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

An amused smile flashed across his face. ‘No, thank you. I’m not interested in astrology.’

‘You’ll know what to expect in life. Wouldn’t you like that?’

At that point he glanced knowingly at the Policeman sitting behind the reception desk, and with an ironic smile, as if taking part in a jolly children’s game, he gave me all his details. I wrote them down, said thank you and, pulling up my hood, headed for the exit. In the doorway I heard them snorting with laughter, and the very words I had predicted: ‘Crazy madwoman.’

That evening, just after Dusk, Big Foot’s Dog began to bay again. The air had turned blue, sharp as a razor. The deep, dull howling filled it with alarm. Death is at the gates, I thought. But then death is always at our gates, at every hour of the day and Night, I told myself. For the best conversations are with yourself. At least there’s no risk of a misunderstanding. I stretched out on the couch in the kitchen and lay there, unable to do anything but listen to that piercing wail. Several days earlier, when I had gone to Big Foot’s house to intervene, that brute had refused to let me in, and had simply told me not to interfere in other people’s business. In fact, he had let the Dog out for a few hours afterwards, but later on he’d locked her in the dark shed again, so that Night she’d howled again.

There I lay, on the couch in the kitchen, trying to think about something else, but of course it was no use. I could feel an itching, pulsating energy seeping into my muscles – just a little more and it would blow my legs off from inside.

I leaped up, put on my boots and jacket, fetched a hammer and a metal bar and every other Tool that fell into my hands. Minutes later, breathless, I was standing outside Big Foot’s shed. He wasn’t in, the lights were off, and there was no smoke rising from the chimney. He’d locked up the Dog and disappeared. Who could say when he’d be back? But even if he had been at home, I’d have done the same. After a few minutes’ work, I was bathed in sweat, but had managed to get the wooden door open – the boards on either side of the lock came loose, and I was able to slide the bolt. Inside it was dark and damp; some rusty old bikes had been tossed in here, and there were some plastic barrels and other rubbish lying about. The Dog was standing on a pile of planks, tied to the wall by a string around her neck. What else immediately caught my eye was a pile of excrement – clearly she’d always had to relieve herself in the same spot. She wagged her tail uncertainly. She looked at me with moist eyes, joyfully. I cut off the string, took her in my arms and we went home.

I didn’t yet know what I was going to do. Sometimes, when a Person feels Anger, everything seems simple and obvious. Anger puts things in order and shows you the world in a nutshell; Anger restores the gift of Clarity of Vision, which it’s hard to attain in any other state.

I put her down on the kitchen floor and was amazed how very small and slight she was. Judging by her voice, by that dismal howling, one might have expected a Dog the size of a Spaniel at least. But she was one of those local Dogs, known as a Table Mountains Uglymutt, because they’re not very attractive. They’re small, with thin, often crooked legs, a grey-and-brown coat, a tendency to gain weight, and above all with a visible overbite. Let’s just say this nocturnal songstress wasn’t blessed with beauty.

She was anxious, trembling all over. She drank half a litre of warm milk, which made her belly round as a ball, and I also shared some bread and butter with her. I hadn’t been expecting a Guest, so my fridge was glaringly empty. I spoke to her soothingly, I gave her an account of my every move, and she watched me questioningly, clearly baffled by such a sudden change of circumstances. Then I lay down on the couch, suggesting to her at the same time that she too should find herself a place to rest. Finally she squeezed under the radiator and fell asleep. As I didn’t want to leave her alone for the Night in the kitchen, I decided to stay put on the couch.

I slept fitfully; evidently there was still agitation roaming around my body, and it brought down continual dreams about stoked-up ovens belching heat, never-ending boiler rooms with hot, red walls. The flames locked in the ovens were roaring to be released, wanting that instant to spring onto the world with a monstrous explosion and burn everything to ashes. I think these dreams may be a symptom of the night fever that’s connected with my Ailments.

I awoke before dawn, when it was still completely dark. My neck had gone stiff from sleeping in an uncomfortable position. The Dog was standing by my headrest, insistently staring at me, and pitifully whining. Groaning, I got up to let her out – all that milk she had drunk was finally in need of an outlet. A gust of damp, cold air that smelled of earth and putrefaction blew in through the open door – as if from the grave. The Dog ran outside like a shot and had a pee, comically raising her back leg in the air, as if she couldn’t decide if she were a Dog or a Bitch. Then she glanced at me sorrowfully – I can boldly say that she looked me deep in the eyes – and raced off towards Big Foot’s house.

And so she went back to her Prison.

That was the last I’d seen of her. I’d called her, annoyed at letting myself be led up the garden path so easily, and helpless in the face of the sinister workings of bondage. I’d started to put on my boots, but that terrible grey morning alarmed me. Sometimes I feel as if we’re living inside a tomb, a large, spacious one for lots of people. I looked at the world wreathed in grey Murk, cold and nasty. The prison is not outside, but inside each of us. Perhaps we simply don’t know how to live without it.

A few days later, before the heavy snow fell, I saw a police car outside Big Foot’s house. I admit that I was pleased to see it. Yes, I had the satisfaction of knowing that the Police had finally called on him. I played two games of patience, both of which came out right. I imagined they’d arrest him, bring him out in handcuffs, confiscate his supplies of wire and take away his saw (this particular Tool should require the same sort of permit as a gun, for it wreaks Havoc among the plants). But the car drove away without Big Foot, Dusk fell rapidly and the snow began to fall. Locked up again, the Dog howled all evening. Next morning, the first thing I saw on the beautiful, spotless white ground, were Big Foot’s unsteady footprints and yellow trails of urine around my silver Spruce. All this came back to me while we were sitting in Oddball’s kitchen. And my Little Girls.

As he listened to my story, Oddball made soft-boiled eggs, which he served in china eggcups.

‘I don’t share your trust in the authorities,’ he said. ‘One has to do everything oneself.’

I’m not sure what exactly he meant by this.

When I came home, it was already light and I was entirely off my guard, because once again I imagined I could hear the patter of my Little Girls on the hall floor, that I’d see their enquiring gazes, their furrowed brows, their smiles. And at once my body was gearing up for the welcoming rituals, for affection.

But the house was deserted. Winter whiteness was pouring through the windows in soft waves, and the vast open space of the Plateau was insistently pushing its way inside. I stored the Deer’s head in the garage, where it was cold, and topped up the wood-burning stove. I went to bed in my clothes, and slept like the dead.

‘Mrs Duszejko, Janina.’

And after a pause, again, louder: ‘Mrs Duszejko, Janina, Janina.’