Recognition

By W. & W. Gregory

Jan Sikora, a widower and former athlete turned judo coach, finds himself navigating the challenges of raising his 16-year-old son, Michal, alone. However, Michal falls short of the ideal son Jan once envisioned, and despite Jan's success as a youth educator, he considers himself a failure as a father. One day she meets Karolina, with who Jan hopes to build a romantic connection. Yet, he is aware of Karolina's love for children, and he fears that his strained relationship with Michal may not paint him in the best light. Can Jan establish a genuine connection with Michal and capture the heart of his newfound love? This narrative unfolds as an emotional vivisection of the intricate relationship between father and son.

This book was translated by Joanna Sarata, capturing the essence and intricacies of the original narrative. She has artfully brought the story to life, ensuring that the English version resonates with the same depth and meaning as the Polish original.

• Language: English
• Publisher: OPENER BOOKS
• Release date: Jan 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9788367837224

W. & W. Gregory

Author of the dystopian series Dualverse, Gregory is a man of science and humanities. A graduate of the University of Technology and of screenwriting at the AMA Film School in Krakow, he also enjoys cooking and immersing himself in other cultures. He indulges in a variety of written genres. With a strong distaste for hypocrisy, Gregory’s work is assuredly void of it. He fascinates himself with people, and finds in them a perfect literary muse. The Dualverse series is a captivating tale involving the social issues and drama of two parallel worlds

Book preview

To all the parents

Hajime! A Japanese command haunts me nearly every night. I scream it out, challenging my adversary to a duel, yet they never answer the call. I don't feel that I could win by default. Alone, I stand on the mat in a vast hall, waiting. Waves of heat still course through my body, warmed by huge effort, though I no longer sweat. I am as taut as a bowstring. You can just release it, and in a fraction of a second, every cell will fulfill its duty. Silence echoes in my ears, and the whiteness of my lightweight armor reflects the sunlight, seeping in through the secured window trellis in slender streams. Hajime! It doesn't tell you anything. Hajime! This is the beginning, the beginning of a fight, an honorable fight. Hajime!

The dryness in my throat awakens me. It's a hangover, unlike any other. The first, and right away at a masterful level. Wait. It's the culmination of all the hangovers that, in accordance with Polish tradition, should have occurred but never did before. My throat burns, my tongue feels like a stake, and I recall little from last night. The word „hangover" sounds strange, as if it hasn't had a chance to take root yet. Its effects and quite the opposite. A dull ache concealed in my brain has been attempting to escape for a while, pounding against the walls like a hefty drummer. A hit on the left temple, a hit on the right. Then a series across the forehead, or more accurately, from its inner side, like from an erkaem a hand-held machine gun. And lastly, at the back of the head, a hit again. I fight with it and struggle against it, but I find myself in a losing position. It should be a surprise to me since usually, it wouldn't stand a chance against me. However, in this pitiful, overindulgent state from yesterday, my ambition can't rise from its prone position. I try to open my stuck eyelids, raising them with effort just slightly. Oh, it stings, my goodness.

The dawn's grayness proves to be excessively bright, so I squint my eyes like a lazy cat. It's in vain; the headache persists. I try to push away thoughts of my disarray. Instead of dwelling on the crossroads I currently navigate, I want my brain to engage with something else. Well, come on, get to work, lazy one. I'll come up with a task for you, I mutter to myself, or at least that's how it feels. The first thought emerges, not too intrusive, more like a reminder of my ulcer. Jesus, it stings. With a superhuman effort, I push the awareness of pain aside, simultaneously latching onto other unproductive thoughts, anything to keep my mind occupied. I manage to corral the somewhat hazy realization that something definitely reeks here. That's good, I calculate, content with my minor triumph, even though, after consuming that much alcohol, it's challenging to label it in a straightforward cause-and-effect sequence. Despite the persistent dampness in my nose for some time now, I pinpointed a few details regarding the persistent odor. It was once unfamiliar, but now a familiar resident of my modest bedroom.

I first detect faint hints, and only after a moment, the full, multi-layered depth of the smell. It's not pleasant; rather, it's sour and suffocating. I contemplate how to open the window without leaving my bed, but nothing logical comes to mind. I scan the entire mess with my eyes, which must have been accumulated over several days. I try to remember something. I see dried-out plants, or rather, lifeless succulents, and I recognize them. They belong to me. Well, since everything can be rebuilt, I'll manage with them too. I noticed a bottle with some unfinished cider, on the surface of which a few drowned flies floated. Wait, what are they called? Fruit flies. And bottles, lots of bottles, filled with wine, liqueurs, and brandy, stored for years as misguided gifts that seem to have finally found a purpose. I don't immediately notice the little monkey figurines because I'm focused on the plates with food remnants, crumbs of chips, apple cores, and even pork knuckle bones. Fly buffet, that's what I called it yesterday, I vaguely recall. Everything is drowned in ketchup and a sauce with an overly optimistic name, Samurai. Seriously? I can't take it anymore. I shouldn't go grocery shopping when I'm drunk. I check the bottle with the scrutiny of a detective, but the image blurs. It's just regular mayonnaise, perhaps lightly spiced, mixed with unnecessary seasonings, I assess. In the process, I noticed several crushed beer cans. So that's why my left heel hurts. I must have used it to take on the cylindrical shape of those aluminum beer cans. Oh, and there's also a pizza box with some untouched edges. I am looking in my head for an answer to the question about the time of consumption. Maybe it's Monday, or possibly Tuesday. What day is it today? How long have I been in this state? Another fleeting thought hints that it's maybe around five days. Or maybe fifteen? I only have glimpses of memory, but they're more like black-and-white photographs than moving images. Damn, I'm thirsty. There's a pitcher next to the bed. I reach for it, but it's empty. Damn it!

The foul odor is everywhere, so I resort to breathing through my mouth. A bitter dryness, which poisons my taste buds, coats the inside of my mouth from the palate to the throat. I find myself scratching my cheek instead of my head as if seeking a solution. I can't remember a time when my face was covered in hair of this length. Nevertheless, I can estimate that it's at least a week's worth of stubble, which corresponds to the amount of time I've been stuck in the same outfit: a shirt, once white but now yellowed or perhaps more buttery—it's hard to tell, and my beloved corduroy pants. I check the stiffness of my socks. I am certainly in need of some fresh air. I drag myself out of bed and make my way to the window. My movements are sluggish, but I manage to open it with ease, greedily inhaling with my mouth wide open. Ah, relief. The cool, and most importantly, damp morning air cleanses my irritated esophagus, plagued by heartburn, and flows directly into my lungs.

Meanwhile, outside, dawn is breaking. A light mist blurs the typical vagueness of the neighborhood, which at this hour is nearly deserted, situated almost in the very heart of Mokotów a district of Warsaw. Despite the early hours, I occasionally hear piercing sounds in the distance. Initially, I dismissed them because they sounded like lovers' quarrels. They're probably returning from a party: an agitated woman, more sounded like a shrill scold, and a man, a brute who disregards her desperate situation, tossing short, masculine remarks at her like the snap of a whip. I feel like shouting at them to shut their mouths, but I can't summon the energy. I don't give two shits about it; let them work it out. So, I indulge in savoring the inhalation of natural freshness, which provides me with some relative relief. All in all, for the end of spring, the morning is unusually cool. I notice that vapor forms with each exhalation. I feel a shiver enveloping me, and eventually, the dampness begins to irritate me. I've had enough of this ventilation. I close the window, but I don't move away. Something holds me back from returning to bed, so I stand and gaze at the scene outside the window like an amoeba. Suddenly, I noticed something that wasn't immediately apparent to me. On the sidewalk, quite close to our building, an elderly man is marching with a determined stride, clearly focused on his intended destination. Behind him, just a few steps away, a young boy wanders around. At least, I think he is young. That's how it appears to me. It's only at this moment that I would bet the trembling, tearful voice I heard a moment ago didn't belong to a woman. I crack the window open to confirm. And indeed, it's true. It was that skinny boy who was squealing, mewing, whimpering, and wailing hysterically. Am I seeing correctly that he's naked? The streetlamp he passes next to confirms it, casting light on this scene of misery and despair. The skinny, naked boy walks barefoot, covering himself with his hands. Finally, he catches up to the man and matches his pace. He attempts to forcefully capture his attention by staring at him insistently.

Please listen to me! screams, although his voice sounds unmanly.

Go away, the old prick replies calmly, deliberately turning his head.

But how am I supposed to go?! Can't you see how I look?

You shouldn't have been drinking.

I take it personally; I'm the one who consumed the sea of alcohol. So now, on top of it all, the guilt sets in, as if I didn't have enough already.

I didn't drink! I've already told you a thousand times! the young man screams, and then, out of helplessness, he cries like one of those kids who make scenes on the street, pushing their parents to the thin line between embarrassment and the urge to give them a good spanking.

The young man is acting nervously as if he's lost his mind, hope, and, above all, his dignity. What are you waiting for, you coward? Don't act like a girl. Suddenly, it occurs to my foolish mind that this young guy, yapping like a terrier, might be around your age. Sixteen years old? No. I think he's slightly older, but not by much, maybe a year at most. I sober up in an instant. More questions rush in, each demanding a specific answer. I sense my body starting to mobilize, calling on brain cells to generate life impulses, sparks that are the origin of slowly forming thoughts. As if I have no other choice, I must react, and become part of this morning circus of which I am the sole witness. Even my head stops throbbing, and the hangover changes sides, becoming a cozy ally of my adversary. You have to do something, many voices scream, their shouts piercing through my ears straight into my head. Save him!

*

Up to this point and in these circumstances, a series of interconnected events brought me here. Just a month and a half ago, I was living a well-organized, happy life by my standards. You know me well enough to grasp what I mean. I used to be a successful athlete, but now I'm a judo coach and a mentor to young people. I was an authority figure. I've always been well-groomed, clean-shaven, in great shape, and since childhood, I've maintained short hair and impeccably trimmed nails, even those on my toes. I don't care about fashion; my clothing is chosen for its practicality. You could say that an aura of freshness surrounds me. Thanks to a diet I adopted a long time ago, I have a healthy, clean breath, which is incredibly important in my close interactions with my students. There's nothing worse than bad breath. I despise cigarettes because of their foul odor, and meat because of how it lingers in the digestive system. I spend a good amount of time brushing my teeth, and I'm a steadfast teetotaler. In my relations with young people, I believe in glowing and setting an example; it's my motto, one that I repeat to myself after every nutritious breakfast. Rules must be followed. Another thing – judogi, although the Polish term judoga is commonly used, but should not be confused with a kimono, as it's sacrilegious. A judogi should be perfectly white. I don't understand why they introduced the blue version. Is it supposed to offer better visibility through contrast? Maybe it looks nice, but in my opinion, only on television. In real life, that’s different. For decades, no one had a problem with it, and in the birthplace of judo, Japan, they haven't changed anything to this day, because why would they? The snow-white judogi is directly associated with pure intentions, along with the obi, which is the belt color signifying the level of initiation, a pure heart, and mind. Nothing more. It's the essence of judo. You should know that I wear a black belt but at the master level. I'm a sensei, holding a yondan, which is a fourth dan. My one true love, I can finally say it, unfortunately, referred to as a combat sport, was created for self-defense. It's a philosophy of life to which I've been faithful since the age of ten.

You probably know that I have classes with kids and teenagers of various ages at the Yuko student club in the capital. However, you have no idea that the greatest joy for me comes from the successes of the younger juniors. They're not yet professionals, but no longer children either. It's a strong group, previously led by Robert. You know him, he's my friend from our competitive days, now the head of the club, my boss, whom you really like and address as „Uncle. Going back to the boys, since they came under my wing, I've been building a team of close-knit, ambitious, mutually motivating friends, just like our old crew. Their dedication eventually bears fruit in the form of successes, which, in return, drive everyone to even greater efforts. The snowball effect begins. Yet, this is just a youth club, not some talent factory, home to future professionals like Czarni Bytom, Wisła Krakow, Śląsk Wrocław, or Gwardia Warsaw, complete with support, sponsors, and a history rich in medals. Our club's ambition is to nurture through sports, not to make money. If I had to describe my work somehow, I'd surely add the adjective „impossible to the word „mission" due to the perpetual lack of funds. Coaching positions, much like teaching ones, are ranked much lower than catechists and come with a meager salary. I have to work as a referee on the side. Nevertheless, I love my job. I give more than I take. I don't have extravagant needs. You know, I spend at least half of what goes into my account on you. You do know that, right?

The training sessions take place in a gym located at one of the elementary schools. During the classes, we lay out tatami mats made of rice straw. Arranged tightly, they create two practice areas in pale burgundy with navy blue belts. We bought them slightly used from our friends in Koszalin, and they serve our needs perfectly. To diversify our training, we use thick portable mattresses, ladders, climbing ropes suspended from the ceiling, and one basketball hoop with a torn net. The hoop comes in handy, especially during warm-ups. Several years ago, in connection with the local junior competitions organized by our club, a picture of Jigoro Kano, the founder of judo, was hung on one of the walls, quite high up – and it stayed there. Later, we added a small flag of Poland and another one of Japan. From that moment on, my boys have felt at home in this place. It's our dojo, the cradle of awareness, our exercise room.

I know everything about each student. I maintain a journal in which I document their results, weights, achievements, and setbacks, along with their demeanor during each training session, whether they're motivated or not, and whether they're having a good or bad day. Subsequently, I create graphs illustrating their commitment over time and elaborate with on growing awareness. You laugh at me, suggesting that I could record all of this on a computer, casually mentioning the existence of something called the internet. I trust only myself and my notebook. Computers and the intangible network, if they must exist, should preoccupy the minds and time of those who lack a life of their own. I require nothing more than happiness.

Why am I talking about this? After all, as my son, you should know everything about me. However, I have the impression that you don't have a complete picture. You're not interested in what concerns me.

*

On that day, I'm running a training session with my favorite group, twelve boys of varying weights, all of them your age. Among them, Pawel Galik stands out as the current Polish champion in the under sixty-six kilograms category, my source of pride. His friends affectionately call him Paolo, and the nickname suits him perfectly; he's a lean brunet with short hair. Robert playfully claims that he's my younger clone, but I hold no grudge for that comparison. Truth be told, the boy does bear a resemblance to me, both visually and in terms of his natural talent, diligence, and ambition. Moreover, there's no other path for him; he comes from a humble family and must fight for his future. He impresses me with his demeanor and modesty and also speaks warmly about his mother, whom he helps a lot. He refrains from criticizing his father, despite having valid reasons to do so. Unlike many others his age, and especially in contrast to you, he exudes maturity and religiosity, reflecting his strong attachment to tradition. I admire him, and I'm invested in his future, which is why it irks me that he associates with Pelican. Pelican is quite the talker and somewhat mischievous boy. He has longer hair, tied in a ponytail during training. Sporting a meager mustache and something resembling a goatee made up of a few sparsely growing, thin hairs, he always pretends to be older than he really is. That's how I see it, a disgrace, but it's not my concern. Once he showed up with an earring in his left ear, but one scolding look was enough, and that questionable accessory never appeared again. I have that kind of authority. I'm sure I've told you, though you might not remember, that in judo, it's forbidden to use or even have any metal elements, not to mention earrings or necklaces. This rule applies to women as well. In my assessment, Pelican doesn't resemble a true athlete; he comes across as more of a carefree rocker who brings shame to our tightly-knit group, which has stayed together for at least seven years. In addition to those two, among the younger juniors, there's a rather peculiar pair that stands out: Godzilla and Lekki. The first one is 188 centimeters tall and competes in the under ninety kilograms weight category. I regularly remind him that if he keeps eating as much and as indiscriminately as he does, he'll end up in the over ninety-kilogram category, among the heaviest competitors from ninety kilograms of live weight to infinity. But he doesn't seem to care. On the other hand, Lekki isn't some skinny or scrawny kid but rather behaves quite childishly and qualifies in the under sixty kilograms weight category. He's the complete opposite of his friend, Godzilla. Weirdos, but they're mine. The rest of the group looks rather ordinary, although each has some unique nickname, such as Dziadek, Kanciasty, and Irena.

"Hiza-guruma, Please," I turn to Paolo one day.

The boy nods respectfully and then performs an almost perfect throw on Pelican, impressing me. The rest of the boys watch the demonstration with curiosity...

Excellent, I comment with a delighted expression. Now, ten times on each side. Iczi. Ni. San...

While I recite the Japanese numbers, the boys execute the prescribed throws, taking turns, one throwing the other, then switching sides, left to right, and vice versa, unfortunately, with varying degrees of success. During this time, I, as a meticulous coach, shifted my gaze from one pair to another to assess the quality of their execution. When I notice that Lekki is holding Godzilla incorrectly, I approach them, adjust their arms to create the proper grip, and then step aside. Pretending to grasp an invisible opponent, I demonstrate how it should be done. However, it appears my lesson fell on deaf ears. Lekki, seemingly out of stubbornness, readjusts the grip in his way and once again fails to execute the throw correctly.

Stop! Everyone, come to me! I shout in my favorite coaching style, which no one can't stand.

The judokas immediately stop their task, approach closer, and surround our trio, me, and the unruly pair.

What mistake is he making? I ask, directing a stern reprimand at the amused youngsters.

Suddenly, I hear a terrifying squeaking of the door. Wrr, I told them to oil it. My team, instead of looking at me, turned their heads toward the entrance to the room.

What are you gentlemen looking for? I ask, seeing two middle-aged men who not only entered the room without permission but are now trampling on the mats.

With shoes on?! Oh no!

Please step off the mat. What kind of behavior is this? I say in a calm voice, but the echo amplifies my words.

We came to play some ball, and one of them replied, mustached, in a golden tracksuit and golden Adidas shoes, then grinned foolishly.

Can't you see that there's a training session going on here? I ask.

I see, but we've paid, and...

Silence. It's as if he's hesitating about whether he should say what came to his mind.

Maybe we could share the space, he finally asked.

I step towards him with determined steps, and the judokas follow me. We stand in front of the two intruders, outnumbering them. But not like thugs. We're simply defending our turf. A scary look is enough; there's no need to use force.

Here, I'm in charge, and I'm currently running a training session with teenagers. We won't be sharing the gym. Or perhaps you'd like to join us? I ask, still using a calm but firm tone.

And you? I turn to the other man. Are you a younger junior?

This second guy has a slight belly; he looks like a pig in jeans and a colorful sweater. My judokas seem to enjoy my play and watch with interest. I have no intention of wasting time on worthless jerks.

Are you dressed appropriately and do you have clean feet to step on my mat? I ask the first guy again.

The guy avoids eye contact and they both step back.

I thought so. Goodbye. Please knock in the future.

They won't remember anyway, but I have to say it. I turn my back to them. I hear them closing the door behind them, so I return with the boys to where we left off.

End of the circus. I repeat the question: what mistake is he making?

Unfortunately, the judokas can't focus yet. The atmosphere is like a flea market.

Hey, what's going on with you guys? I throw a question that immediately has a disciplining effect.

Finally, Lekki and Godzilla grab their judogi, drawing the attention of the others. Godzilla takes a step towards Lekki, but Lekki once again grabs