Peter Pišťanek - The Wooden Village

Freddy rummages through strange contraptions, gloves, chokers, boots, armour of various shapes, and black rubber stockings. He ends up putting on a mask with holes for his eyes and mouth, leather trousers, which leave his genitals and buttocks generously exposed, and a complex system of leather straps which criss-cross his fat chest and belly in a chaotic grid. Once he is ready, he shows himself to Sida.

“Very handsome,” says Sida. “Now come here, porky, here’s your contract.”

Freddy approaches Sida and reads:

I, the undersigned repulsive and perverse fat worm, Alfred Mešťánek, hereby pledge that I shall faithfully and obediently serve my mistress, Sidónia Tešadíková, as her vilest slave. My fidelity and obedience will be unlimited and I shall gladly suffer at my mistress’s hands the greatest privations, torment, humiliation, and even shameful death.

“You’ll get a hundred crowns a day from me,” Sida says. “If I’m satisfied with you, then, in time, you’ll get two hundred. If I’m not, you’ll be out of here in a flash. You take the job?”

Freddy enthusiastically agrees. A hundred a day is not much, but for a start, it is better than nothing. Besides, Freddy will be doing the sort of work he likes.

“Then sign it!” Sida orders him. “In your blood.”

“Sorry?” Freddy doesn’t understand.

Instead of a lengthy explanation, his newly appointed mistress lashes his thigh with a little whip. A few drops pour from the cut in his skin.

“Put your thumb in the blood!” Sida orders. “Print it on the paper.”

Freddy, stunned by the sudden pain and pleasure, obeys.

“So,” Sida says, rolls up the contract and puts it away in a drawer. “You’re mine. We can begin. Today is just a training day. Pay attention. I’ll tell you everything that you’ll have to do.”

Freddy nods. His round face reflects his eager devotion.

* * *

As they agreed in advance, Martin Junec comes to Nová Ves to be exorcised by Hruškovič. He comes, as Hruškovič insisted, on an empty stomach.

Hruškovič welcomes him in his surgery. He is dressed in simple white clothes.

“Where are your patients?” Martin wonders, pointing to the empty yard.

“I’ve sent them all home,” says Hruškovič. He has once before dealt with something like what Martin is suffering from. He was exorcising a seventeen-year-old girl to rid her of the jealous ghost of her present boyfriend’s late former girl friend. The ghost came to her at night and tormented her in all kinds of ways. The girl was psychically at her lowest ebb when she came to see Hruškovič. Hruškovič got rid of her ghost, and in the afternoon went on to treat other patients. But the treatment was useless; nobody got better, and some unfortunates even ended up worse. What’s more, Hruškovič fell into a coma and slept without a break for two days and nights. However, when he got up, everything was all right again. “You know,” Hruškovič concluded, “maybe I was coming down with something. Flu, I suppose, or something. But it really shook me.”

It’s raining outside; the leaves on the trees are yellow, red and brown. Everything, the yard and the orchard, is covered by a creeping layer of mist. The drain pipes tinkle with the water running off. Hruškovič’s surgery is kept nice and warm by a gas fire.

“Frankly, I don’t have much experience of this sort of thing,” says Hruškovič hesitantly, squinting at a big book filled with various magic symbols. I have helped a few patients with similar problems… I really don’t know how….”

“You have the ability,” Martin interjects. “Please, get rid of that arsehole for me.”

“I have shit-all ability,” says Hruškovič. “It’s all coincidence.”

“Okay, okay,” admits Junec. “Let’s say you’re a charlatan. I’m asking you then to help me get rid of Žofré the same way as you’d help a stranger, an ordinary client of yours. Don’t tell me you’ve never performed an exorcism.”

“Well,” the healer admits, “I’ve tried now and then to do something like one… you know, since the books are there anyway… It’d be a pity not to have a go…”

“Well then,” the American Slovak reacts victoriously.

Hruškovič is not too keen to start casting spells. He leafs through the book and clears his throat. “Well,” he says and lifts his eyes, “we can try something. Sit here!”

He gets up, opens the door to the yard and calls his wife who is feeding the chickens.

“Veruna’s my best medium,” Hruškovič says. “I just put my hand on her head and she goes straight into hypnosis.”

Mrs Hruškovič looks straight ahead with wide-open eyes.

“Of course, she’s just fooling us and herself,” whispers Hruškovič to Martin, “but that’s the way you wanted it.”

Hruškovič puts a white cloth on his head and then a complicated wire hat: his round peasant head with its full carefree face reminds you of a picture of the sun, as children draw it, with straight rays radiating out all round.

“What on earth are you up to, for God’s sake?” Junec asks in amused disbelief, but when he sees Hruškovič opening a cupboard, taking out a cape decorated with stars and various symbols and putting it on, he becomes serious.

“Woman,” says Hruškovič in a strong voice brooking no resistance. “What spirits can you see in our proximity, spirits that appear in beautiful human form with no deformities? Give me their astral names!”

Mrs Hruškovič begins to speak in a quiet voice, as if asleep: “Namamiah, Uniabel, Leabiah, Zezael…”

“Continue, woman!” Hruškovič insists.

“Zeiriel,” continues his wife. “Lehemiel, Firásek, Melahel, Cachetel…”

At the word Firásek, Žofré’s surname, Martin jumps from the chair, but Hruškovič calms him down with a movement of his hand. “Enough, woman!” he commands. “Wake up!” He claps softly a few times and she wakes up. “You can get back to your work,” says Hruškovič, and his wife leaves the surgery.

Hruškovič goes back to reading his book. “Spirit by the name of Firásek!” he shouts after a while. “Are you here?” he pauses for a moment. “Spirit Firásek, I’m talking to you!” he continues solemnly. “I invoke against you the high powers of Adonai and Agla, the general clavicle of Solomon, the Saturnine Kabbalah key, the keys of Ieve, Adni and Aehieh that explain the Universe and that focus on the Earth. I invoke against you the lunar esoteric key and the new cosmological key: leave this world and go in peace where you belong!”

The astonished Junec notices in a corner of the surgery the outline, vague and blurred, of Žofré’s astral body.

“What?” shouts Hruškovič and puts his hands to the wire hat as if adjusting earphones. “Message?” he asks. “What message?”

Martin can see that Žofré’s outline is still unable to materialise; the spirit remains in the form of glittering fog.

“In the name of Ieve-Zebaoth, I free you from bondage to your mission, spirit Firásek!” says Hruškovič in a solemn voice. “In the name of Elohim Ghibora, I free you from the promise you gave a mortal person called Edna Gershwitz. You have paid enough for your guilt. Stop visiting the mortal Martin Junec! Leave this world in peace and go where you belong! To put it briefly, Žofré, clear off and leave Martin alone! He’s not family to you any more, he means bugger-all to you. Go and pester your stupid sister Marfa!”

Hruškovič intones the last words angrily. Then he walks to the door leading to the yard and opens it in one sweep. Žofré’s outline dissolves and the apparition vanishes. Martin detects a strange smell that reminds him of ozone, or overheated dust. From outside comes the cold, the sound of rain, the tinkling of drain pipes, the cackle of hens, the distant noise of a circular saw and the barking of dogs.