All in all, why did I come to this nightmarish New York?nTo fill my pockets with dollars, and then to go back andnlive as a money-changer? No. You know that the answer isnno. Out of curiosity? Yes. . . . Somehow yes. But most of allnout of anxiety. Does this legendary America the fertile, thenemotional, the just, the wise, and the generous really exist? Inwent to see for myself— to touch — to try. Because I did notnbelieve the stories of those who returned, or the narcissismnof the Voice of America, or the pessimistic commentaries ofnTrybuna Ludu. I have been cheated too many times in mynforty years of life. I have about twenty years left and thennwhat? Am I going to fizzle out in this wretched Poland —nisolated from the West and the East—and from within? AmnI going to plod along like an old horse with its headnhopelessly down, just to reach the end? To drink myself tondeath, to hang myself as two of my close friends did, in ordernto escape the ever-present lies? Or maybe I should try onenmore time — check? Maybe everything will be different?nFull of fear, excitement, and astonishment at my anxiety,non board of the airplane. Is it real, could it be true, that I,nMichael, am flying now to the legendary New York! FromnTaplar, my village, a place where the windows are notnboarded up, but yet restrictions dominate!nOn the platform, amidst the crowd, there were my wifenand child waving. I waved. . . . Not knowing if it were menor just my arm!nWhen the plane moved, shaking and gradually accelerating,nI was pushed into my seat. Through the window I starednat the runway sneaking under the machine and me,ncreeping faster and faster until the runway finally dropped.nWith it went the grass, the trees, and the roofs, farther andnfarther away. Suddenly something pricked my eyes! Whilenmy arm is still, somebody’s hands are clasped in prayer,nEdward Redlinski is a Polish novelist living in New York.nThis passage is excerpted from his novel Dolorado, andnwas translated by Ewa Bardach-Elkadi.nDoloradonby Edward Redlinskinsomebody is whispering and whining: “Am I ever going tonsee the fields again? Am I going to return to the birches?”nWho is it, so sentimental and lost in prayer?nA yokel. Inside Michael Multiexistent there is Michaelnthe Polish yokel, born in a cottage near the forest, taughtnabout the earth, horses, scythes. Holy Night, and thenmotherland. I’m sitting but he is standing inside me; peeringnout the round window, he salutes.nHe bids a farewell to Poland. Whereas he is sheddingntears and whimpering, another one is bubbling with joy! Atnlast! Hey, we’re flying! Ogling the stewardesses, trying tondecode signs in foreign languages, analyzing the off^erednbreakfast, and peeking at his fellow passengers.n”I’m flying!” he screams.n”Am I really flying to this famous America? Today mynSlavic feet will tread in Manhattan!”nThis one is happy — who is it?nA wanderer. A traveler. Inside Michael Multiexistentnthere is Michael the Wanderer. Antithesis of the yokel, thenbush, the potato, the milksop. He loathes the village,nstagnation, the motherland-provinciality, Slavic lyricism,nand narrow-mindedness. If man is to live once, why is it thatnhe ties himself to one area? Nonsense! Or to one wife?nNonsense! Or to one nation? In Europe alone there arenthirty countries! Add to this some twenty-five beautifulncountries like Australia, India, Japan, and Canada! Countingnthem all, it works out to two countries per person pernyear. Roam, roam! Don’t be like Burek, the dog, who guardsnonly one doghouse.n”There is only one motherland!” answers Michael thenYokel.n”Just like there is only one father and one mother.”n”You, Yokel,” the Wanderer answers. “If you think aboutnit, everything in the worid is unique, is one and only, everynsecond.”n”Like bushes, like trees, which grow only in one placenand extend their roots, piercing the earth and outgrowing it.nnnJULY 1991/29n