Peter Pišťanek - The Wooden Village

He took a break for lunch. He was sitting in the kitchen, eating his fill of stewed pork and sauerkraut. His body was feeling a fatigue he had never known before. He ascribed it to standing too long in his surgery.

“How many were there?” his wife asked.

“About fifteen,” said Hruškovič. “I’m as worn out as a horse.”

“And there are another twelve waiting out there,” said his wife, pulling back the window curtain.

“Who’d have thought it?” Hruškovič shook his head. “I had no idea there were so many idiots in the world.”

After lunch Hruškovič went on with his healing. The champagne cooler was filling up nicely with banknotes. Occasionally, Hruškovič’s conscience awoke and he made a gesture: he tried to stop an old granny or grandpa from dropping their hard-earned money into the kitty. The pensioners always resisted vehemently, called him a man of God and shouted in cracked voices until Hruškovič, feigning anger, capitulated.

At about five in the afternoon, a young woman, pretty as a picture, accompanied by her husband, came to see him. Judging by their accent, Hruškovič guessed they must have come a long way. He made them sit in the armchairs and asked about their problem.

The young people began to talk. They couldn’t have children. They’d tried everything they could: doctors, healers, prayers, pilgrimages: nothing helped.

“The doctors believe the sperm is fine,” the young man said in a lilting Slovak and blushed.

“It’s probably my fault,” the young woman confessed sadly.

“Well,” said Hruškovič, “should we not have a wee look at you?”

He unwittingly switched to the quaint folk language this young couple used.

“May I ask you to leave us?” he asked the husband.

The husband nodded and went out to the yard.

“Well, let’s have a look, young lady. There’s nothing to be afraid of,” said Hruškovič and at the thought that the patient was at his mercy, his heart began to race.

“Take off your clothes,” he said and fixed his gaze on the young woman’s eyes.

The young woman blinked a few times like a chicken.

“Take off your clothes,” Hruškovič repeated.

The young woman, keeping her blank gaze on his, began to take her clothes off.

“Knickers and bra, too,” Hruškovič commanded.

“Knickers and bra, too,” repeated the patient in a monotonous voice, meekly obeying.

For a fragment of a second, Hruškovič was surprised. A naked patient was standing in the middle of his surgery. Hruškovič couldn’t believe his eyes.

“Lie down,” he said, “face down.”

The patient obeyed.

Hruškovič ran his hand down her spine. “Most problems come from the spine,” he mumbled.

“Most problems…” the woman repeated.

Her back was smooth and still pleasantly warm, since she had only just removed her clothing. Hruškovič’s hands circled over her peachy skin; he was lost in thought. He waited until something meaningful came into his mind. He reached for her firm buttocks, and something told him to spread its two cheeks.

“Hmm,” he said after a moment of inspection, “the problem is in the tailbone. We have to reset your tailbone.” He palpated the patient’s spine at the point where her tailbone began. “Don’t be afraid, it won’t hurt,” he said. He was shocked at what he was about to do, but something told him that it could and must be done. He put on rubber gloves and smeared Vaseline on his finger from a container with a label saying ACENTACER EMULSION, and carefully inserted his finger into the patient’s anus. The patient jerked a little. “Relax,” Hruškovič said quietly and his index finger completely slipped into the patient. With his palm turned up, he was checking the tailbone. He felt his member beginning to react. He tried to suppress his excitement and focus on the patient’s problem. In a second of clear-headedness, he realised what he was doing and was frightened that someone might catch him in the act. The patient was surrendering to his finger and unwittingly, almost imperceptibly, began rotating her hips as if she, too, were getting excited. Hruškovič couldn’t remember why on earth this mad idea had come to him. Something in the tailbone cracked and the patient moaned. Hruškovič was overcome by a strange feeling of relief. He took his finger out, ripped the gloves off and threw them into the waste bin. Then he went to the sink.

“Just lie there for a while,” he told her, as he washed his hands. He was almost levitating from a seductive feeling of omnipotence.

“You can get up now,” he said when he’d washed his hands.

The patient got up.

“Get dressed,” he said.

The patient began to dress.

Hruškovič still couldn’t believe his eyes. Had he really hypnotized her?

The patient got dressed, put on her court shoes and, with a blank look in her eyes, faced Hruškovič.

“Sit down,” Hruškovič ordered her.

The young woman sat down in the armchair.

“You will get pregnant now,” said Hruškovič in a masterful voice. “Repeat after me!”

“I shall get pregnant now,” said the young woman.

“You will forget what I did to you,” said Hruškovič.

“I shall forget…” the patient repeated obediently.

“And now wake up!” Hruškovič ordered and banged the register of patients on the table.

The patient was startled, blinked and looked around in puzzlement.

“Everything is fine,” said Hruškovič. “I think you can buy a layette; it will be a girl. There, you can go now. And ask your husband to come in; I need to have a few words with him.”

The husband came in, very worried.

“I have good news for you,” said Hruškovič. “There was a negative Tnopibui power lodged in the tailbone,” he explained. “It blocked the quartol tracks of the uterus and ovaries. I used a dual modal conception and managed to cancel out all the negative vibrations.”

The husband sighed in relief.

“Your wife will get pregnant,” Hruškovič declared. “It’ll be a girl.”

A capricious feeling of personal power began to permeate Hruškovič’s soul.

“Take three days off, both of you, and spend them in bed.”

The young man went red.

“You have to have intercourse at least ten times a day,” Hruškovič continued. “And all the way!”

The young man, his eyes popping, stared at him.

“At least ten times!” Hruškovič stressed. “And at least once a day, you have to insert your member in the anus, too,” said Hruškovič. “As deep as you can.”

The young man began to tremble.

“But before you do that, you must use this ointment.” Hruškovič passed him a container full of Vaseline, labelled ACENTACER EMULSION. “That will help to destroy any possible remnants of negative Tnopibui force that may be lurking there.”

The young man was startled and stared at the ointment for a while. Then he got up and took his wallet out. He was no skinflint.

“And don’t forget to invite me to the christening,” Hruškovič called after the departing newly-weds.

The crowd in front of his house had thinned out, but not disappeared.

“Please,” shouted Hruškovič shouted, waving his hands in imprecation. “Please, I’m drained now! I’ve no energy left! Come back tomorrow! We’ll continue tomorrow!”

His patients mumbled, but dispersed in an orderly fashion.

Hruškovič entered the kitchen and in his white coat threw himself at the stewed pork and sauerkraut, even though it was cold now, eating it right from the pot.

“Warm it up,” his wife advised him, “or else you’ll be sick.”

Still chewing, Hruškovič turned towards her. Gently but firmly, he grabbed her round the waist and dragged her into the bedroom. There he threw her onto the bed and hungrily jumped on her. The woman moaned loudly; it had been ages since she last had this kind of treatment. Luckily, their daughter had gone to the Community Hall for her jazz gymnastics.