and launched himself at him. But Jack caught a glimpse of this flying demon in the wing mirror of a 1958 Pontiac Firebird. He span around and fired his gun. This was followed by a second shot, but not from Jack’s, from Jenny’s. Jack’s bullet passed clean through the undead body of the demon and into his wife. Jenny’s bullet, equally, struck her husband right in the heart. They were both dead.
Nathaniel staggered to his feet. He was not hurt, except perhaps for his pride, and that only a little. He decided such a scene would be hard even for a demon to explain to the police. So he took the keys for the Maserati off the shelf, dumped Jenny’s body on the garage floor and drove into the night.
And that is where you might think the story ends. And I would agree with you, were it not for something strange I saw not long after that. I was drinking coffee in a diner one Saturday afternoon, waiting for the parade. I was a journalist on the county paper. Anyway, I noticed there was a funny-looking group at the table in the corner. They were very animated, all talking at once. I put on my glasses to see better. There was an old guy, a youngish fellah and a woman – a beautiful woman, at that. They were all desperately trying to get the attention of a young guy and his girlfriend in the next booth. I suppose they must have upset them, because, a moment later, the young couple left in a hurry, leaving their fries and coffees untouched behind them.
I called the waitress over. ‘Hey, Dorothy. Do you know those three?’
‘Sure, Ben’, she said. ‘Been coming in here for a couple of weeks now.’
‘Out-of-towners?’ I asked.
‘Crazies, more like’, said Dorothy, shaking her head. ’Get this. See the old one? Well, he thinks he’s a demon.’
‘A demon?’
‘Yeah. 3rd class, though. Demoted from 2nd, apparently, by the devil himself!’
‘The devil himself!’
‘That’s right!’
‘And the other two?’ I asked.
‘Well, it’s kinda complicated but, as far as I can tell, they were married once. But now he’s an angel sent by God as a punishment to keep an eye on the demon for some reason, and she’s a ghost.’
‘A ghost?’
‘As God’s my witness. She’s pissed at both of them, apparently, so she’s decided to haunt them both.’ Dorothy pursed her lips and looked at me with a ‘now-what-do-you-think-of-that’ expression on her face.
‘Surely you don’t believe that, do you?’ I asked.
Dorothy coughed and looked down at the ground. They trio passed between us: the second-rate demon, the reluctant angel and the angry ghost, squabbling and fighting like three cats in a bag. Just before they got to the door, the wind must have caught it and it whipped open, just like it’d been told to.
I watched them leave and then jumped up out of my seat. I decided that, whatever these guys were, there was a story there somewhere. And that’s how I got to be the best and most famous journalist in the world. But I suppose that’s a whole other story, isn’t it!
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