I remember the bar.
It was next to the restaurant. Small. Dark. The windows were dirty. The door was wood, scratched, the paint peeling. Inside, there were four tables. Three chairs at each. A counter. A man behind it. Glasses. Bottles. Vodka. Mostly vodka. The bottles were on a shelf behind the counter. Labels I couldn't read. Polish. Russian. Some I didn't know.
I went there sometimes. After work. When the dishes were done. When the kitchen was quiet. When the basement was too dark. When I wanted to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.
I didn't drink. Not then. I sat at the table by the door. I watched. The men came in. One at a time. Two at a time. They ordered vodka. They drank it fast. One glass. Sometimes two. They talked. Low voices. Cigarette smoke. The sound of glasses on the wood table. The sound of the door opening. Closing. Opening. Closing.
I sat there. I didn't speak. I didn't drink. I watched.
I remember the first time Mariusz spoke to me.
He was at the bar. He had been there for an hour. Maybe two. His glass was empty. His hand was on it. His fingers were thick. Calloused. He was not young. Not old. His face was red. From the cold. From the vodka. His jacket was leather. Old. The zipper was broken. He held it closed with a string.
He turned. He looked at me. I was at the table by the door. He came over. He sat across from me. His glass was in his hand. Empty.
"You," he said. "Chinese."
I nodded.
He looked at me for a long time. His eyes were gray. Not like the priest's. Not light. Dark. Like the river in winter.
"You work?" he said.
I nodded. "Restaurant. Dishes."
He looked at my hands. On the table. The cracks. The scars.
"Hard work," he said.
I didn't answer.
He called to the man behind the counter. "Two." He held up two fingers. The man brought two glasses. Filled. He put one in front of me. One in front of Mariusz.
"Drink," Mariusz said.
I didn't move. I had never drunk vodka. I had never drunk anything. In Chongqing, I didn't drink. My father drank beer sometimes. One bottle. On holidays. My mother said it was bad for him. He stopped.
"Drink," Mariusz said again. "You work hard. You drink."
I took the glass. The vodka was clear. Cold. I put it to my lips. The smell was sharp. I drank. It burned. My throat. My chest. My stomach. I coughed.
Mariusz laughed. It was not a loud laugh. A short one. A cough like mine.
"First time," he said.
I nodded. My eyes were watering.
He drank his glass. One swallow. No cough. No water in his eyes.
"You get used," he said. "In Poland, we drink. It is cold. Vodka makes warm."
He called for more. Two more glasses. I did not drink mine. He drank his. Then he drank mine.
I remember the nights after.
I went to the bar. Not every night. Some nights. When I wanted to be somewhere else. Mariusz was there. Most nights. He sat at the bar. Or at the table by the counter. He drank. Slowly. One glass. Then another. He talked. To the man behind the counter. To the other men. To me.
He told me things. About his work. He was a construction worker. Before. Now there was no work. The factory closed. The building stopped. He had nothing. His wife left. His children left. He didn't know where they were.
"She was from the south," he said. "Krakow. She wanted to go back. I said no work there. She said no work here. She was right. She left. I stayed."
He drank. He looked at his glass. The vodka was clear. The light from the window was gray.
"Now I have nothing," he said. "No work. No wife. No children. Only vodka."
He laughed. The short laugh. The cough.
"But vodka is something," he said. "It is something."
I remember the day he told me about the football game.
It was spring. The snow was gone. The bar was less dark. The sun came through the windows. Dust in the light. Mariusz was at the table by the counter. His glass was half full. He was not drunk. Not yet.
He saw me come in. He waved. I sat across from him.
"You know football?" he said.
I shook my head. In China, I did not watch football. My father watched sometimes. On the small television in the noodle stand. I did not watch.
"Poland," he said. "We had a team. Long time ago. They were good. Very good."
He drank. He looked at the window. The sun. The dust.
"I was young," he said. "Sixteen. Maybe seventeen. The game was in Warsaw. The national stadium. My father took me. First time. We sat in the stands. So many people. I never saw so many people."
He put his glass down. He looked at his hands. The thick fingers. The callouses.
"Poland scored. The stadium was loud. Everyone was standing. Everyone was singing. The national anthem. My father was singing. He never sang. Not at home. Not at church. But there, he was singing."
He was quiet for a long time. The dust was in the light. The glass was empty.
"We won," he said. "That night, we went home. My father was quiet again. But he was smiling. I saw him smile. That night."
He looked at me. His eyes were gray. Dark. But not the river. Something else. Something that was there and then gone.
"That was a long time ago," he said. He called for another glass.
I remember the night he told me about his wife.
It was late. The bar was empty. The man behind the counter was wiping glasses. Mariusz was drunk. His words were slow. His head was low.
"She was pretty," he said. "Her name was Helena. She worked in a bakery. I met her when I was twenty. She was nineteen. She had blond hair. Like the girl in the bread stand. Like your friend."
He looked at me. His eyes were not clear.
"You know her? The bread girl?"
"Anna," I said.
"Anna," he repeated. "Helena was like her. Blond. Pretty. She laughed. Always laughed."
He drank. His hand was shaking.
"I was young. I had work. The factory was open. I had money. I asked her to marry me. She said yes. We had children. Two. A boy. A girl."
He put his glass down. He put his head in his hands. His shoulders were shaking. Not crying. Something else. Something that was not crying but was not not crying.
"Then the factory closed. No work. No money. She left. She took the children. I don't know where they are."
He was quiet. The man behind the counter stopped wiping glasses. The room was quiet. Only the sound of Mariusz's breathing. Slow. Heavy.
"I don't know if they are alive," he said. "I don't know if they are dead. I don't know."
He lifted his head. His eyes were red. His face was wet.
"I don't know," he said again.
He drank the last of his vodka. He stood up. He walked to the door. His jacket was open. The string was loose. He didn't close it. He went out. The door closed behind him.
I sat at the table. The glasses were empty. The dust was in the light. The room was quiet.
I remember the day he taught me to say "Na zdrowie."
We were at the bar. It was winter again. The snow was falling. The windows were gray. Mariusz was there. He was not drunk. Not yet. He had a glass in front of him. Full.
He pushed a glass to me. Full.
"Drink," he said.
I picked up the glass. The vodka was clear. Cold. I had drunk before. Not many times. But I knew it now. The burn was still there. But I knew it.
"Na zdrowie," he said. He raised his glass.
"What does it mean?" I asked.
"To health," he said. "You say it before you drink. You say it to the person you drink with. So they stay healthy. So you stay healthy."
He raised his glass again. "Na zdrowie."
I raised mine. "Na zdrowie."
We drank. His was gone in one swallow. Mine took two. The burn was there. My throat. My chest. My stomach.
He laughed. The short laugh. The cough.
"Now you are Polish," he said.
He called for more.
I remember the night he didn't come.
I went to the bar. He was not there. I sat at the table by the door. I waited. The man behind the counter was there. The glasses were on the shelf. The vodka was in the bottles. But Mariusz was not there.
I asked the man. "Mariusz?"
He shook his head. "Not today."
I sat for a while. I did not drink. I watched the door. It did not open. I went back to the basement. The light was dim. The bulb buzzed. Old Li was asleep. His cigarettes were on the bed. The smoke was in the walls. Xiao Liu's bed was empty. The sheets were gone. The shoes were under the bed. I lay down. The water in the pipes was running. Low. Far away. I thought about Mariusz. About his wife. About his children. About the football game. About his father singing. About the vodka. About "Na zdrowie." I thought about the words. To health. But Mariusz was not healthy. He had no wife. No children. No work. Only vodka. And the memory of a football game when he was sixteen. When his father was singing. When Poland won.
I remember the day he left.
I went to the bar. He was there. His jacket was closed. The string was tied. His hair was combed. He had a bag. Small. Brown. At his feet.
He saw me. He stood. He put his hand on my shoulder. His hand was heavy. The fingers were thick.
"I go," he said. "Germany. Work."
I didn't know what to say.
"You stay," he said. "You work. You learn. You get papers. You live."
He picked up his bag. He walked to the door. He stopped. He turned.
"Na zdrowie," he said.
He smiled. It was not the laugh. Not the cough. A smile. Small. Quiet.
He opened the door. The snow was falling. The street was white. He walked away. The door closed. I stood there. The bar was empty. The glasses were on the shelf. The vodka was in the bottles. The man behind the counter was wiping a glass. He looked at me. He said nothing. I went to the table. I sat. I did not drink. I watched the door. It did not open.
I remember the last time I thought about him.
It was years later. I was in another country. Another city. Another language. I was in a bar. A small bar. Dark. The windows were dirty. There was vodka on the shelf. Polish vodka. I had not seen it for a long time.
I ordered a glass. The man poured it. Clear. Cold. I raised it. I said the words. "Na zdrowie."
The burn was there. My throat. My chest. My stomach. I thought about Mariusz. About his red face. His leather jacket. His broken zipper. His short laugh. His cough. His wife. His children. The football game. His father singing. The night he told me he didn't know if they were alive.
I finished the vodka. I put the glass down. I sat in the bar. The dust was in the light. The door was closed. The snow was falling outside. I thought about the words he taught me. "Na zdrowie." To health. I didn't know if he was healthy. I didn't know if he was alive. I didn't know if he found work in Germany. I didn't know if he found his wife. His children. I didn't know anything.
But I remembered him. His hand on my shoulder. Heavy. His smile at the door. Small. Quiet. His voice saying "Na zdrowie." The last time I saw him. The last time I heard his voice. The snow falling. The street white. The door closed.