The sound behind me registered as a splash, or maybe a dull plop, like a heavy stone sinking instantly.
A crowd of youngsters on the bridge in central Gdansk reacted with a sort of dismay, as though one of them had dropped a wallet into the water below. They leaned over the wooden rail and talked quietly among themselves.
A local man in his 30s caught my eye. "F... life," he said in English, taking a heavy swig from a can of beer.
"Did something fall into the river?" I asked.
"He jumped," the drinker said, with a shrug.
Incredulous, I ran to the rail and looked down. There was nothing to see. The water was calm for about 15 seconds, then a single bubble broke the surface, followed seconds later by another, followed, almost reluctantly by their progenitor. The body ebbed under the arch before floating back into view for the half-interested group on the bridge.
The drinker walked away. I looked again at the prone shape in the water and through gestures tried to find a lifebelt. There was none to hand. The youngsters on the bridge became more animated and a couple of girls blessed themselves. A few hundred yards away a man was running along the quayside holding aloft a lifebelt.
Through all of this the male body below circled the mouth of the bridge, still face-down, emitting occasional bubbles but never struggling, never trying to right himself or fight the impulse that had driven him over the ledge. Instead he simply lay prostrate in the water, as if welcoming death with an open-armed embrace. It was extraordinary and at the same time unnerving, like witnessing the forfeiture of all will to live.
The man with the lifebelt was still at a distance. Then help arrived in the unlikely form of a kayak being paddled by two American tourists, who entered the stretch of water as witless as sheep in a minefield. As they paddled into view the crowd began calling out in Polish. The duo, at first mistaking their cries for a greeting, waved back. But then they sensed they were being directed towards the bridge and paddled upriver.
It had been some time since bubbles had issued from the floating body. The man remained face down. He was wearing a blue tracksuit top, denim jeans and black shoes. Somebody belonging to somebody, now merely waterborne, like a scene conjured up by the film director Kieslowski to provide macabre diversion for afternoon strollers in Gdansk.
The two Americans continued uncertainly towards their destination, following directions in a language they did not understand. They arrived so unexpectedly that they hit the body with the pointed bow of the kayak.
"Oh my God!" cried the young man. "There's a body in the water!"
He recoiled in horror, not knowing if the body was already a corpse. The girl manoeuvred the kayak so that her crewmate could reach into the water. He turned the human heap around. It was the first time we got to see the submerged man's face. He was in his 50s, probably, heavy-set, with a mop of black hair draping his forehead. The American addressed the listless victim with polite concern.
"Excuse me sir!" he gasped. "Are you alive?"
The woman paddled steadily towards the quayside while her crewmate struggled to hold on to the sodden body. Progress was slow. A police siren sounded from the cobblestones of Dlugi Targ, the main street in the old city.
I watched from the bridge, wondering if the man in the water was dead. His face already looked as if it was smeared with Vaseline. He was not spluttering or gasping, just floppy like a heavy sack of potatoes. As the kayak inched towards the quay the American's grip on the man's collar began to loosen. Yards from safety, the man's head disappeared through his tracksuit, slipping out of the American's grasp and melting underwater again.
Four policemen prepared to receive the body. There was a discernible lack of urgency about them, as though lunch had been interrupted, or the drowning man would necessitate a mound of paperwork. They hauled him ashore with thinly veiled disgust. The man's shoes fell into the river and the Americans, unsure if their job was done, began retrieving them with the open side of the paddles.
Tossed on to his side, the man suddenly groaned from the depths of his soul, coughing up river water. Colour trickled back to the monochrome features of his face. Minutes later an ambulance arrived and the four policemen lifted his inert body up on the pavement. He moaned and struggled, possibly unsure whether he had left this world and entered the next, although a policeman's knee in his kidneys was a strong clue to his earthly whereabouts.
The Americans paddled off downstream, the man shaking his head in astonishment at what he had just experienced. The people on the bridge dispersed and the policemen stood around the rescued man, joking and smoking, dusting down damp patches where their uniforms had blotted his wet clothes. A well-dressed local man paused to survey the scene. "Just another drunk," he sniffed and went on his way.
Young children gaped at the beached hulk, perhaps absorbing a lesson in Polish fatalism. He was lifted into the ambulance, still sobbing. No need for a siren, no flashing lights. The show was over.