Peter Pišťanek - The Wooden Village

Martin shows the waiter two fingers.

“And how about you?” asks Hruškovič. “Have you married again?”

Junec shakes his head. “Still single,” he says. “I’ve got a… let’s say, a girlfriend…”

“Does she let you screw her?” Hruškovič asks, as if concerned.

Junec just grins. He raises his glass and knocks it back. He looks at Hruškovič. “Screw her?” he asks. “Don’t ask! She fucks like a mink.” She knows such dirty tricks that sometimes it makes him sick. Junec just waves a hand, suggesting that there’s no point saying more.

“And what’s her body like?” the healer is interested.

“Quite good,” Martin says. “Sporty, if you know what I mean…”

“Well, that’s no good to me,” says Hruškovič. “I like a woman with tits, an arse, and thighs. Why didn’t you bring her over to show us?”

Martin explains that Edna has gone to Indonesia and New Guinea. She’s an academic. She studies the natives.

Junec tells his old friend his story. He remembers the hard times that they, Martin and Žofré, went through: often they couldn’t afford even to get a pizza. How he met Edna. How they started making lamps. How Žofré died. The only thing he was still reluctant to talk about was the problem he had with Žofré’s ghost.

He’s heard that Hruškovič has also had success as a psychic, Martin finally says.

Hruškovič laughs. That’s part of the trade, isn’t it? Hruškovič has to pretend that he has psychic powers, too.

Hruškovič looks round and lowers his voice.

He has absolutely no powers, he says. He once read an article about that Russian psychic, Kashpirovsky, how filthy rich he was, and said to himself: “Jano, are you any worse than him?” And so he put an ad in, and the next day his yard was full of patients. People are fucking idiots.

The pub landlord brings another round.

“But the first time you phoned me from America,” says the healer, wiping the beer foam from his mouth, “You told me that you had a serious problem. What was it?”

Martin takes a breath and can’t help spilling the whole truth about the visitations by Žofré’s ghost. He describes Žofré appearing to him a few days after his death and giving him no peace ever since.

“And nobody except you can see him?” asks Hruškovič.

“Nope!” says Martin. Only Martin can see him.

“And is he hurting you in any way?”

“I can’t say he is,” Junec hesitates. “But I’m fed up to the teeth with him. He sucks, you understand. He’s poisoning my life.”

“I expect you know what I think of this fucking spiritual nonsense, don’t you?” asks the healer. “It’s all in the mind. Ghosts don’t exist.”

“You motherfucker,” says Junec, disappointed. Is Hruškovič trying to tell him that he has fucking come all the way from America only to find out from the greatest Slovak psychic that ghosts don’t exist? Well, if so, Hruškovič has put Martin’s mind at rest in a really big way!

Hruškovič is the greatest Slovak psychic only to his patients, the healer retorts. Hruškovič can’t put on an act with his old friend Martin. He just doesn’t believe in this nonsense about ghosts, energies and all sorts of zones. He only believes in what he can touch. Like money; he believes in money. The more fools there are in this world, the more patients Hruškovič will have and therefore the more money he’ll earn; that’s clear, isn’t it? After Martin and Žofré escaped to the West, the communists kept him in the country, just like in prison, and wouldn’t let him earn money abroad, so he’s now making up for those times.

“But even scientists don’t doubt the existence of biological energy,” the American objects.

“Look, old man,” says Hruškovič. “I use energy when I do manual labour and I get energy when I get good bean soup down my mouth. Everything else is fucking nonsense!”

“So you won’t help me?” Junec says, with hurt feelings.

“Well, you know, I wouldn’t leave you in the shit,” Hruškovič calms his friend. “Since you say I’m such a great psychic, then I’ll help you. I’ll do for you what I do for any other patient. No charge, of course!”

Reassured, Martin takes a sip of beer; his peripheral vision registers that Žofré has joined them at the next table. He turns round. Žofré is sitting there motionless, and his big reproachful eyes are silently looking at Martin. He seems to be eavesdropping on the whole conversation.

“What is it?” Hruškovič asks and sniffs the air.

“He’s here,” Martin whispers and discreetly points his head at the next table.

“Oh, please…” Hruškovič shakes his head in annoyance. “It’s only your wild imagination. Ghosts don’t exist.”

Martin notices Žofré’s fat face shining with an ironic smile.

“What if I swear to you that he is sitting there?” Junec insists, pointing his finger at a chair which, to Hruškovič’s eyes, is vacant. “Really: no kidding!” he adds and grabs Hruškovič’s hand.

The healer carefully frees his hand. “You must be tired and overworked, old man,” he says. “No wonder, with all your success!”

Martin eyes Žofré with despair. The ghost of his former brother-in-law ironically nods at him, the raised middle finger of his right hand makes a vulgar gesture of ridicule at him, and he dissolves in the air.

Provoked, Junec leaps from his chair with a furious clatter, panting heavily. His glass of vodka spills and the stain from the spirit quickly crosses the white table towards the green ashtray. The American’s eyes are goggling and the veins on his temples swell with a rush of blood. “Damn son of a bitch!” he angrily hisses and steps towards the spot where Žofré was sitting a moment ago.

Hruškovič grabs him, calms him and turns round to see if anyone else has noticed the incident. Luckily, Konzum is half empty and everyone else is in the front room. “You’ve got to help me!” Martin says when he calms down. “You’ve got to help me get rid of that son of a bitch.”

Hruškovič promises Martin to do so, just to get Martin off his back.

“When?” the American asks urgently.

“Some time this week,” says Hruškovič reluctantly. He won’t try and back out any more. If his old mate thinks it can do anything for him, then he can have it the way he wants.

* * *

All next day Martin spends running round government offices, getting the necessary permits. He is looking forward to the evening. He’s got everything arranged. After dinner, Martin Junec and his new acquaintance will go dancing somewhere. He’ll get her a little tipsy, when they dance he’ll work her over, and then he’ll invite her to his suite for a glass of bubbly. Then he’ll shag her. He’s a man. He needs a woman. His girl friend is a long way away; she’ll never find out a thing. Anyway, in Martin Junec’s opinion, infidelity isn’t such a big sin.

At a quarter to eight, Martin turns up in the restaurant. The headwaiter has been warned: he takes Martin to the table he reserved.

“What shall I bring you to drink?” he asks obligingly.

“Well, maybe a dry Martini. With an olive, please,” says Martin.

It’s not long before Silvia appears. She’s wearing a sparkling mini dress, black seamed stockings and dark violet shoes with silver heels, the highest that Martin has ever seen. She is dazzling. As she strides, accompanied by the headwaiter to the table, Martin appreciates that even on high heels she walks quite naturally and gracefully.

Martin rises and takes the hand she offers. He lifts it to his mouth and brushes it with his lips. Then he helps her to her chair.

“What will you drink?” he asks.