The Dreamer
Jan's head was hanging heavy on his chest. From time to time he would open his eyes, close his mouth and rest his head on the back of the seat. The sounds of the rustling newspaper, the occasional announcements were reaching him, but didn't stir his sleep. He was conscious of the fact he both asleep and awake. He was conscious of the fact that his life was changing. The voice of the air hostess faded away. He was driving along a wide motorway. The landscape was barren and apart from him there was no one else there. The road seemed to have no end. At once the asphalt melted and the wheels of the car got stuck. The engine was choking. The desolate landscape was no longer there. He was now in the traffic jam. People kept leaving their cars and walking. Walking past his car. Looking at him. Everyone had his mother's face.
                           you don't really care janek leaving me like this
Crying. Waving to him. 
                        like this surrounded by the four walls, six walls, stuck
Asking him to stay. 
                           you must be hating me and i gave you life
And then turning their faces away from him. 
                                                                    go then go! i'll be fine! fine! nie martw sie!

He opened his eyes and tried to remember where he was. His neck was stiff and sore. He looked to his side and saw a round plastic window frame and through it – the clouds. One resting on top of another. He felt indifferent to their effusive beauty. Uncle Jurek loved the clouds and would recite this children's poem about Dyzio the Dreamer. Dyzio would lie on the grass and feel sorry that the clouds were not like vanilla cream or that the sky wasn't just a chocolate cake. Uncle would tell him the poem many times and would say it was a good survival poem for children who had to grow up in communism. When the shop shelves were empty and you had to queue for hours to get some toilet paper – then only imagination could save people from losing hope. Eating vanilla clouds with a teaspoon. Reaching out to the chocolate sky. Jan would always see them differently. Just like his uncle. The dreamer.
 

He felt hungry. In an hour or two he would be there, he thought. He would find a hostel, leave his suitcases and get the famous Scottish fish and chips. Then he would start looking for a flat and a job. New friends. Later, he thought. Later. The silence was what he was looking for. 

 why are you leaving, son, look what you're doing to your mother
Tak. He wouldn't have to explain anything to anyone. 
                                                                   play bach again
He couldn't wait to discover the new city. Favourite cafés. A local bakery. A small newsagent's with daily papers and milk. To see what day of the week would be most exciting and which one would the most boring. It had to be different than back home. Home every day was boring. 

      son play us some chopin again play bach again
The feeling of familiarity had little to do with comfort, thought Jan. 
                                                                                             so lovely
Stagnation.
                                     our son we were so proud of you
His body shook in the seat as the plane was going through the turbulent air. Some passengers were trying to get back to their seats. Even the flight, he thought, even this made him feel alive. The risk of being up in the air. The possibility of falling down. It didn't scare him. He enjoyed toying with the idea of death. His body weightless. A falling leaf in the wind. Dashing down. He looked at the man sitting next to him and wondered what he was like and whether he was afraid of death. He might have a family in Scotland. Maybe he was Scottish. Maybe he was one of those people who were happy with their lives and the world, one of those who didn't question anything but took life as it came. Jan wasn't one of them. Maybe that man wasn't one of them either. Maybe he was just like Jan going somewhere new, "turning over a new leaf" as they would say in Britain. His chest was rising and falling, Jan noticed. His breath was relaxed too. He looked through the plane window again but saw nothing but a grey mass of clouds, like steamy fog enveloping everything. Jan kept looking at it waiting for the landscape to emerge. They were closer and closer to the ground. He was about to set his foot on the land he hadn't conquered yet. But he would, he smiled and closed his eyes.
 

The grey stone contrasted with the blue sky. Several seagulls hung in the air hovering over Jan's head. He was surprised by their size. Unlike in Krakow, there were hardly any pigeons. He was close to the sea. The air smelled of sea salt and something else he couldn't quite identify. The sun made the buildings shine like silver. The tenement houses were hugging one another giving the impression of communal safety and togetherness. Jan felt safe dragging his suitcase along the pavement. He stopped and looked at the street map. He was two blocks away from the hostel he had booked. He got off the airport bus too early, but he was glad he could see this symmetrical part of the city. It looked expensive. Maybe these houses were owned by solicitors or doctors. The pavements were clean. There was no one in the street. As if it was the middle of the night. The street was guarded by tall street lamps. Jan wished he could afford to live here. He would in a few years. The flat he could afford to rent would most likely be in another area. He didn't mind. It was part of his exploration of the city which had now become his new home. Home, he thought. This was what Uncle Jurek must have experienced when he arrived in a foreign country all those years ago. It could have been anywhere, Jan thought. Uncle didn't know any foreign languages. He must have struggled to get by. Not understanding anything. Disoriented. Jan looked at the buildings to check what the name of the street was. Drumsheugh Gardens. 'Gardens' meant 'ogrody', but Jan had no idea what the first word meant and how to pronounce it. He would know soon. In a few months everything would be decoded and known. Every corner of the street. All the trees. The sound of the fire engine. The chirping of the birds. The taste of tap water.
 

Day seven. The seventh day of silence that Jan was becoming disturbed by. The hostel he was staying in was run down. The paint was peeling off the walls. The bathroom was covered in mould. It seemed to be more of a waiting room than a hostel. Those who were staying here were no tourists. Most of them stayed here because they didn't know what to do, where to go. They rarely spoke to one another. Nothing much happened here, except when someone decided to smoke at the window. Jan didn't feel like going outside, so he kept lying on his bed watching two men rolling their cigarettes.
'Me Pablo. You?'
'I Misha.'
'Hi Misha.'
'Hi Pavlo.'
'Pablo. No Pavlo.'
'Pablo.'
'Me Brasil. You?'
'Me Ukraina. Brasil hot?'
'Si hot. Ukraina nice?'
'Yes nice. Very.'
'You work?'
'I look work tomorrow.'
'Me look work tomorrow.'
 

Here it didn't matter where everyone was from. They were all the same – foreign jobseekers full of hope. They were here because they were looking for something better. If people thought they were unique, here they would be reminded they were just like thousands of others, thought Jan. He needed to get out of this place as soon as he could. He checked his watch. He would look around the town again, he thought getting up and putting his jacket on. He said 'see you' as he was leaving the room, but no one responded.
 

'Mate,' the ginger guy at reception shouted as Jan was heading towards the exit.
Jan turned round and pointed at his chest.
'Aye, you. What's your name?' he asked.
'Jan.'
The man nodded.
'Hi Jan,' the ginger fringe covered the man's eyes as he looked down at the desk.
'Hi.'
'Seaeyvebeanwatchingyefoweekenwaswondrenwhatcha doing here.'
Jan watched his lips, separating the mumbled string of sentences into words.
'Doing I doing,' he started, 'I looking for home, for flat.'
The words didn't come easily. He could almost hear his brain thinking loud sentences in Polish. His lips felt stiff.
'Oh aye. Haveousennyunnsteanythinen this hostel wethenda last week?'
'Sorry?' Jan struggled to put the words together.
'Oh, you don't speak English, do you?'
'I speak,' Jan protested, 'but I don't understand you.'
The man laughed.
'Never mind.'
'Sorry?'
'Nothing. Nothing,' the man said and picked up the phone.
 

Jan was standing looking at him. He felt ridiculous. He didn't understand anything apart from random words. How was he going to find a job, he asked himself. He realised he was afraid. The initial sense of safety had disappeared. He went outside and walked straight ahead.

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