Zygmunt is my 87 year old gay neighbour. He has lived on the floor below me with his sister since the Nazis left in 1945. I invited him upstairs for dinner as it was his birthday. He sat in a big armchair at the head of the table as always, with his little legs swinging underneath and his hands out flat on top, he looked like a small child anticipating a treat.
He perked up when I offered to take a few snaps of him which I could then frame and give him as a present. He has already presented me a few photographs of himself which I hurriedly pull out of the drawer and display when he phones that he's popping up for tea.
Zygmunt hardly speaks any English although this is a mystery to me as he lived in New York for 25 years. He flies back fairly often as he has a Polish doctor friend who gives him the once over and a full service.
I'd bought some delicious cabbage soup from the eaterie downstairs earlier, which I heated up and served with bread.
"I go the New York," Zygmunt said, as the soup ran down his chin.
"Again? You've only just come back."
"I must to go. I the very old grandfather," he giggled... "and the zoup this good!"
"Yes, it is good," I said.
"What?" he peered in at me.
"The soup, it's good," I repeated.
"Zoup? Yes, this the good zoup! What this zoup?"
"Cabbage."
"What?"
"Cabbage soup."
He screwed up his face in disagreement... "This not the garbage. This the good zoup."
"No, not garbage, this is C-A-B-B-A-G-E soup," I reiterated, glancing at the clock.
"What gabbage zoup? This the gabbage zoup? Yes, this the GOOD zoup!"
And so the conversation lurched from one word to the next. We usually speak Polish but sometimes he has a go in English. His sister is at the seaside in a sanatorium. She goes there once in a while to rest and recuperate. Her name is Basha and she's as mad as a hatter. A lot younger than Zygmunt, probably in her early sixties, she certainly stands out. Her hair is bleached black and unkempt, like Ken Dodd. She sports firey red lipstick, thick black eyeliner and mascara, plus a lot of rouge - all of which looks like it's been applied in an open top sports car at 120mph. I remember first meeting her on the staircase, at first glance I could see that she was obviously unhinged. She gawped at me and though amenable, her piercing stare and the odd punch to my stomach made me feel uneasy.
Sometimes, when passing their door below, I hear her screeching obcenities at her poor brother. Basha had a husband who died early on, Zygmunt returned from New York to be with her but he didn't intend to stay. Manacled together and dependent on one another, they have no family and I don't know what will happen to her when he goes.
Their flat is just as it was when they moved in sixty years ago. Ornate and antiquated furniture is spread around the large rooms. A dusty grand piano dominates the living room, with framed and faded sepia photographs sitting on top. Once, I popped down unexpectedly and saw hundreds of small white pills laid out in rows on the dining room table.
