Jáchym Topol - City, Sister, Silver

I know, said Honcho, but how bout you … sure you don’t want a little vacation?

No, work is a pleasure for me.

And it was true … except for Burda and the other packer … then I got why it pissed them off that I was there … I unloaded fruit from the trucks and put it in trays, they shipped it in sacks, grade-F stuff pretty much, my job was to pick out the whole ones and put them in boxes … and they were labeled SUPER SPECIAL KLASA NUMBER ONE BORN IN BOHEMIA, so right away I was in the picture. My shed, or as we modernly said back in those days, my hangar, had bluish plastic walls, together with the fruit it was a constant dance of colors. You could track the sun by it. Burda supplied a jumpsuit but told me the gloves’d just run out. On the other side of the tropical-smelling packing house was a kiosk that sold smoked meats and a shack with a REFRESHMENTS sign. We were outside town, by a woodland park, a free range. Large parties of daytrippers made their way here, souring my life with their noisiness, bustling with byznys. Occasionally they’d bum some fruit. Yep, then I began to do a little selling on the side.

The refreshment stand regulars were mostly forestry workers from the nearby Obora,* grazed cattle there. I’d done some exploring … these guys had time galore, but they all looked to be about two or three steps from the train station, by now I could tell. They favored rubber boots and swung their fists as they walked. I spent my time with lemons, switchberries, peaches, the trucks brought kiwis, bananas, parsley … old Burda believed that kiwis spread AIDS, he was always hassling me … one morning, counting over my trays, I realized ten were missing. Burda and Křepek sat at the refreshment stand, the thieves … just grinning at me, and Burda says not to stuff myself so much with raspberries, they’re expensive, said he’s seen me an he’s gonna tell the Boss, couldn’t get anywhere with him. The next day it was the same … give me back my lemons … made a fool of myself … Křepek wore a cross, the dolt, I had half a mind to dance him one, they didn’t know … they thieved like baby magpies, but not a uniform in sight, I began putting in even rotten pieces, just to give me more, and slightly smudged the invoices, it was the only way … you’re in the wheel, heel, so let it ride an wait for her, I said to myself … nothin else I could do. But I enjoyed the work … it gave my nose a workout, now and then I had to use a shovel for the older pieces, Burda cracked up when I asked for gloves, Křepek had new ones I saw, eat shit an die, you proletarians … the lemons smelled good. Lemons don’t waste time with talk, I envied them.

And up in the attic … sometimes I got claustrophobic, there was too much of her smell, too many of her things …

I made some minor repairs around the place. A thing or two to the windows. Rearranged objects. And the bookshelf … I painted red. But I didn’t bring home any flowers. That seemed premature.

And I swore and I begged and they merged.

But I lost my job. It was in the bananas. I thought it was a twig, quite possibly a sprig even … grabbed it, a message from a distant shore, but suddenly it moved, slippery in my palm, I jumped back, a little green snake, a whole nest of them, and they … came shooting out, whizzing past my ears with a sound like a pod cracking open, I raced off, Burda laughing, grabbed the Minimax off the wall an sprayed em, crushed em with my boots, then I had to sit down. I walked up to Burda and he quit laughing. Křepek looked on with interest. But I went back. That day was jinxed. Glimpsing movement out of the corner of my eye, I watched, cautious, and then my eyes really opened wide. It was hairy, big as a soccer ball, and moved at terrifying speed, scamperin up the sack, legs flickin one over the other … I mean I’m an animal lover, but this thing … I snuck past it … away, patting the spot out of habit, raced out of the hangar, and slammed into Burda … he gave me the fish eye … you’re lookin pale, c’mon into the warehouse, they came … the gloves … Go over there, Mr. Burda, we’ve got ourselves a visitor … no, I grabbed him by the sleeve, no … we finished the monstrosity off with a rake … Burda swept him up, what mush was left, to this day I still get goose bumps whenever I remember. An bananas I can do without.

No, Honcho, not even in asbestos armor. I got somethin I wanna wait for … that was too much.

Heh, most people quit when they come across em, but they’re not dangerous, sposedly … old Burda’s not afraid of em, that other guy either, they’re the only ones that can stand it, weird people, huh?

You can say that again. Why didn’t ya tell me?

You wouldna believed. Plus you’da wanted to see.

That’s true. You could show that shit at carnivals.

You know, old Burda already thought a that.

But he mowed it down …

He enjoys that too. Forget it. Hey, there’s a spot open at the stand. Why doncha take it? That kid Kasel’s there on his own, kinuva twit.

While the first job was a fragrant plant with dangerous flesh moving in its midst … this flesh reeked and was dead. Still, it seemed safer. Now I sold human beings scrag ends, veal, and lardlings. They wanted it.

Occasionally it was a wild ride, the surface was always greasy. I was glad I’d kept my hair short since that time Černá had cut it. My current employment was just as tough to fathom as the rest. But if the world were knowable, you’d run up against its borders. This way at least you get somewhere.

Daily I saw hundreds of people, that part I liked. The idea of Sister … on her way … coming here to buy this, was exciting. Mothers would visit the stand with fairly little kids … for market reasons I couldn’t refuse them. Doctors, soccer players, miners, vagabonds, metalheads, civil servants, all stepped up to the counter … I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror anymore. It pissed me off they bought the stuff, I overcharged like crazy.

Kasel tossed dead meat on the grill, sizzling it beyond recognition in fat, my new partner was a surly young man, eternally lost in thought. Whenever there was a moment free he’d hunch in the corner, casting suspicious glances, and sometimes scribbling to himself. I was afraid he was taking down my mistakes … knew that from my other jobs … waiting tables for instance … addition mistakes: So, Mr. Supreme Commander in Chief, sir, that gives us 6 lardlings, 8 Melinda sodas, 4 brews, brewskies, ho-ho, 16 veals, those boys a yours sure can pack it in, yes siree, Boss Coal Baron, an two double portions of scrag ends for the lovely young lady, which makes: eight thousand two hundred an twenny, on the nose! … but if the old fart added it up himself and said pompously: Hah, it’s six thousand seven hundred an ten … I’d break out the trench tactics, my words flying like turds into a cesspool: Oh my goodness gracious, why I added this here from the next table, pardon me, I’m on my own today, an that’s three thou straight up, cross my heart an hope to die! He gave me four, it cost two, and it wasn’t worth a thing. Everyone did it. I wouldn’t’ve lasted there a week otherwise. That’s the way it went in kiosk paradise. They explained that to me fast.

One day Kasel dropped a sheet of paper … leave it, he twisted his hands into claws … but I got a glimpse, man, you’re writin verse! … he blushed … but I didn’t tease him. At least he wasn’t ratting. I breathed a sigh of relief. Felt like an asshole.

After work … couldn’t stand it in the flat, it occurred to me … to go out to the Rock, see Bohler, pay the old buddy a visit … but I still felt a little guilty about what’d happened … back in the slammer … and without a rowdy bunch around, I don’t know … I sat around Galactic checking out the people, Micka might turn up, there were lotsa familiar faces there, new and old alike, I knew that if Černá showed up in town her steps would surely lead to these places … and besides, you can be alone in a crowd if you’re smart about where you sit … there were always videos and tapes going, back in the bush, I stuck my head in the sand, and once again speech was starting to grab me, I met people … now it was mainly Prague 3 … after being raised their whole lives as atheists, they began to pull new words from the vocab of the sects that were suddenly teeming all over … heavy, serious words, like lot, penance, punishment … some young people mixed biblical expressions with the language of grunge guitar groups … sorry dude, plug that in, an’ve you, like, ever done penance? … I heard once … and international drug lingo got a dash or two of protectorate argot, and poking out of it all like straw was a Marxist pictur-esqueness … got a copacetic metajoint here’ll knock your bulletin board off … I picked up idioms and images … and English, the Latin of today’s communities … broukn ingliš … and broukn ček … a broken tongue, and a new feeling grew from the unsoundness, maybe, or the other way round, I don’t know … in any case it was accelerated.