Dubravka Ugrešić - Baba Yaga Laid an Egg

‘Good Lord, look at that King Kong of an egg!’ exclaimed Beba, almost devoutly.

The egg was painted in shiny, bright colours and muddled patterns of flora and fauna. Beba and Kukla’s eyes floated over flowery meadows, with butterflies the size of helicopters flying over them, fields blooming with red poppies, blue cornflowers and golden corn; they plunged their gaze into greenery and creepers, ferns and trees, with monkeys and birds swaying on their branches. Then they lowered their eyes to the undergrowth: there was a rabbit family hiding under one shrub, Adam and Eve under another, does and stags under a third. The egg was girded with bushes of ripe raspberries and blackberries, with mushrooms growing at their feet. Snails slid and ladybirds scuttled over their tops. The boggy areas were particularly striking: there were luxuriant water lilies with frogs swinging on them, large fish wallowing in their depths and wading birds peeping out of the reeds. Finally, Beba and Kukla directed their eyes to a tall palm, with a camel resting in its scant shadow. Somewhere in the air above the camel a small family was sitting in an eggshell, like a little boat: a woman, two children and a man with glasses on his nose and a paintbrush in his hand. All in all, it was a garden of Eden painted by an amateur. The man with the glasses on his nose and brush in his hand was evidently the painter of this grandiose creation. The egg consisted of two parts, and metal rivets and a handsome lock with a hook in the middle suggested that the egg opened like a trunk.

That was not all. All around the gigantic main egg, life-sized eggs were scattered: wooden painted Easter eggs, crystal Swarovsky eggs, more or less successful imitations of the famous Fabergé eggs, a new series of Fabergé eggs. The eggs scattered round the main egg gave off magical reflections of bluish, lilac, golden, golden-greenish, crystal-whitish, milky-silver tones, and the whole thing was a sight that must have left everyone who saw it speechless.

The shop bore the unambiguous name ‘The New Russians’. The interior looked more like an art gallery than a shop. The walls were white and almost bare. In two or three places there were art photographs of eggs in glass frames. A young woman was sitting at the elegant white counter, and behind her was a white-painted glass display case full of exhibits.

‘How much is that large egg in the window?’ asked Beba in English.

‘Unfortunately, it’s not for sale,’ the girl replied politely.

‘Why did you put it in the window, then?’

‘As an advertisement, to catch people’s attention.’

‘And what would it cost if it were for sale?’

‘We are not an ordinary souvenir shop. We are a specialist gallery,’ the girl stalled.

‘Specialising in what?’

‘Why, eggs…’

‘And these other eggs, are they for sale?’

‘Yes.’

‘How much is this “Peter the Great”?’

‘Three thousand five hundred.’

‘Three thousand what?’

‘Dollars. Most of our customers are Russians, you know.’

‘Rich Russians?’

‘Well…’ the girl smiled.

‘And how much is the “Tsar Alexander Caviar Bowl”?’ Beba read from the plaque in the window.

‘Six thousand dollars.’

‘And a real Fabergé egg?’

‘Don’t ask!’ said the girl with feeling.

‘Nevertheless, if you were selling that big egg, what would it cost?’

The girl looked at the two elderly women dumbfounded.

‘Are you Russian?’

‘No, but we’d really like to buy that Russian egg!’

‘In fact, it isn’t Russian,’ said the girl. ‘It was made by our local artist Karel…’

‘Karel Gott?’ Kukla blurted out, half to herself.

‘How do you know?’

‘I’m not sure. I just said it without thinking. Karel Gott, the golden nightingale… That was long ago.’

‘Zlaty slavik! ’ [5] ‘The golden nightingale!’ said the pleasant girl. ‘But this is our own, local, Karel Gott. I think that he’s some relation of the famous singer.’

‘So? Give us a price.’

‘I’m sorry. It’s not for sale,’ said the girl apologetically.

Just when it seemed to Beba and Kukla and the girl that the situation was hopeless, and as the two women were preparing to leave, a sullen-looking man with wild hair burst into the gallery. Beba recognised him at once. It was that idiot, the Russian, from the casino. The man went straight from the door into an adjoining room without so much as glancing at the visitors.

For some reason, the girl lowered her voice:

‘That is the owner of the gallery. Hold on a minute, I’ll ask him,’ she whispered in a confidential tone and vanished into the adjoining room.

They heard voices coming from the room, and then the man peered out to take a look at who the potential buyers of the egg might be. Beba and Kukla stood modestly beside the counter, waiting. The man did not recognise Beba at first, but then, when he did, he gave a start. Beba was able to read the traces of an inner struggle on his face. He was evidently wondering whether to show that he recognised her, or pretend that he had never seen her before. The sullen-looking man vanished behind the wall with lightning speed just as he had appeared. The results of his inner struggle remained unclear. However, now his raised voice could be heard speaking Russian interspersed with the girl’s indistinct responses in Czech.

‘Sell it, no one buys that crap in any case! That idiot of yours, Karel, will make us a new one! Let the old bags pay twenty thousand! For that amount, for twenty thousand, I’d let the old witch rip me off!’

After a while the pleasant young girl appeared out of the adjoining room, now somewhat pinker in the face, and said:

‘You’re in luck.’

‘How much?’ asked Beba.

‘Twenty thousand,’ the girl spoke cautiously.

‘Does that include transport?’

‘Where to?’

‘To the Grand Hotel.’

‘Oh, but that’s right here! No problem. Are you paying cash or with a credit card?’ the girl asked, still disbelieving.

‘Cash!’ Beba burst out. ‘We’ll be back in a second. You’re not closing yet?’

‘No, you’ve got another full hour yet. I’ll wait for you.’

‘What’s your name?’ asked Kukla.

‘Marlena,’ said the girl.

At that moment the sullen-looking man with wild hair came out of the adjoining room and headed for the door. Despite his evident inner intention of looking neither left nor right, his glance escaped his control and came to rest on Beba. She managed to wave to him.

‘Spassibo, Kotik!’ [6] ‘Thank you, pussycat!’ she said sweetly.

What about us? Let’s keep going! In life there’s a lot we can delay, but the tale moves on and cannot stay!

It was already late when two sulky young men from the ‘New Russians’ gallery brought the egg and placed it in Pupa’s suite.

Beba was sprawled wearily in an armchair, filling it entirely with her body like risen dough in a tin. Kukla was striding up and down, her arms folded on her chest. And then she stopped:

‘Well, aren’t we going to open it?’

Beba hauled herself out of the chair and waddled over to the egg. They unlocked it together. The room was filled with the pleasant aroma of fresh pine.

‘Who would have thought it was so spacious!’ said Beba.

‘We’ll have to make sure we buy enough bags of ice in the local supermarket,’ said Kukla drily, closing the egg.

Moths flew in through the open balcony doors into the brightly lit suite.

‘And the boot,’ added Kukla.

‘What boot?’

‘We ought to put Pupa’s boot in with her as well, don’t you think?’