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

Dizzy’s rickety old car emerged from round the bend in such a hurry that one could describe it as breathless and overexcited. Dizzy hopped out, just as agitated.

‘They’ve found Innerd’s body. Dead as a doornail. For weeks and weeks.’

I felt extremely faint. I had to sit down. I wasn’t prepared for this.

‘So he hadn’t run away with his lover,’ said Boros, emerging from the kitchen with a mug of tea. He didn’t hide his disappointment.

Dizzy looked at him and at me hesitantly, and was too surprised to say anything. I had to do a quick presentation. They shook hands.

‘Oh, they knew that ages ago,’ said Dizzy, his excitement waning. ‘He left his credit cards behind and his bank accounts haven’t been touched. Though actually his passport has never turned up.’

We sat down outside the house. Dizzy said he’d been found by timber thieves. Yesterday afternoon they had driven into the forest from the direction of the Fox farm, and there, just before Dusk, they had come upon the remains – that’s what they’d said. They were lying among the ferns, in a pit where clay was once mined. And apparently these remains were quite appalling, so twisted and deformed that it took them a while to realise they were looking at a man’s body. At first they had fled in horror, but their consciences had nagged them. Naturally, they were afraid to go to the Police for one simple reason – as soon as they did, their criminal activity would instantly be exposed. Oh well, they could always claim they’d just been driving through that way… Late that evening they’d called the Police, and during the Night the forensic team had arrived. From what was left of the clothing, they had provisionally managed to identify Innerd because he wore a distinctive leather jacket. But we’d be sure to know everything on Monday.

Oddball’s son later defined our behaviour as ‘childish’, but to me it seemed as coherent as can be – namely, we all got in the Samurai and drove to the forest beyond the Fox farm to the site where the body was found. And we were by no means the only ones to behave childishly – about twenty people had come, men and women from Transylvania, and also forest workers, those men with moustaches were there too. Plastic orange tape had been stretched between the trees, and from the distance stipulated for spectators it was hard to make out anything at all.

A middle-aged woman came up to me and said: ‘Apparently he was lying here for months on end and had already been well gnawed by foxes.’

I nodded. I recognised her. We had often met at Good News’ shop. Her name was Innocenta, which impressed me greatly. Beyond that I did not envy her – she had several ne’er-do-well sons who were no use at all.

‘The boys said he was all white with mould. They said he’d gone all mouldy.’

‘Is that possible?’ I asked in dismay.

‘Oh yes, madam,’ she said very confidently. ‘And they said he had a wire around his leg, as if it had grown into the flesh, it was drawn so tight it was.’

‘A snare,’ I said. ‘He must have been caught in a snare. They were always setting them around here.’

We moved along the tape, trying to make out something in particular. A crime scene always prompts horror, so the onlookers were hardly speaking to one another, and if they were, they were talking softly, as if at a cemetery.

Innocenta shuffled after us, speaking for all those who were shocked into silence: ‘But no one dies because of a snare. The Dentist keeps insisting it’s the animals’ revenge. Because they hunted, did you know that? He and the Commandant.’

‘Yes, I know,’ I replied, surprised that the news had spread so quickly. ‘I agree with him.’

‘Really? You think it’s possible that animals…’

I shrugged. ‘I know it is. I think they were taking revenge. There are some things we may not understand, but we can sense them perfectly well.’

She thought for a while, and finally agreed that I was right. We walked around the tape and stopped at a spot where we had a good view of the police cars and men in rubber gloves squatting close to the forest floor. Evidently the Police were now trying to collect all the potential evidence, to avoid making the same mistakes as they had in the case of the Commandant. Because they really had made mistakes. We couldn’t go any nearer, two policemen in uniform kept herding us back onto the road like a flock of Hens. But we could see that they were diligently searching for clues, and several officers were trudging about the forest, paying attention to every detail. Dizzy was frightened of them. He preferred not to be recognised in these circumstances; come what may, he did work for the Police. During an afternoon snack, which we ate outside – the weather was so lovely – Dizzy elaborated his thoughts.

‘This means my entire hypothesis is in ruins. I’ll admit that I was pretty sure Innerd had helped the Commandant to fall into the well. They had mutual interests, and they’d quarrelled, or maybe the Commandant was blackmailing him. I thought they’d met by the well and started squabbling. Then Innerd had pushed the Commandant, and the accident had occurred.’

‘But now it turns out to be even worse than everyone thought. The murderer is still at large,’ said Oddball.

‘And to think he’s lurking somewhere near here,’ said Dizzy, tucking into the strawberry dessert.

I found the strawberries completely tasteless. I wondered whether it was because they fertilise them with some muck, or maybe because our tastebuds have grown old, along with the rest of our bodies. And we shall never again taste the flavours of the past. Yet another thing that’s irreversible.

Over a cup of tea Boros gave us a professional description of how Insects contribute to the decomposition of flesh. I let myself be persuaded to go back to the forest again after Dark, once the Police had left, so that Boros could conduct his research. Disgusted by what they regarded as ghoulish eccentricity, Dizzy and Oddball stayed behind on the terrace.

The gleaming orange tape phosphoresced amid the soft darkness of the forest. At first I refused to go any closer, but Boros was very sure of himself and unceremoniously dragged me after him. I stood over him as he shone his headlamp torch into the undergrowth, searching among the ferns and poking a finger into the leaf litter for traces of Insects. It’s strange how the Night erases all colours, as if it didn’t give a damn about such worldly extravagance. Boros muttered away to himself, while with my heart in my mouth I let myself be carried away by a vision:

When he arrived at the farm and looked through the window, Innerd usually saw the forest, the wall of forest full of ferns, but that day he’d seen some beautiful, fluffy, wild red Foxes. They weren’t in the least afraid; they were just sitting there like Dogs, steadily watching him in a challenging way. Maybe in his small, avaricious heart a hope was born – that here he had chanced upon an easy profit, for such tame, beautiful Foxes could be lured and caught. But how come they’re so trusting and tame? he thought. Perhaps they’re a cross with the ones that live in cages and spend the whole of their short lives turning circles, in a space so small that their noses touch their precious tails. No, it’s not possible. And yet these Foxes were large and beautiful. So that evening, when he saw them again, he thought he’d go after them, to see for himself what exactly was tempting him, what sort of a devil it was. He threw on his leather jacket and off he went. Then he realised that they were expecting him – beautiful, noble Animals with wise faces. ‘Here, boy, here, boy,’ he called to them as if to puppies, but the closer he came, the further they retreated into the forest, still bare and damp at this time of year. He figured it wouldn’t be hard to grab hold of one – they were almost rubbing against his legs. It also crossed his mind that they could be rabid, but in fact it was all the same to him by now. He’d already been inoculated against rabies, when a Dog he’d shot had bit him. He’d had to finish it off with his rifle butt. So even if they were, it didn’t matter. The Foxes were playing a strange game with him, vanishing from sight and then reappearing, two, three of them, and then he thought he could see some beautiful, fluffy Fox Cubs too. And finally, when one of them, the biggest, most handsome Dog Fox, calmly sat down in front of him, Innerd crouched in amazement and began to advance very slowly, legs bent, leaning forwards, with a hand stretched out ahead of him; his fingers pretended to be holding a tasty morsel, which might tempt the Fox, and then he could be made into a fine fur collar. But then suddenly he realised he was tangled in something, his legs were stuck and he couldn’t move after the Fox. As his trouser leg rode up, he felt something cold and metallic on his ankle. His foot was caught. And when it dawned on him that he’d stepped in a snare, he instinctively yanked his leg backwards, but it was too late. By making this movement he passed his own death sentence. The wire tightened and released a primitive hook – a young birch tree, bent and pinned to the ground, suddenly sprang straight, pulling Innerd’s Body upwards with such force that briefly it hung in the air, waving its legs about, but only briefly, for at once it became still. Seconds later, the overburdened birch tree snapped, and that was how Innerd came to rest on the ground, in a dug-out clay pit, where fern shoots were budding beneath the forest litter.