Ольга Токарчук - Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead

‘Perhaps he’s still alive,’ said Dizzy mournfully.

I prayed that he was not.

There we stood, chilled to the bone and stricken with horror. Dizzy was trembling as if having a fit; I was worried about him. His teeth were chattering. We embraced each other, and Dizzy began to weep.

Water was pouring from the sky and streaming from the ground – it felt as if the earth were a vast sponge saturated in cold water.

‘We’ll catch pneumonia,’ said Dizzy, snivelling.

‘Come away from there. Let’s go and see Oddball, he’ll know what to do. Let’s get away from here. Let’s not stop here,’ I suggested.

We headed back, clinging to each other clumsily, like wounded soldiers. I could feel my head burning with sudden, anxious thoughts, I could almost see them steaming in the rain, changing into a white cloud and joining the black ones. As we walked along, slipping on the sodden ground, words came to my lips that I urgently wanted to share with Dizzy. I longed to say them aloud, but for the moment I couldn’t bring them out. They were eluding me. I didn’t know where to start.

‘Jesus Christ,’ sobbed Dizzy. ‘It’s the Commandant, I saw his face. It was him.’

I had always cared about Dizzy very much, and I didn’t want him to take me for a lunatic. Not him. Once we had reached Oddball’s house, I plucked up my courage and decided to go ahead and tell him what I was thinking.

‘Dizzy,’ I said, ‘it’s Animals taking revenge on people.’

Dizzy always believes me, but this time he wasn’t listening to me at all.

‘It’s not as strange as it sounds,’ I continued. ‘Animals are strong and wise. We don’t realise how clever they are. There was a time when Animals were tried in court. Some were even convicted.’

‘What are you saying? What are you saying?’ he gibbered vacantly.

‘I once read about some Rats that were sued for causing a lot of damage, but the case was deferred because they never showed up for the hearings. Finally the court appointed them a defence lawyer.’

‘Christ, what are you on about?’

‘I think it was in France, in the sixteenth century,’ I carried on. ‘I don’t know how it ended and whether they were convicted.’

Suddenly he stopped, gripped me tightly by the arms and shook me. ‘You’re in shock. What on earth are you on about?’

I knew very well what I was saying. I decided to check the facts as soon as I had the chance.

Oddball loomed from behind the fence wearing a head torch. In its light his face looked weird and cadaverous. ‘What’s happened? Why are you walking about at night?’ he asked in the tone of a sentry.

‘The Commandant’s over there, he’s dead. By his car,’ said Dizzy, his teeth chattering, and pointed behind him.

Oddball opened his mouth and moved his lips without making a sound. I was starting to think he really had lost the power of speech, but after a long pause he said: ‘I saw that great big car of his today. It was bound to end like that. He was driving under the influence. Have you called the Police?’

‘Must we?’ I asked, with Dizzy’s agitation in mind.

‘You’ve found a body. You’re witnesses.’

He went over to the phone, and soon after we heard him calmly reporting a man’s death.

‘I’m not going back there,’ I said, and I knew Dizzy wouldn’t either.

‘He’s lying in a well. Feet up. Head down. Covered in blood. There are footprints everywhere. Tiny ones, like deer hooves,’ gabbled Dizzy.

‘There’ll be a fuss because it’s a policeman,’ said Oddball drily. ‘I hope you didn’t tread on the prints. You probably watch crime films, don’t you?’

We went into his warm, bright kitchen, while he waited for the Police outside. We didn’t exchange another word. We sat on the chairs like wax figures, motionless. My thoughts were racing like those heavy rain clouds.

The Police arrived in a jeep about an hour later. Last to get out of the car was Black Coat.

‘Oh, hello, Dad, yes, I thought you’d be here,’ he said sarcastically, and poor Oddball was extremely embarrassed.

Black Coat greeted the three of us with a soldierly handshake, as if we were boy scouts and he were our team leader. We had just done a good deed, and he was thanking us. Though he cast a suspicious glance at Dizzy and asked: ‘Don’t we know each other?’

‘Yes, but only by sight. I work at the police station.’

‘He’s my friend. He comes to see me on Fridays, because we’re translating Blake together,’ I hastened to explain.

Black Coat looked at me with distaste and politely asked us to get into the police car with him. When we reached the Pass, the policemen cordoned off the area around the well with plastic tape and switched on floodlights. It was raining, and in the brilliant light the raindrops became long silver threads, like angel hair on a Christmas tree.

We spent the whole morning at police headquarters, all three of us, though in fact Oddball did not deserve to be there at all. He was alarmed, and I had a tremendous sense of guilt for dragging him into it.

We were interrogated as if we had murdered the Commandant with our own hands. Luckily they had an unusual coffee machine at this police station that also made hot chocolate. I liked it very much, and it instantly put me to rights, although in view of my Ailments I should have been more cautious.

By the time we were taken home it was well past noon. The stove had gone out, so I toiled away to relight it.

I fell asleep on the couch. Fully dressed. I hadn’t brushed my teeth. I slept like the dead, and shortly before dawn, when the darkness was still at full strength outside, I suddenly heard a strange noise. I thought the central-heating furnace had stopped working, and that its gentle hum had ceased. I threw on a coat and went downstairs. I opened the door to the boiler room.

There stood my Mother, in a flowery summer frock, with a handbag slung over her shoulder. She was anxious and confused.

‘For God’s sake, what are you doing here, Mummy?’ I shouted in surprise.

She opened her mouth as if to answer, and tried moving her lips for a while, but did not produce any sound. Then she gave up. Her eyes roamed fitfully across the walls and ceiling of the boiler room. She didn’t know where she was. Once again she tried to say something, and once again she gave up.

‘Mummy,’ I whispered, trying to catch her fugitive gaze.

I was angry with her, for she had died a long time ago, and that’s not how long-gone mothers should behave.

‘How did you end up here? This is no place for you,’ I began to reproach her, but I was overcome by intense grief. She cast me a frightened look, then her eyes began to wander the walls, totally confused.

I realised that I had unintentionally brought her here from somewhere else – it was my fault she was here.

‘Be off with you, Mummy,’ I said gently.

But she wasn’t listening to me; perhaps she couldn’t even hear me. Her gaze refused to stop on me. Exasperated, I slammed the boiler room door shut, and then stood on the other side, listening. All I could hear was rustling, something like the scratching of Mice or Woodworm in the timber.

I returned to the sofa. In the morning it all came back to me as soon as I awoke.

Oddball was probably made for a life of solitude, just as I was, but there was no way for our separate solitudes to be united. After these dramatic events everything went back to its old ways. Spring came, so Oddball energetically set about cleaning, and in the seclusion of his workshop was sure to be getting various Tools ready, which he’d use in the summer to make my life unpleasant – such as an electric saw, a garden shredder, and the gadget I hated most of all: a lawnmower.