Tomáš Zmeškal - A Love Letter in Cuneiform

“I see, Mr. Svoboda. So tell me about the visions,” the doctor said with recognizably greater emphasis. The pastry chef clasped his hands in front of his face, as if about to pray.

“Each of my names was revealed to me in a vision.”

“Why don’t you tell me about that last name of yours, Hitler.”

“It was a cruel vision, brother doctor. Long and cruel … but mostly cruel.”

“We have time, Mr. Svoboda. Today I’m on the night shift as well.”

“You’re on the night shift, brother, and yet you are beneath neither the stars nor the clouds. How sad, brother, how sad. How shabby and sad your life is. Do you realize that, brother?”

“Certainly,” the doctor said, clearing his throat. “Certainly, yes, but why don’t you tell me something about your vision, Mr. Svoboda? Do you think you could do that?” The pastry chef visibly pondered the question, clasping and unclasping his fingers several times.

“Even wild animals are kinder to each other than people are, remember that, and unfortunately and sadly, I’m no different, so at least I try to be kind to myself.” He paused a moment, then added: “I’ll tell you my vision, but only on one condition, brother doctor. One condition.”

“I can’t promise you anything, Mr. Svoboda,” the doctor said cautiously. “But what condition is that?”

“It’s an absolute condition, actually … yes, yes, absolute,” the pastry chef said. “Either you meet it, or you won’t find out a thing, brother doctor.”

“Look now, Mr. Svoboda. I don’t think you can impose any conditions. After all, I’m not putting any on you.”

“Aren’t bars conditions, little brother?” the pastry chef said.

“Mr. Svoboda. Now, you know—”

“My condition is … absolute and isn’t open to discussion,” the pastry chef interrupted. “If you want to hear the vision, the image of my truth, may the universe be blamed, which is the same thing as praised, you mustn’t interrupt me. Otherwise, you just won’t find out. Which will neither benefit nor harm the cosmos. But don’t try to bargain with me! Even I deserve as much pitiful respect from your white coat, which needs a washing. I wouldn’t even dare roll dough in such a coat. Ugh, ugh, ugh!”

“I certainly don’t intend to interrupt you,” the doctor said, somewhat taken aback. He realized he was making an effort not to look at his coat. “You could have told me that to begin with,” he added in an insulted tone.

“You just need to listen, doctor. You just need to listen, brother,” the pastry chef said sternly.

“Go ahead, Mr. Svoboda. Go right ahead, and I won’t interrupt. After all, I’m very interested in what you have to say.”

“You promise?” the pastry chef said.

“Of course,” the doctor replied.

“You won’t interrupt even once?”

“I promise,” said the doctor.

“All right then. Then listen closely, brother doctor,” the pastry chef said, and he folded his hands in front of his face again as if to pray.

“I was asleep. I was sound asleep, calm and content, my wife had just had her birthday. We celebrated it the way she wanted, with just a couple of friends. Afterwards, that night, we made love and fell asleep in each other’s arms. When I woke up, my head hurt so bad I thought it was going to burst. I got up out of bed, but just then another wave of pain came over me. What they call a migraine, I suppose. Staggering from the pain, I crashed into the table next to the bed with my right shin. I heard a sleepy woman’s voice say, ‘Honey, not again?’ The pain was so bad that all I could see was constellations and galaxies of painful, piercing lights. Then someone gently took my hand and spoke to me. It was the same voice as before, only now it was whispering. Then two hands wrapped around my waist and gently sat me back down on the bed. Someone put a glass in my hand. I understood that I was supposed to drink, so I drank. It tasted like mango juice. I drank it, thinking it was strange it tasted like mango, which I love but I’d never tasted before. The hands that sat me down on the bed lifted the leg I had banged, rested it on the bed, and proceeded to wash the wound. Then I felt the hands fasten a bandage to my shin. ‘Just lie down, honey,’ the voice said again. ‘You’ll feel better in a while.’ But I got up and said no, I had to go to the bathroom. So the two arms lifted me back up a little and I realized I should get up, and blindly, since I still couldn’t open my eyes, I followed them. I entered a room, groping my way to the toilet bowl by memory, and sat down. I relieved myself, then remained sitting there on the toilet. As gradually the pain began to recede, I dared to open my eyes a crack. I was sitting in a bathroom. The sun was coming up outside the one large window and I had no idea where I was. I didn’t know this place. I leaned against the wall, breathing slow and deep. I glanced at my shin and saw the bandage on the spot where I had bumped myself. The pain had let up, so I stood, wrapped a towel around my naked hips, and stepped out of the bathroom. There was a woman sitting in the hall. As I opened the door she lifted her head, and judging from the look in her eyes I gathered that she loved me. She asked if I was all right and I nodded. I didn’t know who she was, I just assumed I loved her too. I suspected it, but I wasn’t sure. She stood up next to me and again asked how I was, then escorted me back to bed. I sat down, feeling the pain subside and waiting to see what the woman would do. She didn’t do anything special, just laid down beside me. Then she looked at me and said: ‘Back again?’ I wasn’t sure what she meant, so I just shrugged. ‘Back again?’ she repeated. ‘You’ve got a migraine, don’t you?’ I nodded my head a couple of times, since it seemed like the most reasonable thing to do at the moment. ‘It’s just the wind coming in off the desert from the northeast,’ she said. ‘Thanks, Martha,’ I said, and it wasn’t until I said her name that I realized I knew it. It was like climbing onto a bike and discovering you know how to ride even though you never learned. ‘Let’s just hope you feel well enough to go into the city tomorrow.’

“‘The city?’ I said.

“‘Yes, Albert, the city. For those new bulbs you ordered. They called yesterday to say they’d come in, and asked if they should deliver them.’

“‘Right, the lilies,’ I said automatically. As the corners of her mouth lifted, her face finally began to look a little familiar, and when she said, ‘Yes, honey, the lilies. That must be one hell of a migraine. You really do look awful,’ I said it would be fine, and operating from memory I picked up my wallet, keys, and driver’s license from the bedside table that I had banged my shin against. I looked at my license and there it was: Albert Hegel. That was me: Albert Hegel, gardener and amateur botanist. I went outside and walked around the flower beds, taking in the elegant shapes of the lilies blooming. Extending around the vast building, half residential, half warehouse, was a heavyweight pipe for irrigating the soil. So I guess I already finished it, I thought. I finished and now I just have to install the standby pump. I was a gardener and an amateur botanist, an expert on the cultivation of new species of lilies and orchids. That’s what the pipe is for, I realized. Doing something like that on the edge of the desert wasn’t easy, but I had inherited the land, which meant it was free. Martha was my wife and the next morning we were supposed to go into the city.

“The trip took about three hours. The desert — as always — was gorgeous. When we got to town we went to the garden center, where they had several boxes of lily bulbs packed and ready for me. The boxes were specially adapted to maintain the correct level of moisture in the loam where the bulbs were embedded, though once we got them home I knew I would have to soak them in an antifungal solution. The owner, who also worked as a salesman, called me by my first name. His name was Stephen and I called him Steve. I sensed a certain degree of admiration for me at the nursery, but it wasn’t clear why. Martha looked at me the same way as they did — with obvious respect — and it plainly made her happy. As we drove back, she said something to the effect that they saw me as a superman. ‘Why is that?’ I asked, puzzled. ‘Well, no one else has ever succeeded in cultivating new species of lilies and orchids in the desert. As if you didn’t know,’ she said, wrinkling her forehead. Of course I knew, but I still wasn’t feeling entirely myself. While I was at the nursery, Martha went to the supermarket, the hairdresser’s, the post office, and rented about twenty videos.