THE FLOWERBED IN THE KILIM

On the wall in the living room hung a multi-colored kilim on which a flowerbed was woven; behind the flowerbed was a little orchard, and in the orchard—a small house under a red cherry tree. The little house was so charming that, every time I looked at it, I was struck with a strange and insurmountable sadness. I wanted to find out who lived in that little house and whose flowerbed it was. The flowers that grew there were truly remarkable—even Auntie’s flowerbed didn’t have those kinds of flowers, nor did her straw hat.

When I put my ear to the kilim, I heard the rattling of moths and the buzzing of bumble bees, while my nose caught the intoxicating scent of flowers, dew, and honey. But no matter how often I gazed at the little house, I was never able to see a living soul there. Yet somebody had to live there, because, looking at the flowers, it was obvious that someone was diligently taking care of them, weeding and watering them.

Sometimes, when I pressed my ear right up against the little house, I was just barely able to hear the clamor of human voices. I wasn’t, however, able to make out exactly what it was they were saying.

The strangest thing was that the seasons would change on the kilim as they would in nature. In autumn, flowers would break off and leaves would fall, leaving the branches bare. Every now and then rain would shower down, and the colors on the kilim would fade. The little house would lose its elegant and fabulous appearance, and the sky above it would spill down like gray lead. In the winter, snow would fall and solidly cover the orchard, weighing down heavily on its branches. And then tiny footprints could occasionally be seen along the snow. Smoke rose from the chimney and the scent of resin would take wing. And, at night, a light would shine in the window, and a dark shadow would spread along the curtains.

I really wanted to end up in that little orchard in the kilim and peek into the little house, but no matter how much I tried to fulfill my dream, the kilim remained just a kilim and would not let me enter it.

A large wall clock was hanging right beside the kilim in a wooden case and behind glass. The wall clock would always stand still, and I never ever heard it tick. Its hands were always stuck in one spot, displaying five minutes before twelve o’clock. The wooden case was locked, and I didn’t know where the key was, otherwise I would have tried to set the correct time long ago.

I would have never noticed any connection between the kilim and the wall clock if it hadn’t been for a certain strange incident. One time, having opened the door to the living room without warning, I saw a male mannequin frozen in an unusual position by the kilim. He stood, bend­ing over and extending his arm as if he wanted to pick a flower. But as I got closer, I saw that he was not trying to pick a flower, but, instead, was trying to pick up a key from inside the flowerbed. I had never noticed any key on the kilim before. And now, it seemed, somebody had lost it.

I pretended that I hadn’t noticed anything and walked out of the living room. After some time, I re-entered the living room and saw that the mannequin was in his usual position and that the key had disappeared. You didn’t have to have an especially wild imagination to figure out where it was.

I bravely walked up to the mannequin and pulled the key out of the pocket of his suit jacket. He ferociously blinked his eyes but didn’t dare to budge.

Now there was only one thing left to do: put the key in the wooden case and see if I’d guessed correctly. But as soon as I attempted to do this, there was a loud squeak. The mannequins turned their heads toward me and popped open their eyes in fright. I saw they were afraid of me.

I turned the key, and the case—creaking and screeching—flung wide open. Then I lifted the lever and the clock moved. The room filled with new sounds, and it seemed like they gave life to all the objects in the room, because they also immediately began making sounds, each in its own way, and, just like that, the whole living room was abuzz. The faces of the mannequins cheered up, anger disappeared from their eyes, and the corners of their mouths were smoothed out.

And not only did the living room come to life, but the kilim, too, seemed to have woken up from its winter slumber—I saw how leaves on trees shook from the wind, how petals shivered, and how the scent of flowers rose up into the air. Everything now looked like it was on a movie screen. I tried brushing my hand along the flowers, but all my fingers could feel was the thick wool of the kilim.

And then, suddenly, everything changed. The wall clock let out a heavy groan, something clanged and made a grinding noise, and the first stroke of the clock sounded. At that instant my hand forcefully broke through to the flowerbed. Without stopping to think, I jumped into the kilim and ran along the path that leads to the little house as fast as I could. Behind me I once again heard that sound.

Right on the third stroke, I ended up by the door and turned the doorknob, but it was locked. I ran up to the window and looked inside. The house was cloaked in twilight, but I was immediately able to recog­nize several things that had been familiar to me since birth. There on the table was the bowl that I had once broken accidentally, and there was Grandma’s vase with its peculiar rhododendron—it had dried up after Grandma died, so Mom threw it out. And there was our cat lying on the pillow, a cat that also had died long ago. There was the bench on which Grandma used to love to sit. And the eyeglass case with her glasses, and her embroidery . . . And all the walls here were decorated with various embroideries. One of them was of me, as a little boy, playing with a kitten.

And the clock behind struck two more times.

I couldn’t pull myself away from the window, recognizing one object after another, and most peculiar was the fact that every one of these objects was connected, in some way or another, with Granny.

Well then, where was she?

I ran behind the house and saw that a yard stretched from behind the bushes all the way down to a narrow little river where ducks were quacking. From the little river, a path climbed up the hill, cutting through the yard, and along this path a hunched-over figure carry­ing buckets was ascending. I recognized this person immediately and, shouting in turn with the menacing grumbling of the wall clock, I yelled:

“Gra-a-an-dma-a-a!”

At first, she thought she was just hearing things and even stopped to look around her. Then she put down her buckets and, after I yelled again, raised her head.

Initially, her face lit up with joy, but then it immediately was over­come with horror. She waved her hands and screamed:

“Run away! Run away at once!”

The clock now struck for the eight time. I don’t know why I was counting these rings.

“Grandma!” I yelled. “I’m coming to you!”

She became even more horrified and started running up the hill, repeatedly imploring me:

“Run away! Go back! Before it’s too late!”

I looked back and saw the frightened mannequins, who were also waving their arms at me, surrounding the kilim.

“BONNGGGG!” The ninth ring sounded.

I didn’t want to leave my Grandma and this delightful orchard! Nevertheless, I saw something in her face that convinced me and, when “ten” sounded, I finally moved and dashed home. As I ran, tears flooded my eyes, and I could hear Grandma’s voice behind me:

“Faster! Faster!”

“BONNGGGG.” “Eleven.”

I tripped over a rock and flew headfirst into the flowerbed. The flowers crunched beneath my feet and squirted dew in my face.

“O, Lord!” Grandma screamed.

Gathering my strength, I was barely able to push myself off the ground and thrust my body forward. The wall clock, with a certain despair and groan, struck “twelve” just as the strong hands of the man­nequins caught me and laid me down on the floor.

I looked at the kilim and saw a familiar scene. Everything now was as it was before. Except that the flowers were a bit squashed. But Grandma would tie them up, straighten them out, sprinkle them with fresh water and, God willing, Auntie wouldn’t notice anything.

I once again immobilized the wall clock, returning the big hand to five minutes before twelve; I closed the wooden case and placed the little key in the mannequin’s pocket.

Tears spilled from my eyes and, for a long time, I was unable to free myself of sorrow over the fact that I didn’t stay with Grandma and with my beloved kitten.

Translated by Mark Andryczyk