THE LUNCH OF A MAN OF LETTERS
Nobel Prize laureate William Faulkner once admitted that he had become a writer because of his jealousy of Sherwood Anderson. According to legend, Faulkner, back in that time—that is, 90 years ago—protested against Prohibition by engaging in the physically exhausting and legally dangerous practice of distributing contraband Cuban alcohol. On the other hand, Anderson would eat in a restaurant daily and did not look overly tired. Responding to the question of what field of work allowed him to live such a worry-free life, Anderson replied: literature. “Well there’s a good job,” Faulkner thought, “maybe I should take a stab at it.”
I don’t want to insult anyone, but that young Ukrainian poet— whose keyboard tapping floats over to me through the wall during quiet, scholarship-funded nights—and I are somewhat well known. In Poland, at least. Well if not in all of Poland then in Warsaw, at least. Well if not in all of Warsaw then, at least, in the corner store at the intersection of Jana Pawła and Solidarnośc Streets. Having realized—no matter what anyone else might say—this indisputable fact, we decided that it was no longer appropriate for us to prepare our meals ourselves. Not with our status. Especially considering that I don’t know how to cook and that the poet, exhausted from his nighttime creativity, usually woke up right around lunchtime.
It didn’t take us long to find a suitable establishment. Because at the end of Krakowskie Przedmieście Street in Warsaw, there’s restaurant named “Literatka” that features a summer terrace with a view of the royal castle and the square in front of it. The Polish PEN Club and the Union of Writers are located upstairs in this building. Perhaps I’ll drop in someday. And because the restaurant is named “Literatka” and because both the Union and PEN Club are above it, they serve an “obiad literacki”. [1] That meal costs about as much as a cup of coffee in downtown Kyiv. But that’s only if you’re a writer. More specifically—only if your waiter believes that to be true. And he will indeed believe you if you confidently look him in right the eye and say, almost without an accent, “obiad literacki.” And for a person who has spent much time practicing this and who is very hungry, it’s not a very difficult thing to do.
Some of the waiters there, by the way, are not at all indifferent to the fundamental issues of literature. Not long ago, one of them dramatically tossed a spare rib onto the table and directly asked: “Gentlemen, would you agree with me that the duty of a writer, his—using my words—eternal mission, is to paint the conflicts of the human heart while simultaneously strengthening this heart, giving it hope and raising it above everyday life?” “Can’t argue with that,” we replied, “you took the words right out of our mouths.” “So then where, may I ask you, can such writers and such literary works be found today?” “We’re working on it,” we replied, “but first we need to take care of lunch.”
Besides these literary discussions with waiters and the literary pricing, we also really like this place because it gives us the opportunity to passively, and with impunity, mess with the large number of tourist groups that pass by us during their excursions to and from the castle. The groups lift their heads, read the sign “Literatka,” look at those pensive people sitting at the table and think: “And there they’re sitting—the engineers of human souls, masters of the word and the conscience of the nation.” And it’s us sitting there.
Occasionally, some of the passers-by approach us. For example, yesterday a man came up who had so much of the world’s sadness in his eyes that I realized I had to give him something. The man politely asked whether he could have a moment of our time, and then pulled out two tomatoes and said: “Tomatoes . . . what do you think, can something like this save somebody’s life? No, it can’t. But a writer can always come up with a good word and a few coins.”
Yes, a good word and a few coins—that’s probably all that plain folks need from writers today. And come to think of it, that’s what writers need from plain folks.
Notes
[1] Meaning “literary lunch” in Polish.
Translated by Mark Andryczyk