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Polish writing
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from FAREWELLS TO PLASMA
by Natasza Goerke
translated from the Polish by W. Martin
umbrella
The narration will drag on into infinity, but the man to whom I owe the most important moment of my life is P.
Hammer-Hammer. The permanent state of non-realization I glimpsed on the pale face of P. Hammer-Hammer one day in an
umbrella shop revealed to me what hours of introspection in the company of the most sought-after mirrors in the
world would not have been capable of revealing. And although many, many days have passed since that moment, I'll
never (never! never!) forget the expression on P. Hammer-Hammer's face.
I caught sight of P. Hammer-Hammer on a July afternoon, in, let's say, an umbrella shop on the corner of Cesar Hoop
Street. The umbrellas are just for decoration, props that allow me to redistribute the weight of meaning and arrive
at that crucial moment when P. Hammer-Hammer showed me his face.
P. Hammer-Hammer did not even notice that I had come in; he was lost in thought, looking for an umbrella. The
salesman was smiling just like any umbrella salesman would smile on a sunny July afternoon, but P. Hammer-Hammer
took no notice of that smile; he was lost in thought, looking for an umbrella.
July, afternoon, an empty shop with, let's say, umbrellas and the three of us: a salesman, P. Hammer-Hammer,
and myself. I don't remember which one of us was the most non-present.
Practically petrified, I stood before the vitrine, and without a word (of course) fixed my gaze on the pale face of
P. Hammer-Hammer. I observed the way he finally picked out an umbrella (which was merely a prop, decoration for the
moment to happen in), politely allowed the salesman to wrap it in finely patterned paper, and — with a thrilling
expression of permanent non-realization on his pale face — carefully signed the check with his hyphenated (why?)
last name.
Throwing me a blank look, P. Hammer-Hammer carelessly slipped the checkbook into his pocket, picked up the umbrella,
and without a word (of course), walked out of the shop.
Sometimes the devil shows up in the mirror, proof of everyone's worst fears about hell; all of a sudden, the
suppressed grimace succeeds in adorning your familiar face. Unexpected, a surprise, a blow to your third eye. This
is how the devil shows up in the mirror.
I caught sight of the devil on a July afternoon, in an umbrella shop, let's say. Get out! Get out! I thought
and, sensing his pale face on me, indifferently picked out an umbrella.
With a smile on my face (and oh what a smile, my God!), I walked with the finely packaged umbrella out of the
shop, and with the checkbook clenched in my hand, made my way without a word (of course) up Cesar Hoop Street on a
July afternoon.
And the narration? The narration will drag on into infinity. Days will pass. Hundreds of days will pass, each of
which could just as easily never come to pass, or pass in the opposite direction, or pass me by and happen for
someone else entirely.
And this is something I've known for certain from the moment I saw the face of P. Hammer-Hammer.
© Natasza Goerke
Translation © W. Martin
© Twisted Spoon Press
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ISBN 978 80 86264 15 8
140 pp.
145 x 205 mm
softcover with flaps
2 duotone illustrations
short fictions
Price of €13.00 includes airmail worldwide
Order in the US ($14.00):
Amazon
Powells
SPD
Order in the UK (£8.95):
Amazon UK
The Book Depository
Central Books
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