Peter Pišťanek - The End of Freddy

“Why the ‘sir’?” Geľo shakes his head and sits down. “If you want me as your husband, call me Geľo. If not, call me Geľo, anyway.”

Zuzana blushes.

“So?” Geľo wants to know. “Do you agree?”

“Oh, yes,” Zuzana says quickly. She throws herself at Geľo’s hand and covers it with kisses.

“In that case,” says Geľo, “and if my wife Elena also agrees, we can be married tomorrow by the priest.”

“I agree,” nods Elena. “At least I won’t be so bored here.”

Geľo gives Zuzana a gift of perfume from Prague.

“You won’t have to wait for me much longer, my wives,” Geľo assures both women. “Victory is near. Then we all go back to the coast. We shall live as never before. And now, let’s have some food.”

Between courses, Geľo drinks moonshine and lovingly watches his children play with their new toys. They don’t even want to eat. Jurko helps his mother and Zuzana.

“And you, Jurko, sit here, by me,” Geľo addresses him. “You’re a real fighter and guerrilla. You’ve been through fire and blood with us. You took Űŕģüllpoļ and fought in the encirclement. You’ve always been at my side. From now on, you sleep in the men’s corner. And take this, and drink it! A man needs a drink of spirits, not to hold on to his mother’s skirts!” The boy, flattered by the compliments, sits next to his father. Soon another course arrives, fish baked with herbs in the ashes.

“Well, in God’s name!” Geľo sighs and loosens his belt. “It’s good to be home! And it will be even better!”

* * *

The party at Kresan’s yurt really gets going only with the third bottle of moonshine.

Urban expresses an interest in being introduced to the ladies.

Kresan nearly chokes on his food: mixed company is not the custom in the tundra. Finally, not to offend the special guest from afar, he agrees. He claps his hands to call the women of his family to the men’s corner.

The women come. They blush and cover their faces as they giggle.

“Why don’t you sit nearer us?” Urban enquires.

Freddy chews a bit of meat. He burps and rubs his ear. He knows something of local customs.

“In the country Urban and I come from, it’s customary for ladies to sit at the same table,” he says in explanation. “Not just at weddings and funerals, like here.”

“Then who cooks the food and serves?” asks one of Kresan’s sons who has until then been quietly eating and drinking.

“Everything is cooked in advance,” says Urban. “And then they consume it.”

“Then they what?” Kresan can’t understand.

“Then they eat and drink,” says Freddy. “Men and women together.”

“And after the meal?” asks the youngest of Kresan’s sons, Jakub, who is still single.

“After the meal, the party goes on,” says Freddy.

“With women present?” Kresan is astonished.

“Yes, with the women,” Freddy confirms: his voice suggests that he withdrew his moral support from this custom a long time ago.

“Then your country’s men are pitiable,” the old reindeer herder concludes. “Don’t they know that a woman’s tongue is a hundred times faster than the fastest dog sledge, but to no avail? That a woman’s garrulousness is like the tundra wind: it stops you speaking, steals words from your mouth and, if your constitution is weak, can even drive you mad.”

“Can men have a real talk if women are sitting with them?” says a baffled Jakub. “Don’t women keep interrupting? How does it work?”

Kresan sees that the man from afar is embarrassed by the questions.

“Oh, well,” he says, lifting his precious plastic cup for a toast. “Other lands, other customs! Have it your way, Urban! Women, you can drink, too; come and join us. Today the world is upside down, so be it! As we have such special guests, even the old ways can all be topsy-turvy!”

Urban gallantly pours for the ladies. The ladies giggle; it’s a very odd situation for them. They squat round a little table, their postures hinting that they’re ready to leap up at their master’s slightest gesture, and they get on with their work.

“Let’s drink to our friends, the foreign Slovaks!” says old Kresan, raising his cup. “To the great leader Telgarth, who shed his blood in the fight for our Slovak cause and who made our small, but heroic nation world-famous! And let’s drink to Urban, his friend, who’s also come to help Slovaks! He, too, must be very brave.”

Urban is even more embarrassed.

“Yes, he’s very brave,” Freddy agrees. “Almost as brave as me.”

The women feel their presence is unwanted and move to the kitchen corner. Unused to strong drink, they feel cheerful and animated. They slice meat for the guests and giggle madly.

“And what sort of work do you do in your country, Urban?” asks Kresan. “What do you live on?”

“I’m in business,” says Urban and he too finds this word somewhat strange. “I own a company.”

“What’s that?” Kresan asks Freddy.

“He leads people,” says Telgarth. “He has lots of people under him. Not as many as you do, but plenty. These people work for him and he looks after them.”

“Oh,” nods Kresan with approval. “Then we’re the same. And how many people does he look after?”

Embarrassed, Urban sips his drink. Now Kresan and Telgarth are talking about him as if he were deaf and dumb, or mad.

“About two score,” says Telgarth. “And besides, he also has under him people that he doesn’t look after directly, but who work for him.”

“Independent herders,” Kresan shows he understands.

“Right,” Freddy agrees. “A long time ago, before I came here, I used to work with him. We owned a company together.”

“We still do…” Urban remarks.

“We still do,” Telgarth concurs. “But I’m giving it up. My place is here. I want to fight our beloved freedom. And then for recognition for our nation by the whole world.”

“You speak wisely, by God!” shouts Kresan and puts a delicacy in his mouth. “They’ll see what Slovaks are made of!”

Urban feels sick. He’s bathed in cold sweat and wants to vomit. His eyes pop; he hopes to quell the storm in his guts by sheer willpower. In the end, he can’t hold back: a hand over his mouth, he runs from the yurt.

Outside, a blizzard rages. Urban vomits and the wind blows it away from his mouth. It knocks him off his feet; his head lands in sour-tasting snow. It is hard to get up under the wind’s attack, but he finally manages to clamber back to the yurt.

“That’s all right,” Telgarth tells him. “Do you want to go to bed?”

Urban shakes his head. He has got drunk suddenly, not gradually as after drinking good quality distillate. A big wheel is spinning him round. Even with his eyes open wide, he feels in danger of plunging into the deep darkness. He holds on to Kresan’s hand even while sitting.

“Good drink, isn’t it?” the old Kresan laughs. “It shakes you up real good, doesn’t it?”

“And how many Junjans have you killed so far, Urban?” Kresan’s youngest son Jakub asks admiringly.

Urban shakes his head. He wants to say something, but only wheezing comes out from his mouth.

“None so far,” says Telgarth. “But he’s helping us in another way. And when we retake Űŕģüllpoļ, he’ll be indispensable to us.”

At the urging of his host’s family, Urban has to recount his anabasis from Polyarny to here, including the characters of Kostya and Stalin’s grandson. He tells it like a funny story and his inebriated listeners do in fact laugh merrily. This encourages Urban and he invents grimaces and voice distortions that the real characters did not have. His days spent waiting by the track are re-enacted like a Chaplin turn.