Кристиан Новак - Dark Mother Earth

“She saw how he looked at her and how he treated her. As if he wished she were a boy, not a woman. He made her dress like one.”

She lived in hope that he’d grow out of this over time. She tried to construct a happier image of her life in her head. Chickichee added that during her pregnancy she often dreamed that wild animals would come out of the forest and bow down to her child; she was like a forest princess, ruler of a world all her own, far from everything else. Sometimes she even retreated there when she was in public. But Mladen’s sick gaze penetrated it more and more.

She lived with her revulsion, comforted that at least nobody else knew what Mladen was like. But she came undone when she saw how Mladen eyed his nephews, nine-year-old twins. She watched how he touched them, how he wrestled with them and tickled them, how he took them into his arms when they were playing so that he could rub up against them for a minute. He went to the bathroom to pee with them. At weddings he danced with the little boys; he’d go with them to change into costumes and barge in after midnight, as if they were the uninvited guests that were customary in the village. People wept with laughter when Mladen, dressed up as a deep-sea diver, danced with little devils and altar boys. Milica quaked.

She never said a word to him because she didn’t know how. In an act of quiet protest, she stopped eating.

“She’d fix dinner and then watch him eat, waiting for him to ask her why she wasn’t eating, but he knew what she was after, so he said nothing.”

She couldn’t tell anyone what was troubling her, nobody would have believed her, she knew even her parents would turn against her. On the outside they looked like the perfect couple. They had a child, and spouses who barely exchanged even a glance in public were a normal sight in the village. Though he seemed absent, he took more and more control over her. He seemed to know everything she did when he wasn’t home—maybe he dug through the garbage just to laugh in her face when she lied to him about how many cigarettes she’d smoked. He seemed able to predict her every sentence and clearly relished this ability. Even when he went to the bathroom, he’d leave the door open a crack so he could hear what she was saying to their child. He came into the bathroom when she was showering or washing her feet.

“‘Did you think you could lock me out? You won’t lock me out in my own home . ’ That’s how he spoke to her and laughed at her. Then he’d splash her with freezing cold water and leave. And she’d sit on the edge of the tub and cry,” said Bacawk.

He was so horrible that his presence was physically painful to her. She found a little relief when, alone with their child in the house, she’d smoke and stare into the distance, thinking about what life would be like if Mladen were killed in an accident on his way home from work, or if he came down with an incurable disease. She loved thinking about how a person with such a terrible secret had to carry some germ inside himself that would devour him from within, like rot. She only hoped this would happen while her child was still ignorant of the fact that Mladen wasn’t a human being.

As for herself, she thought it was too late for a normal life like the ones Mladen read about in Arena or saw in movies. She kept going only because he seemed to want to hide it from the world. Until he began bringing boys home.

Bacawk said she almost fainted when she saw Franz and me climbing out of the trunk of Mladen’s car, and she complained as much as she dared, but it was as if nobody heard her. The next time, he brought only Franz. She saw them from behind the house, near the garage. Mladen was explaining how a goalie had to be flexible and that Franz had a muscle in his back that wasn’t loose enough yet. He told him to bend over, this might hurt, but that’s what he deserved for not stretching every day and getting all the exercise he needed. Mladen pushed him over a tin barrel that stank of stagnant water, cussing at him. Franz couldn’t bend any farther at the waist, so he bent his knees. Mladen kicked him in the knee. Franz straightened his leg momentarily, huffed air painfully through his teeth, and bent his knee again. Mladen’s comments became garbled, raging grunts, and Franz could no longer pull away. His white soccer shorts were down around his knees. He couldn’t close his legs because Mladen’s were there between them. In the dirty water, aside from the reflection of his face, Franz could see pollywogs wriggling restlessly whenever his pained gasp sprayed saliva with drops of blood.

“‘Huh? What’s that whining? You think you can punish me, you little cunt, huh? No sniveling! Want more? You’ll get yours. What’s with the groaning? No groaning. You piece of stinking shit. I’ll shove yer shit straight back in.’ That’s how he talked, as if the kid had done something bad to him,” said Bacawk, sadly.

Milica watched the scene all the way to the end, she saw him shove two fingers into the boy’s mouth with one hand and grab him by the hair with the other; she watched him drop the boy to the ground like a beaten dog, how he panted and used his own sweaty T-shirt to wipe the shit off his dick.

The teacher was trying to sing a song about a chicken and an egg, and I could barely manage to keep from throwing up.

“Comrade Teacher… I mean Teacher, ma’am, I ain’t feeling so hot. I’m sick. Please may I be excused?”

Angry that I’d interrupted her, she said I should take my things and go home.

When I got out into the fresh air, I felt better, but I couldn’t erase the image Bacawk and Chickichee had etched in my mind with their whispers. They traipsed along with me, first on one side and then on the other. I was too weak in the knees to get away from them.

Milica was able to watch only because she’d already made up her mind. Mladen came in to get the chocolate, and she stood in his path, and for the first time she mustered all her courage and said: “And you think that’s normal? God help me, you son of a bitch, you damn-blasted piece of shit, you think that’s normal?”

Mladen laughed in her face, hissed, “Stop your squealing,” and out he went.

“Fuck you, you asshole, you ain’t coming near me again,” she said, even though he couldn’t hear her anymore. Later she fed the child, made dinner, and stared at Mladen while he ate. He looked a little tired; while he chewed, his only sound was an occasional coo at the child perched in its high chair.

“You were waiting for a boy to show up who wouldn’t be able to tell anyone what you did to him,” she said finally.

“What’s eating you now?” he said, bored.

“Well, why not fuck me? I have nobody to tell, either,” she hissed through her tears.

He jumped up from his seat, threw his plate, towered over her, and said: “Say that one more time, and I’ll beat you down into the dark mother earth, I swear. Am I clear? I’m asking, am I clear?”

She stared at the table.

“Now you’re quiet, you bitch. You’re pushing me, pushing! I have had to put up with horrors, but enough’s enough.”

When the child and Mladen had fallen asleep, it was clear to her that she could never lie in that bed again. She sat motionless in the living room. All she could think about was stabbing Mladen in the heart with a butcher knife.

She’d already stood up to get the knife, but somehow she couldn’t do it. She poured herself another glass of water because she was getting overheated at the thought of what she was contemplating. And the more she drank, the more she felt this was all her fault. And how much better it would be if she were gone. Better for her child, better for Franz.

Finally, almost with a smile, after she’d checked to make sure Mladen and the child were sound asleep, she lay in the bathtub, took nail scissors, and made two deep incisions in her flesh. She began to feel cold when she saw the blood gush out, but she was glad Mladen wasn’t looking at her and couldn’t hurt her anymore.