Stanislaus Kostka woke up in bed afraid to open his eyes. It was a hot summer day in Poznań. Or was it Białystok? So hard to tell these Polish cities apart. But what was this dread of opening his eyes?
Maybe it was the buzzing sound he thought he heard. What could be making that buzzing sound? A sleeping whore? A giant beetle?
Eyes open, he saw that it was a really big insect, all right. It was the biggest anyone had seen. That is, in the way Poland was prone to exaggerating all the good things they did. They had the sexiest astronomers, the most literate blonde population anywhere, the easiest terrain, that is to say the flattest, for calisthenic workouts. Why must he be so hungover? Because the best brandy comes from Wrocław.
Stanislaus Kostka rolled over and squashed the big insect. The humming in his head subsided.
“What do you want from me?” he asked the universe. “A Saint I ain’t.”
When he couldn’t sleep, he had the tendency to predict big things. He had predicted that bread and butter would be a hit at the royal court. People were poised to fight a war over that one, but they tried tasting it and, yeah, it was the best thing since sliced bread.
It sounded crazy, but he was feeling that Poland, currently the biggest thing around, would merge with Lithuania in one big commonwealth. I mean, even for a progressive year like 1569, there was no turning back from this kind of thing. What could happen to top that?
He had some other brief visions. The Austro-Hungarian Empire. The United Kingdom of England, Scotland and Ireland. The Star Alliance. It had 26 member airlines, whatever those were.
Stanislaus Kostka closed his eyes and tried counting backwards from ten. Dziesięć. Dziewięć. Osiem. Siedem. Sześć. Pięć. Cztery. Trzy. Dwa. Jeden.
Much more relaxed now. Really gets all your mouth muscles working.
It has been truly a curse to have such a wild imagination, thought Stan. It was a gift from god, though, he knew. Because otherwise he would keep seeing visions of the hour of his death. “Don’t you want to know when you’re going to die?” everyone would ask. Not really.
Whores really liked him, because whenever they touched his chest he had a burning flame like the great heat of the Savior. They all swore by it. And he was always available to confess their sins when they were done.
He looked out the window and saw three eagles perched in a fruit tree. The eagles were squawking at each other and posturing, which caused the berries to fall to the ground. At which point one eagle dropped down and began to walk all over and smash the fruit, and soon all were doing it. Aha! exclaimed Stanislaus Kostka. I predict something called jelly will be made, and it can go on the bread with the butter.
This was suddenly too much. The heavens opened up, and angels came out of all the clouds and corners and orifices of the world. They pled with Stanislaus Kostka: you’re doing too much. Go to sleep. Rest up. You have a big trip coming up tomorrow. You have to hit the road and go to Kraków, and then Częstochowa, Malbork Castle, and then Bydgoszcz. Can you dig it?! Tomorrow will be even bigger than today. You’ve just got to believe, man!