Dubravka Ugrešić - Baba Yaga Laid an Egg

Mr Shaker, an American, was one of those people who could be called ‘a man of his time’, the right man in the right place at the right time, one of those people with whom our modern world abounds; those numerous stars, artists, pop singers, male and female, those con men and bullshit artists, those gurus who hoodwink us daily, those numerous prophets, swindlers and ‘designers’ of our lives in whose power we choose to place ourselves.

Long ago, this seventy-five-year-old had used his small inheritance to purchase a Chinese man’s run-down drugstore together with a vast number of vitamin preparations that were passed their sell-by date. Mr Shaker had stuck new, alluring labels on the old bottles and the vitamins were selling like hot cakes. At first Mr Shaker had not believed that people were so naive, but after the cheerful clink of the first cash, he came to believe not only in people but also in the fact that he was a man with an important mission in this world. And Mr Shaker’s mission could be condensed into a simple slogan: Pump it up! To cut a long story short, with time Mr Shaker had grown into the king of an industry of magical powders and potions, bearing the label food-supplement. Those whose job it is to monitor such products had long since realised that it was better for these things to be sold legally, because otherwise they were only going to be sold illegally. From vitamins that had passed their sell-by date, Mr Shaker moved on to mixtures, or, to put it another way, he moved from fiction to science fiction, from grammar to mathematics, from physics to metaphysics. Like every successful tradesman, what Mr Shaker actually sold was ideological hot air, in this case the hot air of metamorphosis. His products suggested to frogs that they would turn into princesses. His customers believed that the body was a divine temple, that his magical powder was the sacred host and that only a transformed body was a valid visa for a life in paradise on earth. Mr Shaker’s advertising slogans contained the words nutrition, transformation, form, reform, shape, reshape, model, remodel, tone and tighten – suggesting that the human body was a heap of Lego pieces, and that it could therefore become its owner’s favourite toy. Mr Shaker activated the acupuncture point of the archetypal dream that slumbers in each of us, a dream in which, with the aid of a magic potion, the dreamer can become as small as a poppy seed, pass through any keyhole, become invisible, be transformed into a giant, vanquish a terrible dragon and win the heart of a beautiful princess. More by chance than design, Mr Shaker had put his finger on the fundamental obsession of our age, which explained his success. In the absence of all ideologies, the only refuge that remains for the human imagination is the body. The human body is the only territory which its owner can control, thin, reduce, pump, increase, shape, firm and adapt to its ideal, whether that ideal is called Brad Pitt or Nicole Kidman. Yes, Mr Shaker successfully milked that obsession.

While the contents of Mr Shaker’s preparations stirred respect (creatine monohydrate, creatine phosphate, alpha-lipidic acid, glycogen, taurine, argol, aminogens), their names evoked real reverence: AS, C-250, Powermax, Aminomax, Myo Maxx, Trans-XX, Volume 35, Sci X, Iso X, WPC, Ultra AM, GLM, ALC, CLA, HMB, HMB Ultra, Carni Tec, Mega AM, Uni Syne, Yohimbe, Gro Now, Carbo Boost, Cyto For, Hyper M, Cy Pro, Cyto B, Animal Mass.

Mr Shaker’s kingdom began gradually to implode when the newspapers published a few dubious reports, and then serious articles as well, suggesting that his powders may have helped pump up muscles, but their hormonal ingredients reduced potency. Mr Shaker watched in despair as everything he had built up over the years deflated like a balloon. And that was how he had ended up here, to kill several birds with one stone: to soothe his nerves and at the same time have a good sniff round the post-communist market, to see whether there were any crumbs for him there, and if there were, to drive the ‘easterners’, stodgy with beer, yellow with smoking and bloated with alcohol, to reshape their bodies from what had been commercially incompatible to what was compatible.

And since we have mentioned compatibility, Mr Shaker had yet another burden on his shoulders. That burden was called Rosie. Mr Shaker was a widower, and Rosie was his daughter. And his daughter, who he hoped would inherit his kingdom, represented a constant mockery of Mr Shaker’s ambitions. It could not be said that she was not pretty, but, at least in American lifestyle terms, she was simply too chubby. And what was worse, she seemed to be entirely indifferent to the fact. Mr Shaker knew the reputation of this spa and its Wellness Centre under the creative management of Dr Topolanek, and he hoped that he would be able to refresh his brain with new business ideas, and that Rosie would lose the odd pound. And as far as business ideas went, there was something else nagging at him. From acquaintances who had recently been on holiday here, Mr Shaker had learned that there was a young masseur working in the Wellness Centre who was not only physically attractive but also apparently uniquely sexually endowed. If he were able to persuade such a young man to be the potent advertising mascot of his products, Mr Shaker would once again sail off at full steam.

Such were the dreams Mr Shaker wove as he sat in the hotel restaurant. And when he caught sight of a tall, slender woman of his own age, accompanied by two others, yet another of his dreams suddenly leapt into life: old age à deux . It was quite possible that this whole world of crackling, explosive physical energy, which had surrounded Mr Shaker for years, had after all damaged his nerves. That is why a mere glance at the lady with her tranquil way of moving had a beneficial effect on him, like good old valium.

Somewhat later, Mr Shaker summoned up his courage, approached the table where the three ladies were sitting and invited the tranquilising lady to dance. To his great surprise, the lady did not refuse. What is more, she spoke very decent English.

There, that’s enough about Mr Shaker for the time being. As for us, we carry on. While life’s road may twist and bend, the tale hurries to reach its – end!

Pupa kept urging them, in her disarming way, to be her surrogates. She did not actually use that word, but she would say: you drink, and I’ll get drunk. You eat, and I’ll love the taste. You have a massage, and my bones will be rejuvenated. You dance, and I’ll enjoy it. She herself, poor thing, no longer had the strength for anything at all. She spent most of the time dozing in her wheelchair. From time to time she would open her eyes just to ‘check on things’.

‘I’m just checking, to make sure you’re having a good time.’

And, what do you know, just a few hours after they arrived, Kukla had already found a dancing partner. ‘Where does she get the energy?!’ thought Beba, endeavouring to suppress her fresh sense of affront. After dinner an elderly guy had come for Kukla, rather than for her, which was an insidious blow in the plexus of Beba’s already shattered self-confidence. Although Kukla was ten years older than Beba, it was Kukla the guy had chosen. Admittedly Beba did not find him remotely attractive, and that was some small consolation.

‘What are they doing?’ Pupa roused herself from her slumber.

‘Dancing,’ said Beba.

‘Aahaaa,’ said Pupa, nodding off again.

That was why Beba came suddenly to life when she saw an older man, far better-looking than Kukla’s dancing partner, approaching their table.

‘Allow me to introduce myself. Doctor Topolanek,’ said the man, squeezing Beba’s hand vigorously. ‘Would you have any objection to my joining you?’