Jáchym Topol - City, Sister, Silver

Now, Černá, now that I’m rid of the spooks, now that I’ve busted outta the trap, the big trap … why now?

I TIED HER HAIRS. LET’S GO! THEY TOLD ME. WHO MY SISTER IS. I SEE IN THE WOODS AND … IN THE MOUNTAINS. WHAT I HAVE TO DO. THEIR WELL. RAVEN’S WING.

Again outside it slowly darkened, again came the divide … I sat there, something begun without having finished, riding on along its own axis, sucking me in, I felt a hole, an uneasiness, inside me.

Lighting up a cigarette, I hunted for her scent in the armchair she sat in, held the fork and knife she ate with. Bile climbed into my throat and I felt the light pressing down on my eyes. I let it blind me, and groped my way through the hallway, the foyer, where it was dark, without turning on the light.

In the bed I found several of her hairs, and tied my fingers firmly together, in twos. In the bathroom I found more hairs in the drain. Raven hairs. She liked water and cleanliness, but she couldn’t get rid of every trace. I tied the hairs under my nails, I could feel them better when they hurt. They smelled nice even though they’d been in water, water that had flowed over her skin.

It was evening, I looked out the window, people were going along the street, artificial people too, mutants, from this high up you can’t tell them apart, but some gave themselves away by their gait, their stealthy way of moving. This is my street, my neighborhood, my city, I said to myself, but nothing belongs to anyone, not for long. From the pub next door I heard a fight, drunkards spilled out into the street, beneath a lamp’s sparse light. In a puddle next to the lamppost stood a dog. Slurping rainwater. Cracked walls, metal bars on windows. Trashcan, gutter, and a cloud of steam rushing out of it. Obstructing my view of the billboard with the actors and the poster of the politician. The rails gleamed, shining coldly as a tram went clanging past. So this is the way she’s supposed to go, I said to myself. This way, by herself? And who else? It can’t be good for anyone, it makes no sense, nobody could ever want this. This city, this street, such a lonely walk.

I lit another smoke and wandered around the flat listening to music. I emptied my pockets of all my maps, medications, rolling papers, knives, razors, boxers, cigarette holders, straps, notebooks, games. I attempted to rip a hole in the parquet floor to get at the stash of machine guns and pistols, the metal parts gleamed so bright my eyes ached. I drew back the bowstring and it snapped with a whizzing sound, slicing through the skin on my wrist, interrupting the tattoo. Then I took some nails and, rocking Brother Nail on my knees, cleaned his hide with a rusty knife. It woke the dogs in the building, they joined in the ritual. City degenerates, but that’s in their cells. Yeah sure, I know that every second … someone else is perishing, having the soles of their feet seared, being crushed in a straitjacket, thrown to the pigs.

Maybe … it’s a possibility, my turn’ll come too … now you, someone, lying in a cold eye, in the dark, a day, an hour, a minute before being tortured, and then it comes, sooner or later it comes, you hear your own scream, and in one bright heavy second of blinding pain you absolutely definitely know you exist. No one escapes it, in one of your lives pain will come and you’ll know, acutely and positively, that you exist, it will be a single instant and it will hurt, to let you know how reality feels.

That’s Bog. So you’ll know that pain is real and all the rest is only scenery, delusion and illusion, the first cigarettes, bashful kisses, and idle banter. And why you … why not me? I already knew the answer.

So take a moment from time to time to give at least a caressing glance to your minesweepers, your grandstand, your guns, slowly I run the burning spear through me, sun blazing down on my helmet, the dried scabs on my leather jacket again ooze blood and pus, alive. Where are you, little sister. It was dark, the only light in the room the pale glare of metal … glowing … stole a chunk a uranium off those wiseguys, discreetly purloined it, it worked … an I knew who I wanted to give it to. Maybe.

I lay on the bed and waited, sat back on my heels and waited, a second before she turned the key in the lock and the door swung open I knew. I scented her nearness, was it a scent? When she moved, in all her living beauty, did she split the air ahead of her, sending forth a wave? I embraced her, squeezing her so hard I didn’t hear the answer, she was saying something, troubles, we’ve got troubles, I’ll help you, I’ll do whatever you want, I said, by then we were lying next to each other. As the sun came up I saw her face, I wanted to get inside it, I would’ve liked to see her skull. I wanna tell you somethin … somethin has to be done … yes, there is something we have to do, I bit her lip. She rested the soles of her feet on my shins, lying across my thigh bone, I almost couldn’t feel her, the weight was pleasant. I could feel her breath on my face. Then she moved over, dissolving into the wall: Be careful, here I come, I heard.

I awoke to the sharp ringing sound of the doorbell.

I lay there, dazed and naked. If I ignore it, it’ll go away, I mumbled, or just thought to myself. But the bell kept on ringing.

I got dressed, covered myself in pants and a shirt, my silver I don’t remove. It was Vohřecký and Viška, they walked in.

Vohřecký opened the window, Viška stood there grinning. An I remembered … there he was at last, exposed in my memory … rounded shoulders, sturdy build … bald … heh, Viška … I said … Now I know you, Block 12, C-wing, Pankrác … it was him, my mind raced, how did Hadraba classify his crime … oh yeah, little kids, musta felled some little boy, little girl? … it was that cell … just down from me and Bohler and that greengrocer,* they amnestied me, but Bohler did three years, I guess cause he was a priest … that cell where Viška and the murderers were, the bark box they called it, sometimes at night the guard went in there with this German shepherd that barked on command so nobody’d hear em thrashin the prevert … funny how in the slammer even the worst monsters detest the ones that do it to kids, they consider em subhumans … that’s why they put the, diaper diddler in there, so the thugs wouldn’t beat him to death … hello, I told Viška … smiling at him … got promoted, huh?

Sit down, Vohřecký told me, better sit down.

How did you find me? Where is she, slipped out of me.

Miss Moriaková? said Vohřecký, you’re dumber than I thought, little buddy, he sat down too.

There’s no way, I don’t believe it.

You’ve sunk so low, boy, said Vohřecký, you’re not even defiantly silent when questioned anymore.

Easy Evie? Easy Evie, the knucklehead means, said Viška … Eve the skeeve, he’s talkin about.

Go find the Viets, or whatever they are, yourself … an as for Černá, you don’t have anything on her anyway.

But we do on you, boy, said Vohřecký, and he meant it seriously … a good couple Fridays now, told ja I combed through all the leads, an not only them … see, we found Závorová … whadda ya say to that?

I held my tongue.

An she’s dead.

Don’t say that! You donno nothin, spook.

An we think you did it.

Zat right?

So now we know where she was all those years. An know where we found her, what was left of her? Under a heap of coal … in a cellar. Yeah, you know where she was. Barbara Závorová, beautiful girl … strangled to death. Lousy, huh?

You guys donno nothin …

But that’s not all, Vohřecký jumped up and grabbed me by the shoulders, tore off my shirt, with one tug ripped open the buttons … Viška watched.