Jáchym Topol - Devil's Workshop

Now I remember. Prague, me finally there, waving down a taxi, Sara taught me how to do that. Then the airport.

How did it happen?

Country boy scraped by thorns. Aching hands wrapped in rags. Nobody here cares. The airport’s huge, whole hall made of glass, full of light.

Lockers, luggage? There, someone waves.

I walk, squeezing the key Alex gave me tightly in my pocket. And the Spider.

Whoa, a uniform. I’m startled, scared. A minute ago I just ducked a whole row of police.

Brown, reddish hair. Big round eyes. It’s her.

Maruška takes my hand. Smiles. I feel like we’re connected.

She takes the key from me and opens the locker. Pants, jacket, boots, other stuff, just like Alex promised. I walk down the hall with the full plastic bag. She walks behind me. To the toilets.

Get in there and change!

What if somebody comes?

They won’t.

I clean myself up. Stinking of smoke, scratched, achy hands.

There’s a T-shirt in the bag too, dress shirt, all that stuff.

She walks in after me. All of a sudden it’s too much, her scent, the sweetness of her breath. And me in the hole, the fire, the long walk through the ditch. What now? Where am I going? I’ve hardly been anywhere.

She lifts my hands, looks at them closely. Reaches into a satchel she has over her shoulder.

Now she’s washing my hands. No one’s ever done that before. Gently, she spreads ointment on my hands, arms, the burned spots, then wraps them in a clean, dry bandage.

She rolls up my sleeve, gives me an injection. My knees wobble as the needle enters my arm.

She snaps the cuffs around my wrists.

Leave everything to me, she says, leading me down the corridor.

We passed through the checkpoints, I was like a ghost. She had all the papers, documents. I think I slept the whole time on the plane.

My memory of the hotel is also vague. We walked down some corridors. Went up in a lift. No more handcuffs.

And now I’m here alone. Where’s here? And where’s Alex?

I take a look around, run my bandaged palms over the hard walls. The carpet’s a little burned in places. Wrinkles, like somebody dragged something across it.

Bathroom: dirty, hair in the drain, stinks of chemicals. Some tools, tweezers, wires, on the floor, on a chair by the tub. Brown streaks on the curtain. Doesn’t bother me.

The room always smelled clean, though, when I was with Sara.

Ah, who cares. Maybe somebody’s doing business here too.

I go to the window just as the rumbling swallows up the music again. It’s getting closer.

And then it hits me.

I escaped the fortress town, I made it out of the ruins and the fire.

And they can’t get me now, that’s it, it’s over.

Good.

The rumbling’s closer, everything’s shaking.

I peek out again. I’ve never seen a street so wide in all my life, regiments marching past, soldiers swinging their legs.

Now I see, it’s a tank parade, there are tanks behind the infantry. The Terezín parades didn’t have any tanks, it would’ve disturbed the cobblestones, and my dad never took me to see a parade in Prague. I sit back down on the bed and wonder: What happened to Lebo? What happened to the aunts? What happened to the students? What happened to all my people?

The noise of an armoured vehicle comes through the open window, and the wind. A couple of snowflakes land on my face. Maruška walks in.

Get dressed, she says. It’s cold!

Where are we?

Minsk.

We eat in the hotel basement. Maruška’s face is smooth with sleep, her red hair falls across her shoulders. Fish, sausage, eggs, bread. There’s a queue at the table where the food is being served. But Maruška can take as much as she wants without having to wait. Must be the uniform.

There are no windows. Just a few chandeliers. TV in the corner. At the table next to ours some bullnecked guys in loud conversation, a couple of them with tattoos showing through their white polyester shirts, drinking beer, champagne. They speak Russian, or what sounds like it to me. No tourist types here, no families like you see in Terezín. Another table is occupied by young girls. Tall leather boots, shorts. Blouses. Leather vests over bare breasts. Make-up, jewellery. They don’t look like tourists either, they probably work here. They’re stuffing themselves.

You eat caviar? Maruška asks.

I nod. I eat everything.

You want pelmeni , or draniki?

Which one’s better?

Draniki are Belarusian, pelmeni are Russian.

They both taste great and there’s plenty of it. I start to relax.

Hey, Maruška! What was that injection you gave me back in Prague? And, thanks. I hold out my bandaged hands.

Something to calm you down.

She pulls a cloth pouch from her satchel on the chair next to her. Shakes out a blue pill and hands it to me.

What’s this?

Something to pick you up.

She eats one too.

Is that an army uniform? I examine the cloth. Touch her sleeve.

No, she shakes her head.

Are you a cop?

Of course I wanted to join the police or the army. But the bastards wouldn’t take me. This is from the Ministry of Tourism. I studied travel and tourism in Prague. That’s how I know Czech.

Interesting!

Are you still eating?

Yeah.

Hurry up, let’s go.

Where to?

You’ll see.

Will Alex be there?

You’ll see.

She gets up, pushes back her chair. Picks up the satchel, throws it over her shoulder. I follow her, peeking over at the table of girls. They’ve vanished into thin air, gone. Her satchel’s got a red cross on the corner. Aha, a nurse. And Alex is a medic, right, that fits.

We come out on a huge, wide street in front of the hotel. The soldiers have gone now. There’s a light dusting of snow on the pavement.

Not that I’m shaking with cold, but the wind, when it leans into us, is pretty icy. Maruška’s got a coat on over her uniform, green with epaulettes. Tall leather boots, same as me. Her red hair’s tucked under a beret. I’m grateful to Alex. For her, I mean. And also for the clothes he gave me. I wonder if these are his? We’re the same size.

Yep, sweater, jacket, all real nice.

My tracksuit top, hairbrush, the things I had from my aunts — all that got lost in the fire. The other stuff I left in the bathroom at the airport.

I never had too many things of my own. Even now I only have one. The Spider. It sits snugly in my trouser pocket. We walk and I feel warm.

This is the Boulevard of Heroes, Maruška says with a sweep of her hand. My eyes slide down its length, I can’t even see the end.

The buildings on this street are decorated with great big colour portraits of officers. They’re huge. Flat caps, medals, epaulettes, the works. Over six stories tall, I counted. My dad would’ve liked it. But I have to laugh.

All the inhabitants of our battered little town, including our cats, dogs, and goats, could easily have fitted inside any one of these buildings. Our whole squat, the Happy Workshop, all of it.

The street is coated in trampled mud, mixed with snow. The tanks have churned it into mush. The music sounds far away now, through the flakes coming down in clumps.

We’re going to visit Mark Isakyevich Kagan, Maruška says.

Whatever, I think. I couldn’t care less. I’m loving strutting around this strange huge city with her.

Maruška?

Mm-hm?

I feel unbelievable!

Want some more? She fishes around in her satchel. We both pop one.

It was a long trip, Maruška says.

So where’re we going?

The Museum.

All right! I can hardly wait!

Don’t scream.

Sorry.

I’m glad she’s leading the way. Not like at the airport, in handcuffs, down the corridors. Now she’s just leading the way with the calm sway of her hips. I walk beside her. It’s amazing, really. I slip, nearly fall on my behind.