Dubravka Ugrešić - Baba Yaga Laid an Egg

‘You’re my truffle, you’re my black forest gateau, you’re my gateau basque, my guadeloupe, my nian gao with one hundred fruits, my vassilopitta efkoli, my tremolat, my black devil, my gianduja ganache, my sachertorte, my caramel, my marzipan, my marquise, my mousse au chocolat, my passion fruit cream, my passion fruit, my fruit, my passion…’

‘Ah, Mellow…’

‘You’re my little strudel, my truffle, my fudge…’

‘I’m feeling mellow…’

‘Oh, Rosie, Ružice, my little rose, my rosebud…’

The young man and the girl were so deeply engrossed in their twitterings of love that they did not notice that a slight breeze had got up and lifted the feathers from the grass around them. The branches of the old chestnut rustled and feathers flew through the air.

Even on this Saturday morning, the receptionist Pavel Zuna did not neglect his exercises in the warm hotel pool. Particularly as he was assisted by Jana, a young student at the Physiotherapy training school, who, thanks to her daddy’s connections, was doing her month’s placement in the best possible place, the Grand Hotel.

Under the command of the lovely Jana, Pavel Zuna was doing his exercises obediently. One-two-two-two-two-three… Zuna’s condition had markedly improved over the previous few days, and that nerve, taut as a bowstring until a little while ago, had relaxed. Immersed in warm water in the small pool, like an experienced hotel professional recognising a future professional, Pavel Zuna kept repeating:

‘Vy jeste velice talentovana, Jano, velice talentovana…’ [9] ‘You are very talented, Jana, very talented…’

On Saturday morning, at his usual time, Arnoš Kozeny was sitting sprawled in an armchair in the hotel lobby, sipping a cappuccino, puffing smoke from his cigar and running his eye over the newspaper. His attention was drawn to the news that two days earlier on the two farms near Norin, where the H5N1 virus had been identified, successful decontamination measures had been put in place and 70,000 chickens had been destroyed. The H5N1 virus had been found at the end of June in Germany and France, and the governments of those countries had taken the necessary measures. The spokesman of the Czech Veterinary Service, Josef Duben, had announced that a further 72,000 chickens had been destroyed, although there had been no trace on those farms of the H5N1 virus, which had so far killed some two hundred of the three hundred or so people infected, mostly Asians. Although there had not been a single European among the victims, and therefore no Czech, the Czech Veterinary Service had taken the decision to cull the additional 72,000 chickens as an exclusively preventative measure. The European Union compensation for the culled birds amounted to 1.5 million euros…

With an expression of boredom on his face, Arnoš Kozeny folded his newspaper and thought about his first wife Jarmila, who lived in Norin, where she had a small house with a garden. They had not been in touch for more than a year, and this would be an opportunity to give her a call. ‘You’ll phone me when you hear the footsteps of the Grim Reaper. And you’ll come to me, you bastard, to be buried, because there won’t be anyone else to do it!’ Jarmila had been inclined to complain. Who knows, perhaps she was right, because after all she was never wrong. But it would be a while yet before the bell tolled, thought Arnoš Kozeny, particularly as he had noticed a middle-aged woman strolling into the hotel lobby leading three miniature poodles. Like an old warrior, Arnoš Kozeny automatically straightened his shoulders and drew in his stomach, pulled onto his face the mask reserved for such strategic situations – the mask of a moderately interested veteran in the field of sexual supply and demand – and drew on his cigar with relish.

That Saturday morning Mevludin was awoken by bright sunlight splashing into his room. His glance fell on Rosie’s shoulder, sprinkled with tiny freckles, flashing like a tiger’s eye. Rosie was lying on her side, sleeping peacefully as she sucked her thumb. Mevludin tenderly pulled her thumb out of her mouth. The girl wriggled and pursed her lips.

‘Lijepa si mi ko jaje od prepelice,’ [10] ‘You’re as lovely as a quail’s egg.’ whispered Mevludin, looking at the young woman in wonder. And then he got up and closed the curtains. He climbed back into bed, sighed deeply and plunged into her luxuriant coppercoloured hair…

‘Ah, Mellow…’ whispered the young woman sleepily.

On Saturday morning the Grand Hotel was bathed in luxurious sunlight. From room number 313 came a hoarse male voice – which betrayed the fact that its owner had given his vocal chords a thorough soaking in alcohol the previous night – berating a person whose name was Marlena: ‘Marlena, yesli ty menya pokinesh, ya tebya ubyu, chestno, ty ne smeysya, ya tebya, suka, ubyu, ty tolko smotri, slyshysh,…’ [11] ‘Marlena, if you leave me, I’ll kill you, honestly, don’t laugh, I’ll kill you, you bitch, just watch me, I’m telling you…’

On Saturday morning Willowy, Linear and Dr Janek Topolanek were lying in a symmetrical arrangement on the large king-sized bed in the suite to which Topolanek, as a hotel employee, had permanent access. Little fruit flies were swarming round their heads. At one moment Dr Topolanek felt an irresistible urge to empty his bladder, but when he sat up to go to the bathroom, he was doubled up by a terrible pain in his lower back. The doctor cried out and fell back on the bed as though felled. Willowy and Linear woke up.

‘What is it?’

‘My back hurts!’

‘Heksenschuss!’ said Linear calmly.

‘A witch’s blow!’ said Willowy.

‘What do we do now?’ wailed Topolanek, although he knew quite well what was coming.

‘Rest!’ said Linear, yawning.

‘Maybe a Voltaren injection,’ said Willowy, yawning as well.

The girls wrapped themselves round Dr Topolanek and fell asleep again.

Dr Topolanek did not have a chance to be indignant at their lack of care, because he was wondering obsessively about just one thing – how was he going to pee. And, when there was nothing else for it, he yelled:

‘I neeeeed a botttttle!’

On Saturday morning, when David’s car left the famous spa town, the sky was blue, the grass green, the trees with their dense branches were casting sharp shadows, and between the shadows, as though jumping over invisible strings, large black crows were scampering. David was thinking over the whole tangle of unusual circumstances, about people’s lives, Asja’s, Pupa’s, Kukla’s and Beba’s, about the chance chain of events that had led him to Filip, Beba’s son, then a bit about his own life. They had all been drawn towards each other for a moment like magnets. He thought about Pupa. Lives could turn out one way or another, most of us live our lives shoddily, but at least then that famous metaphorical descent from the train ought somehow to be calculated in time and an effort made to ensure that the descent itself is not shoddy. We are not responsible for our arrival in the world, but perhaps we can be for our departure. At the last moment, Pupa had thrown the ball that had been placed in front of her (in which David too had played his part), and the little ball had first of all flown in the expected direction – towards her grandchildren, Zorana’s and Asja’s children – but then in the end it had rolled away where no one had anticipated, and, what was most important, where its fall would cause it to spin in a livelier and more useful way: towards Kukla, Beba and Wawa.

What a young man! What a wonderful young man! thought Kukla, sitting comfortably sprawled on the back seat of the car. David had not only arranged everything, but now he was even driving them home, to Zagreb. Pupa was at this moment flying in her egg from Prague to Zagreb, and she would be met at the airport by a funeral service that would take her to the morgue. David had thought of that as well. And he had managed to organise Pupa’s funeral: that would take place in two days’ time. He had found the requisite addresses on the Internet and got everything done with a few phone calls. The money that Pupa had left in her will to Kukla and Beba had already been transferred to a newly opened joint account in both their names. Beba’s money, the sum she had won gambling, had also been transferred to the joint account, at Beba’s insistence. All the papers had been signed, not a single detail had been overlooked. A special account had also been opened with money intended exclusively for Wawa’s future education. All the rest had been left up to Beba and Kukla, although David had promised that he would be available to help at any time.