NA ZACHODZIE BEZ ZMIAN:

Sometime near the end of the first decade of the new millennium, I embarked on a journey with Szymon K. — a tragic (or maybe tragically comic) character, a lost young man swept away by the current of life, trying to stay afloat by clinging to every drifting piece of trash and debris around him. Today I know I was describing the new reality of Generation Y. Back then, it was mostly just the gritty urban landscape — marked by drugs and casual relationships. I tried to reflect all that internal chaos and surrealism in the text layer of the story, which I published at the time on a literary blog (remember those?!), Na Zachodzie bez zmian. A fun fact — I also drew the illustrations myself, back when I still had the patience and free time to focus on that too.

A couple just passed by, stealing a glance at his hunched-over figure. Following them with a vacant gaze, he tries to gather his thoughts. The trash can he’s clinging to feels inhumanly cold. Inhumanly cold? Where did that phrase even come from? By all logic, shouldn’t it be humanly cold? He might even prefer holding on to this bin over a person, though at the moment, tying his thoughts into a neat braid with a ribbon of conclusion proves far too difficult. Riding the wave of this trichological terminology, he might even say his thoughts had just been freshly teased.

Damn, why is it so dark on this street?

Feeling his way along the wall like a teenager fumbling through his first time in the dark, he tries to make it to the end of the alley — where the veins of the city converge into its main artery.

There’s a streetlamp he can lean against. Trying to illuminate the darkness of that familiar saying, he flicks a lighter and lights a cigarette. Instant clarity. If it weren’t for that idiom, he wouldn’t even be smoking. He had quit.

A light drizzle perfectly outlines the soft glow of the lamp. A faint throb in his temple gives birth to a thought — of a moth drawn to light, perishing by choice.

He walks away from the lamp, his whole posture broadcasting “just out for a stroll, officer, nothing suspicious here.”It’s hard to say whether the glances he throws over his shoulder are to check for followers… or to search for moth wings sprouting from his own back.

As he nears the anti-destination of his journey, the street begins to buzz with the evening crowd. More and more blurred faces drift past — some from the right, some from the left. Trying to fix his gaze, he attempts to capture even a single frame, a portrait, a detail — to feed his hunger for aesthetic stimuli.

But his mind — the cruelest of sadists — demands what it forbids him to obtain, locking him in a claustrophobic cell of helplessness.So he surrenders to instinct — or autopilot, as aviation enthusiasts might call it.

The distant glimmering lights belong to the place he’s been heading toward all evening. The journey doesn’t feel unpleasant — though the more he thinks about it, the more he figures he’d better just fucking forget it.

A quick self-check boils down to one essential point: jacket — check, no issues expected.

Crossing the threshold of this temple, he passes a bouncer crowned with a halo of neon. A reliable sign he’s nearing his own kind — fallen angels of the night.

The line between holiness and sin — already barely visible by design — drowned long ago in the blinding glow of nightclub lights.

I think Szymon’s hopeless romanticism hasn’t aged a bit. The texts themselves were mostly playful word exercises, exploring the limitless possibilities of language. Sudden shifts in narrative tense, nesting introspection, drunken dissociation, and sharing a body with a metaphorical autopilot — these were recurring themes in Szymon K.’s story. And just like in real life, tragedy often dances with comedy — though sometimes it’s hard to recognize humor when you’re the one living it.

Seating his surprisingly light body with surprisingly heavy effort on the barstool, he orders a double whiskey on the rocks. The mad nectar of the gods from the ancient States. Too bad no one believes in them anymore. He sinks into a brief melancholy, only to bounce back, revived by a bracing meta-reflection: if his consciousness can still tap its foot to the rhythm of such a creative mental dance, then the worst must surely be behind him. Any second now, his vision will sharpen. There it is — his drink. Let it be cold. He doesn’t like warm drinks. Forgetting his earlier vow to open his eyes, he closes them instead, savoring the disgustingly wonderful taste. His imagination carries him to the familiar world of an old wooden distillery, where Jack Daniel himself (cowboy hat mandatory) is personally overseeing the batch that Szymon K. now gets to enjoy.

"You really like it," Jack notes in a velvet voice.

Szymon isn’t quite sure if it’s the fact that the master himself deigned to acknowledge his appreciation, or the tone in which he spoke, that makes him lazily, yet with effort, squeeze out a drawn-out:

"Yeeah..."

Struggling to find the proper words to express his admiration for one of the greatest men in history — one mustn't say just *anything* on such an occasion — he raises his glass slightly.

"Ave, morituri te salutant!" he shouts, proud of his lofty toast. But Jack stiffens. Did the toast somehow offend the master? Now would be a good time to revisit that delicate matter of proper etiquette between people. Did he cross a line? But then, the old American smiles, and Szymon can’t help but notice the finely carved cheekbones. And that tiny beauty mark by his eye, a pinpoint that pulls the gaze like a magnet — like a black diamond begging to be studied from ever closer...

Only... isn’t that smile a bit *too* charming? With miles of desert in every direction, the old geezer probably hasn’t seen a living soul in ages. Genius, which Daniel undoubtedly possesses, has a way of warping people. Who knows what lurks in his twisted mind? How many ways he might be preparing to handle a defenseless young man in those dark, damp fantasies glinting in his lightly lustful eyes.

Or maybe that growing light is the result of something slipped into the drink? People talk a lot about rohypnol these days. Szymon once planned to challenge it. Right now, the thought of succumbing to its effects fills him with deep sorrow. Et tu, Jack? — the thought cuts through his mind just as the old Yank’s face melts away, revealing beneath it an autumn-red nymph wrapped in an obsidian gown, as though cooling after the blaze of her fiery hair.

The initial disorientation gives way to understanding. Noticing the bartender sneaking glances at him between customers, Szymon realizes his imagination may have drifted a bit too far.

"Nice to finally meet you. I’m glad you’re back," says a familiar voice. Turning his head toward the mysterious speaker comes surprisingly easy, though he could swear the supposedly simple action took him the duration of three drinks to complete. His gaze lands on a flame-haired woman in a shimmering black dress seated beside him.

"You look familiar... Didn’t you have some famous grandfather?" he blurts out, surprised not just by the words but by how perfectly they echo what he’d just been about to ask.

"Not that I know of," she says with striking sincerity. "But you might come from a famous family. You look like a..." — she tilts her head slightly to take in his appearance, and her red-gold hair falls away, revealing a long, elegant neck. Szymon allows himself a second of childhood regression, letting his gaze slide down it like a toddler on a playground slide, experiencing pure bliss in the brief descent. Back then, the end of the slide meant the end of fun — but today, it’s only the beginning.

"...painter," she finishes, as if she hadn’t noticed his not-so-subtle indiscretion. "Today, I could be a painter," thinks Szymon, kicking off a storm of thoughts in his gray matter. First rule of the mind: Never tell the truth!

"No, no, no," he tsks in admiration, trying to wear nothing but encouragement on his face. "Your intuition almost makes me envy you for being a woman. I paint for fun sometimes. You could say that makes me a painter."

For a moment he basks in the brilliance of his own reasoning, before rejoining the conversation just in time to catch:

"...I'd love to see them."

Gotcha!

"You’re welcome to visit my studio," he says, barely suppressing a grin at his own line, "but only if you lift the veil... of your little black secret."

Once again, his gaze sweeps over her figure, wrapped in shimmering fabric. Blending slight embarrassment with rising curiosity, the stranger lets out a soft laugh, and Szymon feels the fleetingness of that laugh melt his heart.

She falls silent, watching him closely, then narrows her eyes slightly and leans in, planting her feet wide enough to lift her hem and let him glimpse the inside of her thighs. In an instant, Szymon’s heart reshapes itself, tempered like steel by the fiery-haired blacksmith.

"I need to go to the bathroom. Will you wait here for me?" she asks, rising.

"Or would you rather come with me?" she adds, whispering directly into his ear — a whisper that sends a warm shiver down his spine. Even if the whisper was just a projection of his aroused mind, the goosebumps are 100% real.

Unable to shake the image of her long legs, he follows. He has no idea where the bathroom is, but the direction is unmistakably marked by two perfectly round cheeks tracing hypnotic circles ahead of him.

"I bet three drinks she’s wearing red lingerie," he wagers in his mind.

"Deal!" his inner jury responds without hesitation.

"FORST" TV SHOW:

Fast forward to 2023, when I took on a job during the pre-production of the Forst TV series. Based on the novels by Remigiusz Mróz, the story required working through the source material and creating an index that the production team could later build upon. Although the series itself only covered the beginning of the book saga, I went through all the volumes available at the time.

Anyone familiar with Mróz’s work knows what to expect — I didn’t :)Well… it was an interesting experience.

PART II
Chapter 10

WHO: Dominika Wadryś-Hansen, Dominika’s cousin (on the phone), Edmund Osica (on the phone)

WHERE: Streets of Zakopane

Wadryś-Hansen decides to interview Wika Bielska, the woman Forst mentioned. On her way to Bielska’s apartment, she receives a call from her cousin, who’s taking care of the prosecutor’s children and would like their mother to return. Osica also calls with a revelation — a new body has been found. In Raptawicka Cave, a woman in her thirties, with a coin in her mouth! Wadryś-Hansen turns around outside Bielska’s house and heads to the crime scene. It’s early morning — if the killer is coming down from the trail, there might still be time to catch him.

Chapter 11

WHO: Wiktor Forst, Dolly, Mysza, the kidnapped girl Noelia Calavera

WHERE: Luxury yacht during a cruise, Bałajew’s estate

Continuation of Chapter 9.

Forst shoots up on the yacht. In one of the cabins, he discovers that some girls allow sheikhs to defecate on them. He discusses this with Dolly, and the conversation then turns to the kidnapped girl held in the garage. Dolly knows something about the situation and tells Forst the girl is being kept because she’s “high value” — and that, for his own safety, he should stay away from it. Naturally, the former inspector decides to get involved. He returns to the villa, shooting up again on the way. He goes down to the garage with Mysza. Inside, tied to a chair, sits a wounded girl. Forst recognizes her. Things just got even more complicated.

Chapter 12

WHO: Dominika Wadryś-Hansen, TOPR rescue worker Kuruc, police officers

WHERE: Raptawicka Cave

Continuation of Chapter 10.

Wadryś-Hansen arrives at the cave where the body was found. On site, she finds the TOPR rescue worker, Kuruc, next to the body — he was called in by one of the police officers. She’s not happy about his presence and orders a search of his belongings. The victim turns out to be Wika Bielska — the very person Forst had recommended contacting. In her mouth is a Spanish 10-euro coin.

PART III

Chapter 12

WHO: Dominika Wadryś-Hansen, Wiktor Forst (on the phone)

WHERE: Police Chief Osica’s office

Wadryś-Hansen speaks with Forst over the phone. He tells her about Gomoła’s affair and that the killer had called his lover with a blackmail attempt. After talking to the woman, Forst was able to obtain the killer’s phone number. He gives it to the prosecutor, who checks its location. A tactical operation involving the anti-terrorist unit is being prepared. During the call, Forst expresses concern that they’ll shoot the killer on the spot — and he also knows that soon, he’ll have to reveal the truth about Krieger’s identity.

Chapter 13

WHO: The killer, Dominika Wadryś-Hansen

WHERE: Inside a car, one of the roads near Zakopane

The killer is pleased with how things have turned out. She had deliberately told Forst about Gomoła’s affair to steer him in that direction. The phone that Wadryś-Hansen was now tracking had been intentionally planted by the killer at a specific location — where the prosecutor was currently headed. The killer is following her. On one of the curves, she rams Dominika’s car with her own, sending it off the road. The killer approaches the barely conscious prosecutor, who seems to recognize her. The name "Robert" is spoken.

Chapter 14

WHO: Wiktor Forst, Robert Krieger

WHERE: Roadside near Zakopane — the crash site

Forst had predicted that the killer wouldn’t fall for the setup, that she would try to use Gomoła’s affair to her advantage and plant the phone to lure Wadryś-Hansen in. He also knew she would follow her — so he followed both of them. Now the former inspector is standing next to the crashed car, aiming a gun at Krieger. His old friend, who suffers from gender dysphoria.

It was him — he is the killer.

All his life, Robert tried to suppress his sense of being a woman, and only after the murder of Edyta — the girl who had killed the others in the container (including Robert’s daughter) — did he gain the strength to fully identify as one. He wanted Forst to follow his trail and deliver justice, which is why he kept killing — to force Forst to act.

Now, despite the gun aimed at him and Forst’s warnings, Krieger keeps approaching. He tells Forst that he can either let him go… or pull the trigger.

Forst chooses the latter.

CREATIVE TRANSLATIONS:

Working with language also means working as a translator. It’s only when you take on creative translations that you truly understand why they’re considered separate literary works. What did the author really mean — and how do you convey that faithfully in both form and content?

I’ve done some translation work myself — for example, translating film subtitles. In general, the quality of dialogue translations in Poland leaves a lot to be desired and often feels like it's done just to “get it over with.” But it doesn’t have to be that way.

Take Soul Men, for instance — it was a blast not only for the viewers, but also for me as the translator. I had an absolute laugh working on it :)

Od wojny, nędzy i od głodu

Sponiewieranej krwi narodu

Od łez wylanych obłąkanie

Uchroń nas Panie!

Od nieprawości każdej nocy

Od rozpaczliwej rąk niemocy

Od lęku przed tym, co nastanie

Uchroń nas Panie!

Od bomb, granatów i pożogi

I gorszej jeszcze w sercu trwogi

Od trwogi strasznej jak konanie

Uchroń nas Panie!

Od rezygnacji w dobie klęski

Lecz i od pychy w dzień zwycięski

Od krzywd, lecz i od zemsty za nie

Uchroń nas Panie!

Uchroń od zła i nienawiści

Niechaj się odwet nasz nie ziści

Na przebaczenie im przeczyste

Wlej w nas moc, Chryste!

From war and hunger, squalid mud

From poor, manhandled nation's blood

From tears that are frantically poured

Please save us Lord!

From nights that gleam with wicked rays

From hands collapsed in deep malaise

From fear of future unexplored

Please save us Lord!

From conflagration, fire blows

And even worse dismaying throes

From fright as we lie dying, gored

Please save us Lord!

From resignation when we've lost

From pride when seeing foes exhaust

From wounds, but then from vengeance’ sword

Please save us Lord!

Save us from them hate and evil

So there will be no upheaval

And with forgiveness that's unpriced

Strengthen us Christ!

But the true flexibility of language is most evident in poetry translation. For example: I used to dedicate quite a bit of time to running an Instagram profile, where I posted photos of often ordinary elements of everyday life — moments captured in the flow of reality. One day, I photographed a small roadside shrine placed in the courtyard of a pre-war tenement house in Warsaw. What drew me in most was the contrast — a burst of color against a backdrop of crumbling walls.

While searching for a fitting caption, I started to wonder why these sacred waypoints continue to draw such attention, no matter how bleak their surroundings may be. Considering the immense tragedy that befell Warsaw, I found the perfect explanation in the haunting Prayer of Bonawentura by Jan Romocki — a poem sung by the Warsaw Uprising soldiers.

Since I was running the profile in English and couldn’t find any translation of the poem, I decided to do it myself — focusing on preserving the rhyme scheme, stresses, caesura, and rhythm.