They say if you’re not growing, you’re moving backward. At least that was what I’d heard from my mother many years ago before she disappeared from my life forever. I shook my head. I had work to do and that was not the time to be drawn into the past. I looked around the bar, checked if the tables were clear, and watered the plants. I still had a couple of minutes till the regulars start coming, yet I didn’t know what I should do. It seemed everything was perfectly fine but I couldn’t shake off the unpleasant itch that I was forgetting something or that something was about to blow up. I didn’t know which one I liked less. Diana opened the door, yet there was no one coming inside. I was puzzled – there was always someone at the bar on Saturday afternoons. I looked outside – the square was completely empty but, what was more concerning, the sky was covered in black clouds. It was going to rain and such weather did not encourage new people to come to the bar. It looked like the night would be quite calm. The first drops of rain hit the display window, and a rumble of thunder could be heard. We sat behind the bar, sipping coffee, trying to find something to do. I couldn’t remember an evening like this. The ring of the bell made me look up from the book I was reading. A tall man in a black raincoat leaned on the door, letting in the gusts of wind. I stood up and managed to catch him before he fell on the ground. The smell of his heavy breathing almost knocked me down but I managed to sit him on a chair. Diana closed the door and asked the man if he needed help, yet none of us knew, how to help. Usually, people are leaving this place in such a state, not come here like that. She… He wheezed, trying to catch another breath. Diana looked at me, probably waiting for translation, since the man was speaking French. Needs… you… The man took out a leather journal and handed me it before he passed out. I put it on the table and called 991; Diana checked the pulse. The man was breathing but, as people say, better safe than sorry. As the paramedics were taking care of the man, I couldn’t shake off the words he told me. Truth be told, I wasn’t even sure they were supposed to be told to me. One of the paramedics asked if we knew anything about the man. We both shook our heads, yet there could be something in his journal. I slowly untied the leather straps of the journal and opened it. No name, no address, nothing. I turned a page. The Curse of Babel. Weird title for a journal but it wasn’t my call to judge. It was written in several languages, some of which I didn’t even recognise. Out of the first few pages I could decipher, the journal mentioned the myth of the Tower of Babel, something about a curse. Why did the man want me to have this journal? I flipped through it, yet one of the pages froze me in place. My hands trembled, I dropped the journal. On the page, in a mysterious journal, there was a portrait of my mother.
Artykuł opublikowany w ramach konkursu pisarskiego „Język w biznesie i życiu”
Autor: Dawid Dębowski