Barbara

Paris - November of 2007. My mother was ill and interned in a hospital while I was in the city on a two-week holiday from work to arrange her flight back home. The first week of my vacation passed and there was little progress: I've been dealing on a daily basis with doctors and nurses, insurance companies and commercial airline companies, yet there still were too many pending issues. So many that it looked doubtful they could all be resolved in a week. 

I met Barbara on one of those cloudy and cold winter days, on a day when I felt especially weary and in want of company to chat with, to talk and laugh about things light and insignificant. She arrived around noon. I let her in my apartment, we briefly introduced each other at the door then she went straight to the kitchen. I grabbed my jacket from the dining room and was about to say goodbye when, through the open door connecting the dining room to the kitchen, I heard her ask: "have you eaten?"

Her question threw me off guard. It sounded more like it was meant to fill the silence rather than to find out about my state of hunger. From what I heard at the time, Eastern Europeans are not known for their sociability - especially when they're communicating in a foreign language that's not very familiar to them. As Barbara is Polish and communicated in broken French I decided to humour her question: "Yes," I replied. "Bread and cheese."      

She shook her head disapprovingly as she took out cleaning products from different cupboards and set them down noisily on the kitchen table. "That's not good. You should eat more."    

I didn't know what to say. She moved quick and with very little grace to all corners of the kitchen, her busy hands opening drawers, taking out a sponge, a towel and other items she needs to clean the apartment. Barbara has been working for my mother for two years, she could clean the place blindfolded. Her shoulder-length blonde hair looked unusually bright in the grey light. I thought we were done talking, so I told her I was heading out and asked if she has all she needs.

"Yes," She answered. 

Somehow, that answer lead to a conversation. That conversation led to another, then another, and another.... Tangents opened up at every word and we made good on them - exploring them enthusiastically until we were lost in a maze of tangents. Poland, France, our lives, food, literature, toilet paper - we touched on as many random topics as we fancied. Barbara is paid to work two hours. We ended up talking for an hour and a half. She literally had to put an end to our conversation and ask me to leave so she could work. 

Walking out into the cold winter day I remember feeling my steps lighter and my spirit lifted. A week later I resolved all pending issues and left for home with my mother. 

*

Last I heard, Barbara left Paris and returned to Poland, her home, to be by her ill mother. While planning my journey across Eastern/Central Europe I thought of looking her up. A neighbour of mine in Paris managed to get the address for me. After I got a hold of her we scheduled a meet for when I visit Krakow.  

We met in Rzesow, her hometown - less than two hours by train from Krakow. The day was cold and grey, somewhat similar to when we first met in Paris. I arrived at the main train station on time, at around 11 am. I couldn't see her anywhere around. In front of me were big grey block-buildings, unkempt middle-aged people shuffled about like it was their full time job. In the parking lot nearby a group of people huddled on the side of a dirty white bus to remove their luggage from the trunk.  A young lady with short red hair ran around the station's entrance as if looking for someone. She ran in one direction behind me, retraced her steps, crossed the street to a dingy hotel then back to where I stood. Her ungraceful gait was strangely familiar. At one point the red-headed woman and I looked at each other. She wore tennis shoes, jeans and a faded green jacket. I recognized Barbara from her eyes: they were very clear and very round, with the distinction of being those of a person ready for a laugh or to jump into a fight.    

We laughed - neither of us believing the moment. Barbara walked me through the sleepy student town towards a restaurant for early lunch. She's now married, has a boy and works in a company as an accountant, her speciality by degree. I told her about my frustrations in life and how I decided to  leave everything behind for a year. At the restaurant, after we placed our order, Barbara confides in me that she's not happy. Her mother pressured her into marriage. She wed a friend she knew for five years, a friend that was all right back then but that has now 'changed.' About her job Barbara mentions: 'Poland has two types of jobs: the first works you like a slave and pays you an ok salary. Everything else pays you a low salary. Cleaning apartments in Paris was not great, but it paid enough and I had a private life..." Our pizza was served and she kept on unloading about how her life changed, how she wishes for the independence of her old life in Paris. More than once she looked me in the eyes and warned me to: "never get married. NEVER." At one point she ran out of words and voices from around us poured into the silence between us. She shrugged and asked what other countries I plan to visit.

There were light moments: at Costa Coffee, after lunch, she tried teaching me how to say 'hi' in Polish (unbelievably difficult) and I gave her some complicated Arabic words to chew on. I, of course, entertained her with a few interesting stories and observations from my travels. After Costa she took me to a bar popular with students and pensioners. There she had me try beer flavoured with strawberry or raspberry syrup - a sacrilege and an awful experience. But these moments were always overshadowed by the reality she had to return to. Eventually the time came when I had to leave. We said  farewell at the station - she gave me a hug, waved goodbye and walked away.

*

In the train, on the way back to Krakow, a text message interrupted my thoughts. It came from Barbara's number and was in Polish. Unfortunately I couldn't go to the apartment I rented to translate the message using Google Translate - I rushed off to a restaurant where I was to meet a Polish acquaintance and her Polish friends for dinner. The night was going well - the food was good and the company pleasant. After our main meal I felt comfortable enough to hand my phone to my acquaintance and ask her to translate the message for me. She let out a brief gasp after reading it and immediately handed the phone to her friend. He put on his glasses, read the message and let out an: 'Oh my God!' before handing the phone to his wife who read it and also gasped. Confused at their reaction I asked why they look so shocked. My acquaintance replied: "the message translates to: 'Stay away from my wife or I will kill you. Leave Poland and never return again.'"

I was expecting something in the lines of 'It was great seeing you again... I really enjoyed our meet...'. So, at first, the translation really confused me. But then I started to feel slightly 'high.' I was extremely flattered by this death threat. Furthermore, as an aspiring artist, such a threat is a rite of passage, a badge of honour. It's ironic: I always thought that one day I will receive death threats because of my creativity, a la Salman Rushdie. It never occurred to me that I could be threatened with my life because I am good company or a good friend. 

After my ego let out some steam my thoughts went to Barbara. I wanted to contact her, to find out if she's fine, but there was no way of doing so without causing more problems. I felt disgusted by the reaction of her husband, yet, at the same time, sadly understood his insecurity. Walking back to my apartment, the crowded streets of Krakow felt claustrophobic and oppressive. I thought of sending her an email, then decided against it. Later on, maybe - after a few months. For the mean time I'll turn off the lights, go to sleep, and, in the next day, keep on moving forwards.