The bus was almost full now, and the driver climbed in, cigarette glued to his lips, and off we went. We vibrated with the rhythm of the clattering engine. Sun streamed onto my face, and outside, the spire of the city’s symbol—Stalin’s Palace of Culture—reached so high into the soft-blue sky it made your neck hurt to look at it. I was strangely elated. I had always liked the act of leaving, the expanse between departure and arrival when you’re seemingly nowhere, defined by another kind of time. This journey reminded me of the ride I’d taken four years earlier: the day I’d taken the train to Warszawa for the first time by myself, to come to the capital, to leave my old self behind. I’d stood on the platform with Granny, two large suitcases next to us, a handkerchief in her gloved hand dabbing her glassy eyes. She didn’t want me to go, but she didn’t say anything. I was eighteen, itching to leave. I’d kissed her hastily and gotten on the train, feeling selfish to be leaving her, dragging the suitcases to my compartment, passing smoking soldiers leaning out of the window in the narrow corridor. I’d settled into my compartment, between men in worn suits and women in hats, drinking tea from flasks and peeling apples and eating boiled eggs wrapped in white-lace cloths like christened babies. The train had moved off, and I’d fallen into a lull, villages sunk in forests rushing past. Selfish. Growing into yourself is nothing but that.

Our bus drove onto a bridge to cross the Wisła. The trees were a clear green, and the banks of the river filled with them like a head of dense curls. The smell of linden trees and lilac was in the air, sweet and colorful and intoxicating, submerging the city. The sandy shores were deserted, making the whole embankment appear wild. If it hadn’t been for the tops of the gray tower blocks just behind the thickness of the trees, it would have looked as if no human had ever lived here.

I turned back to Karolina. She was smoking, her wide lips painted coral red and leaving a mark on the mouth of the cigarette. I can’t remember ever having seen her without that lipstick or without the dark-blond fringe that framed her unruly eyes.