A road should be observed from a bird’s eye view. It’s very beautiful – a road from above. No dust, no potholes; a cheapjack went along, lost a ribbon. Take it, braid a girl’s hair. The roadside flows with July honey, February cream, November gruel, May’s motley wave. Callosities, weariness, a hedgehog in the breast remained below, on a road – a bird above the road wouldn’t understand it. To it, to a martin-hawk, to a skinny little bird or to a sharp-beaked bully, the road seems to be the most wonderful thing in the world. How different from this road is an everyday sky: the wings tremble, the enemies don’t rest, an arrow awaits, in the cloud it’s cold, above the cloud – no food... That’s why birds squint enviously at silly wayfarers: just look at them walking!..

People should be observed from afar. Out of a window, for instance; still better if the window is at the very top of a tower. It’s very absorbing: people from a distance. A knight doesn’t smell of garlic and booze, a princess doesn’t seem to be a bitch pregnant from a stableman, and those you come across never try to give you a smack in the teeth with their fist instead of sharing wine during a rest. Small men carry pick-a-back small stories – lying, contradictory and momentary, gathered together in a spinner’s yarn. Thread after thread, they weave the tapestry of one big and wonderful Story. Sit in the tower, look out of the window, admire it. What a pity that there are draughts in the tower, the roof leaks, mice rustle in the corners, and at night fears sit on the edge of the lonely bed. In such a case the knight’s stench will pass for valour, and the bitch-princess or any other wench from Lesser Brubulanz will pass for luck, if only she be warm and freckled. You drag yourself to the window in the morning, glance at the ones below and even choke from the cold in the pit of your stomach: just look at them walking...

Life should be observed from aside. From heavenly heights, that is. Then it looks like a fully accomplished and harmonic artifact, a creation of a winged genius, not like a total mess made by some simpleton. Looking from inside you’ll discern nothing in life clearly. Vanity, vexation of the spirit, crumbs in a crumpled sheet; some gather stones, other cast them away, while yet others sincerely love their neighbour with that stone – on the head. And above all – you cannot look at the conception. You cannot perceive it as a whole. You snatched a crust? Chew it, choke on it, and don’t open your mouth for the whole loaf. Not for you loaves are baked.

So why is it that don’t you manage, don’t succeed: a road – from above? People – from a window? Life – from aside? If it’s so much better? Cleaner? Lovelier? You go, raise dust, cough, wonder at yourself. Roll along stupid thoughts in your head. The thoughts rumble, rattle, jump like wagon wheels on potholes. You look from behind your hand: is it still far? Yes, it is.

It’s good that it is far.

What is far – looks much better from here.

“With what?” the taverner’s face turned red.

“With songs,” repeated Peter Sliadek, stunned with his own impudence. “I’ll pay with songs.”

The taverner walked among the tables. Fat, stout, he was moving with a waddle, reminding a loaded wagon at the Kichora road. Arms like hams. If he slaps you on your ear with this...

“A bowl of sauerkraut,” drawled Jas Misiur pensively, looking around his tavern as if he had seen it for the first time. “Two bowls. Full over the brim. Five black sausages fried in honey. Pork liver with caraway seed. Three mugs of beer. The red one, odd-even...”

“Four. Four mugs.” Peter Sliadek always considered himself an honest man.

“Aha, four. And a bed. So, odd-even, with songs?!”

A morning was making its way through the narrow windows. A kitten was playing on the floor with pink sun feathers – hunting, murmuring. Then, having forgotten its play at once, began to wash itself, its shaggy tongue flitting. Peter envied the kitten. It is fed for purring...

“In the evening people will come,” he said, scarcely believing his own words. “I’ll sing. They’ll give me groshes. Many. And I’ll pay.”

“Why didn’t you gather some yesterday?”

“Yesterday there were no people.”

“And today there will be?”

“Today there will be.”

He badly wanted to get up. But he understood: a vagrant, skinny as a stick, would look ludicrous near Misiur, fat from ham-eating. A pole near a barn. A carp near a full grown cat-fish. He would decide I want to run away...

“If you’re about to hit me,” in Peter Sliadek’s voice there was heard dull, habitual despair, “then do it. You’ll feel better. Just not on the ear. To become deaf for me – worse than death. And don’t touch my music.”

He pushed slightly with his leg his “music” – an old, shabby lute wrapped into a motley rag – farther behind the table.

“Like I need your songs...” the taverner muttered. “Like I need your groshes...”

“Today is Saturday. People will come...”

“Like I need your ears...”

Peter felt sudden cramps in his belly. Yesterday it was a Friday evening. And – an empty tavern. Except for a frontier guard, a company officer according to the cords on his uniform, who had come from Rahovez with a lady. His wife, apparently. They were given the best room upstairs. Now the noble pair was sitting by the window, eating pancakes with honey and sour cream for breakfast. The lady was listening to the conversation, if one could call so Jas Misiur’s fair claims and Peter’s counterproposals. The lady was smiling, kindly, with sympathy. Maybe if he were to be beaten she would demand to stop it.

Or she would not.

Ladies, they have a weakness for shows.

Rather, he could count on the mercy of another guest – a tall man wrapped in a cloak. A staff with a knob, standing bored near the wall, showed its owner was a mage. Mages don’t like violence. So it’s said... Peter couldn’t recall who said so and why. Maybe he just badly wanted mages not to like violence. For them to intervene, to protect, to save. He knew this ill feature in him: to devise something and to believe in it at once as if it were gospel truth.

The taverner came closer. Peter shut his eyes, waiting. Just not on the ear. His left ear had been hard of hearing through the winter after the affair in Legnitz.

He couldn’t refrain from getting up. When you stand up it’s easier to bear it.

“Like I need your groshes...” repeated Jas Misiur. “A fool you are. A trouble-doer. A troubadour, odd-even... Sit down.”

Without opening his eyes Peter sat down on the bench again.

“My daughter says: leave the tavern. That is, odd-even, you sell it and move to us, to Rahovez. To nurse the grandchildren. In the evenings you’ll be walking along the quay – with a cane, like an honest citizen. Not you’ll be pouring wine, but someone else will be for you. That’s true: I have a money-box, some savings, my son-in-law is of a high rank, he’ll help... Enough for the rest of my life. But without my tavern I’m... Well, tell me, a goose of passage you are, who am I without my tavern?”