City, Sister, Silver, page 29
they shall run, and not be weary;
they shall walk, and not faint.
Cool, huh? said Bohler. We nodded our heads, clutching out of habit at the spots where until recently we’d worn our silver. Thanks, thanks, O House of Prayer, that’s good stuff, we’ll keep it in mind, sure thing, Cassock … our voices rang out here and there and maybe for the last time in unison … in the courtyard’s thickening half-light. Then Bohler said: So right … I’m goin … an you two guys’re takin the tram too, right?
Why don’t we all hop in the mobile, Micka suggested. I got my coats in there, byznys threads an whatnot. I’m holdin on to that stuff.
Hey, take it easy, I said into the car window.
Bye, Potok, one of them said.
An make sure you shut the gate.
Aright, bye now. Later.
Later.
I watched the mobile getting smaller and smaller, till it came to the first street and turned the corner. I shut the gate. My steps sounded strangely alone in the courtyard.
I was glad that Vasil and old lady Macešková were still in the building. I went off to lie down in the former pack’s old flat. Summoning all my brainpower I tried to conjure up an intoxicating image of my sister. I wasn’t feelin too great. I even felt lonely.
And then the doorbell rang. Hard.
I jumped up and quietly went to the door. Then went back. For my blade. The ringing didn’t let up. Who is it? I said. Why it’s just me, sonnyboy! Macešková. I was pretty relieved.
She stood in the dark hallway. Why don’t you turn on the light, Mrs. Macešková? Oh, I can see fine, young man. She tittered. I switched on the light. Her face was even more sunken and pale than it had been before the well. As far as I remembered. What do you need? Oh nothing … I was just curious where you boys go nighty-night. Who’s around still an who isn’t, she giggled again. Nosy old hag. But … maybe she was just surprised to see the building nearly empty. I tried to explain. But she didn’t seem to be listening. Stared at me. Licked her old lips. Looked like she was out of it. There was something wrong with her. But hey, after all, she’d been in the Zone a pretty long time.
I made an effort to be polite, but all of a sudden she just turned around and shuffled off … no neighbors to gossip with, poor thing. Good night then, I called after her … and don’t be afraid! She didn’t answer. No sooner had I shut the door than Vasil started pounding on it.
Come on in, malchik. An sleep here if you want. Plenty a room.
Jou know dis babushka, he asked.
Yes, she’s been living here a long time.
Vhat she like?
A hag. A regular old witch.
Vasil’s eyes popped.
Naw, c’mon, it’s just an expression. How bout a nip of the Fiery? Vodka?
Da! Jes.
We drank till we fell asleep. Vasil kept asking if it was really okay for him to be in the flat. That dope had no idea how glad I was to have him there. He drank so much I think he didn’t even scream in his sleep.
The next day I discharged the most pressing morning functions, put on some fresh clothes, and took off. I tried to clear my head of everything past. Černá was all I longed for now. The tram was too slow for me.
I also tried to be practical, and when Vasil wandered off somewhere I’d counted up my funds. Back in the Stone Age of the byznys path, the only serious money I’d spent was on byznys suits and ties and shoes, and the Organization reimbursed me for it. Usually we’d eaten and drunk together, Bohler handled that. We ran tabs at the usual spots, I knew Micka took care of those. In that whole time all I’d acquired were a few cool street jackets and a couple pairs of running shoes. I don’t like when every nail I jog over hurts. No need to make your heels cry. The rent for my hole on Gasworks still corresponded to its appearance and location. I didn’t spend anything, actually. Not counting the occasional depraved hamburger. I still had a good few months of take-home pay stuck between the sheets. Even got by the hitlers. When I dumped out the pillowcase, I was pretty amazed at the total. On the other hand though, I had no idea how expensive stuff was now. Some went in my pockets, some in my shoes, and the rest I put back in the sheets. I realized I’d never seen Černá in anything except handsome but rather bedraggled tops. And I seriously doubted she washed those pants I’d seen her suffering in. Guess those songs of hers didn’t bring in much. Maybe I’d start with a gift … out of courtesy and friendship … I had oodles of cash.
I got off the tram and trudged along the street, a nobody without a tribe. It was still early morning, an unusual time for me, no doubt my little sister was still asleep … there were people swarming all over … charmless receptacles full of nothing but their own destinies … flashing by in trams, hopping on, reading newspapers … some talking to themselves … honking cars stormed the streets … everything flashing by, changing constantly … there were moments it looked ridiculous, the sidewalks were full, everyone on their way to scrape by, scrape through, scrape along, I got in line.
Without a tribe I didn’t belong anymore. Who’m I now, I wondered. An what’ll I do when I find her … Then I remembered … I’d met a Queen once, back when I was abroad … maybe it was Jícha’s story from that relatively recent period, which now seemed tucked away in the corridors whistling with time … he’d talked about his trip to Europe … I recalled my own trip there. That time in Berlun. With Jakob Kopic, my accomplice. Jakob gave me a good sentence there, that time in the subway. I remembered it, it was liberating.
We had a fast little group back there in Berlun. And there was no way we could pay for the subway, or any of the other transportation we had to take so we could see, hear, touch, and smell everything. Our finances weren’t in any great shape. We were stowaways.
13
THAT TIME IN BERLUN. THE KINGDOM OF THE KANAKS. THE DARK LADY. I FIND A QUEEN. AN LOSE HER.
Berlun, I reminisced … we’re ridin along neath one a the strasses, checkin out the advertorials, happily sittin, happily purrin, an they got us! Ticket check! The whole train starts buzzin. Black, yellow, white, spotted, everyone splits. We get nabbed. Kopic fakes a heart attack, I’m sobbin. We whip out our cards from the camp. They wave em off. An again, later … we’re sittin. An here comes security. Headin straight for us. Hey, says Kopic, isn’t it weird how they always head straight for us? By then we’d gotten normal haircuts, brushed our teeth, shined our shoes, and our odyezhda — it was super. We went by the ads: impeccable black-and-white checked sportcoats, trijeans, nightingale kneesocks, Kopic had a fab cap with a Pi Beta Kappa insignia, I was jealous. It was all … found clothing. But we looked just like the natives. I mean we had our own tongue, that’s obvious, but nobody talks on the subway. Hey, Kopic looks at me … now I get it, it’s your mug! Huh, I yelled, what? I donno … but it’s in your mug, it’s different! I look at him … look around at the other whites on the train … aha! Guess what, dear Kopic, you’ve got it too.
And then it happened. Jakob Kopic gave me that sentence. We’re ridin the subway again, goin to check out a few department stores an a Nazi monument or two, there’s colorful groups all around makin noise, an ticket check! An again straight for us! Kopic can’t take it, pulls the brake, I kick out a window, Jakob throws down the ladder, an we go flyin into the tunnel. Police flashlights flicker, they’re not gettin us! We race, breathless, around a corner, an again another corner, the cops right behind us, an all of a sudden some hands shoot out an snatch us into an alcove. We don’t resist, outnumbered. The cops go whizzin by, Kopic sprinkled pepper to fool the dogs. We knew that one. Very well. I look who nabbed us, Kopic goes on reconnaissance. Before me stands a little man, black as a boot, with a tusk through his nose that shines in the dark. Ungara, Bulgara, Polisha, Rumana … he probes. Nearly guessed. It’s in my mug. Ich bin Chekoslovakiya! I beat my breast. Ich weiss, kommunisten, nix gut! says the little man, his teeth’re shinin too. Ja, ja, I chime in, grosse scheisse, nix gut, fuhrers! Blah-blah-blah … sure, guy. Und you? I ask, Angolak, Congan, Ugand … eh? Nein! Nein! Ich Kanak! he pounds his tiny chest with his fists. Gut? I say. Nix gut! Kommunisten? I try. Nix, he says. Banditen. Nix essen, kein vitaminen, grosse problem. Aha! I get it. Dokument? he asks. Nix. Nix identifikatsionpapir, légalité keine! You? Keine! he says. Arbeit, mark, gut gelta? Keine, I reply. Ja! he says, thinks a second. Ich arbeit heer. Tunnla! Huh? I don’t follow. Tunnla! Tullers! Ch! Ch! He makes like he’s diggin. Nein, not me! I say. The Kanak tugs at my elbow. We go into the back. My eyes bug. There’s some mine or somethin back there, lotsa nimble little black guys. Diggin up dirt an cartin it off in wheelbarrows.
Kopic comes runnin up, gaspin for breath, air’s clean, he reports, his eyes bug too. My Kanak friend explains: Tullers, ch, pa! Essen heer grosse, grosse, bik! Kanakland keine! He curls his fingers and scoops his hand toward him in the international gesture for stealing. We chime in. Tunnelers! Nach Kanakland! Aha, Kopic understands. They’re diggin home. Globe, I say. Globe, thru? Ja, nach globe, the Kanak says gleefully. Essen konzerv und joos supermarket Doychland nach Kanakland fur kindern und fraulen Kanak und nix problem! Grosse und grosse gut. Frishten sie? Ya, says Kopic, nach Kanakland thru globe wieviele kilometrs? Kimtr? the Kanak is stumped. Kopic, an old hand when it comes to language, shows him how long ein metr is. Wieviele metr nach Kanakland? Ja, our rescuer catches his drift. He draws a number in the sand. Hey, I say to Kopic, if you look from this side it’s 60, an the other way it’s 90, that’s doable. The Kanak rubs the numbers out. Keine problem! Kimter nix problem. My guess is they donno how far it is, says Kopic, an they don’t give a hoot. Ja! says the Kanak as if he understood. Arbeit?! He points to the shovels and wheelbarrows. We shudder. But … could be nice in Kanakland … palm wine, beaches … Are you kiddin, says Kopic, we don’t have time. Maybe they’d make us overseers, I say, I mean hey, we’re white … We don’t have time, says Kopic. He’s right. Auf wiedersehen … an lotsa luck, we wish the Kanaks. Farewell. A second later we’re on the surface. Stridin along. Yep, says Kopic. Kanaks … hey, we’re Kanaks too! Oh yeah! I realize. In a blink. That was the important identity sentence. The holy ghost musta come over you, Kopic, or’re you from the clan of Elijah the prophet? Could be, Kopic said solemnly. He was right. We were all Kanaks. The megarace of the tunnel. That whole crew in Berlun on the way back to Europe.
Deringer’s a Kanak, we also called him the Commander, cause when he got drunk he’d turn to stone. Šiška’s a Kanak, worked for British intelligence, kept a close eye on us, gun at the ready. Borowiak, Polak, also a Kanak, then Šimuna, a.k.a. Šmelina, guy had all kindsa passports … Shimako an Chiharu, both Kanaks, always holdin hands, strokin each other, nibblin at each other’s lips an clackin their teeth like lovebirds, they lived together, rapturously intertwined, always lugged around various balls an rods, they’d laid it on too thick with the feminism in Tokaido, got socially under the hammer an psychologically bottomed out an … hit the road an ended up with the rest of us in Berlun, or was it the beginning? Vasiš, he’s a Kanak, slept around the clock, scared of lethal traffic, perforated sleeper, brother of the needle … Petrák, Czech as a log, always drawin maps, knows everything, never goes anywhere, he’s a psycho too … but Kopic, your woman an lawful wife is Doych, she can be our language bridge … till she took my splendid name, Kopic smirked, she useta be Yablunkovskaya … that’s old Ukrainian. Heh, Kanak to the core! Kopic’s kids’re Kanaks, we’re all Kanak. Maybe even the good Lord is … basically … ? Slews of Kanaks. Rosie Simonides, she’s a Kanak too, we pitched our tent at her place, that was our lair. There were thirty cats livin there, we put special crawl-through doors in for em, they would gobble hash, an as it came rollin outta their bowels I realized why they called it shit. We were a Kanak kingdom, boys solid as birches, girls sweet as virgins, eurotrash for the most part. Mark was a Brit, at home he’d been hit, ended up in Berlun. A Kanak. Then there was a Dutch foursome straight outta Breughel: professional Kanaks. We introduced our own currency, the kanaka. Slept in rocking kanaks. Picked through the heaps at Aldi, ruthlessly and Kanak-style. Once or twice I even got a case of the kanaks: A nun came riding out from around the corner on horseback, but in the blink of an eye she turned into a guy on a bike, an old Kanak. And slowly the most important thing of all came into being, the secret and open tongue of the Kanak kingdom.
We didn’t have much time. A lot of it had already been devoured by that freak of freaks, the scavenger Colonel Time-Vulture. How I loved the demonstrations! Free, truly, in every sense … Au! sland! er! raus!* The first word like a pterodactyl, the second like the creak of the spit. Drums, whistles, bagpipes, panpipes, waving flags, I loved it. Didn’t miss a single rally. Auu, I roared, sland, that sounded almost Celtic, then a very solid: er! and the glittering finale: raus! like the rip of a scythe. The ice queen rattled her frozen train. I marched. No one could tell. I’m very handsome, everyone thinks so. I’ve got fair hair an blue eyes an clear skin with pockmarks. An I was in the right spot on the globe at an opportune moment. You’re so smart, Kopic said enviously. Tell me, he begged in the lair afterwards, what was the protest like? First gimme some cash! He clammed up. Are you kiddin! He couldn’t go to the rallies. He would’ve got his head bashed in. Those boar fangs, brown almond eyes, kinky hair, an that beak a his! Not him! He was obvious! When anyone at the demonstrations addressed me in a friendly way: Kamerad… I’d flash a grin an point my thumb to my ears an lips … a deaf-mute Kamerad… even they’re with us, the Nazi lovers would say to each other, even though they know what awaits em the next time we win, won’t be long, isn’t that touching … my roars were drowned out by the thundering voices … so I lied my way through an finally I could protest freely, an one day I notice … these guys walkin around at the back, shaved heads, uniforms, but they’re luggin burdens, beams an stakes, prospectors? I glom on to em an I can’t believe my ears: If I’m lucky, Mirek, maybe herr oberst’ll lend me his bullwhip … someday … maybe they’ll notice us, Jarka, if we try real hard … yes, Jindra, we’re an inferior race, but they’re so amazing … Czechs, and they were blind … I was seized with rage … but then pity, they don’t need any help croakin, poor bastards, ugh! They’re just carryin the load.
We didn’t have time. An it was all so fabulous! Foreigners out, oh definitely. We were like pigs in clover. Meals practically free, drinks too. All kindsa interesting stuff. Sometimes we’d test it out, bump into some cop on the street, stumble, like accidentally, drunk, an the cop’d go: entschuldigen sie bitte, toss a dirty look, an that’s it … I’d clean the looks up, toss on a stamp, an send em home to my mom as postcards.
We were a kingdom of Kanaks. I didn’t work, never had an hour free. Kopic did, he was restless and had a family to support. Took odd jobs, sweeping and cleaning. That brought in plenty for everyone. At work he stole rags and nice plastic ashtrays.
We also went to the huge bazaars where folks from our neck of the woods learned to market economize. Kopic demonstrated his genius. Got on first-name terms with a roulette wheel. Found it on a dimly lit side street. It was a Kanak wheel and he spoke its language. Greeks, Eyetals, and Assyrians spun there. Gypsies, in short. Just don’t gimme that small works spiel, said Kopic: it’s better to live large. If there’s any surplus, we can always destroy it or donate it to the needy. He was right. I sat and gawked, watching the ashtrays, while Kopic hunted among the market people. We hustled to the Moroccans, who hustled to the Poles, who hustled to the Turks, and then we’d buy the ashtrays back and send em on down the line. Often we’d net as much as 600 percent. We also stole bikes. As a favor to the natives, so they’d know what to expect.
On my wanderings along the way to Europe, I met lots of outcasts. The penitentiaries were interesting. That was nothin for alla those craggy Siberians, heavy-duty mobsters from Katowice an Gdansk, Ceauçescu’s children, or any Albanian! Hah! The Crimea! With rest homes like that, the mayors and city councils might as well’ve put up a sign: Interhotel Paradajs. The Russian gangster said: I won’t talk. And he didn’t. You see, dear children, torture was forbidden in the desirable states. Not that they didn’t … occasionally strike someone down … some nigger, Ayrab, yellow bandit, slow Polak … oh sure, but it didn’t compare to the hellishness these people had in their cells. Hungry vacationing Kurdish peshmerga, Turkish gray wolves, Ukrainian rabid dogs, Volga ship pullers, Romany crooks from every which where, galley-scarred Chechens, Bucharest mafiosi, all kinds of Angolans, mercenaries … some had spent years in the mines, in slammers where the groundwater flows onto the night concrete straight from … we know where … and just when the guy is such a wreck that even Satan feels sorry for him and sucks the water out … the jailer takes the hose … just in case the fucker was thinkin he might actually survive, and a lot of them did … and they were amazed … You’re serious, all I gotta do is say I’ll never do it again? And this is soap? A whole bar, for me? Well … I feel like ataman Ralfo Valentino Belmondovich himself, finally! But they didn’t wash anyway, they stole it to sell at market, or to give to their Lenochka or Stazichka, their Agla, Vanda, Latka, Varga, or Monka. And what’s this … three blankets, three blankets for one night, Mother of God! And this? Those are pajamas, said the kindhearted old sergeant. And which meal will you be having, mister convict sir? Corned beef, sirloin steak, or tofu? All of em. Splendid, splendid, we apologize, but we have only five kinds of tobacco today … an the ones that’d already been in the desirable countries’ slammers before knew what to answer … Oh yeah? Then get cher ass in gear, you old reformatory, how bout my human rights! And next thing you know there was a minor insurgency … and the only ones happy were the local eurojournalists, because their light-fingered packs’re joined with humanity’s outcasts like a communicating vessel. Finally they had something to do. If it bleeds, it leads, we know the old slogans.
