Jáchym Topol - City, Sister, Silver

I was cruel and I was tender, and I liked it. But I was run-down. I even caught myself thinking that maybe instead of taking, a trip I should spend some time at home on Gasworks, and I had to ask Bohler to kindly clout me a few times with his rosary, see if that’d clear my mind. He was more than happy to oblige, but added, listen, Potok, dear friend, that sparkling nugget over there in the creek, the one deaf Micka’s drivin by in his singin mobile at this very moment, informed me that my pseudodroog, the gallant actor Potok, would prefer to hole up in his place an fear life with great dread.

My dearest buddy Bohler, despite all your time behind bars, I said, turning a wee bit red and uncertain, I swear, you speak the absolute truth, an I can see you’ve got the great gift of seein into the human soul.

Bohler nodded. I understand, pal, sometimes I too lock myself in a momentarily free room, never the one with the altar, an emphatically ask my Lady Laos for peace an quiet, an sit by myself, an indulge my thoughts an emotions.

You’re right, my clever theologian, our pals’re in byznys an they’re doin a brilliant job of keepin the treadmill runnin, but maybe the two of us’re a little cracked … you’re a scholar of Scripture, an in the course of your daily an nightly wanderings you’ve gotten a glimpse into the endlessness of human suffering … through the open gate into the place where souls howl in various degrees of terror an confusion … an me, I’m just an outstanding actor who also knows how to act an dance off the boards of the cruel old crazy real world, I can move inside people an with people, an create an act out characters to the point of total exhaustion an eclipse … in other words, we know it, an all this byznys stuff is just another form of motion.

Yeh, yeh, you put that pretty elegant, brother … said Bohler … for an actor.

And then we pulled into another town, picturing the new private dives and touring a few attractive developing or foundering private byznysses, and even squeezing in a few bolshevik monuments, and then we picked a hotel and began having fun. And it happened to me, later on, in my room.

I was with our pseudodroogina Táña, coincidentally a blonde, known as Elsa the Lion to a close circle of friends, and she was very kind and beautiful, and relatively gentle as well.

Except then it happened, and I demolished the room a little, cause all of a sudden I realized that the floor of the room was sloped and we were slipping down it, and instead of the pretty face of Elsa the Lion I was looking into the repulsive snout of a hound with jaundiced fangs, and a voice ripped into my brain: Caution: Slippery slope! and on one side the floor actually started to rise and on the other side was a trapdoor. I got a glimpse inside, and I think I saw flickering flames and heard a suspicious metallic grinding, like spits rotating around. The hideous dog started growling at me and rolling around on the bed in a puddle of its own vomit, and I realized my Little White She-Dog, wherever she was out there, probably wasn’t doing too great. I attempted to calm the fiendish cur, but letting out a menacing growl he tried to slash my belly open, and then he began to grow, bigger and bigger, crowding me toward the trapdoor, and then I heard: Caution: Slippery slope! and I couldn’t back up anymore, and as I groped for the blade in my pocket the dog fixed me with burning eyes, trying to pierce right through me, going for my heart. Desperate, I tried to do a dance and summon up my power and She-Dog’s words from out there where she was suffering, something evil was happening to her … I could sense it … but the beast took up so much of the room I couldn’t do even an ankle dance, couldn’t even move my heels … and as I finally got hold of the blade I heard it a third time: Caution: Slippery slope! and something clamped down on me.

We caught you just in time, man, you woulda slashed her up. Luckily you were screamin so loud we heard you, even Micka, my boss and buddy David explained after approximately twenty hours of piercing darkness.

You probly oughta see Doctor Hradil about a vacation. Ah bullshit, there’s too much work right now, I objected. There’s always too much, said David. We’ll see, but I got a feelin it’d be a good combination. We won’t talk about any major or minor operations yet, dear Potok, said the boss. Nothing to object to there of course. An anyway what really got Táña mad was you kept callin her a dog, said Micka. I mean every little kid knows that she’s a lion, added the brilliantly acclimatized Sharky. My mistake, I was thinkin of She-Dog, I corrected myself nonsensically.

Táña, dear Táña, lemme make it up to you, I pleaded with my somewhat battered and slightly slashed pseudodroogina. At least lemme set you up an account so you won’t hafta punch the clock for a while. Well, all right … but still … even if you aren’t the absolutely totally worst dancer, you probly oughta find some other pseudodroogina to take along on your next trip … outta the question, I said, tonight I wanna be with you, that was just an evil spell, we gotta test if it’s back to normal now. That was my argument, and Bohler solemnly nodded in agreement.

The next night, then, we made ceremonious preparations for our copulation. Just to be safe, we persuaded the other guests that they’d be better off finding someplace else, and rented out the whole hotel. The boys agreed to stand guard in case it happened again, but a minor tussle ensued over my knife. Micka didn’t want to take any chances, but David pointed out that without an instrument my anger’s power might not show itself, and besides, I wasn’t that fast. That irked me a little bit, and there might’ve been a minor spat if Bohler hadn’t intervened in time, passing out relics and amulets, setting up the aspen stakes and demon nets, and meaningfully clearing his throat.

Táña and I got down to it then, this time not quickly, in our usual old city style, but gently, kind of country-style like, with blue skies and trees and apples, with foreplay and nibbling and touching all over … we were probably showing off a little for the pseudodrooginas gathered around our bed in case the situation called for litanies. I must humbly note, at least some of them peeked … shall we say … with interest. All of them except for Bohler’s Laotian lady, who, I assume, got a laugh out of our relatively clumsy euro-missionary moves. But she kept herself in check, apart from baring her teeth a few times as she suppressed a catty smile; she checked herself because it was serious. And it worked and it was okay and nothing out of the ordinary happened.

We nearly forgot about the well. Hradil’s boys took turns standing watch down in the cellar, a suitable distance away from the water’s surface, which frightened them. One of the boys, who went by the Mohawk name of Montague, regularly came by to report that the sisters were still missing.

And once upon a smiley city day, finding ourselves with a little free time after our daily briefing, we decided to try Sharky’s trick with the box … spotting Montague, who was trudging back to the cellar to take over from one of his bros … Sharky said, it’s a good thing for a little boy … and told Montague to give it a shot. Given the relatively old age of the box in Sharky’s mind, the price tag was the first thing that intrigued the young Hradil, he was a practical boy. Then he gave the nod and got inside the box. Sharky sent it back to the foul concentration camp, and it took all the strength little Montague had to dodge the furious metal-tipped boots, the whips that could tear right through the box, shredding its fragile contents, not to mention the foul sounds he had to withstand … because Sharky carried around inside him the shuffling of forty-year-old old men, death rattles, shrill commands, soft weeping … more than enough to kill a small creature … but Montague, inside the box, was surprisingly calm and cautious, and then he began to grow with his power, and damn fast too … Sharky turned pale, we were all surprised … none of us had handled it as well as little Montague … screams of insanity and pleas for mercy … he didn’t let anything inside his box … our eyes were popping out of their sockets … he even steered clear of the SS riding boots … Sharky’s showstopper … but all at once Bohler broke out laughing, Micka joined in, and then I saw it too … and Sharky, sweaty and pale, switched off. Hey, Micka explained, the kid pulled a scalpel outta his sleeve an cut a hole in the box, he saw the whole time, he gave eyes to his power, man … then David added an appreciative comment about Montague’s strategic capabilities, and the boy, now out of the box, flushed with embarrassment. It was great the way you stayed in there with that scalpel an didn’t cut yourself, or cut yourself down, an turned your eyes’ power outward, Micka praised Montague. An just the fact that he saw all that stuff an it made him stronger … testifies in and of itself … to a certain quickness an agility, said a slightly emotional Sharky. Hey, uncle boss, Montague said to Sharky. Yes, my boy? Know anyplace that still sells those cool Batas? We froze a little stiff. If all he cares about’s the shoes, if he cares about getting anything else out of that trick besides his own life, he’s damned anyway, no matter how fast he is, flashed through my mind … the others, with sadness in their hearts, were probably thinking the same … the boy went on though … if we could scrounge up somma those boxes an rig em up for small sizes … for dogs an cats an squirrels. What for, boy? Bohler wondered. Cause all those city critters that used to come an drink outta the well’re startin to disappear. Why didn’t you say so, boy?! we asked. I figured my sisters were all that mattered to you guys. Besides cash an booze, you don’t seem to care much what goes on around here. My mom told me so, said Montague. From the mouth of an innocent babe the bloody truth has spoken! roared Bohler. All right, boy, go run along an play or whatever, Bohler continued in a more subdued tone, that box belongs to your old uncle Sharky, an givin it to squirrels would be like givin away his identity, like losin part of his head … an next thing you know he’d be lying belly up in the nearest cruel city hole. Montague brooded a moment or two, then kissed the ring on Bohler’s hand and ran off to the cellar.