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Jerozolimskie, passed the trams for Praga, pushed through the human carpet rolling down the steps from the Domy Centrum department store, passed the tram stops for Ochota, and began the circle again. Because it was safe here, and what was left of the blood in his veins moved him in the safe orbit of his madness. Besides, he knew he looked awful, so it was better to stay underground. Scraggly beard, greasy hair, skin as if the winter had gone on forever and the sun was stupid scenery used up long ago like an old battery. “Fucking nuts,” he thought. “One more lap, and I’ll go up.” But he did three, because the plain, dead faces meant he could imagine himself one of many He put his hand under his sweater and felt for his cigarettes. Some cops had pushed a wino into a dark corner. Four guys with caps on backwards were walking side by side. Headed for him, so he turned off and came out on a street next to a Vietnamese kiosk that smelled strange, while the palace cast its great shadow across the bare branches of the maples. Half the city could have fitted into that shadow standing shoulder to shoulder. It wasn’t the shelter he was after. He moved west, along the row of stalls, where in the five minutes before they left town Russians were going through the clutter of displays in search of pornography, high-end cigarettes, and presents. In the distance was the train station: angular, massive, driven into the ground as if it had fallen from a height. He made for it but got
no closer. When thoughts pass too quickly through a person’s head, they’re always ragged, absurd. They detach themselves, are a weight on the chest, as in one of those dreams where running takes you no farther from your pursuers. “Shit, I’ll never get there,” he thought. His body was dry, but he felt covered with cold sweat. Like wind going through him, like being empty inside, filled with nothing but pieces of the city—like a silent film speeded up inside him. “Shit,” he repeated, the beginning of a prayer but he didn’t know what came next. The sky above made huge geometry, but he couldn’t figure out the shape. Afraid to look up. No better than in the elevator, this. He lit a cigarette, took three short drags, three long ones, three short ones again, then reached the steps that led into the bowels of the station. “In Leviathan your stomach plays a march”—a name came to him from somewhere. Cold again, yet he felt warmer.
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    In red glow, kids were trying to beat arcade games: bells, electronic gurgling, shots, and the dismal, sensual sound of tokens swallowed. Jacek approached the boys, but they all shook their heads, eyes glued to the screen, hands gripping the machine tight, because this was their only protection from the world outside. He left, turned right, turned right again, a warm prickling still in his body. He glanced at a clock, quickened his pace. This passage was the busiest in the station. It linked two bus stops, the main hall, the platforms, and the two longest corridors. Plenty of light here, and the crowd was animated, as happens in a place where some come to in hope while others are glad to leave. He began to look for familiar faces. A short, scrawny, mop-haired kid with blank eyes shook his head. The kid was standing by the sliding doors—the only motionless figure in an unbroken stream of bodies. Jacek went toward him, but the kid
looked away. By the escalator to the platforms stood a girl in flared brown pants and a stained sheepskin jacket. Below, the rust-colored roof of a railroad car was passing, the train headed for the other side of the river—Białystok, Moscow, maybe even farther. He couldn’t tell whether she recognized him, because her eyes were bottomless. Unable to remember he name, he just asked:
    â€œWhat’s going on? Is there any?”
    She shrugged, regarded him. He saw a blackened tooth, and she was also