Jáchym Topol - City, Sister, Silver

Pepek took the pole and began flailing furiously and methodically into the space where the sparse heat-scorched grass gave way to the dusty earth of the road, flailing, where did that alkie find the strength, flailing, and surely the prospect of bolstering his gainful friendship with the merchant boosted his strength, flailing, and the growling changed to wailing, dog moans, an unbroken litany, an animal prayer of agony, the crowd stood quietly around the bus, occasionally someone shook his head, spat with a hiss, shouted out a curse or word of advice, then Pepek scraped out a quivering dog, belly punched open, head bashed in, and finished him off with the pole. It was One Eye. The smaller one I guess got the dagger. Caving in to public opinion, the Gypsies backed the bus up and ran the mutt over, hard to say if he was gone by then or whether he still felt the wheels. The onlookers briefly commented on the two carcasses, next to them lay the gnawed carrot, as long as the little one’s trunk, mocking the life-or-death struggle of the animal kingdom. Vandas bent down to pick up the dagger, it vanished into his pocket with a click of relief. The wise guys all of a sudden remembered their stands full of junk, peppers and T-shirts and socks and bottles of vodka, and disappeared. The two carcasses were left on the road, I sat gaping at the blowflies’ first reconnaissance flights, the thin ribbon of shiny ant bodies intently setting out on their promising expedition for nourishment, for the morsel that had dropped onto their plate from on high, from the heavens. The first ones went for the eyes.

Behind me the market came back to life, I listened to the sounds of Babylon, and nothing was going on. Not now. Not anymore. Maybe I oughta brighten my life with one a those T-shirts, I thought, or maybe it’d be more sensible to purge my imagination with some liquor from Vandas’s tent. The spiffy waiters from the Spinach Bar disposed of the carcasses later, I heard, claimed they were bad for business.

I sat in the tent next to Černá and Vlasta, behind a mountain of potatoes. Vandas ladled out the goulash, full house today. In all about six alleged owners turned up wanting compensation for the dogs. In their greedy eulogies the dogs became the most noble of creatures, masters of the canine race, superdogs as amazing as people. Broccula’d go for at least twenny thou, he was an Irish setter! hollered a lush. What a man, what a gladiator, killed two pure-blood bidgets, they attacked him, I saw it, said someone who liked the goulash. Vandas ignored them. His hand was bandaged. Had a plastic bag slipped over it, I guess to keep from splattering the gauze. He didn’t trust anyone else with that goulash.

I saw Černá wrap it for him. He held still, a dense sweat standing out on his forehead. She washed out the wound.

Learned that at St. Francis, huh? I inquired.

I just know it. She tossed a potato in the pot and reached for another.

What’s that cha got, Vlasta leaned toward me. Is that silver?

Lay off, don’t touch.

Why so brusque, young sir?

Calm down, Černá told me.

Got another scraper?

No.

I’ll go grab a knife an help you guys.

How kind of you. But the knives’re here in the tent.

Aright, I’ll be back in a while.

But I wasn’t. I kicked around in the dust somewhere, drinking shots and amusing myself by taking off my cap and scratching around in my crewcut, or whatever it was.

Next morning I couldn’t get up. My mouth was parched, my tongue was heavy and ached. Every bone in my body was sore. There was a buzzing in my head, one minute I had the chills, the next hot flashes. I was in the bus alone. Then Pepek showed up, I could tell it was him, he kicked me in the ribs. Get the hell out, less you’re interested in Vlasta, heh-heh. I tried to say something but couldn’t move my tongue. Then a rush of black water came over me.

Little brother, get up, stand up …

I could hear her voice … talk to me, I said … the voice was like a waterfall, scattering into vapor before it could reach me, Černá’s voice, it sounded like. I was being carried, taken somewhere.

Then I opened my eyes, I was lying in Vandas’s tent behind some crates. They smelled of wood. I opened my eyes and there was a face, soft, the guy had glasses.

Well, it’s about time, this’ll put him back on his feet. That’s no typhus, miss. Tongue like that … who knows what it’s from. But he ought to get to a hospital.

Then I was looking at feet, from under the canvas I saw feet wearing clodhoppers, black shoes, age-old Masaryk half-boots, shoes flapping open like shark jaws, slipshod things with studs poking out, threads trailing off, newspaper flopping out, scuffed and muddy, sand stuck to the mud like talc on a wound, I saw snazzy moccasins and slippers with the head of Pifík the dog, flip-flops, sneakers, lots of sandals, some with rope for straps, and I saw white shoes too, and with all the dust it looked like bare ankles shuffling past on dirty white clumps, I saw bare feet too, those were children, and even waders, despite the heat, and combat boots and shabby yellow slip-ons, and all those feet were going somewhere, crossing paths and kicking up dust, I coughed and coughed, I couldn’t move … and I couldn’t get through them … and then I heard next to me … hold still, you slut, and pay, say it … say it now or I’ll give you an exam that’ll make you shit your panties … hold still, you little slut … and move it, my time doesn’t come for free, say it … say you’re a slut … it was strange, even with my eyes glued shut I still had those feet under my eyelids, the shoes in the dust and those sounds of sex … maybe I’m on the bus … when I opened my eyes again, it was dark, I could smell the wax in the tent canvas … and next to me lay Černá, asleep … from the other side of the crates I heard conversation, people playing cards, they had an oil lamp, I felt better … tried to stand, stumbled, grabbed hold of the crates, but it worked … I walked outside, slowly … relieved myself. Guess I had a fever still. I felt light. It was nice.

Černá … breathing deeply, fists clenched, usually, being a light sleeper like me, she woke as soon as I touched her. I stroked her hair, letting it slip through my fingers, there’re the gray ones, no, they’re silver. I noticed my nails were long. Černá, I breathed, moving down to her feet, my strength was coming back, I had an urge to stroke her … but no, that wouldn’t be right, not when she’s sleepin so soundly … she had different shoes on, must’ve hocked her rockers … some dull little things with fringe … wouldn’t occur to her in a million years to wear somethin like that in Prague … I took them off, she didn’t stir, her fingers were covered with band-aids and … she, who was always washing herself … but she didn’t know I was the guy in her dream! her feet were dirty … I kissed her thumb slowly, then the nail, cracked traces of polish, she twitched her leg and sighed … like some kina little kid.

Vandas let me stay in the tent behind the crates and Černá brought me water and pills. I didn’t eat much. A couple times I had half a mind … but the thought of booze now gave me bad forebodings.

I was stunned when she told me I’d been unconscious three days. Then some doctor, she said, gave me a shot, some guy Vandas knew.

Let’s not talk about it, said Černá, but if it’d gone on any longer you woulda had to go to the hospital. You’re still weak now, but you know we can’t stay here.

Černá, there’s still a possibility. I know people. You can head back to Prague on your own an find my buddy Micka. He’ll give you cash. An there’s other people too, maybe a phone call’d do the trick.

Listen, friend … what you don’t get is if I leave, whether they let me go or I just split, Vandas wouldn’t let you stay an hour. An he might … get mad. You know what I mean.