Pavel Brycz - I, City

Nothing unusual. That the congregation in addition to the Host got a little nip of wine? Let them have a good time. Isn’t it Christmas?

But the singing from the choir, the scent of the incense, the vestments and the reading from the Holy Bible — all that was as usual. Having mass celebrated by two pastors was perhaps a bit out of the ordinary, but since when have the two of them been so polite?! Like true gentlemen, each gave way to the other: “Nay, Sir Pastor, you read now, oh no, Sir Pastor, your sermon has priority, after you doctor, no, after you…”

And the people who attended this Midnight Mass in the Deacon’s Church of the Annunciation of the Virgin Mary left inspired by the Holy Ghost and by a grand sense of community:

“After you, madam, after you, sir,” they were saying on their way out the gates of the church, rather than pushing as usual.

And because Mr. Kolyně and Mr. Látal then boasted so much of their achievement in competent Catholic circles, the Holy Father in the Vatican sat himself down upon a Renaissance tabouret and wrote an encyclical of this wording, mangling his native Polish in an attempt at communicating in Czech:

Czech people, please to lose your Hussite tendencies, John Paul II, to Most, City in Bohemia, A.D. 1997.

And because the pope’s encyclical came into the hands of the mayor of Most, who had originally been a historian, he responded to John Paul in return: “Dear Sir, to Your official breve from the twelfth of this month I — with the power of my position, and also of my profession — am authorized to state that the city of Most has never been Hussite, for our population in those days was one-hundred percent German.”

And John Paul responded with these words:

Then, sir, please to lose your Lutheranism too!

Some appearances people would gladly forbear. I understand. No one wants to be buried alive. Luckily, the dead don’t seem to care. Or do they? Do they come back, dead among the living, perhaps even in an altered appearance, to carry out their cruel jokes? Do they return?

Yes, they do. I, city, saw a dead man, who came back twice, and in altered appearance, to interfere in the fate of his son.

His son, I should point out, was alive.

Listen…

It was raining. A downpour so bad that one wouldn’t let out the dog.

A gray curtain was lowered over the cemetery.

The planet rotated in a slow pilgrimage through the universe like an old locomotive short of wind. Somebody stoked the boiler; the chimney of the crematorium puffed away, its smoking hanging low to the ground, below the gray clouds.

How was Tony feeling, listening to the eulogy for his father in the funeral hall?

What was going on inside him as a raindrop on the steamed-up glass slowly rode down and a second, faster drop took to pursue it, catching up with it to create a small private sea?

“This man always took excellent care of his family. So often did he sacrifice his time for the happiness and safety of his fellow man! Many times was he to deny himself the benefits of his career to create instead a private paradise for the sake of his children…”

When a tear pursues another tear and overtakes it, they create a small private sea. Because tears are salty, thought Tony.

Eva, Tony’s girlfriend, clutched her boyfriend’s hand. What is he thinking about, she thought.

“A man who was without exception honest, open, friendly and tolerant. To his wife, he was not just a husband, but also a friend, an advisor, a father, a brother…” the orator spoke.

Incest, thought Tony.

Eva, Tony’s girlfriend, caressed her boyfriend’s palm. She traced his lifeline; such a long, long way, she mused, from the embryo to the grave.

“He never drank, he ate in moderation, he kept himself in shape. He also encouraged his son to take up sports, and fully experienced all his athletic successes and failures. He knew how to face failure like a man. For example, when he came in last in the Jizerská 50, he was able to shake hands sportingly with all his forty-nine betters…”

What’s he babbling about? Tony thought. Since when was the Jizerská 50 named for having fifty participants?

Is he desperate? Eva scrutinized her boyfriend. Does he resemble his father? What do I like most about him? Maybe the fact that I don’t really know him? That I never really know what he thinks?

“Farewell, husband, father and brother!” the funeral director finished his speech and sent the coffin down the elevator and into the flames.

“God,” Tony let slip.

Eva released Tony’s hand, so he could accept the condolences.

“Accept my sympathy, accept my sympathy…” the people who had known his father were saying. He

didn’t know any of them. He actually didn’t know his father either. He didn’t know he had raced in the Jizerská 50, or that he’d loved his family.

“My father was the biggest son of a bitch I ever knew,” he whispered to Eva, “he boozed, he beat my mother and me…”

“Ah,” Eva breathed.

“I feel terrible… Accept my sympathy,” she said and pressed Tony’s lifeline.

Tony was glad she was pressing. He decided to tell her he loved her, that he had been afraid to marry her and have a child with her, but that now he wasn’t afraid anymore, that he wanted it, that here and now he wants it, and, if she agrees, he would go with her to her parents and ask them for her hand and that then they would go to city hall, to the church and to bed; they would go there, straight from this sad place, and they would say yes twice and throw caution to the wind and…

What next, he didn’t know. The funeral director was pulling his sleeve, tugging at the thread of his dream.

“Mister, mister,” the frightened director shouted, “a terrible thing’s happened, I have to tell you!”

“Yes, I know,” said Tony, “you’ve just laid my father to rest.”

“Actually no, mister. Pardon me. It was all a mistake!

“A huge mistake. It wasn’t your father who was just laid to rest!”

“What?” Tony was frightened. “Who was it then?”

“It was Mr. Majer, Mr. Oleksevič. Your father’s turn’s now,” the director confessed, tail between his legs.

“Hahahaha,” Tony began laughing, “ha ha… so then the one you eulogized was really the philanthropist, the teetotaler, the sportsman and the loving father. Well, the whole thing did seem strange to me,” Tony said with tears streaming from his eyes. One after another. Salty. A small private sea.

“I’m sorry,” the director shrugged his shoulders.

“You know what?” Tony asked the man.

“Forget it. My father’s relatives and acquaintances have already left. Let it lie. When you’re going to bury my real father, feel free to repeat what you just said to Mr. Majer’s relatives. It’s done. I won’t trouble you about it anymore.”

The director relaxed, and smiled with humility.

“You are understanding, Mr. Oleksevič. Truly understanding.”

As Tony and his girlfriend turned to leave he made a mean grimace at their backs, and smacked his forehead:

“You think I’d talk differently about your real pop? It’s scripted the same way for everyone. Only the names change. You worm!

“You don’t know that one only speaks well of the dead?”

He rushed off for the soul of Mr. Majer, dragging his hoof behind him.

“Hahahaha,” he laughed darkly.

Yet Tony was not able to leave. He stood in the rain behind the glass like one of those drops chasing another and watched his real father now. His way into the flames. He heard from behind the glass neither music nor sounds, it was a silent movie. With Buster Keaton. What’s he have on his mind now? Eva asked herself. Her skin was soaked. The rain denuded her, not the tears. Tears denude more. But she still had her body. She knew this body was beautiful. She was sure of it. Tony had told her that a thousand times. And if not Tony, then others would always assure her. But she wanted him — for him she would bare herself more than the rain ever could. She loved him. Though she didn’t know why him in particular. Maybe because his lifeline was so long! So terribly long, that she herself secretly called it IMMORTALITY.