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

I asked for another glass of tea, but purely to have the chance to stir it with the lovely spoon.

‘I once reported Big Foot to the Police,’ I said.

For a moment Oddball stopped drying the biscuit plate. ‘Because of the dog?’ he asked.

‘Yes. And the poaching. I sent letters complaining about him too.’

‘And what happened?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Are you trying to say it’s a good thing that he’s dead?’

Last year, before Christmas, I made my way to the local administration to report the matter in person. Until then I had written letters. Nobody had ever answered them, though there is in fact a legal obligation to respond to citizens’ enquiries. The police station turned out to be small, resembling the single-family houses built in the communist era out of materials rustled up from here and there – shoddy and sad. And so was the atmosphere prevailing inside too. The walls, coated with oil paint, were covered in sheets of paper, all of them headed ‘Public Notice’; incidentally, what a dreadful phrase. The Police use lots of extremely off-putting words, such as ‘cadaver’ or ‘cohabitee’.

In this temple of Pluto, first a young man sitting behind a wooden barrier tried to get rid of me, and then his older superior tried to do the same. I wanted to see the Commandant, and I insisted; I was sure that eventually they’d both lose patience and usher me into his presence. I had to wait a long time; I was afraid the grocery store would close before I left, and I still had to do my shopping. Until at last Dusk fell, which meant it was about four o’clock, and I’d been waiting for more than two hours.

Finally, just before the office was due to close, a young woman appeared in the corridor and said: ‘You can come in, madam.’

By now I was rather lost in thought, so I found it hard to come to my senses. Gradually I gathered my wits as I headed after the woman for an audience upstairs, where the Police Commandant had his office.

The Commandant was an obese man of about my age, but he addressed me as if I were his mother, or even his grandmother. He cast me a fleeting glance and said: ‘Sit yourself down.’ Sensing that this form of address revealed his rural origins, he cleared his throat and corrected himself: ‘Take a seat, madam’.

I could almost hear his thoughts – to his mind I was definitely a ‘little old lady’ and, once my accusatory speech was gathering strength, a ‘silly old bag’, ‘crazy old crone’ or ‘madwoman’. I could sense his disgust as he watched my movements and cast (negative) judgement on my taste. He didn’t like my hairstyle, or my clothes, or my lack of subservience. He scrutinised my face with growing dislike. But I could tell a lot about him too – I could see he was hot-tempered, that he drank too much and had a weakness for fatty foods. During my oration his large bald head gradually reddened from the back of his neck to the top of his nose, and visible knots of dilated blood vessels appeared on his cheeks, like an unusual army tattoo. He must have been accustomed to giving orders and being obeyed, and was easily carried away by Anger. A Jovian personality.

I could also tell that he didn’t understand everything I was saying – firstly, for the obvious reason that I was using arguments alien to him, but also because he had a limited vocabulary. And that he was the type of Person who despises anything he can’t understand.

‘He poses a threat to many Creatures, human and animal,’ I concluded my complaint about Big Foot, in which I had described my observations and suspicions.

The Commandant wasn’t sure if I was making fun of him or if he was dealing with a madwoman. There were no other possibilities. I saw the blood briefly flood his face – he was undoubtedly the pyknic type, who will eventually die of a stroke.

‘We had no idea he’s been poaching. We’ll see to it,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘Please go home, and don’t worry about it. I know him well.’

‘All right,’ I said in a conciliatory tone.

But he was on his feet by now, leaning his hands on the desk, a sure sign that the audience was at an end.

Once we have reached a certain age, it’s hard to be reconciled to the fact that people are always going to be impatient with us. In the past, I was never aware of the existence and meaning of gestures such as rapidly giving assent, avoiding eye contact and repeating ‘yes, yes, yes’ like clockwork. Or checking the time, or rubbing one’s nose – these days I fully understand this entire performance for expressing the simple phrase: ‘Give me a break, you old bag.’ I have often wondered whether a strapping, handsome young man would be treated like that if he were to say the same things as I do? Or a buxom brunette?

He must have been expecting me to leap from my chair and leave the room. But I had one more, equally important thing to report to him, forcing him to sit down again.

‘That Man locks his Dog in the shed all day. It’s not heated, so the Dog howls in there because of the cold. Can the Police deal with this by taking the Dog away from him, and punishing him as an example?’

He looked at me for a while in silence, and the feature I had ascribed to him at the start, calling it disdain, was now clearly visible on his face. The corners of his mouth drooped, and his lips pouted slightly. I could also see that he was making an effort to control his facial expression. He covered it with a lame smile, revealing his large, nicotine-stained teeth.

‘That’s not a matter for the Police, madam,’ he said. ‘A dog is a dog. The countryside is the countryside. What do you expect? Dogs are kept in kennels and on chains.’

‘I am simply informing the Police that the man is committing evil. Where am I to go, if not to the Police?’

He laughed throatily.

‘Evil, you say? Maybe you should go to the priest!’ he quipped, pleased with his own sense of humour, but he plainly realised that I did not find his joke amusing, because his face at once became serious again. ‘There’s probably a society for the care of animals, or something of the kind somewhere. You’ll find them in the phone book. The League for the Protection of Animals – that’s where you should go. We’re the Police for people. Please call them in Wrocław. They have some sort of animal wardens there.’

‘In Wrocław?’ I exclaimed. ‘How can you say that? These are the responsibilities of the local Police – I know the law.’

‘Oh!’ he said, smiling ironically. ‘So now you’re going to tell me what my responsibilities are, eh?’

In my mind’s eye I could see our troops drawn up on the plain, ready for battle.

‘Yes, I’m only too happy to do so,’ I said, gearing up for a longer speech.

In panic, he glanced at his watch and curbed his dislike for me. ‘Yes, all right, we’ll look into it,’ he said indifferently, and started to put the papers from his desk into a briefcase. He had escaped me.

At this point it occurred to me that I didn’t like this man. More than that: I felt a sudden surge of hatred towards him, as sharp as a knife.

He stood up again decisively, and I noticed that his leather uniform belt was too short to encompass his enormous belly. Out of shame this belly was trying to hide itself lower down, in the uncomfortable, forgotten vicinity of his genitals. His shoelaces were undone; he must have kicked his shoes off under his desk. Now he had to squeeze into them at high speed.

‘May I know your date of birth?’ I asked politely, already by the door.

He stopped in surprise. ‘What do you want it for?’ he asked suspiciously, holding the door open for me.

‘I calculate Horoscopes,’ I replied. ‘Would you like one? I can draw it up for you.’