Staszek drank for a second week in a row. So, during that Friday afternoon, I didn’t pay much attention to what he said. 

 

But he spoke of love. 

 

- I always thought the slogan ‘Politics of love’ was misunderstood by all sides of the Polish political discourse. It wasn’t about the love of the president or the prime minister, for the nation. Nor was it about the love of the members of this nation for each other. And especially - not about the love of the members of this nation for the nation.  

 

- It was about the love for the daughter of the former prime minister in spe* - I said automatically. 

 

- Exactly, Czesiek - Staszek warmed up and poured us another shot of straight vodka. 

 

- It was about the love for the daughter of the former prime minister in spe. Long walks by the sea, kisses at the Sopot pier, making love on the morning beach when the sun peeked through the clouds, conversations about human nature as such, and the dark recesses of the mind. 

 

- All right, what about the hashtag ‘It’ll work’...

 

Once I finished that question, I felt like I fell into the trap of Staszek’s obsession. 

 

Staszek smiled and again twisted the cap off the bottle's neck. 

 

- Czesiek. Of course, a prime minister or a president won’t solve the problems of this nation. The individual members of this nation won’t solve the problems they have with other members of this nation. I can assure you - it won’t work - for the individual members of this nation to solve the problems of this nation. 

 

- I’m afraid to ask what would work. 

 

- But you know. It will work to go with the daughter of the president in spe for tea to Bomba at Szczepański Square. To go for a walk down Błonia. To make love in a secret place by the Vistula River as the moonlight peeks through the trees. To passionately discuss the differences between the fundamentals of Anglo-Saxon law and German law.  

 

Both of these visions made me feel exhausted. But not Staszek. He gained energy. His eyes were shining like of a real political visionary. 

 

- And now look, Czesiek. (Staszek poured what was left in the bottle, put it away and - appropriately for a visionary - he pointed at the future.)

 

I immediately looked. 

 

- Between midnight and midday, between Cracow and Sopot, between the president in spe and the former prime minister in spe - there’s Warsaw. In Warsaw, there’s Skaryszewski Park. We have a bright May afternoon. These two, petite and fine like gossamer blonde girls are sitting on a blanket spread on the fresh-smelling grass. One's cami top is slowly sliding down. The other one is putting her hair in a bun, exposing her neck. The air is slowly filling with tension. The storm is coming. It starts raining. The warm summer drops get the girls’ shirts, made of delicate white cotton, wet. Both daughters are slowly leaning to each other; the hum of thunder can be heard. Their delicate lips meet when the lightning strikes through the navy sky.  

 

- And what is it, Czesiek. 

 

- Grand Coalition - I answer without hesitation. 

 

- Grand Coalition - Staszek nodded appreciatively like Socrates who led a bright student to the right thought.

 

And he opened another bottle. We may not live to see a Sunday.  

 

____________

 

* in spe - in the expected future; something that is supposed to happen; (someone) who might and hopes to become something/someone
 

[This text expresses only the opinions of the author himself and cannot be considered or linked in any way with the official position of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Republic of Poland]