Excuse me, Mr. Witkiewicz?
Yes.
I'm from the Ministry of Art and Culture.
- We're rehearsing at the moment. - I'm sorry. I'll wait.
Congratulations.
Just a moment. Excuse me...
Yes?
Our comrades in the USSR have agreed.
Agreed to what?
To an exhumation.
I'm not sure I understand.
I'm here about your grandfather's, brother's son.
Witkacy?
After years of trying,
we're finally bringing Witkacy's ashes to Poland.
There's going to be a huge manifestation.
A state funeral.
All we need to do now is visit the Great Lakes in the Soviet Union
and identify the body. What's left of it, I mean.
VIELIKY OZIERA. USSR.
The burial place of Witkiewicz Stanislaw Ignacy Born in Krakow, Died in The Lakes 1885-1939 Dramaturge Writer Philosopher Painter
- He sat here. - And she?
Here.
Imagine.
They wake up together at dawn.
Instead of doing it at home, they go outside.
Exactly. They leave.
They come here.
On the way over, she fills a cup with water.
Next...
She drinks it.
She vomits.
And faints.
- And him. - He slits his wrists.
Did she see him after he died?
That's the thing... No.
Wait a minute,
wait a minute...
"A couple days later, I was led to the cemetery
and shown the place where they buried his casket."
But was he inside?
What do you mean: Inside? In the casket?
Maybe his death was just a mystification.
Follow that car.
I need an address... Zakopane.
MYSTIFICATION
Miss Zuza...
Splendid job.
- Shall I moisturize? - Just a little.
I don't know another man who takes such good care of his hands.
Men are dilettantes.
The hands must be firm.
And perfectly smooth.
With long fingers.
And oval fingernails.
Blemish free.
- Hands are the prelude. - What's that?
- An entry. - To what?
To paradise.
- What would the barber think? - Apropos the barber.
He's commissioned me to paint your portrait.
Really?
- It's a secret. - We don't have to whisper.
He's not here?
He took the train into Krakow for some razor blades.
- But he'll be back later today. - The train is always 15 minutes late.
Then there's the drive from the railway station.
Which means we have about an hour.
- You're going to paint me here? - No.
But I'll take your picture here.
Help me.
Zuzu, close the shop, so no one will bother us.
Hurry up, or I'll lose the light. And there won't be a wedding gift.
He told you, that... that he wants to marry me?
Shhh...
- "Giewont's", please. - 8 zloty.
And a box of matches.
- 20. - Thank you.
What's wrong with me?
I can't seem to capture your character.
Sit! Your smock!
Unbutton it.
- Oh, no... I'm a proper lady. - Every lady is proper, Zuzu.
It's just that each one has a different character.
- It's not like there's anything to see. - Then you have nothing to worry about.
- This really has to do with my character? - Really.
Too little.
Too little. You're fussing too much over your character.
Uncover yourself!
- But is this really about my character? - Cross my heart.
And now imagine... Not me. Your fiance,
the barber,
is touching you...
Caressing you...
What you feel, must show up on your face...
I'm trying. But...
But it's hard to feel something out of nothing.
Women will always find an excuse to take advantage of you.
Ok. I'll help you. Just don't be shy.
It's a portrait. You can't see the bottom.
Is it working?
We're getting there.
Warmer... Warmer... Warmer...
Your character is starting to appear.
- Do we have it? - Not yet.
But we're close.
How close?
Very...
Youth, give me wings!
Fly high.
Soar where the eye can't see!
Your flight as powerful as the eagle's,
your arm as strong as lighting.
Lifeless ice break and myth gently glow!
- Welcome, dawn of freedom! - Oh my God!
The barber!
He caught you?
I'll cut your balls off!
- He did, in fact, paint you. - A little later.
At first he sent love letters.
They should still be here somewhere.
A Leica. This is the camera he used to immortalize...
My character.
- It works. - That's because, before Stas,
no one ever used it to immortalize my character.
You know, ma'am... I dabble a little in photography...
- How much would you like for it? - It's not for sale.
But since you're going to write a book about Stas and I,
consider it a gift.
There goes Zawieyski with the Primate.
What's he counting on?
That the Church will save him after he defended the students in Parliament?
Major, Sir. I'm here about Zawieyski.
Come in, come in...
You know what the Primate wrote to him afterwards?
"Your actions in Parliament
were Reytanesque against the background dance of dead souls.
Vladislav Gomulka's laughter when you defended the human being,
was the epitome of the tragedy of humanity in Poland.
You weren't speaking alone,
the entire nation spoke with you, a nation that longs to be free. "...
I don't fucking get it. The Primate's such an enlightened person
and he believes in secret correspondence.
What's this?
To secret correspondence.
Listen...
I don't need you to tell me our little hero has the Church's blessing.
What the fuck are you still doing there if not trailing Zawieyski?
Get back to Zakopane!
I fucking need a hook to hang him.
Follow them.
These are the postcards from Stas, which I couldn't find earlier.
"Does the love of a crazy old man do anything for you...?"
1938. So the affair lasted a couple years.
Well, yes. We saw each other.
From time to time.
Until his Czesia found out. She was so furious
that she broke up with him and threw him out of the house.
He wrote to me about how she packed up all his things
and sent them away. Here's where he writes about it.
"Czesia left after handing over an 80 kilo box
with my personal belongings and paintings..." But he went back to her.
Yes...
- he did. - Exactly.
What was so special about her?
She did what she wanted with him.
"I'm addicted to Czesia, like to a narcotic."
That's what he used to say.
She was so close to him, that on September 18th, 1939,
he committed suicide in her presence.
That's what she says.
No, no... Witkacy died,
and the mistress survived. She threw up the sleeping pills.
That's certain.
- Nothing is certain about that. - Yes it is.
"Zuzu! Help, I beg you! Your, Stach."
The date is important.
Do you know the conditions under which he returned to Czesia?
No more women. No more affairs. Only her.
Fidelity would kill him.
He constantly needed fresh, young girls in order to create.
Girls who were able to fully experience ecstasy.
I know a thing or two about that.
I'm sorry, but there's something wrong with this date.
What about the dates on these?
These artists are nothing but a bunch of faggots.
And? How do they do it? Up the ass or a blow-job?
Hey... Nice pictures.
I took them with this.
- Nice camera. - It's a Leica.
Witkacy's. Also an artist.
I know who Witkacy was.
My Master's thesis was on the influence women had on Witkacy's art.
What the fuck are you getting at?
That you didn't finish it because of me?
For fuck's sake, if it wasn't for me,
you would have landed in the army. The penal regiment in Zagan.
Just like your dissenting friends.
Every textbook gives Witkacy's date of death as September 18th, 1939.
Yes. Because he was afraid of the Russians.
Would have loved to question him about that myself.
What's this?
"Zuzu! Help, I beg you! Your, Stach." Who's Zuza? Who's Stach?
She was Witkacy's lover before the war. She lives in Zakopane.
I see... she's the one you've been so interested in over there.
The card is postmarked with the date.
November 3rd, 1957.
Huh. That's 18 years after his death.
That's funny.
Very funny.
Don't open it!
Maybe it was some kid...
His canary died. Or a pet fish?
He dug a hole and dug it up.
- Goal! Goal! Yes! - Where to?
There's not enough room over there?
Kids do things like that.
This wasn't a kid.
Who then?
A wife killed her husband and dug him up under this tree?
And then she marked the place with a cross?
If I were you,
I'd grab a shovel and start digging...
Maybe it was her?
I've got beer and a couple new jokes.
You'll like them. They're your style.
Which one do you want first?
A guy walks into a pharmacy. "Do you have black condoms?".
"No, sir.
In the People's Republic of Poland we only have regular condoms."
"Damn it! Damn it!".
"I'm sorry, sir, but what do you need black condoms for?".
"What do you mean, what for?
My mother-in-law passed away land now I'd like to comfort my wife".
I knew you'd like that one!
Are you sure?
100%.
It was written by the same person.
I'm sorry, but was this Stach someone famous?
No. Not at all.
- I'm looking for a gift for my mother. - Anything in particular?
Something small. She's turning 50 tomorrow.
Maybe a cameo.
We have some beautiful brooches.
Is this a Witkacy?
Yes. He's becoming trendy lately.
It's a great gift. And a great investment.
It's value will only rise.
- Is it an original? - Yes, of course. It's signed by Witkacy.
It's a painting of his muse and lover.
- Did she bring it in? - Yes.
Actually she just brought in a new one.
- Yes? ...May I...? - I'll show you.
This is a portrait of von Piegg. That's what he called his dentist.
He fixed his teeth in exchange for paintings.
He even made him a set of false teeth.
Interesting.
What does "5NP. Cof. Co + Eu" mean?
It means he didn't drink vodka for 5 days. He drank coffee.
And he experimented with drugs. He took cocaine and Eukodal.
It's from 1938.
She wants to buy a bigger apartment,
so she's selling her entire portrait collection.
I thought that collection burned during the Warsaw Uprising. In 1944.
No... Not the entire collection. Her friend saved part of it.
A day before the Germans burned the house down.
You know quite a bit, sir.
What's the friend's name?
She died. But this is definitely Witkacy.
I don't doubt that. But how can we check it?
- What year is this portrait from? - 1938.
Witkacy painted on Tiziano paper, from Fabriano, Italy -
the oldest paper factory in Europe. Here's the trademark.
Titian in a crown.
They stopped producing it paper after 1945.
Thank you. I'll think about it.
Just a moment... So, Witkacy ordered Tiziano paper before the war.
Which means, an extra supply may have survived until today.
It's possible.
Exactly.
Please don't open it.
And the bill, if I may?
Please don't do that.
It's sacrilege.
- But somebody keeps putting them up. - What for?
I don't know.
It's not like there's anybody here. There would be burial traces.
- Who's doing it? - I don't know.
I have a feeling you have a hunch.
Her?
Who are you?
I can't be sure.
I wanted to talk to you about her.
- What am I supposed to do exactly? - Nothing.
Just write about what you see and hear.
- Regarding her... - Briefly. Half a page. A page.
From time to time you can give me a call.
If something important happens.
Here's the number.
Thank you very much.
To live with the same woman for longer than four years.
What do you call such a perversion?
Incest.
And to paint the same woman for almost half a century?
- What do you call that? - You used to call it love.
Love... That was then...
Now, in order to create...
I need to be re-inspired...
May I come in?
Change that.
This is the last time I'm forging the date.
Move over.
The light's not right.
Stop joking around and finish it!
I have a registered letter.
I was about to take shower.
I live alone, you know how it is.
Wherever you toss it, there it lays. Please come in.
Right.
Please sign here.
May I?
What are you still doing here?
Goodbye, sir. Goodbye.
It's from Desa. They've all sold.
Either new inspiration or I'm finished with painting!
She left her apartment wearing a habit.
- Who's speaking? - The superintendent.
She left her house wearing a habit.
I recognized her heels.
I think she was heading to the train station. She had a suitcase.
To Dabrowa... One... Regular price... Here's exact change. I can't miss it.
- You won't miss it, sister. - Thank you.
Someone's following me.
You're imagining things.
I feel someone's following us.
And I feel, you just want to wriggle out of it.
Calm down. No one is following us.
My muse...
put on some lipstick.
Show me!
What lips...
what lips...
That's an order!
Little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf
- There's no way! - Kneel, hysteria!
Either you kneel... or I go after the boy's mother.
You wouldn't dare.
- You underestimate me. - Sit!
Remember... We're not doing this for our own pleasure.
We're igniting inspiration.
- So I can start creating again. - You...
you...
Little Red Riding Hood...
Little Red Riding Hood, you...
Kneel, Wolf!
What's that lady doing?
She's a nun. She's praying.
You just tasted, Wolf, the following ice cream flavors:
Orange,
coconut, pear, carrot,
banana, beer,
wine, arak, cognac,
starch... Ice cream flavors that cannot be found anywhere...
And now, Wolf, you'll taste sperm ice cream...
What pigs... what filthy pigs...
How much for this?
Little Red Riding Hood
Vanilla, pistachio, peach, lemon, starch, beer...
Flavors that cannot be found anywhere.
Excuse me?
That wasn't to you...
- Shall I open it? - No, no...
And the bill right away, if I may?
Hop, hop, hop a glass of beer...
hop, hop, hop...
Oh my goodness, Stas,
you're writing again.
"FEST - MANl". Lying is the most beautiful of all the arts.
Typical directions. Mockeryism, lieism,
neo-string-alongism, falsehoodism...
Oh God, he went up there again...
301... 302... 303...
304... 305... 306...
307... 308... 309... 310...
I obeyed your order so that you could create again!
- 319... - You promised: Never again!
But you can't live without young sluts!
You should be ashamed of yourself! You filthy, old impotent!
You're useless to me!
- I've had enough of this! - I've had enough of this, too!
Don't do that! Please!
- Promise: Never again! - Calm down!
Calm down! I've never been so calm in my life!
- Lieism, insincereism, shamism, fibism... - Aaa!...
Aaa! I can do that too!
- Count! Look! - You can't do anything!
- Look... Count, count! - You can't even blow me so I can create again...
Count!
He's still in the post office. Would you like some coffee?
Yes. Thank you.
You look like you just had a quickie in the alley.
Let me read you something.
"Mockeryism, lieism,
neo-string-alongism,
falsehoodism, mystificationism, deceptionism..."
Sounds like they're talking about our political system.
No! No, no, no... There might be fingerprints on it.
Our poet wrote that? He just stepped outside.
Are you alright, sir?
I'll call an ambulance.
You overdid it a little. He's in the hospital, paralyzed.
- I didn't send those pictures. - No?
Don't you have all the negatives? From your Leica.
Apparently you're running around town taking pictures
- instead of looking after our own business. - That's not true.
"Deceptionism, dupeism,
screwism, fibism, insincereism, beguileism..."
Yes... I think it's about our political system.
- Really? Where did you find it? - In the park.
- Which park? - The one she lives beside.
Who?
She works in publishing. But she got fired.
I mean, she retired. She turned 60. This photo is from 1938.
This one I took now.
No... no... she doesn't age. She still looks 35.
- Ok, but who is she? - Witkacy's mistress.
I went to a graphologist. Witkacy wrote this.
This card is from 1963. This one from 1957,
this one from 1967. Beyond a doubt.
It's Witkacy's handwriting. Unfortunately, we don't have...
his fingerprints on file. But they are here for sure.
- He's alive. - Right...
I've heard that one before.
- From who? - Here, at this desk.
He also didn't believe.
Look, this is his entire file. His death,
witness statements,
photographs of the cemetery, the tombstone...
Hedwig Witkiewicz. Witkacy's wife.
Maybe she knows something. Did he visit her?
- How can I get in touch with him? - With Berbecki?
Best to visit the cemetery. His liver gave out.
Listen, let this go. You need a strong liver
and a stronger head to deal with Witkacy. And that you lack.
I'm sure his wife knows something.
There's nothing here from the seminary.
And it looks like you didn't complete your final semester.
I'll be honest with you, ma'am. Following the protests in March,
I was suspended and thrown out of school.
But I never stopped writing my thesis.
I believe I'll return and finish my studies one day.
In fact, I'm still in touch with my advisor.
If you don't believe me, you're welcome to call him.
- That won't be necessary. - Thank you.
May I ask what the title of your thesis is?
"The influence of women on Witkacy's creative process"
I know a thing or two about that...
On the court calendar, the 9:30am divorce case.
- This was my husband's commission. - His commission?
For "The Madman and the Nun".
In 1929, before a premiere in Catholic Torun,
they changed the title to "The Madman and the Nurse",
for fear of the Church. They quickly sewed a nurse's costume,
and my husband received the nun costume in lieu of payment.
- I see... - But...
I'm sorry... maybe I don't understand...
- but how is it that you have this? - From Czeslava.
Don't open it!
And a half liter of pure vodka, please.
She also gave me this. Little Red Riding Hood
Apparently it has something to do with some sort of secret between them.
A secret between them... that's rich!
- That is... that's what she told me. - Right...
Their little secret, however, was known to all my husband's women.
- Please. - Thank you.
And now, Wolf,
you'll taste orange,
lemon,
pistachio...
and raspberry... ice cream...
Excuse me... I don't quite understand.
Well... Stas loved women, who...
Who what?
How naive you are.
...and not some doppelganger... - Your favorite beer, Stas.
Can't you see I'm working.
You call editing your old play work?
- Not now! - Now! To my divorce.
I'm free. Aren't you happy for me?
You don't believe me.
Your everything, to a certain degree...
- It's a counterfeit. - Not at all.
I really am free.
Then things have suddenly turned serious.
O my arolla flower,
you are,
to a certain degree,
everything to me!
Stas used to sing that to every girl who 'influenced' his work.
It would be good for you to remember it.
Write it down. Use it in your thesis.
Call her. Tell her you're divorcing her and marrying me.
- Tomorrow. - Not tomorrow!
It's either her or me.
- Hello? - Say something!
Hello... hello?
Tell her the truth, you coward! You idiot!
I'm Witkacy's!
- Not you! - And I'm the Queen of England!
You're nothing but a mistress!
I underestimated her.
If he had stayed with me, he would still be alive today.
- Maybe he is alive? - "Maybe"...
What are you talking about?
- There are rumors. - What kind of rumors?
That his death was a mystification.
- What did she tell you? - The truth.
Mr. Witkacy has an official wife and an official mistress.
Don't touch me! Don't!
Congratulations...
You're not such a bad piece of ass.
I guess that's why you advanced to mistress status!
I'm quitting my job tomorrow.
Official mistresses are supported by their lovers.
- By who? - By their lovers.
You'll buy me a car. A proper apartment.
I'll have an allowance.
- A proper wardrobe, jewelry, alcohol... - I don't think I can afford all that...
In that case, I'm going back to my husband.
He's a good man.
He'll understand. He'll take me in his arms. Forgive me.
He won't cheat on me. And I'll have a car again.
And you, you filthy, car-less man, I don't want to know anymore!
I'm going back to him in 2 days. And you are to be out of here.
Your beer is on the balcony. This is the end of us.
The dates are important. 1957.
1963.1967.
She's probably holding him prisoner in her apartment.
Her jealousy keeps her from letting him meet with anyone.
She lives in another neighborhood, but it's not far.
If you like, I can give you her address.
I've had enough.
Of emotions...
romance...
love...
I'm moving on to whores!
You filthy, old erotomaniac!
Only whores can give an artist freedom!
Independence! And the power to create!
I've had enough of you! Enough!
I'm still young! Attractive! I'll be just fine without you!
Whoreage must increase weekly!
Just like: Voltage!
Literage! Mileage!
She was carrying a suitcase.
She put it down here, turned around and yelled:
"You filthy, old erotomaniac!"
And then:
"I've had enough of you! I'm still young! I'll be just fine without you!"
- And what else? - And...
- And what? - I don't know... It was like...
Was there someone on the balcony?
I didn't see anyone. I was standing over there.
Maybe the nutcase was yelling to herself.
- The balcony door is ajar. - It's been like that since yesterday.
We couldn't ask for a better opportunity.
- What if she comes back? - You'll whistle. Like this.
I don't know how to do that.
Everyone knows how to do it. Whose cart is that?
The milkman's. He lives here. He always leaves it there.
- It's not true! - Yes it is!
- No it isn't! - You locked him up!
Who fed you such nonsense?
I think I have the right to see my husband!
Wait for me here! Wait here!
Hear me, you ape?
She chased me down the street.
Who? Your wife.
Oh no... I asked you not to move it!
Everything has its place in this house.
Jesus... Stop fooling around!
She's convinced I've imprisoned you.
Tell her it's not true. That you yourself want this.
- Silence... - That you are free!
Silence, silence, silence... That's all you can come up with.
You left the refrigerator open again. You'll melt everything.
- It wasn't me. - Then who?
An informer.
My teeth.
He stole your teeth?
- Don't open it. It's him. - I'll just check.
Open up this moment!
Stas, Czeslava is no name for a woman.
You ape! You're holding him prisoner!
Be quiet or I'll call the police!
Jadwiga won't be back, but the snoop...
I told you long ago that someone was following me.
Calm down.
We'll get rid of the bastard.
How?
We'll leave.
- I tried. I couldn't do it. - The other one? Who was she?
- I don't know. I've never seen her before. - What did she say?
"You're holding him prisoner! I have a right to see my husband!"
That's her.
- She lost her umbrella. - That's his wife.
Whose?
Where is he?
Does Zawieyski know?
Tell me! For fuck's sake!
I can't sleep because of him.
On the one hand, it frightens me...
On the other hand...
I wish for nothing else,
but to meet him.
This is his last picture.
July, 1939.
When did you take this?
You were friends.
I'm the best. Nobody in this country knows more about Witkacy than I do.
Even his wife thinks so.
I wanted to get a professional opinion.
I mean, to measure the degree of their usage.
It's absurd. Like wanting to measure
the degree of wear of a corpse's new pair of shoes.
But now for the most important question.
What would a corpse need false teeth for?
You're keeping something from me.
Something tells me you met Witkacy after the War.
Let's make a deal. I turn a blind eye to your weaknesses,
and in return, you, sir... Yes? ...yes, yes, yes...
- Water... - Louder...
Water...
Water?
I'll bring some in a moment.
A stomachache?
Well, since your fever is down, maybe we'll stop with the painkillers.
- That was at five. - You're sure?
Let me reiterate. I left the chief's office to do my rounds.
I always start at five.
Please sign here.
Don't you understand, sir, that the patient
was paralyzed from the waist down? How could he get up?
Somehow he got up.
He went to the bathroom. He opened the balcony and jumped.
No, I can't sign that.
Maybe it happened like this?
- He woke up... and... - He was thirsty.
Exactly. He was thirsty.
He went to the bathroom to drink some water from the tap.
A paralyzed man?
He opened the balcony door to get some fresh air.
He lost his balance. And fell.
And if I don't sign?
- Then you don't sign. - No consequences.
None.
So I can just leave here and return to the hospital.
Of course. I'll fill out your leave of absence.
- What now? - Nothing.
He has a wife. Kids. He'll think about it.
And come back tomorrow and sign it.
How did you know?
- What? - That he was thirsty?
- A purely hypothetical proposition. - An exact proposition.
Did anyone see you?
No.
Ok. Let's eat.
- Thank you. Yes... - I would like meatloaf.
A large cucumber salad. And a side of buckwheat.
- Gravy? - Yes, please.
- But it really wasn't me. I swear. - Whatever, don't swear, just order.
- Yes? - The same.
Pass the punch.
Here you go.
A very important person. From Head-Office.
Maybe he'll give you a medal for Witkacy.
- May I? - Yes, of course.
We must do everything to pull attention away from the roadkill.
We're talking about a spectacular success here.
Do we understand each other?
- I was inside her house. - Witkacy's mistress.
I broke in, to be exact.
She lives on the ground floor. Her balcony was open.
- You could have been caught. - But I wasn't.
It looks like I have proof that he's alive.
What? Show me.
- Witkacy's teeth. - Not when we're eating.
This could be an important clue. After his supposed death,
she visited his dentist and picked up these custom-made teeth.
Put those away already.
- Why would a corpse need teeth? - Exactly.
- And what about the corpse itself? - He's not in her apartment.
Where then?
As far as I'm concerned, in Zakopane.
He left without his teeth?
Maybe he jumped from the balcony
- when I was looking through the apartment. - Fat chance.
This morning she rented a room in the "Giewont" Hotel.
How do you explain that?
- Delicious meatloaf. - Very. And great cucumber salad.
One more thing.
Witkacy's favorite beer. She orders it every day.
- Alright, start packing. - Yes, Sir.
Can we trust him?
I think so.
Wait! Come back here!
Take this briefcase to Zakopane.
Oh God, something's not sitting right...
I'll be OK on my own here.
I know this hotel like the back of my hand. Alone! Alone!
You... You go home... To your wife. She's giving birth.
You're going to be a father!
She's giving birth to your son, for gods-sake!
Guard it with your life. Someone will come for it Monday morning.
Code word: "State Distinction". Repeat.
"State Distinction".
Medals all around! Let it shine...!
- Shut the fuck up! - Ok, easy now...
Pin a medal on my chest, a most modest medal,
when I die, adorn my casket and say goodbye,
as I call out "arrivederci". Lazowski.
- Maybe you want to leave that in the safe? - Oh no, no... Never.
207.
Sir! Your key.
Arrivederci...
Finally, Stas!
I asked you not to hike.
At your age and in your state, it's dangerous.
Is he here?
I'm worried about you. He's staying on my floor.
You can smell the vodka from a mile away.
- He got drunk. Good. - What have you come up with?
Like the paintings.
Like Bruno Schulz?
- It's the snoop's birthday today. - No, I beg you, no...
It's either them or it's us.
Otherwise I'll end up like Zawieyski. Oh...
There's also this.
- What's that for? - So he won't recognize you.
My fascination with eroticism
emerged as I was still at early Lolita stage.
However, my Catholic upbringing gave rise to a sullen dilemma:
How am I to succeed in being sexually active
and keeping my virginity intact till my wedding night?
Frustration kept me awake, no sleep to soothe my pretty weary eyes.
But then, in high school, a certain French tutor
finally showed me how to work out a perfect solution.
It was in his very office
that I found out how marvelously skilled my lips can be.
They can offer sensual bliss. As well as spiritual ecstasy.
Thus, step by step, my cicerone shaped me
into a goddess of an ancient art that used to be called fellatio
by the Romans. And by you, rather simply: A blow-job.
Here's the deal.
You're right, Stas...
Hair foretells evil.
When it starts to show, we recognize the taste of sin.
The dress.
The dress!
The candle.
Let's go...
They went inside! Practically naked!
And not only were they half naked,
one of the sluts was wearing a First Communion dress.
- Up to here. - Where did they go?
- 207. - 207? He's in there!
Must be a nut-job. I'm calling an ambulance.
Right... yes... Exactly... Because today... today is my birthday...
Excuse me... Is this from the company?
It's from the company, right?
But why is this happening? Why is this all happening?
When did everything go wrong?
He didn't come. What the fuck are we supposed to do now?
We repeat.
No! Excuse me! I'm sorry!
But why is this happening?
I'm terribly sorry, comrade! This is a very sick lady!
- You tricked me! - Who tricked you?
No one. She's crazy. They're coming to get her.
You tricked me! You tricked me!
It's just that... Today is my birthday.
On your knees, you slut!
You fucking slut!
I could have lost my job because of you!
I'll kill you, understand? I'll kill you!
When I tell them at work, they won't believe me.
They won't believe this either.
Just like they don't believe Witkacy is alive.
Because I am alive.
Pour me some.
Today's your birthday. We must drink to that.
- But how did you get in here? - The door's open.
I hope you don't think I'm a ghost.
- Ghosts don't piss on the carpet. - No... But... But... Please don't...
And they don't drink vodka.
They don't drink. And...
And they don't pick up heavy briefcases.
Correct. What is this?
- Medals. - For who?
That's a secret.
Please leave that alone... Sir, please leave it be.
Just a moment! I deserve a medal from my country.
- Posthumous. - Not posthumous.
- And not only do I deserve one. - Who else?
- I've moved on to whores. - Shhh... Quiet, or...
What do you mean "quiet"?
Only whores give men freedom and independence.
They're... there... they left...
You must bring them here. That's an order!
- I got a cavalry one! - A cavalry what?
Cross.
- Give that back! - I deserved it!
10,000 clients!
Lola, sweetheart, give that to me, or there'll be a scandal.
What scandal?
An ass like a dream. It deserves an officer's medal.
Come here!
Aha. So it was in 1939 that you slit them?
No. Later. In the concentration camp.
On September 18th, 1939,
we got married before God,
and then I swallowed luminal. Mixed with puddle water.
And Witkacy?
He slit his wrists. With a razor.
- And you witnessed that? - No.
I fainted.
- You son of a bitch! - Major, Sir! No!
- I warned you! - I beg you! No!
He's alive!
You need a strong liver and a stronger head to deal with Witkacy!
- You saw him yesterday, ma'am? - Yes.
- How old does he look? - 55.
He should be 85.
How old do I look, sir?
Oh. Young!
Born in 1904.
- That means you're... - 65.
- What happened to the medals? - Witkacy has them!
Because whores deserve medals for fucking!
He's going to decorate all the sluts of the People's Republic of Poland!
It's in these drawings? That Schulz had sexual complexes?
- That's what he told me. - Who?
Stas.
He dreamed of prostitutes.
- It's not funny. That's when he'd. - Ejaculate?
When the prostitutes would hit him in the face, yes?
Yes. I saw it with my own eyes.
In July, 1932, Stas bought him some women for his birthday.
He was ecstatic.
What does the fellow from the hotel have to do with Shulz?
His birthday was yesterday.
And did he come? After being beaten like Shulz?
No... He didn't.
Stas tricked me.
- I questioned every single whore. - He's alive! He's alive!
Not one saw him.
That's not true! I swear. He decorated them! Go get him! Catch him!
Catch him yourself, you fucker, and thank him!
- You're out of the Service! - Fuck! I talked to him!
Nothing but a drunken delirium.
I thought it was schizophrenia,
but it's a brain tumor the size of a tangerine. Here...
Only an operation can save you.
- No... - No... Please don't...
- No... - Please calm down.
No...
Stas wants you to have the operation.
It's why he asked you to shave your head.
Before the War,
I would cut people off if they were 5 minutes late.
My models were always punctual. All of them.
And now, the tram was late, there was a line-up at the butcher's...
It was this, it was that...
And to top it all off, she's upset that I don't paint enough.
Because my paintings are selling
and she can buy herself a new apartment for my kitsch.
You've turned me into a fraud.
How's that going for you?
They haven't caught on yet?
Look what they cut out of me.
They claim that this is you.
The light is perfect.
Don't move! Stay exactly like that.
No, please don't open it.
VIELIKY OZIERA. USSR, 1988
Witkacy is coming home.
A great moment.
Let's drink to the peace of a lost soul.
What are these beads doing here?
Like something from a lady's necklace.
- The skeleton looks a little small. - They didn't find all the bones.
They're in good condition.
- The teeth. - What about the teeth.
He didn't have teeth.
- He ordered them from the dentist... - What?
False teeth.
But the dentist didn't make out on time. And Witkacy left Warsaw toothless.
These are the false teeth the dentist didn't finish on time.
Which means this is not Witkacy.
No.
I mean,
permission to exhume came from the highest authorities.
Gorbachev himself signed off on it.
And the funeral in Zakopane cannot be cancelled.
It's going to be a major patriotic manifestation.
No, no, no... I won't sign it. It's scandalous.
Sir, it'll be scandalous if you don't sign.
But this is not Witkacy!
Don't work yourself up about it.
It is.
As you wish...
Your wife is also an opera singer, isn't she?
Well... what a shame...
What do you mean: What a shame?
That she'll never sing again. Not in Poland. Not anywhere.
We won't hear your deep bass anymore either.
And so I say, a fucking shame.
On Krupowki Street, for the first and last time in 50 years,
Zakopane greets and says goodbye to Witkacy.
A Varsovian by birth, Stanislav Ignatius Witkacy,
was most artistically prolific here.
He is finally home, by his mother's side.
He has been laid to rest in the old cemetery on Peksowy Brzysk,
next to Mary Witkiewicz.
She lowered the body from the balcony and placed it in the cart.
Don't be scared. Everyone's asleep.
She doesn't live here anymore. She died in '76.
What are you staring at? Lie down in the cart!
Lie down, lie down...
She brought him here.
Now, have a good look.
The tree from the Great Lakes, under which Witkacy...
Exactly.
Now you understand?
No. I don't.
Look at the lightning scar.
It's identical.
Which is why she buried him here.
With this shovel.
He was in her house.
Here?
If you don't believe me, see for yourself.
And? To the cemetery?
He didn't want to be buried in a cemetery.
When did this happen?
The last card to Zuza was sent in November, 1967.
A couple days later, when the Secret Service
threw the poet Zawieyski out the window,
he was still alive. That was June, 1969.
I believe...
...it happened in the fall of '69.
Unfortunately I was no longer in Warsaw at the time.
And only now am I able to end my mission.
He's here.
Witkacy 1885-1969
Lying is the most beautiful of all the arts...
Typical directions:
Mockeryism...
Lieism...
Neo-string-alongism...
Falsehoodism...
Deceptionism...
Dupeism...
Screwism...
Shamism... Insincereism...
Fibism...
Mystificationism...
Good morning, Zuzu.
A shave!
- With a straight razor? - With a straight razor.
- What's new with you, Pinno? - Same old.
- Your hands are shaking. - Oh... just a little.
Be careful not to cut my throat.
Everything will be fine.
I hope so.
I don't want to walk around Krupowki with tissue stuck to my face.
You left your Leica here.
Because you came back from Krakow early and I had to...
Yes... flee.
- Interrupt my session. - Whatever you want to call it.
Give Mr. Witkiewicz's Leica back.
When I say give it back, give it back.
- But it's at home. - Aaa... aaa...
That's because I removed the film to develop the session.
Did it come out?
Sit!
Something came out.
It's your fault! You wanted to capture my character, and now...
- now you've got it! - Sit!
Don't cry.
I assure you, your character is like a pure water diamond.
Really?
Really. Which is why I hereby decorate you for your character
with the People's Republic of Poland Gold Cross of Valor.