Jáchym Topol - City, Sister, Silver

Then the caretaker took us on a walk into town at last. It was so gracious, I nearly bled to death with joy. The town hall for example was gigantic. And we only crossed on green. Red means: Stop and wait! At least then we could gawk at the cars: Talk about hot rods, cruisers, an calibers! We were droolin … The tour moved on. But we couldn’t get away with any hokeypokey or messin around. Look! The Bulgarian cried. The supermarket doors opened all by themselves! You just went up … one more step … an they opened! An step back … an they close! Incredeebeelay. I tried it out a few times myself. Everyone gathered around. The caretaker looked on indulgently. I was afraid somebody was going to get mad they didn’t have doors like that back home and break them before I got a chance. I gave the English levers a shove, but shrewdly, so it’d look like the Chechen’s fault. I broke it! Alarmed, we huddled around the miraculous doors, jabbering one over the other. But the caretaker didn’t even get mad. And no one came racing out of the place with a cane. Strange. We went on. I was about to take the Bulgarian’s hand, or grab her ass, I donno anymore, when someone tripped me up from behind. Lightning fast I spun an slugged the Pole behind me in the belly. But it wasn’t him! It was the Albanian behind him. I recognized my mistake from his grin, but it was too late to back out. You dog! the Pole roared. Dog’s blood! I roared back. Smallpox! the Pole roared. Cholera! I roared back. Di do prdele!* the Pole roared. Chłop zasrany!* I roared back. The others were quick to join in. I saw an Afghan kick a Russian in the head, a Bosnian put a Serb in a nelson … and off it went … the Chinese, Vietnamese, Cambodian, and Laotian women ran around, terrified, wobbling on their crooked legs … the Gypsies got a big laugh out of it, dipping into an open pocket or two. Here come the officers! On horseback! I quick made like nothing was up. The others also reined it in and began scanning the area for someplace to hide before the armored cars rolled in. But too late, surrounded! Nowhere to run. It looked like we could kiss our human rights goodbye. The Poles, the Afghans, and the Vietnamese started tearing up cobblestones and building barricades, a fancy car or two caught fire, loud prayers, weeping, and teeth gnashing all around. Anyone ready to tattle and at your service got off with a slap on the wrist. It still worked! The Kanaks charged the police … I, admittedly, was a little hesitant, but I took advantage of my hesitation at least by stompin the Slovak’s foot … reinforcements arrived … white overcoats … some religious-type crosses … and no beating or shooting … some tricky new technology! They kept their distance, politely negotiating with us through megaphones … put on some boring mellow music … offered us gift baskets … ham, potatoes, shrimp, everything … old I.Q. Pavlov set to work … we put our heads together … they had us surrounded, we started crossing one another, nothing but: Forgive me, brother! Kind neighbor! Dear friend! May Mother Earth be my witness! Visegrad … Sarajevo … Gabčíkovo … Hanoi … Saigon … Bucharest and Buchara, as long as I live … an never again … and then those desirable people at a distance offered us … jeans and jeeps and cars and chateaus and chewing gum … if we’d be good!

We gave ourselves up and boarded a bus. Then we drove down a stunning high-frequency highway, lotsa intersections, all kindsa lights, overpasses, underbends, concrete, no people … an then Gejza notices the bus doesn’t have any windows! There’s glass but it won’t open! We know this one, the Romanies roared, whipping out their razors. Never again! Same old tricks! Churi des churi hudes!* Betrayed! Now comes the gas! Gas. Plynyata, the Croatians translated for their Serbian cousins, plonovyeshcha, the Russians translated for the Ukrainians, drinking vodka and kissing each other, plynovodstvo! plynka! plynoubitiye! plynuii! plyndura! plygur! plona! the Slavs lamented, the Asians still didn’t know what it was, bezpelészrzvéketil! the Hungarian screamed. The Bulgarian singer kept pushing me off, I didn’t get it, I mean we’re gonna croak anyway, so why not gimme some? But she wanted to cross herself and curse the Bulgar-killers a few more times still. The Popes whipped out icons, the Navajos kachina dolls. Where’re the jeans? the Albanians screamed, they’re takin us to a concentration camp, the Ruthenians cried excitedly, wonder what it’ll be like? And the shaman from Yakutsk whipped out his drum and horseshoes, and the bus came to a stop. We were at some gigantic town hall again, out in front were mayors, scientists, and doctors with medals. It was Timbuktu for all we knew. Someone started a rumor that the buses aired out automatically. A miracle! It’s a miracle, declared the Galician Hasidim, tugging at their beards … from the time of Abraham the Angel and the holy rabbis of Belz … great, great wisdom and progress. Pff, bull shit, I said, showing off for the Bulgarian and a couple of Gypsies … they can take their acclimatization … an shove it! There’s holes in the bottom! Hey, the guy’s right, said one of the swarthy men. And then they led us inside for the reception. We ate like pigs. The Kanaks put jeans on their arms. After the cake fight, they washed us up and we read a few of our beautiful, sad, and bitter poems. We traded em around at random, an anyone that didn’t know how to write got somethin written up for em in some tongue or other, no sweat. The artists unlingually reached into their warm-ups and sacks and whipped out their artefacts, pictures, cult figurines, and gallows. The mayors applauded that too. Success! We were a hit. Then they gave us the medals, an I got one of the biggest, cause I’m Czech! An that’s somethin! That means somethin in this world, dammit!

Jícha raised his hands an went to wash em. Also rinsed out his mouth an gargled at length. Which meant we could speak without being called on: Good job, Jícha! You really got it goin over there! That was way Czech … progressive an deep, like the Stag Moat.* At least there was somethin goin on! Just no intelligentsia or small works,* there’s various ways, various possibilities, there’s many things out there! We know, we know, O beloved Jícha. We applauded our representative. An how bout the pseudodroogina? What’s with the Balkan, huh? She still around? You guys write? Is she Varana or Ljubita, does she float like a butterfly or sting like a bee? Or both?

The whole thing’s a little intricate, said Jícha, settling back down.

Hey, Jícha, but anyways. So how bout that book a yours, what’d ja write back there? Spider inquired.

Lost it soon as I finished, buried it somewhere, thing’s unreadable, never mind talkin about it. I don’t have it exactly. But the main thing is I’m back, no? East, west, home’s the worst, eh? An also the best, isn’t it? Why search for happiness abroad when you can find it at home with the family, huh? Yep, things’re great here, an they’re only gonna get better, right? But somethin’s gotta be done. To wash out the filth. From this land. Our country. Yep, that’s what I’m tryin to get at. This has been a little tale to welcome dear Potok into our midst.

WHAT THEY WANT FROM ME. I GO OUT AN I’M NOT ALONE. A GREEN LIGHT AND A WORD FROM SHE-DOG. AND THE MILL. AND OUR DEAR TENANTS. HUNTER.

Good to have you here, said Jícha. We’re countin on you, Potok. Your tribe … yeah, fine, but there’s other outfits here. We’re employin you! He yelped in my face.

An we’re a war outfit, he added in a deep voice.

Tribes, hmh, Hadraba stretched. It’s a different era, man!

After a rapid-fire exchange of glances, Spider got up and said his goodbyes.