City, Sister, Silver, page 20
I went to get a drink, trying to tune out everything except the racket and the snippets of conversation … at least then you can’t dwell on darker matters … I guess that’s why everyone was here … I took up a post at the bar. Onstage the half-naked singer was working himself into a state of ecstasy, prancing around as he whipped his back bloody, his ponytail was tied with barbwire, I noticed … “you turn around once or twice, then you’re pushin up daisies, oo-wah-ee,” couldn’t disagree with that, “like slaughtered cattle, man, it’s crazy, oo-wah-ee,” that was too harsh, I relocated again, to the corner. And even before I heard the soft voices, my skin broke out in goose bumps.
Human women eat flesh, take a good look.
And that one there …
She has an embryo in her belly. The flesh grows within their flesh. Sometimes they kill them.
To eat?
No. To burn. And that one there too, only she doesn’t know it yet.
They give birth to live young?
Usually. Now they do. But even the dead ones are bound to them by a cord of flesh. They used to bite through it. Now it gets cut.
I think the one in front of us can hear us. Should I kill him?
I didn’t shudder. I tried to listen to the singer again and smoothly, casually, rise from my seat. But I couldn’t budge.
Wait. Let me test whether he hears.
And then: Honey! It ran me through like a white needle of pain. And then her laughter, soft and friendly: It’s me, little brother, here I am. Turn around so I can give you a hug! I knew it wasn’t … couldn’t be She-Dog … this was the old tongue: Turn around and look at me! I want to see you. Turn around and we’ll be together forever, I promise. Come to me … my love.
If I turn around, Death’ll be there, I knew it. But it was starting not to matter anymore. I was sweating like in an oven.
Hey … nother Bomb? the bartender yelled.
Yeah, I mumbled, and took a step and then another … and turned around, but no one was there. No one was there anymore.
What’s up? said the bartender as I leaned on the bar, exhausted.
Aw shit, shit, c’mon, man, he added, spotting a manly tear or two running through my stubble. Hey, maybe it’s the new booze …
gimme an Incest …
… it’s funny, people see important stuff sometimes …
fork over the Incest an can it …
… this ain’t some counselin center here …
The Bomb!
Quit sobbin then. It’s only nine.
I left him and sat down in the first free chair. Teeth perched on the edge of my glass, I gave a little hiccup, because I found myself looking straight into the hungry eyes of Padre Booze.
Good evening, son.
Good evening, father, I said.
He looked pleased. He wasn’t used to that form of address. They usually called him Pachanga.
Your tall boots, my son, may conceal the knife of a warrior, or mere filth, your uncut and unwashed hair may be a lion’s mane, or a golden fleece awaiting the first strong hand, your silver ornaments, dear son, may signify the confidence of a man, or the vanity of a fop, your tattoos may contain the hidden truth, but they may also be a snakeskin hiding a wicked heart, your scar may be testimony to the fight for justice, or a blow bestowed upon you … he started choking.
But he had me read. That was quite a feat.
What are you drinking, father? You’ll have to go and get it though.
Thank you, he said proudly, scraped up the money, and made for the bar.
I stretched my legs, finally some space … alone by the wall. In one leap I was at his side; startled, he clutched the money in his fist. No, not that, I reassured him, I’m just afraid to be alone, if you don’t mind … He gave me a look of surprise, nodded. The bartender slid him the menu, I grabbed it away.
Brandy, said Padre Booze. Brandy please.
You know Padre Bohler? I resumed the conversation back at the table.
O, the apostate, living with a sect of Bog-lovers, communing with a heathen … you know him, son? he stopped short.
Yes, I said. From hearsay. People in our congregation say he’s a good man … it had been a long time since I’d spoken the old tongue, but when it came to a priest, even if he was a mop, I made the effort … an that group, that they support each other, that they’re all right, father.
They are unfortunates who distort the Church’s teachings, they are mutants, beware them, son. And which congregation do you attend?
Uh, here, boss father, Praga five.
Then surely you know the reverend Father Dobiáš. Sort of tall, red hair?
I knew those tricks. No, father, I don’t anyone by that name.
Good, said Padre Booze happily, he doesn’t exist. Sorry for that little trap, son. It’s just that you don’t look …
Do you know Padre Konrád, father, my good pastor … kina short and cross-eyed …
Certainly, my son, he is the Lord’s faithful servant. We know each other somewhat.
Father, may I ask something …
Whatever you want, son. Whatever you want.
Why is Starry Bog such a bloody pig? Why is He always devouring us? Sometimes I get scared that I’ll go insane.
He just tipped his head.
And sometimes I fear that I already have, he said. It does not surprise me that you are also one of them … there are no rules anymore, that is why we have fear. He finished his drink.
Your church knows all the rules, but it doesn’t know a single human heart, I read that somewhere.
Let each man search his own heart, that is his freedom. In any event he shall only come to know it by following the rules, said Padre Booze.
Bo … that is, a friend a mine says some’re damned even before they die … in eternity, I mean, like, for it.
If one single … Padre Booze scanned the club, then returned his gaze to my face … if one single sinner in this room is damned, then I want to be damned with him. I suppose that’s blasphemy.
So you really believe in God?
If not, I would shed these … this vesture and go unload freight cars, maybe work in some office, or beg, it would make no difference, but I am a limb of the Church, and the Church watches over the rules, it bears witness …
C’mon, they wrote you off! You’re a lush!
I may be a miserable priest, but that is beyond my control, I cannot revoke it. I might also … kill myself, or kill you, son, and it would make no difference, nothing would exist anymore.
I guess that’s what Starry Bog wants, I smirked.
Shut up! Padre Booze tore into me. Shut up! Shut up! Write it on your floor, tattoo it onto your filthy skin, look at it whenever you get up in that hole of yours you call home!
What’s up? The bartender stood over us. Should I toss him?
No, I said. Bring us a brandy. You’ll have another, father, won’t you?
He nodded almost imperceptibly.
I trust you, came out of me. Come with me, you can live with us. It struck me suddenly … I had a feeling I wouldn’t be so scared with Padre Booze around, I don’t know why, after all he was worse off than me.
No, I can’t.
Bohler is all right, he’s a … good person. I mean, c’mon, he’s just a helper, I sputtered.
It’s not him, you misunderstand me. How can I go with you … when there are still so many people who have never heard the Message, who know nothing. You at least live in a community.
Guess he means the News, I thought, maybe it’s the same thing. Where do you live?
I sleep here, or … around.
Do you live at the Dump?
There too, and the station.
You can’t keep that up long.
Sometimes I pray that it won’t last long. Which is of course a sin as well. You have a refuge, that’s a good thing, value it. Those tribes of yours, that’s been here before, and surely all shall begin anew. Therein lies hope.
There was something doglike about him. But I trusted him anyway … that he really meant it all.
I’m the only priest who takes confessions … from drunkards. He said it as if he were bragging.
An junkies?
Them too … sometimes.
That’s not allowed, is it?
No, but … he put that dog look on again … that rule I modified, otherwise these people would never … and perhaps, once I break one rule, the entire structure collapses? he added, eyes shining.
He’s drunk, I realized. I’m off, I said. I got up and went to the bar. Making sure I kept people around me all the way. The bartender eagerly rushed over when he saw me, I told him to bring the Padre a bottle.
Hadraba said you free, not the rest.
He’s not the rest, I’ll take a drink.
Then I thought of something and went back over to Booze.
Father, there’s these two churches I go by from time to time, an today they were closed an there was no one around I could ask. It’s some new thing.
So you don’t know, you poor devil.
What?
The Pope declared an interdiction. The bells haven’t rung for a week now.
Yeah, I don’t read the papers. But why would the Papa … ?
It wasn’t in the papers. I do not dare to presume why … the Zones, the sects, us, what do I know. Of course in my position, he chuckled, in my position I am not reluctant to say it is cruel.
Yeah, it’s harsh.
Even the last sheep now have nowhere to go.
So let em change inta wolves, heh heh, the bartender unexpectedly inserted with a grin. One fine bottle a brandy for my dear pansies. Enjoy your meal, fellas, Spidey said.
Padre Booze quickly poured himself a glass, as if worried someone was going to take the bottle away.
Interdiction. Now everyone is like me. Almost, he said.
Guy’s a crazy old coot an soon he’ll be six feet under, the bartender whispered to me.
Shut your mouth! I said pretty loud. Shut it!
What the hell? Hey …
That wasn’t to you.
Seating myself at a free table, I told myself I might turn around if I heard the Shadows again. That might was a thin plank I left myself to leap across. As I slowly tightened my calves, right heel dug in, left swinging into the air, Spidey tapped me on the shoulder.
Boss is waitin. He gestured upstairs with his thumb.
I laughed.
You mean Bog?
Donno bout that, I mean the Boss.
It took him a while.
You won’t be disappointed though.
I’ll see about that. Thanks.
I went down a hallway and up a winding set of stairs. Even before I got to the top I saw the lights were on in the office and heard voices. Two, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. I shook out my neck and shoulders to kill off the last little bit of fear, and skipped up the last few steps to ease my breathing. Opened the door. Hadraba and Jícha sat at a table. So soon? I flashed a grin at Jícha the spook. Hadraba had his feet up on some sack, looked like it was coated with tar. He motioned to a vacant chair. I sat opposite them.
All actors’re fags, Hadraba began.
But I’m a woman. I was curious how he’d take it.
Where’s your tits then?
Tits aren’t everything. Besides, all musicians’re washed-up dope fiends fulla junk, I unfurled the banner.
Not me, I’m fulla God’s light.
More like rat light.
Maybe that rat’s Jesus.
Your gramma’s Jesus.
Yeah yeah, said Jícha.
We smiled amiably at each other, I knew now it hadn’t been Hadraba’s plan.
Next time watch who you go siccin the kids on, huh?
There won’t be a next time, said Hadraba. Promise, cross my heart an everything. You guys want compensation for fear incurred?
We don’t fear people, I said. We want 5 m.
I don’t have it an’re you guys out to ruin me?
The well’s not his fault, I realized.
I got somethin else to offer you, said Hadraba. He leaned down and peeled a piece of tar off the sack. I saw the Martian’s face. What was left of it.
Is he alive? I asked.
For now, yeah, that’s up to you guys, said Hadraba. Wanna give him to the Laotians? It was him killed those two. Knifed em when they answered the door. An smashed your altar too, scumbag, said Hadraba, and spat on the face. The Martian’s eyelids fluttered once and opened wide. He was looking right at me.
Greetings from the old brook, I told him. He stared at me and my stomach was in knots. Not that I felt sorry for him. No, he still frightened me. That’s your sick messenger, the Martian, I said.
I don’t care where he’s from, he stopped livin when he handled it his way. He was my messenger, but I’ve done my penance, said Hadraba. We could just leave im be, it’s not like he could hurt anyone now. Or we could, Hadraba made the sign for the end.
I didn’t have to think long. Okay, I said, giving the right sign.
So we’re cool now, yeah?
Yeah. I gotta tell you though, for a second we thought you forgot what you were doin an didn’t have a contract.
I’m not the suicidal type, said Hadraba, covering up the Martian’s face.
It’s not your death, it’s what comes after, Jícha wisecracked.
Free press runnin all right? I asked him.
On paper.
Jícha was another one from the Sewer. Complicated personality, young poet. I’d heard some talk about him recently. Now here we were, opposite each other again. I traveled down the darkening path of my memory to the pre-days, every face, gesture, and scrap from then I keep saved away in my foggy filing system.
For close to a decade now, Jícha had featured as the country’s top young poet, but since he’d drowned his debut works in samizdat, hardly anyone knew what he wrote. His fame came from his underground past. His one collection, I Love You Under the Horologe of Insanity,* had been bought up by silly high-school girls and their depraved female teachers. Having exhausted the romanticism of the erstwhile underground, Jícha dropped poetry in favor of something really bloody. I vaguely recalled some articles by him about attacks on gastarbeiter dormitories. They were the stepping stones to his career as a postrevolutionary journalist. He infiltrated the Vietnamese, of which in those memorable bygone years 1, 2, and 3 … after the explosion of time in Bohemia, there were tens of thousands …
I settled in comfortably, reminiscing about the Sewer: people, and I can only speak for Prague, were so pissed off sometimes that the only way they could deal with it was by doing the sickest things imaginable. The need for human sacrifice always hangs in the air. And who worries about fulfilling the deep-rooted human need to hate? It’s one of the basic human rights. The sacrifices in my time weren’t performed on some block of concrete, oh no, they were done down in cellars, down where the sickness fermented, where there was so much criminal energy. So much unused energy. Frustration and powerlessness. Pinning the hatred on a couple men dangling at the end of a rope, as in years past, didn’t work anymore. The picture of the enemy, whether the old USA or the new Charter 77 signatories, was faded and unusable right from the beginning, even for the ones that painted in the colors.
My soothsayer explained that it was essential to find an enemy, some anonymous mass, to assure the domestic population they didn’t have it so bad under communism in the heart of Europe. That anonymous mass was communism in Asia. But the slogans of brotherhood came heavily loaded: the shrimpy Asian men and odd Asian women in their quilted jackets and work boots two sizes too big showed Central Europeans a different model human. Beneath their two red lids the communicating vessels exchanged a few bubbles. The organized migration of nations for labor’s sake reestablished the validity of the law of conservation of energy. It couldn’t be flushed away down the factory floors. Because, thank God, one unforeseen side effect of the gastarbeiter transfers was a change in the ethnic face of Bohemia, often remarkable blossoms of interpersonal relations sprang up from the treaties and figures and graphs. It’s quite likely I’m lying again, but that’s exactly how the ancient soothsayer put it.
They came by the hundreds of thousands. Feeding the factories and bolstering the native workers’ self-confidence, not just with their small builds and the ludicrous slop they ate instead of sausages and beer, the only legal and proper meal, but also stories of war, starvation, and killing in their own country, where it was still yesterday. Crossing these two human species was forbidden, and if it went on in spite of that, because love is insanity, then only when the authorities closed their eyes. Because the system for controlling people was highly perfected, I remember it. Only neurotics slipped through the cracks … just a few heroes fought their way out independently, tearing a flag down here and there, typing out copies of K …a, for instance, hijacking a plane, trashing a bulletin board of the Revolutionary Trade Union Movement, learning languages, fighting for justice, praying, stealing melons, ecstatically assaulting a cop … even the slightest attempt to erect your own watchtower in that wired-in land possessed the drastic elements of Babylonian ruin, it’s in my memory. The frenzy of scattering through the world, whichever way the wind blows, stayed on the inside. There was only the frenzy of circling in a cage, frenzy turned against itself. I’ll kill myself, you, or somebody else, is the final slogan of frenzy, the last stop. And the victim of course is to blame.
The heroes (of which the versifying Jícha was one) occasionally found themselves coming to in a shattered store window at the point between plastered and hungover, right at that point where there’s no turning back, waking up to the pain of a body cut by broken glass, stirred to life by police sirens. One even managed to cut his ears off in his cell.
But these heroes, destroying their bodies by jumping through windows with frenzy’s proud feeling of self-satisfaction, were complicated personalities. Neurotics. Artists. Criminals. Masochists. With serious Promethean liver problems. And no eagle around to soar up from the horizon, ready to rend. No one gave a damn about them. They accepted the responsibility and paid their own way. I’d rather pay than say thank you, as Timpo put it. He went Buddhist. Shaved his head and got new teeth. Munches grains with em. Lives somewhere.
