Peter Pišťanek - The Wooden Village

Darkness came over the village, then the last few drunks from Jack’s pub passed by. Some time later, the last bus rumbled by the abandoned park on its way to the city and then silence spread out, interrupted only by the nightly Morse signals of the village dogs.

Freddy summoned up all his courage, covered his genitals with his hand and emerged from the shrubbery. The memory of the torment he had experienced still excited him mildly, but even more exciting was the thought of avenging himself on Sida Tešadíková and Milada Macháčková. Pondering the things he would do to the naked and bound bodies of both leaders of the Daughters of Death gave him another erection. Still excited, he rang the bell at the gate of the newly built family house by the pond, where they had recently moved to. His member drooped only when the window opened and his father angrily barked: “WHERE ARE YOUR KEYS, ALFRED?”

He told his parents that he had been attacked and robbed by gypsies; his father got angry and started to scream about concentration camps, the Ku-Klux-Klan and the stone quarry. His Mother burst out crying, took a piece of paper and, swallowing her tears, began to list the rough value of clothing and objects that the imaginary gypsies had stolen from Freddy.

Freddy went to bed tired; before falling asleep he was roused by the vision of Sida Tešadíková naked and bound, her legs spread wide, and tormented in many ways in front of his eyes by an equally naked Milada Macháčková, only to trade places with Sida, while both of them were at the mercy of the cruel ruler Freddy. They were in torment, yet swooning with pleasure. These girls, Freddy’s main enemies, underwent some torture, but no marks were left to mar their still slightly childlike, but (as Freddy had one day seen at the pond) beautiful and smooth bodies.

These beautiful images made Freddy’s member emit concupiscent mucus, and then both Freddy and his member fell into a deep sleep.

* * *

Junec’s ex-wife was called Maria. Martin liked her at first sight. He lived with her in Nová Ves. He worked shifts in the water-works. Despite being a trained electrician, he worked as a greaser: it paid better. In his free time he played saxophone and later started up a group. Junec was a saxophone player, his brother-in-law Žofré played guitar and sang, and a lad called Hruškovič played the organ. They were hired to play at dances all round Nová Ves. Soon they turned professional. Then Maria gave birth to his son Oliver. Martin was making good money, but got very little in return. Maria grumbled at him, and his in-laws treated him like dirt. Martin wasn’t going to put up with it. One day he decided to draw a line under his past. The group was just about to return from a long engagement in a bar in Norway. He packed his bags and asked for political asylum. Žofré decided to join him. Martin wasn’t too pleased; he was fed up to the teeth with his fat, stupid brother-in-law. Nevertheless, he ended up taking him along. They used the money they had saved to fly to the United States and begin a new life. Only Hruškovič went home. After the Velvet Revolution he discovered he had psychic abilities and is now a naturopath. He fixes spines and casts horoscopes.

As soon as Martin started working, he sent his wife money for their son: five hundred dollars a month. Maria didn’t think this was enough and she took him to court. The court ruled that Martin had to send fifty dollars a month. Willy-nilly, Martin had to obey. It had been a long time since he had laughed so loud.

When Maria realized that she had really screwed herself badly, she almost went blind with hatred. She would write long, poisonous letters to him. Her parents occasionally joined in, too. They berated Martin for leading their son Žofré astray. Žofré only laughed at this. Martin always got stomach cramps. Then he stopped opening letters from Czechoslovakia, and threw them in the wastebasket the moment they arrived. He had no time to waste: he worked like a slave. Finally, they got a divorce and he had peace and quiet.

Then Martin met Edna. She was a thin, leggy American with a smooth complexion and glasses that gave her the charming look of a very intelligent intellectual. She was a feminist, but only up to a point: she still felt that in order to attract men it was still worth using make-up and removing unwanted hair.

She found the phone number of Martin’s company (he had by now a permit for sole proprietorship, that is, he was self-employed) in a local daily paper. She called him to change the neon tube in the kitchen. Martin came with Žofré in a small Chevrolet pick-up truck with a built-in workshop. Edna lived in a small rented bungalow on the Pacific coast. She opened the door for them wearing shorts; she had a book in her hand, and she wore reading glasses. She was no beauty, but had a slender, attractive body. When Martin saw her tanned legs he got excited: a long time had passed since he had had a woman.

The kitchen was small and narrow. Martin was changing the tube. Žofré was holding his ladder and running back and forth fetching one thing or another. It was eleven in the morning and he was already a bit high. He would make mistakes and drop tools. In front of customers, Junec communicated with his former brother-in-law only in English and, since none of them had a good command of the language, confusion and misunderstandings occasionally broke out between them. Edna had to laugh a few times.

“Please, don’t take it the wrong way, Mr Junec,” she said to Martin, “but you two remind me so much of the Marx Brothers that I had to laugh.”

Finally they managed to change the tube. Martin asked for eighty dollars, gave Edna a receipt and his card. He didn’t know why he added also his private number. (“You can call me any time day and night, I’ll come.”) Maybe those tanned legs made him do it.

“Well, I had no idea that Marx had a brother,” said Žofré in the car.

Junec drove in silence, though, to tell the truth, that was news to him, too.

“Maybe she’s confused this Marx brother with Engels,” Žofré speculated.

He took a swig of vodka from a hip-flask in his pocket.

“Ignorant American,” he concluded with an educated European’s superior attitude.

A week later, Edna (she was still Dr Gershwitz to Martin) called again. She needed her fridge mended.

This time, Martin went alone; Žofré had depression and had been spending the last few days in Slovak Hall, drinking with his compatriots.

Dr. Gershwitz opened: she was wearing shorts and reading glasses, and had a book in her hand. She took him to her fridge.

“Will you have a drink?” she asked.

“A glass of water, please,” said Junec, and turned the back of the fridge towards him.

“Where do you come from?” Edna asked when she brought the water.

“From Czechoslovakia,” said Martin, putting the detached cooling rack against the wall.

“Oh,” said Miss Gershwitz. “A friend of mine went there. Prague. Kafka. You like Kafka?”

“Yes, very much.” Junec said, red in his face.

Edna was pleased. “This isn’t your real job, is it?” she said and pointed to the fridge that was now in bits. “What is your job?”

“I’m a musician,” said Martin. “I used to play saxophone. In a bar.”

“Oh,” said Edna. “Do you like Dexter Gordon?”

“I adore Dexter Gordon,” said Martin, getting even redder in the face. “And what’s your job?” he had to ask.

“I’m an anthropologist,” said Edna. She looked Martin straight in the face. “I study the sexual habits and rituals of indigenous people.”

Martin fell that he was turning deep red from head to toe.

“Ah,” he said uncertainly, “interesting work.”