The Week of German Cinema Maciej Miłkowski (bio) Translated by Justin Wilmes (bio) 1 At this sort of event the audience is, on the one hand, rather specialized—we are talking about culture after all—and on the other hand quite predictable, drawn from among a small, easily quantifiable group of regulars—we are talking about culture after all. A few are recognizable public figures, almost famous, though the fame of literary critics, translators, even poets is a bit different from that of actors, athletes, or singers. Even the most celebrated poet can visit a crowded marketplace without worrying that he will be obsessively accosted, while picking out a handsome ear of corn, by a group of local youths professing their admiration and undying devotion. Cultural gatherings are also sure to draw a number of academics—steadfastly observing the principle never to veer from their narrow area of specialization. A meeting with a French writer is attended by Romanists, a meeting with a Hungarian writer by Hungarianists. If the relevant languages are not taught at the university in a given city, then discussions with their leading artists often sit empty, if they happen at all. At a recent meeting with a Croatian writer, one such specialist, a lady in the front row—in answer to the translator about whether she needed to translate the Croatian author’s replies—glibly proclaimed, “Of course not! What for?” At the next week’s meeting with a leading Lithuanian writer, somehow I didn’t see this woman. A separate category of regulars is made up of those one knows by sight, those with no particular fame or position, and generally with no professional ties to the topic, and yet coming often enough that their faces lodge in one’s memory. There is nothing to explain such people—perhaps they are simply interested in culture. Such figures occasionally are given some kind of name or pseudonym—at any rate, my wife and I are in the habit of doing this. Maybe we’ve also been assigned nicknames, after all no one knows our names either, and we are regular visitors at all sorts of cultural gatherings. So we have, for example, Grandma Renia, a person who straddles two categories, since apparently her real name actually is Renata. It was her name, rather, since she recently passed away. While alive she sat in the front row at nearly every event. After her death, the frequency of our regular events fell by several dozen percent. There is also Chuck—he is our favorite. Chuck is around six-foot-six, skinny as a beanpole, with a crown of disheveled hair that is graying beyond his years. He is invariably dressed in cargo shorts with enormous pockets, pockets that are [End Page 143] stuffed to unearthly proportions with secret contents. What in the world does he have in there? A bunch of encyclopedias? (A theory supported by the size of the mysterious shapes.) Secret lists of Freemasons who have infiltrated the Vatican, plans for world destruction, the only existing evidence proving unequivocally who killed Kennedy, stocks of uranium capable of blowing up half the city, two canaries in identical cages, a few kilograms of flour in case of war, drinking water from a trusted source, or rocks to throw at his pursuers? There is no doubt that Chuck is psychologically unbalanced. According to bourgeois, statistical criteria, Chuck is mentally ill. He is probably mentally ill according to any set of criteria. But he is most definitely interested in culture, so we think he may be some sort of artist, possibly a writer. Not, say, an academic writer, but rather a solitary talent, a diamond in the rough, chiseled by his own hand. If he is a writer at all, then he is probably the type who tosses cow carcasses, not one who teaches creative writing. He is also undoubtedly—and will remain until the end of his short and tumultuous life—a forgotten artist, and only after his dramatic end will we realize what a brilliant guy he was. He reminded us of Bukowski, which is also where we got the nickname Chuck. Our Chuck. The Polish...