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.

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.

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!

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’.

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!

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!

International Men's Day

International Men’s Day

Copyright John Marshall 2008

First broadcast on Ex-Pat Radio, Radio Alfa, 2nd March 2008

I’d like to talk specifically to the men today, about male bonding. Well, let me be honest. Twentyfour hours ago, I didn’t actually expect to be sitting here now talking about male bonding. So why am I? Because, my Krakowian and world-wide internet brothers, I was ordered to write this at the last minute by Ania Becowska, my radical feminist hard-ass landlady. Not only that, but Ania knew very well that I had just finished teaching after a five beer, four-hour sleep hangover and wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and die. And this is a perfect example of why we need more male bonding.

You know, we hear so much these days about women and how much of a problem life can be for them: it’s a patriarchal society; women can’t do this; they can’t do that. But what about men? Do you think, ladies, that life’s a bowl of cherries for us? Today, I want you all to stop and think for a moment about the plight of the poor modern male.

It’s been said before that the male is an endangered species. ‘What exactly is a man for’, the feminists cry? Show me something a man can do that a woman can’t do better! And, yes, even the one thing we do possess that women don’t is becoming rapidly redundant with advances in fertilization techniques and genetic engineering. Yes, guys, it seems even your wife’s best friend is suffering an identity crisis.

But should we be downhearted? Should we give in to the inevitable, put on our oven gloves and set our lives for Gas Mark 5? No! Resist, my brothers! Unite! Together we can fight this scourge of overreaching feminism, which threatens our very manhoods!

I hereby declare, here on Ex-Pat Radio, today, 2nd March to be Men’s Day. From this day forward, may this day be a beacon, a bastion, of hope for the tired, the hungry, the oppressed males of the world. Let us bond, brothers, in the hope of a better life: let us bond, through beer, through sport, and through a never-ening stream of muttered comments upon members of the opposite sex, asking such questions as ‘What do you think of her then?’ and dropping words such as ‘fit’ into conversations wherever possible.

As I say, women have it all and yet they still want more. Shopping, gossip, heated discussions about orgasms. Women have never had a problem bonding. We should learn from them, brothers. We should embrace the concept of bonding in the best and only ways we know how. Let the first Sunday of March, from this point forward, be proclaimed worldwide as Men’s Day. It shall henceforth be the duty of every man, on this day, to get together with his fellow man to drink vast quantities of beer, play or watch marathon soccer matches or cricket games and, at the end of it all, possibly even fight with each other before, declaring in hushed, reverent tones that ‘You’re my best mate. I love you, I do’, throwing our arms around each other and cracking open another tinny.

Should any woman foolishly choose to interfere with these new Men’s Days traditions, she shall forfeit the right to criticize both his driving and love-making skills for a period of not less than one month.

The very concept of the male, my brothers, has never looked so precarious. It is up to us now to bond together and fight rampant feminism with our tried and tested tools: alcohol, competitive sports and an insane interest in the female breast. It is a difficult challenge I place before you but, together, we will win through. Good luck, brothers!

What? Oh, ok, Right. I’ve just been handed a piece of paper. A late piece of breaking news. Apparently, strikes and mass demonstrations are being planned by women across the world following the shock announcement by lawyers that women don’t really have the vote after all. Lawyers working on behalf of the Coalition Of Incredibly Bigoted And Reactionary Sods have found that, whilst many enfranchisement laws go back nearly one hundred years now, they all, coincidentally, came into force on the same date, April 1st, thereby making them all ineffective. The emergency services are warning of major traffic delays during the demonstrations, although the number of accidents is predicted to be lower than usual, ‘cos you know what bad drivers women are.

Thank you. That was John Marshall’s alternative news. I shall now leave the studio and, quite rightly, get beaten up by several women.

Racism

Racism

First broadcast on Ex-Pat Radio 2007

It is generally acknowledged that the 20th century was the century of genocide – again and again across the world from Western Europe to China, Africa to Siberia, cold-blooded murder was committed upon millions of people in the name of political, philosophical or just plain racist ideologies.

And although wholesale slaughter can be found on every page of the history book, the 20th century did see an acceleration of the process, a quickening. Of course we look back on this time in horror: few of us would ever call ourselves racist or would condone acts of ethnic cleansing, pogroms, or racial purification. But then neither did our grandparents or those before them and they still happened; great stains across the pages of our shared history. The American colonists, the British in South Africa, Hitler, Stalin, Mao, Pol Pot to name but a few who killed millions, often of their own people, in the fear of the other: the fear of individuality, of difference.

It is as if a conquering nation or dictator wished to create an identikit nation made up of colourless copies of itself: where all difference and diversity had been eliminated: the same character, the same genetic code, political beliefs and the same cruel and cowardly distrust of anyone else who dares, or just happens to be, different.

For sure, dictators as well as many mainstream politicians are dangerous beasts, operating to their own designs where megalomania, mental instability and fear of difference are classic elements. It’s understandable and easy to blame them for our problems. It is also wrong. For the truth is that the fear, racism and the causes of genocide are nothing to do with one man’s personality disorders. For that, I am afraid we have to look a lot closer to home.

The fact is that we all have the capacity for evil. Whatever your definition of evil – from a chemical imbalance in the brain to human weakness in the face of Satanic temptation – we all have it. Freud knew this and so did Jung. However, there is a world of difference in how we deal with these thoughts, feelings, and temptations. Take racism, for example. In some of us - a minority – our fearful attitudes to another race may be so extreme that we may, by cause or omission, come to be the cause of another’s death. Fortunately, for most of us, we would never dream of harming another, least of all because of the colour of their skin. No, maybe not harm them, but fear them … ?

Man has a dual nature: we are both spirit and animal in one. And as we tumble through the centuries, DNA and race memories alike are passed down through the generations. Among them, our ancient, yet now unnecessary fear of the other slops around, deep, in our subconscious, where it normally stays, out of reach and out of mind. But when we give people authority and then allow them to delve around in our primal fears, there will only be one outcome. An illogical distrust, fear or hatred of the other, sparked, for sure, by another’s words but allowed by us a home in our minds, to fester and grow into that powerful thing; the group mind. Of course, defying the group mind is difficult and becoming increasingly so and there have always been many reasons not to challenge it: I am too small to make a difference, for example, I was just following orders, and I have a family to think about. All true, but yet all pathetic in the face of a herd mentality which grows louder and more brutal with every denial or act of personal cowardice.

Just as the pure energy of the sub-atomic particle has the potential to be part of any life form in the universe, so do we, human beings composed of pure light, pure energy. Each thought we receive from another or, more rarely, create for ourselves, begins to shape us and our futures. Your future starts, very literally, with your very next thought. What will that thought be?

There are some of us for whom the very next thought will be of a negative nature: distrusting, perhaps, or fearful of those who are somehow different. But why this fear of a different culture, language or skin colour? Perhaps, for some, the mere presence of difference is disturbing, frightening even, challenging long-held beliefs. In the wish to forcibly remove difference from his life, the individual seeks to restore and thus safeguard his comfortable worldview, even at the expense of his spiritual and mental development, and, more importantly, the other person’s comfort, or life.

Having lived for many years in large multicultural English cities, the presence and co-existence of many races has always been normal to me; part of my world view. To deny the reality of that largely peaceful co-existence would simply have been a pathology, a lie, on my part. And when I first arrived in Poland, the lack of a brown or black face was as surprising to me as indeed the presence of such a face is to many a Pole. Our perception of what is normal, or common, in our lives, comes not from some divine truth or grand mathematical equation. It is simply the sum total of our very limited set of experiences, which exist only in the past tense and which become out-of-date even as we experience them.

But what about the present moment? Will our perception and reactions to new experiences continue to be based solely upon limited, erroneous past experiences, social and political conditioning? Or does each present moment offer the chance for a new way of thinking and perceiving, an experiencing of reality ‘as is’, without prejudice or preconception?

Many of you will know a man called Atma Anur, a regular on this radio show. Atma is a very gifted drummer and a very nice guy with, apparently, an unquenchable sense of wonder and enthusiasm. He’s English but has a mid-Atlantic twang from his many years living in the States. What else? Oh, yes, he’s black. Nothing strange about that, of course, until you come and live in Poland. In Krakow. Which he does. Because he loves it here. And that’s why Atma wants to know why Poles are coming up to him in the street, pushing their faces into his and demanding to know what he’s doing ‘here’ and why he doesn’t ‘go home’. Is it good ol’-fashioned, good-ol’boy hatred of dark-skinned difference that he knows all too well, or is it something else peculiar to Eastern Europeans, a genuine, gawping bewilderment, as if Krakow was London in the 1700’s and Atma a swarthy savage transported from the Indies for the amusement of the people?

Let me first be generous: free travel and cultural exchange both in and out of Eastern Europe is still less than twenty years old: a generation raised on the opinions, beliefs and mis-beliefs of its parents, themselves indoctrinated by Communism. It would be only natural if there was still a degree of cultural ignorance and naivety here in Poland. At the height of Stalinism, children informed on their parents, who were publicly executed for supposedly having voiced anti-state thoughts or beliefs. If human beings can be made to do that to their own fathers and mothers, then their children will have no problem staring and gawping at a negro in the streets of Krakow.

However, there is a limit to my devil’s advocacy. The attitudes Atma and many others experience on Polish streets every day goes well beyond the impolite stare or pointing of a child’s finger. How can a historically-oppressed nation like Poland not be naturally sympathetic to minorities? A nation which has been fought over, divided, suppressed and ripped apart time and time again for centuries? A people who died in the hundreds of thousands, both in the streets and the concentration camps, long before Hitler turned his attention to the Jews? In 1980 and 1981, the word ‘Solidarity’ spread through the country like wildfire and spelt the beginning of the end for an authoritarian, morally bankrupt regime. Now, Poland looks to the future and aspires to be one of the most modern, leading European nations. But to be so, it must not forget its past where any group of people could suddenly be labelled different, inferior, and undesirable.

As a white European male, I never experience discrimination. But as a Krakowian, it is my belief and hope that some Poles’ negative attitudes to other races is a mixture of ignorance and fear of the other, which is present in all human beings, and not just that undeniable hatred which finds expression in some of our less enlightened brothers and sisters. Certainly, as the new Polish Diaspora encounters multiculturalism in England, Ireland and elsewhere, it is to be hoped that their experiences of living and working happily alongside people with brown and black skins will begin to feed itself back into the Polish consciousness.

In the 20th century, Poland was once again torn brutally apart by its neighbours. Now, for the first time in centuries, it has the potential to be great again. If it remembers how it is to be persecuted for being different, then it will deserve to be a great nation. But if, instead, it chooses to forget the lessons of history and encourages suspicion and nationalism, it will be forever a poor country, doomed to infighting and ripe for domination. And what goes for the state goes for me and goes for you. This article will now finish and your next thought will begin.

Wianki

Wianki

First broadcast on Ex-Pat Radio, 15th June 2008
© John Marshall 2008

Next Saturday, 21st June, is Midsummer’s Day, the shortest night of the year. And as you would expect, Krakowians aren’t going to let the occasion pass without some kind of party. And what a party: Wianki, it’s called - and it’s big, loud and heaps of fun. Next Saturday, there’s only one place to be: down by the Wawel and the Wistula river for a night of top class international music, spectacular fireworks and the chance to observe and even take part in ancient pagan traditions.

First, the history. An ancient festival that dates back to Pagan times, Wianki literally means 'wreaths' and it is a traditional midsummer celebration celebrating the usual midsummer themes of life, renewal and, er, virginity. Unsurprisingly, with the early arrival of Christianity into Poland, Wianki was rebranded "Noc Świętojańska", or St. John's Night, and, no doubt, some of the more earthy practices such as young lovers consummating their love in nearby woods, toned down a little. However, even in Christian times, some elements of the original festival remained over the centuries, such as the telling of fortunes, letting wreaths float on water, and jumping over the huge ceremonial bonfires (sobotka), which are still lit along the banks of the river.
Traditionally, on Wianki, Polish girls wear wreaths of flowers with a lighted candle in the centre 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 and be happy. Oh, if only modern dating was so easy! Fortunately for the girls (and the local lads) the Wistula is a fast flowing river and, traditionally, most girls went away happy.
Back in the 16th Century, when times and people were, perhaps, simpler, 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 in its depths, glowing with fires. In wild ravines the barren fern blooms. Certain plants take on magical properties. Flowers and grasses made into wreaths will forecast a maiden's fate. Wreaths to which are fixed lighted candles are cast in the waters so that their courses may be followed. 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.
The special promise of St. John is youth, love and general fertility, hmm? I think I’ll use that as a chat-up line next Saturday.

I’m not holding out much hope, though. We Europeans, Poles or otherwise, seem to have lost much of our superstitions, pagan beliefs, respect for, and connection to, nature. What started out, in the mists of time, as a celebration of life, health and vitality has, like so many celebrations, been eclipsed by those more modern values: noise, spectacle and the veneration of the new Gods, alcohol and money. Not that I’m one to refuse a drink, thanks, now you’re asking.

But pace yourself with the amber nectar next Saturday, gents. You’ll need to keep your wits about you for all those beautiful maidens and their garlands. There’s a competition, you know, to find the best garland on the day. So, come on, all you ex-pat ladies, do your bit for international relations and throw your garlands – and your destiny – to the Gods!

Now, apart from the floating of wreaths, there are musical performances, dignitaries' speeches, fairs and fireworks by the riverbank opposite the Wawel. If you’re anywhere in the city center next Saturday, it’s going to be 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.

As Jan Kochanowski himself said:

Let us this evening celebrate
With all its old accustomed state...
With joyous melody and song.

There are always big musical names at Wianki. The list of Polish bands includes Mosquitoo, Loco Star and June. Also, Kasia Nowicka, a real diva of Polish club music, better known by her stage name, Novika, will weave a tapestry of subtle electronic sounds, while Bisquit will seek to enchant with their ethereal jazz and the warm voice of their vocalist Joanna Wlodarska. As for the headline act, no less than the British group Jamiroquai will rock your pagan socks with their mixture of pop, funk and acid jazz. Oh, and did I mention the amazing firework show?

A spectacle it sure is, and one of Krakow’s entertainment highlights of the year. However, having personally experienced the last two Wiankis, it must be said to those of our more cynical listeners that, yes, the size of the crowds are outrageous and it all sometimes seems like just another occasion for Tyskie, Zywiec et al to flog the corporate cow. But don’t throw the baby out with the Wianki bathwater, and remember that, whatever happens next Saturday night, you’ll have a night to remember and at least bloody Fish from Marillion won’t be playing again! See you there!

The Waiting-Room (A One-Act Play For The Stage)

A basement café.

SETTING: There is a small table downstage right, set with salt and pepper pots. The lights are very low.

AT RISE: Enter GORDON. In one hand, he carries a flashlight. In the other, he carries a mug of tea. A visibly old newspaper is tucked under his arm. He is wearing a long black coat and a hat. He carries a bag. As he stoops to put the bag down, he bangs his leg against the table-leg.


GORDON
Bloody hell! Could’ve killed myself then! I say, can’t you get more light down here? Get some candles, or something! Bloody power-cuts! I’ve never known anything like it!

Hmm, only me here, ay? Quiet today, isn’t it?

(Louder)

I say, it’s quiet today!

(Quieter, apologetically)

Sorry. ’Course, it’s Sunday, isn’t it. And these bloody power-cuts don‘t help, do they! No. I’m surprised you’re open, really. Must be worth it, though, I suppose, ay? I mean, you’re getting enough, are you? Warm bodies - like me - just passing through? Good. I like to see a place do well.

(He takes out some books from his bag and puts them onto the table.)

Listen, this is going to sound weird, I know. I think there’s someone following me.

That‘s why I came. I knew she wouldn’t find me down here. It’s too dark, you see.

It’s a good-looking woman. Or man, not sure which. I keep seeing her, him. Just now, for instance.

I’m walking along, and I get this voice in my head. It’s strong like a man’s, maybe, but softer, warmer.

It’s not the first time. And it’s trying to tell me something - something important. A message, or a warning, maybe. But I can never catch the words. Like a radio not tuned right, you know. And I want to: it’s a beautiful voice. If it is a voice, mind. Sometimes it’s more like the sound of a, a trickling river, if you don’t mind. Heavenly, you might call it. Like a beautiful song. Then, I call it my angel. Well, why not? But, sometimes, you know, it scares me, too. When I feel sad or lonely, it roars like a lion, or maybe a raging fire, you know? It sounds angry and I want to run away. That’s how it was this time. So, I began to walk faster. Then I ran. I ran until I had no strength left. Then, I stopped and looked up. And there it was, right in front of me. A face, eternal, if you get me. Looking straight at me, no, straight into me, into my soul, if you understand me. There’s a real kindness in the eyes and I want to hear the gentle voice again.

I was afraid, you know. But I said, “Why are you tormenting me? You don’t think I have enough problems?” And then it disappeared! Just like that! What do you think? You know, I haven’t touched a drop since coming here, as God’s my witness, but … well, I don’t mind the lovely singing, but the other stuff - and hasn’t a man got a right to some privacy?

So, anyway, I escaped down here, into the darkness. And cold. Bloody cold it is, too! Hey, I said - now where’s he gone to? A customer in the other room, perhaps. Well, good luck to him. I hope it’s warmer than in here.

(Shouts)

And lighter, too!

(He opens his bag, takes out a photograph of himself and puts it on the table.)

Bloody power-cuts! I wouldn’t mind in the summer. ‘Be all right then. But not now. Feels like years since I saw the sun. It’s the cold that’s the worst. Gets to you - right inside your bones. Like everything: your arms, you legs, even your heart, maybe, wants to stop. Maybe he’s got some more candles round here somewhere. Let me have a look.

(He goes upstage and searches for candles. LIGHTS: There is a flash of light and a candle lights on another table. Turning, he sees a young man at the table.)

Alright, mate! Didn’t see you there. I’m not really talking to myself. Just looking for some light, you know. You didn’t bring any with you, did you? Light? No. Not seen you before. Just arrived, have you? OK if I - ?

(He starts to sit at the young man’s table.)

No. ’Course not. Sorry. A man needs his privacy, right? Right.

(He stands behind his chair.)

I remember when I was your age, ’used to like my privacy, too. I valued my time, you see. You know, I used to think that other people might steal it. Sounds silly, doesn’t it? Out loud. ’Stealing time’. I didn’t want to share it with anyone, you see. Afraid that they might take something away from me, perhaps. Yes, if there was one thing I had at your age, it was time to myself.

‘That your paper? Do you mind if I - ? Only, this one’s a bit old, see.

(He reaches for and takes the newspaper from the other table.)

Thanks. Another murder! Only a young lad, too. Look!

(He shows him the photo.)

Fancy! You two not twins, are you? Sorry. Bad taste. Well, it’s no good, anyway.

(He puts the paper back and wanders upstage).

Might as well be blind for all the light there is down here. Surprised you can see - never mind read - that book there. What is it? ‘The Tibetan Book Of The Dead’? Comedy, is it? Sorry. I used to be a great reader. Could always find time for a good book, you know. Didn’t go anywhere without a book. Trouble was, over the years, it got so I couldn’t leave the house without one. Or maybe a newspaper. Company, I suppose. Like a prop, maybe. Then the prop starts to be a crutch, then it turns into a defence, a wall. I mean, if I had my time again …

(He sits at his own table.)

So what’s your story then? Poland, ay? Krakow? You like it there, do you? Yes. You’re studying, I suppose? Oh, a writer, hey? A wordsmith, that’s the word, am I right? Wordsmith. Yes. I knew a writer once. In Berlin. Here’s a good word for you: partition. Meaning: to bisect, to divide. Like Berlin, you see, partitioned. East and West. No, never a soldier: undercover, me. Well, tell the truth, I was the writer. That’s what I told them, anyway. Oh, it’s alright. I can tell you. Can’t hurt me now, can they?

(He moves his chair a little closer to the young man.)

Lvov also. You know? Ukraina, yes.

(He gives a thumbs-up).

I was a baker. Finland, also. Truck driver, there. Norway: repair technician. All very cold. Dark, too. Not much light, you see. Not really. You need the light. To be happy. I’ve learnt that. My travelling days are over, now, of course. Spend most of my time down here, if I’m honest. Trapped, maybe could say.

You got friends over there, have you? Good friends? Course you have. You must have good friends. Married, are you? Oh, girlfriend. Is she? Helps with the language, am I right? Difficult language, yes? Of course it is. ‘How are you?’ - I used to know. Jik … jik shee mish … jik shee nish? Now, tell me, how I’ m wrong. What’s that? Jak sie masz? Yes! Am I right?

(He gives a double thumbs-up).

Never forget, do you?

Polish man comes in here, you know. Most days. I hear the language, you see. You never forget.

(He winks)

‘Dzien dobry‘, he says, every time. That’s right. ‘Good day‘. You know. Him and his friend. Two teas with lemon, they order. Not milk. It’s Polish, see. Herbata, they call it.

Herbata. Kasia used to drink that. Bez cukrem. ’I’m sweet enough,‘ she‘d say. Polish girl, you know, living in Berlin. We were going to get married. Translator. You know, good with words. Clever. Like you. Could tell you any street, church or square in the city - the West, anyway. Mannstrasse vierundfunfzig. Hagenstrasse und Main. I’d say the name and she’d drive.

I remember this one time, there was a party. She hurt her leg, dancing. We’re both pretty drunk but I’ve got the legs, so it’s me driving back.

(He stands.)

I was rushing because of the curfew. ‘Right at the church‘, she said. ‘Right at the church‘. I distinctly remember this, you see. But ‘after’, she meant. ‘After’, not ’before’. I thought it was before. Always words, you see. So important. You know. They wanted to see our papers. Then they wanted names - all words again, do you see? ’Course, we didn’t have our papers, did we? Left them at the party, hadn’t we? Drunk, remember? So they searched the car. And they found them: her translations. ’Classified’. From the Russian.

(He takes some official-looking papers from his bag and puts them onto the table.)

So they took us in: for ‘questioning’. And all the time, questions. For days. ‘What were you doing? Why were you there? Why? Why? Why?’ I don’t really know what they wanted. I don’t even know if they cared. It was all a game back then. The Cold War, you understand.

(He takes a gun from his bag and puts it onto the table.)

And the questions got harder, of course. Longer. Painful questions, if you understand me. And they way they asked, well, it wasn‘t fair, you know. In the dark, at nighttime, when you‘re sleeping.

(He sits down.)

Well, I‘m not a strong man, you see. Never have been. The pain got louder than the questions. I’m not proud of it, but put yourself in my position. I wonder if you can. I made a deal. Me and Kasia would be free to go, but on the condition, of course. They wanted names. Names of people operating in the Eastern Sector. I thought: they only want more words, that's all. To put on their reports: statistics, number and names of enemy operatives identified, year-by-year. That was how I justified it to myself, you see. Just a game, with words.

I don’t remember now which names I gave them. But they seemed happy with their new words and the next morning, they released me. I waited outside all day but Kasia never came. So, I went up and asked them.

(He stands up.)

‘Just a few more questions’, they said. ‘Come back tomorrow’. So I went and I came back the next day. Every day for a week I went back. Always the same answer. Then, on the seventh day, I got a letter.

(He opens a letter.)

Unstamped: I had to pay for it. ‘To whom it may concern. Fraulein Kaminski has been found guilty of espionage. Evidence of serious anti-state activities has come to light during periods of intensive questioning. Her confinement will be indefinite.’

(He puts the letter back into his pocket.)

So it was all for nothing: my treachery, my weakness. I hated myself. But so what? I’d spent most of my life hating myself. But the guilt, that was the worst thing. I couldn’t escape the guilt. Three years they held them for. Three years of questions, pain, words, darkness. I know.

Here’s a good word for you: amnesty. Yes, a word of power. They released them - Kasia too. ‘They took her east. Try the Ukraine.’ I tried to look for her; to tell her that I hadn’t betrayed her - my life for hers. I knew that’s what they would have told her. I wanted to tell her about the words and the games. That it wasn’t treachery. I’d done it for us. For love.

Where is she now, do you think? She’d be older, of course. Yes, with a big family, I reckon. Babcia, even. Do you know ‘babcia’? Grandmother? ‘Course you do. You’re educated, you see. You know things. You know words. Words that have power.

Hey! How about that! They’ve put some lights back on up there. Maybe there’s hope for us yet!

The voice!

(He goes upstage, listening for the voice.)

There it is - again! Still a roar. Quieter, but still … You hear it too, don’t you? But you hear the voice, right? You know what she’s saying, don’t you? Tell me. What’s the message? No, don’t leave now! Please, tell me, what’s the message? Come back. Please … Gone. Just like the others. Where do they go?

(LIGHTS: There’s a flash of light. He returns to his seat. Another flash of light. He half-stands and tips his hat to a young couple who he now sees sat downstage right. As he does so, he bangs his leg again on the table.)

F - ! Oops!

(Apologetically)

Bloody power-cuts. What can you do, ay? Oh, don’t worry; he’ll be back in a minute. You just visiting, are you? Tourists? What - newlyweds! Now, that’s nice. Seems strange, though, a nice, young couple like you, down here. Ah well, you’ve got your own story, I suppose. Everybody has.

(He moves his chair a little closer to the other table.)

So how long is it? Only a week? So you’re on honeymoon, then. From London? Hey, wasn’t there a plane crash from there the other day? No survivors, right? You know, you look a bit rough yourselves, with your clothes all burned and all that blood on your faces. Don’t mind me. Actually, flying’s the safest form of travel, statistically. Provided you don’t believe in fate, that is.

Not sure, myself. Used to be. All for free will, I was. Each moment is the doorway to a thousand possible futures. And each of those thousand futures … in the end, there’s no way of knowing. You start off with all good intentions. Then something happens. It always does. We had a child, you know. In London, it was. I lived there - for a while. Artist, I was. Anyway, let me be honest: she had a baby, and I got drunk. Proud father? The nurse said I didn’t walk into that hospital ward, I floated on air.

(He takes out a family photo from the bag and puts it on the table.)

Those next six months were the happiest time in my life. I adored my son and I worshipped her for giving me such a beautiful child. Nobody was more in love than we were. Nobody.

But you know how to make God laugh? You tell him your plans.

We lost the child. Meningitis, you know? That night, he died, just like that. No warning. Nothing. There was a moment that night when we both walked through a doorway together. Doorways, remember? But, somehow, a moment later, we’d both chosen different routes. It finished us. And I said to God, ‘Why? Why have you done this to me? You’ve taken the only people I’ve ever really loved away from me! I want my happiness back!’

And do you know what happened? Nothing. There’s no God, I thought. And if there is, he doesn’t give a damn! So I began the drinking again, but worse. And every drink moved us further apart. She never said anything, but I knew she blamed me. I should have been quicker. ‘Called the doctor, called an ambulance, done something, for God’s sake!’ She’s right, I thought. It’s my fault. And so I’d have another drink. And another. I deserved to be hurt. Badly. And every time we looked at each other, all we saw was our little boy. And then she left.

I spent a long time hating myself, feeling guilty, usually with a drink in hand. Going over the same scenes, again and again, stopping at the parts that hurt the most, twisting the knife, until there wasn’t a moment I couldn’t fill with some pain or regret, real or imagined. I was screaming inside. I couldn’t think. This is hell, I thought. I’ve died and gone to hell. And then I saw her, for the first time. The lovely voice, remember?

When I listened to the voice, to the song, the screaming would subside, if only for a moment. But even that was a blessing. In time, I learned to listen harder. And as the song took the place of the scream, I began to think, once again, but honestly, without self-hate or deception. It was hard, but at least the screaming had stopped. You know, It’s only when you look back, honestly, that you start to find redemption. I’ve been a bad man. I know that. A fool, a coward, adulterer. Yes. I wanted forgiveness. To get out of hell, you know. You know what I learned? You want forgiveness? You have to forgive. You forgive. Then forgiveness. That was the moment. And I’ve done it. Oh, it’s taken me a while, but I’ve done it. I’ve sat down - God knows how long it’s taken me - I’ve sat down and honestly forgiven everyone who I felt had ever done me harm, including him, God.

(He takes a mirror from the bag and holds it in his hand.)

You know, of all the people, you were the ones I was afraid of seeing the most. It’s what you represent to me, you know. Forgiving myself: the baby. That’s been the hardest thing. Forgiving myself. For everything. And I mean everything! And I feel lighter, you know, all the time. Do you know how free, how light, you feel when you forgive? When you give, you get. Forgive, forget. Let go of the pain you’ve been carrying, holding tight to yourself for all those years. And so I know I’m ready now. To try again, you know. Maybe do things differently this time. Try to make it up to a few people.

(He closes his eyes.)

There she is! My angel! And she’s singing: everything I’m going to do; everything I’m going to be. Hey, I think I like this song!