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

So eager was I to know Big Foot’s date of birth that I nervously began to search for his identity card – on the sideboard, among some papers, pages from a calendar and newspapers, then in the drawers; that is where documents are kept in rural homes. And indeed there it was – in tattered green covers, surely out of date by now. In the picture Big Foot was twenty-something, with a long, asymmetrical face and squinting eyes. He wasn’t a pretty sight, not even then. With the stub of a pencil I wrote down the date and place of birth. Big Foot was born on 21 December 1950. Right here.

And I should add that there was something else in that drawer as well: a wad of photographs, quite new, in colour. I flicked through them, just out of habit, but one of them caught my attention. I looked at it more closely, and was about to lay it aside. It took me a while to understand what I was looking at. Suddenly total silence fell, and I found myself right in the middle of it. I stared at the picture. My body tensed, I was ready to do battle. My head began to spin, and a dismal wailing rose in my ears, a roar, as if from over the horizon an army of thousands was approaching – voices, the clank of iron, the creak of wheels in the distance. Anger makes the mind clear and incisive, able to see more. It sweeps up the other emotions and takes control of the body. Without a doubt Anger is the source of all wisdom, for Anger has the power to exceed any limits.

With shaking hands I put the photographs in my pocket, and at once I heard everything moving forwards, the world’s engines firing up and its machinery taking off – a door creaked, a fork fell to the floor. Tears flowed from my eyes.

Oddball was standing in the doorway.

‘He wasn’t worth your tears.’ His lips were pursed as he focused on tapping out the number. ‘Still the Czech operator,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to go up the hill. Are you coming with me?’

We quietly closed the door behind us and set off, wading through the snow. On the hilltop, Oddball began turning on his own axis with a mobile phone in each outstretched hand, seeking a signal. The whole of the Kłodzko Valley lay before us, bathed in the silver, ashen glow of dawn.

‘Hello, son,’ said Oddball into the phone. ‘I didn’t wake you up, did I?’

A muffled voice gave an answer that I couldn’t understand.

‘It’s that our neighbour’s dead. I think he choked on a bone. Just now. During the night.’

The voice at the other end spoke again.

‘No. I’m just about to call. There wasn’t any signal. Mrs Duszejko and I have already dressed him, you know, my other neighbour’ – at this point he cast a glance at me… ‘so he wouldn’t stiffen…’

I heard the voice again, sounding more nervous.

‘Well, anyway, he’s in a suit now…’

Then the Person at the other end started gabbling at length, so Oddball held the phone away from his ear, casting it a look of distaste.

Afterwards we called the Police.

I was grateful to him for inviting me home for a hot drink. I felt completely drained, and the thought of having to return to my cold, empty house made me feel sad.

I said hello to Big Foot’s Dog, who had been resident at Oddball’s for the past few hours. She recognised me and was clearly pleased to see me. She wagged her tail – by now she’d probably forgotten about the time when she’d run away from me. Some Dogs can be silly, just like people, and this Dog was certainly one of them.

We sat in the kitchen at a wooden table, so clean that you could lay your cheek on it. And that is what I did.

‘Are you tired?’ he asked.

Everything in here was clean and bright, warm and cosy. What a joy it is in life when you happen to have a clean, warm kitchen. It has never happened to me. I have never been good at keeping order around me. Too bad – I’m reconciled to it by now.

Before I’d had time to look around, I had a glass of tea in front of me. It was in a sweet little metal basket with a handle, and it was on a saucer. There were sugar lumps in the sugar bowl – a sight that reminded me of happy childhood hours, and really did improve my rather dismal mood.

‘Perhaps we shouldn’t have moved him,’ said Oddball, and opened a drawer in the table to fetch out some small teaspoons.

The Dog stayed close to Oddball’s feet, as if refusing to let him out of the orbit of her small, emaciated body.

‘You’ll knock me over,’ he told her with gruff affection. I could see it was the first time he’d ever had a Dog, and he wasn’t sure how to behave.

‘What are you going to call her?’ I asked, as the first sips of tea warmed me from the inside, and the tangle of emotions caught in my throat began to melt a little.

Oddball shrugged. ‘I don’t know, maybe Fly, or Tray.’

I didn’t say anything, but I didn’t like it. Those names didn’t suit this Dog, considering her personal history. Something else would have to be thought up for her instead.

What a lack of imagination it is to have official first names and surnames. No one ever remembers them, they’re so divorced from the Person, and so banal that they don’t remind us of them at all. What’s more, each generation has its own trends, and suddenly everyone’s called Magdalena, Patryk or – God forbid – Janina. That’s why I try my best never to use first names and surnames, but prefer epithets that come to mind of their own accord the first time I see a Person. I’m sure this is the right way to use language, rather than tossing about words stripped of all meaning. Oddball’s surname, for instance, is Świerszczynński – that’s what it says on his front door, with the letter ‘Ś’ in front of it. Is there really a first name that starts with the letter Ś? He has always introduced himself as ‘Świerszczynński’, but he can’t expect us to twist our tongues trying to pronounce it. I believe each of us sees the other Person in our own way, so we should give them the name we consider suitable and fitting. Thus we are polyonymous. We have as many names as the number of people with whom we interact. My name for Świerszczynński is Oddball, and I think it reflects his Attributes well.

But now, as I gazed at the Dog, the first thing that occurred to me was a human name, Marysia. Maybe because of the orphan in the classic children’s story – she was so emaciated.

‘She wouldn’t be called Marysia, would she?’ I asked.

‘Possibly,’ he replied. ‘Yes, I think that’s right. Her name’s Marysia.’ The naming of Big Foot occurred in a similar way. It was quite straightforward – it suggested itself to me when I saw his footprints in the snow. To begin with, Oddball had called him ‘Shaggy’, but then he borrowed ‘Big Foot’ from me. All it means is that I chose the right name for him.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t choose a suitable name for myself. I regard the one that’s written on my identity card as scandalously wrong and unfair – Janina. I think my real name is Emilia, or Joanna. Sometimes I think it’s something like Irmtrud too. Or Bellona. Or Medea.

Meanwhile Oddball avoids calling me by my name like the plague. That means something too. Somehow he always finds a way to address me as ‘you’.

‘Will you wait with me until they get here?’ he asked.

‘Sure,’ I readily agreed, and realised I’d never have the courage to call him ‘Oddball’ to his face. When you’re such close neighbours, you don’t need names to address each other. Whenever I see him weeding his small garden as I’m passing by, I don’t need his name to speak to him. It’s a special degree of familiarity.