Killing Auntie by Andrzej Bursa

we finished our tea, we lit our cigarettes. The sky began to turn gray. Warmed and tired, we were looking at each other’s faces and hands, which reminded us of our pleasures. We knew it was a beautiful moment. The gray mist clinging to the treetops invited a mood of longing and dreaming. So I began:
    â€œYou may not know it, darling, but my father lives in Buenos Aires.”
    â€œIn Buenos Aires? And you never told me?”
    â€œI’m telling you now. He lives in Buenos Aires and is a very rich man. The only problem is how to get there. Do you think it’s impossible?”
    â€œI don’t know, love,” said Teresa softly, “but since I met you nothing is impossible for me. Before I met you I had never believed in any possibility of changing my fate. And to tell the truth, I never thought of it. But now, when I’m involved in such an extraordinary affair … It is extraordinary, isn’t it, love? But maybe I’m hurting you, talking about it?”
    I didn’t reply. My eyes fixed on the horizon, I sat in silence, deeply moved and happy. Teresa’s father was a forester and she spent her childhood and teenage years among the woods and lakes. Her first steps were blessed by the purity of nature, just as mine were cursed by neurosis. My longing for the forests and animals, stifled by years of misery, and forgotten in the recent days of the struggle with the corpse, now began to stir inside me uncomfortably. Many times I tried to see it in the cold light of reason, that it was all a question of love, that I should focus on happiness, for Teresa loved me too. Indeed I had many moments of true happiness, yet I could not free my mind from anguish. And it wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the matter of my corpse. I knew that by hiding my feelings from Teresa I was deceiving her, and it hurt me. I could try and summon all my strength and remove the rest of the remains. But I had no strength left. Teresa competed with the corpse, and won. Over the last few days I hadn’t undertaken any actions, only once slipping out at night with a small package wrapped in a newspaper and discarding the contents on a rubbish dump frequented by cats and crows. I felt burdened by the corpse like a man burdened with a family, of whose existence he doesn’t dare to tell his mistress, while his inherent decency prevents him from shedding the burden. Even in the happiest moments, when walking with Teresa through empty fields, joyful and lighthearted, bursting with insuppressible laughter, so inextricably connected with our love, I carried the thought in my mind, which would suddenly flash like a signal – the corpse.
    After a while I continued without looking at Teresa:
    â€œI know a sea captain in Szczecin. A good man. When I was a child he used to carry me in his arms. An old, trusted family friend. I’ve learned he works now on a regular line to South America. Will you come with me?”
    â€œAh, Jerzy …” Teresa stroked my hands with her fingertips.
    Quietly, in low voices, we began to plot our escape. We refrained from showing any excitement in anticipation of all the exotic places we were going to see. No feverish discussions, no falling for the thrill of planning. We spoke in a calm, factual manner. I deliberately pointed out the difficulties piling up before us, while slyly slipping in suggestions of how to overcome them. Teresa pondered them, knitting her brow, returning her opinion in slow, measured words. When at last we reached a contented silence, she said:
    â€œSometimes, when you are not with me, I feel you do not exist at all. I’m sure that in a few hours I’ll think this conversation is a dream. And yet you are real. I’m touching your skin and hair. My boy, my lover. You’ve put too much meaning into my life. Sometimes I feel it overwhelms me. But I know you cannot be any other way. I don’t think I would love you otherwise,