Above the Cobblestones

I looked at Artur from across the cafe table. With his profile to me, I noticed some creases had gathered tightly across his forehead. The pastel faces of the old Olsztyn buildings winked at us in the afternoon sunlight, but he only gazed intently at the thin air before him.
I didn’t know him well, but his eyes were always wide and playful; his cheeks round with laughter. I had never seen him with a look so intense. He was my host of only three months in Poland and yet, he devoted each day to weaving me into Polish life so I could construct a patchwork of experiences to carry away with me.
I followed a worry line in his brow for clues. I thought of the day before, when I’d met his parents Jan and Ania. Both are settled into deep seniority, and from a time when German and Russian were the languages of necessity in Poland. When Jan speaks, a raspy sound comes from his throat. Partially visible above his unbuttoned collar is a dark indent in the centre of his neck, like a grotesque belly button that has tried to heal over. Artur had told me that his father has lung cancer and mild dementia, for which he needs constant attention. He keeps busy with filling page after page of a stamp collection—and scattered around the flat were unsorted stamps, like square-inch bits of confetti that had never been cleaned up after a party. After dinner, Jan had grabbed me like a child eager to show off these toys and point out his favourites of the bunch, each giving him a thrill because of their many foreign origins. Ania had watched us wearily, her eyes dark with want for rest, and I realised that Artur was no longer her only child.
“Artur, you are thinking difficult things,” I said to him in my broken Polish. Roused, his forehead smoothed and he smiled at me. “Yes,” he replied, “I’m often told that.” Then he rose and motioned for me to follow. “There’s an old castle here where you can see the entire town, and even the home of a stork’s nest.” I squinted at him curiously as we made our way to the castle, but the worries behind his eyes no longer creased the surface of his forehead, and he began to point out the way the sun made the windows gleam on the buildings around us.
I knew that he found a simple happiness in showing me his country, and I cherished that I could give something back in that way. So I followed him onward, and as he explained histories and culture, his smile didn’t waver for the rest of the day.
And as I immersed myself in his words, neither did mine.