The revelation, if such a grand word can survive grainy underground coffee in a bakery chain called Putka, happened at Świętokrzyska station in Warsaw.
The Holy Cross.
Of course it did. This is Poland, c’mon, keep up!
The Man noticed this immediately and was annoyed.
Not more religious symbolism.
Please.
But there it was.
Beneath Warsaw – destroyed, rebuilt, destroyed again, rebuilt again – the Cross remained underground carrying people quietly from one place to another.
M1 to M2. M2 to M1.
One north–south. One east–west.
Streets above had been moved and renamed, histories changed owners. Families migrated, borders changed shape. Whole worlds ended above.
God, thought the Man, I love this place.
He bought coffee and a cake, which sat on the tray with quiet confidence.
Whole and full of possibility.
He sat above the platforms and watched people moving below. A Third Man moment, he thought. Tiny people scuttling. Insects below them too. Orson Welles high above the city.
Nobody stood before the route map wondering whether Line One represented desire and Line Two obligation.
At the next table sat an old man.
The kind of man who looked like he had survived several ideologies. Small coffee. Careful coat. Craggy face.
A noise then emerged from beside a nearby rubbish bin. A man in layered coats was rearranging its contents with great concentration.
Not rummaging exactly. More like work. Every object lifted, examined, returned or kept. Another supply chain. Another ecosystem.
Without turning he said: “Sammy.”
The old man sighed.
“How’s Godot?”
The old man closed his eyes.
“Still not coming.”
“Told you.”
He giggled and continued working.
The Man looked between them.
The old man shrugged.
“We know each other,” he said.
The bin man saluted through the window.
A thin tired craggy salute returned reluctantly.
The bin man saluted again.
This time, the old man ignored him and looked at the cake.
Then at the Man.
Then back at the cake.
“You people have a strange expression.”
The Man already regretted going to Putka. Who is My People? And you’re Irish, don’t we speak the same language?
The old man nodded at the plate.
“Having your cake and eating it.”
The Man smiled automatically.
“That’s a French thing, I think,” the Man said. Or was that about facilitating the less affluent’s consumption of cake? The Man is not sure.
The old man looked disappointed.
“It’s not important. But you are misunderstanding cake.”
The Man looked at him. “Oh God, why do I seem to attract these random nutters,” he says to himself.
“What do you mean?” he smiled.
The old man pointed.
“Once eaten, cake ceases to exist.”
The Man laughed and sipped at his coffee. “And…?”
The old man continued.
“You modern people imagine decisions are reversible.”
“You leave but expect belonging. You love but expect freedom. You consume and expect more cake.”
The Man smiled.
“That’s flexibility. Pivoting,” he said.
The old man nodded.
“Yes. Le pivot.”
The Man looked away.
At this point the Boy appeared carrying absolutely nothing.
Nobody had seen him arrive.
He sat down. Looked at the cake. Looked at the old man. Looked at the Man. From man to cake and cake to man.
Then frowned.
“Can I have a bit?” he asks, picking up a plastic fork which breaks on impact with the crusty exterior.
“When cake disappears when you eat it where does it go?” he asks.
“I’ll show you.” Another plastic fork seeks entry, this time breaking the crunchy exterior, making its way through the soft creamy section and right into the red heart of the matter.
The old man smiled.
The Boy ignores him.
He rubs his tummy. “It’s still there,” he says. “Just slightly different now.”
The old man leans in.
Interested.
“It becomes us. Blood, energy.”
He looked at the Man.
The Boy continued.
“I thought about this once.”
The Man looked at him.
The Boy shrugged.
“Long ago.”
“1977. Swimming trunks.”
No one was actually witness to this then.
The Boy continued.
“If things change completely are they still themselves?”
The old man smiled.
“Ontology.”
The Boy frowned.
“What’s ontology?”
The old man nodded at the Man.
The Man smiled.
The old man pointed at the manuscript.
“You built an entire language around ontologies that weren’t ontologies.”
The Man said nothing.
The Boy is finishing the last bit of the cake, scraping the plate with a spoon that now looks remarkably similar.
The bin man shrugged and shuffled off.
“Everything breaks,” Sammy says.
He points upwards.
“City.”
Then at himself.
“People.”
“Cake.”
The old man pointed at the manuscript. The Book. This Book.
“And this?”
The Man hesitated. Suddenly another possibility appeared. The Book had not only preserved the loop. It had survived it.
No small thang. But books end. Even ones written by Will Self.
The Boy pointed at the book. “Are we eating this too?”
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