“No, Granny,” I said, smiling into the receiver. “I don’t need money. It looks like I’m going to do a doctorate. I won’t need your help anymore.”

“Oh, Ludzio.” Her voice sounded teary.

“Are you proud of me, Granny?”

“Of course I am.” She sniffed. I leaned my forehead against the cool metal body of the telephone. “And when will you come home, darling? You know that’s what I care about most—seeing you.”

“Soon,” I said, not sure whether or not it was true. “Soon. When they confirm my doctorate. When I’m settled. I promise.”

I hung up, stayed there in the telephone box, in the little halo of the light bulb attached to the ceiling, protected by an iron grid, watching the night outside. My life was a tiny narrow corridor with no doors leading off it, a tunnel so narrow it bruised my elbows, with only one way to go. That or the void, I told myself. That or leave.

The next day we met at the Square of Three Crosses, on the steps of the domed church that stood in the middle like a pagan temple. It was cold and overcast and overwhelmingly, despairingly gray, one of those particularly Varsovian days that makes you think the sun has ceased to exist and fear that your mind might suffocate underneath an impenetrable fortress of clouds.

You were already there when I arrived, your bag lying by your feet. We kissed each other on the cheek. There was a strange air between us, as if we’d become accomplices in a game. Your eyes sparkled with mischief and play. “Ready?” you said, piercing me with them.

I nodded, feeling a wave of nausea, pushing it away.

Their car arrived on the square. I knew it was theirs before it had even stopped. Foreign cars were so rare even I could tell them apart from the two other kinds that one could dream of owning in our country: it was neither a Maluch, the tin can Fiat made for the socialist bloc, nor the Trabant, the larger, clumsier model from East Germany. Here was a thing as smooth and elegant as a panther—a black Mercedes.

It came to a halt by the steps of the church. The passenger window slid down, and Hania, in a pair of gold-colored sunglasses, waved at us excitedly. “C’mon, boys!”

We grabbed our bags and hurried down. We climbed in, onto the brown leather bench in the back, where Maksio’s blonde from the party was already sitting, like a very expensive doll. She wore a short leather miniskirt and a red bandana around her head. Hania introduced her as Agata, and she nodded at us slowly, as if sedated.

“Hey, guys,” said Maksio, turning around from the steering wheel with a smile in his eyes. “Let’s do this!”

“Is anyone else coming?” I asked.