Jaroslav Kalfař - Spaceman of Bohemia

“Your time is wasted here,” Grandpa says.

“I don’t write poetry, Mr. Procházka. I like the stuff, but I’m no good at seeing the world in pictures. But your son was certain about my editorship of some international newsletter. A call to action. He was certain I wrote verse calling for a violent revolution, a tsarian slaughter of Party leadership and their families, opening the gates of our country to capitalists and once again enslaving the working class. He was so certain he put my feet inside these shoes. This is one of them, right here.”

The man pats the shoe.

“You do know my son has passed,” Grandpa says.

“Do your legs ever fall asleep? In a violent way, I mean. You try to stand up but you have no control, like someone severed the nerves and you are no longer in command of your own flesh. It’s like that with these shoes. Your son was very gentle when he shaved my chest and placed the charges, right underneath my nipples. He coughed politely when he pushed my chair a little closer to the wall, so I could rest my head. Inserted a piece of cardboard in my mouth to bite on. He patted me on the shoulder, like a stranger telling someone they dropped a coin, before he pushed a button and watched as the galoshes circulated the charge through the marrow of my bones. You become a human light bulb. You piss yourself, you cry a little, and you take the pen and sign, you shout, Oh yes, I did it all, I wrote poems . But your son—I cannot speak for the other Party officers, but I can speak with every cell of my body about your son—he would not let me confess so soon. He lowered the charge and he described the average day in the life of my mother. Morning, he said, she has a roll with jam and Edam cheese. She brushes her teeth with Elmex while she listens to dechovka on the radio. She takes the A line to Old Town Square, where she works as a typist. For lunch, she makes a ham roll, except for Mondays, when she uses the schnitzel left over from Sunday, placing it between two slices of rye bread with a pickle. On her lunch break, she reads plays. She arrives home around four and watches television while she peels potatoes and cooks sauerkraut pork for dinner. This is when your son’s face became very serious, Mr. Procházka, you see, because here he truly had me, and he was happy, but he could not show his sadistic pleasure. Your son, he had shame. He was very serious when he told me my mother copulated with my father on Wednesdays only, and she would never allow him to release inside of her, because she believed there would be another world war and the Americans would kill all of us, and why make more children only to watch them die? Like me, I’m sure you are wondering whether your son made these things up simply to terrorize me, or whether the Bolsheviks actually watched through their windows as my father and mother did or did not pleasure each other. I will always wonder, Mr. Procházka. What am I to do, ask my mother? I can see you are curious too. After this story, your son allowed my numb fingers to sign a paper, and he took that paper and he glowed like a little runt about to deliver the morning paper to its master. What do you think about that?”

Grandma stands still, looking out the window. Grandpa gets up from his chair, groans a little, and takes a moment to straighten his back. He walks to the refrigerator and takes out a beer. He puts it on the table, opens it, and drinks half of it in one gulp.

“Do you want me to apologize on his behalf?” Grandpa says. “Well, I can’t. Because I can’t be sure he would be sorry at this moment. I can’t be sure if he would regret anything. He was a man of conviction.”

“Aren’t you curious how I got the shoe? I’m a wealthy man now, Mr. Procházka. The privatization has been kind to me. I dabble in iron, zinc. Some weapons contracts. I’m even looking into opening a couple fast-food stores downtown. I bought this shoe from a friend of mine at the police inventory. I know it is the one I had an intimate relationship with because the serial number burned itself onto my skin. Can you imagine? The prosecution was going to use it against your son, to shit on your name for the next ten generations, but he managed to depart before they could. I picture him crawling along the steel rope and cutting it himself, the coward he was. Do you think I traveled from Prague to hear an old man say he is sorry? Take your apology and go feed it to your swine.”

Grandpa finishes the beer. He stands up and grabs the empty bottle by its neck. Grandma drops her spray bottle. The stranger scratches through his stubble, making the sound of a match struck on a matchbox. I wait for my grandfather to hurt the stranger, but he does not raise the bottle. His hand shakes. He sets the bottle down and breaks into a fit of smoker’s cough, roars like a wounded bear until Grandma hands him a mint sucker and rubs his back. The stranger taps on the shoe with his finger to the rhythm of the rain. There is almost a politeness to it, as if he is giving his opponent a turn.

“That was rude,” the stranger says. “I don’t mean to insult your occupation or the wisdom of your age. But tell me, how could I stay away? There ought to be some rules in this universe. The Party gave your family rewards because your son was a good dog. Tell me I don’t deserve justice. Convince me I shouldn’t be here, and I will go, and never return.”

“Are you a religious man?” Grandpa asks.

“No.”

“Then go fuck yourself with justice. A car ran over one of our cats last week. Who should I go to for reparations? Men don’t always pay for their mistakes.”

“No. But if I can help it,” the stranger says, stands up, and once again straightens out the creases on his jacket. “Anyway, this was a friendly introduction. You will be seeing me around. Maybe at the shop? The pub? I’ll chat with your neighbors some. I own a cabin by the woods now. Lovely view.”

“What is it you want?” Grandpa says. “Say it plain.”

“I’m not sure yet,” the stranger says, “but when I decide, I’ll come see you again.”

He picks up the shoe and slides it inside his backpack. Grandpa’s shoulders sag and he stares out the window, overlooking the newly awakened chickens plucking at the leftovers of morning seed. I forget that I am not watching a movie. The man with the shoe opens the door and I fall backwards.

“Little Jakub,” the stranger says.

I struggle to my feet. He extends a hand. I ignore it.

“What will you be when you grow up?”

“Astronaut,” I say.

“A hero, then. Did you like your father?”

Grandpa takes the bottle again, runs toward us with the speed of a young man, and shouts “Shoo, scum. Begone!”

The stranger rushes out the door and out the gate while Šíma nips at his ankles. He drives off. Grandpa stands in front of the gate and breathes heavily. It is shortly before noon, and neighbors are walking in pairs and trios on the main road to pick up fresh rolls from the store. They pause to study the scene of the stranger’s escape, surely enthusiastic to compose theories about the event later, during the evening’s game of Mariáš.

“Did you hear us?” Grandpa asks when he comes back inside.

I nod.

“Are you feeling sick?”

I shake my head. Anger burns in my stomach, as if I’m about to belch, but I’m not sure whom to be angry with. I’ve never witnessed a threat of violence in front of me. It does not feel good or thrilling, like in books.

“Let’s go skin a rabbit,” Grandpa says.

“He has the flu,” Grandma says.

“Give him a shot of slivovitz, then. He’s been in the house for weeks. How is that healthy for a boy?”

I put on a raincoat and follow Grandpa to the rabbit cages. He reaches for Rost’a, a fat white buck cowering in the corner. Rost’a squeaks and thrashes around until Grandpa deals a swift blow to the back of his neck. The chickens gather around the compost and bawk upwards in ecstasy as Grandpa cuts Rost’a’s throat and the blood pours over their beaks, thick and steamy.