City, Sister, Silver, page 34
Great, Vasil, we’ll see. Tonight though I got an appointment. Rabota. I’d be thrilled to meet the lady later on, panimayesh? Zaftra!
Vasil smiled kindly again and nodded his head. I pulled on my shoes and went to get my jacket. Emptied out my safe, that pillowcase was getting pretty deflated. Vasil stared. And didn’t blush and didn’t avert his gaze. Then I stood lookin around the flat, a relatively long time … gave Vasil a friendly pat on the back, see ya later!
Da. See me.
I took the stairs slower than usual, knowing it was the last time. Goin to Gasworks. I jumped for joy a couple of times, it’s solved where I’m gonna be then. Until I find my love … Great Mother, gimme a break. Drop dead, fanatics.
Galactic was almost empty. I sipped gingerly at the special house tea … I noticed: ever since I’d been lookin for Sister I’d cut back on the Fiery. Gotta be prepared.
Galactic didn’t have a stage. There were other things here. But I wasn’t interested. It wasn’t in Prague 5, like Černá’s, wasn’t so out of the way. I appreciated the view of the street. Entertaining sometimes.
Every now and then there were demonstrations out there. Today as well, but I wasn’t too wound up. I was almost lookin forward to seein Rudolf. Touched the tiny scar on my left shoulder. I don’t care if he’s a sextuple agent, I’ll take that Laotian over the Great Mother any day. Why is it the Russkies’re always so tragic. That cattle car on the icun … aha, that must be it … long as no one’s packin the Russkies in em, they go and pack someone else on. Most of the time there’s room for both … that’s how vast a land it is. Little nations like us … we’ve got an advantage. There’s not so many of us to wipe out, even though on the other hand … I got tangled up in the philosophy.
So instead I flipped through my mind, goin over my morning visits. Those musta been false leads. But if Černá thinks she seriously injured … too bad I wasn’t there! … that sailor that harassed her, she might’ve left the country. What would she do … out there … with her tunes.
That time at the pharmacy … she hadn’t looked too healthy. The pharmacy. The green neon. I’m an idiot! That’s where I hafta start. She must live around there. After all, it’s not like she’d go to the other end of the planet in the middle of the night. If I don’t find her at the pharmacy, I’ll go back to the first address. Mariaková, that Ruthenian musta made a mistake. There’s tons a girls with scars …
I was about to take off, but then calmed my agitated muscles and nerves, ordered my heart to be still. First I gotta clear things up with Rudy. After all … I’m gonna need some work. I’d been checkin out prices in town, the streets were friendly enough, oh sure, but the cost of living had soared.
All that tea picked me up a little. Still I wasn’t gettin any bright ideas … didn’t feel much like makin up jokes. But I wasn’t in the mood for anything serious either. My clothes didn’t seem as clean as they’d been that morning. But I was lookin forward to Gasworks. To my new life in general. Finally Rudolf showed up. He took a seat and blurted out without any intro:
So the girl’s name is Eva Slámová and she was born in Ponořany. Her father did time. Heavy stuff. Now he probably works for them. You oughta have a word with Vohřecký.
What girl? He means She-Dog, knucklehead, doesn’t know shit … or is he talkin about Černá …
Who’s that I’m sposta talk to?
Vohřecký, Side Pocket. He’s ess-tee-bee, but he works for us too now. Rudolf explained.
And that means he works for who? I fired back.
Don’t bother rackin your brains, said Rudolf. Adding: Listen, Jícha’s dead.
What?
They found him in a building on Eastern Ave. I was waiting over at his place, and when they gave me the news I went through his desk. Found a piece of paper with your name on top. Want to know what it said?
I wanna know who killed him. And I can’t help it, but my legs’re shakin, how bout a shot? You think someone was tryin to rob him?
Nope, Rudolf shook his head. We got infiltrated. They had someone on the inside. You know who, Potok. Sámová. He leaned forward and looked at the paper. Or Slámová, it’s a little bit smudged.
I donno who you’re talkin about, and I don’t care. That’s for you and that agency a yours, Dostoyevsky, you amateurs. The spooks killed him, it’s obvious!
Not at all, said Rudolf, not quite. You’re going to meet with Vohřecký. He wants to talk to you.
Why would I meet with a spook? Whadda you want from me? What’re you guys up to?
Not many people know about Dostoyevsky. You’re one of the few.
Well, pardon me, but I hope you’re not tryin to pin this on me.
No, you and your pals were just tellin each other goodbye when it happened.
You put transmitters in there?
No one ever took them out.
I tried not to look at him. He left me alone. He knew I needed time. I sat with my head hung down … drowning my spoon in the green tea … the world, the whole map, every horizon suddenly reduced to a few sharp lines with me bogged down at the spot where they intersected. One thing no one could take from me though was that pressure … the desire to be with her, to taste her skin. Slámová, maybe that really is her name. Big deal. Maybe she even … does work for them. That’s awful. That’s ridiculous. And even if she did.
I peered out the window. An armored personnel carrier cruised down the street, slowly and majestically. Tore up a few cobblestones and rumbled off. The sun high outside gleamed like a trinket, cool and metallic. Over on the square, a demonstration had begun. It was on the bar TV too. With the sound turned off. The speaker waved his fists, opening and closing his mouth. If somebody had picked him off, I wouldn’t’ve heard a thing. The figure on the screen would’ve collapsed, incomprehensibly, a stain appearing on his shirt out of nowhere, without warning. Maybe I’d think it was just some stupid movie. Maybe I’d expect the hero of today’s episode, Tidy White, to appear, and the shirt in the ad to wash and press itself. Doesn’t matter who’s in it. Just as long as it’s clean. I don’t even care who it’s for. I want Sister.
You know who the Laotian is? Rudolf continued. Here’s what we got from Vohřecký. He pulled out a sheet of paper and read: “Nguyen Dai Vang, general … chief of special forces … South Vietnam. After forced unification of the country in 1975, active in the opposition movement. Served ten years before escaping to Hong Kong. Headed the foreign resistance against the Communists in Vietnam until 1985, when he vanished into the jungle. Commander in chief, Thai partisan camps.”
Zat a fact? For real? You’re not shittin me?
Vohřecký claims this guy’s recruiting gastarbeiters to go back and fight the Communists. Thousands of them’ve already taken off to the West, don’t like it here in the factories, that’s obvious. But sposedly this Vang’s only after a couple ex-officers. When the Commies took Saigon, these guys just dumped their IDs, got new identities, some of em even new faces no doubt, and melted into the crowd.
Rudolf informed me.
Well, I donno politics, but if the communards were pourin in there, it’s no wonder.
Ever hear of the Vietnam War?
Sure, hippies an stuff. Forman did that movie about it.
Sheesh, said Rudolf. Well I won’t burden you with the details … but when the Americans, despite all the promises, finally pulled out of South Vietnam, the Communists started up there … know what reeducation camps are?
Concentration camps? I was just guessing.
Yep. That’s where most of the ones that Vang’s after went. But as the situation changed, some of them resurfaced and got sent to work in Eastern Europe. A few of em ended up here.
C’mon, Rudolf, that’s a pretty long time ago now.
Yeah, but this time is like vacuum-packed, get it? It’s still the same over there. It’s suffocating, it keeps on going.
I perked up. Believe it or not, I get it all right …
He nodded. The general needs these, shall we say, specialists for his partisan camps in Thailand. Where else is he going to find men like them? Seasoned cutthroats, Rambos in the sheep’s clothing of diligent factory workers, you might say. They’re the reason Vang’s here. You’ve got to realize … there’s a hidden battle raging! Neither side makes any noise about it … Vang and his men’re kidnapping Communists, Vietnamese secret police, embassy staff. They dope em up, interrogate em, and then they kill em.
You’re not shittin me? I mean, it’s possible, but … I said.
Don’t let anything surprise you! said Rudolf.
Uh-huh. Reminds me a some kinda wildcat Wiesenthal.
I know you’ve heard about that, Rudolf leered. But there’s one other thing. He leaned toward me and said: According to Vohřecký, Vang’s also got people in Ukraine. And they’re interested in a certain seven-letter metal, beginning with U.
Cut it out, I told him. You remind me of Spider.
What spider?
Where’d this Vang learn to speak Czech?
Huh? I donno. What makes you say that?
But you told me … or was it Jícha.
Uh-huh, said Rudolf.
I still can’t believe it.
I know.
What does Vang need me for? I asked.
He knows you. Maybe he trusts you. You helped them out. Plus you know your way around here.
A rock crashed through the window, showering us with glass, Rudolf quick dipped under the table. I followed him. The cops wrestled a pair of uncouth protesters in black hoods into a paddy wagon. We changed seats. Up at the bar they switched off the TV and turned on some music to drown out the demonstration.
We’re counting on you to help Vang find those men. That crew of yours was their only contact here. And you’re the only one left. If Vohřecký’s information is right, Vang’s ready to roll. He’s gonna need a Czech to take him around the dormitories. You’re the only one. We bet on it.
Sorry, but dorms aren’t my style. That was Jícha’s thing.
Yep. Exactly.
Huh?
I donno. But he knew it wouldn’t be easy for a Vietnamese. Even the ministry doesn’t know which gook’s where. There’s no way to keep track. And the dorm managers, the factory people, they’re not gonna talk to some zipperhead. Even if he does speak Czech.
Why was Jícha killed?
You want that girl?
What’s with Side Pocket an that other guy?
Vohřecký’s a complicated figure, he was in Angola. He’ll find you somehow.
You drive me nuts, Rudolf, seriously. Since when was there anything complicated about a spook.
You can’t see things so black-and-white, he assured me. It’s a different era.
So I’m a mercenary now?
Soon as you say the word.
How much?
Let’s say five.
Been gettin expensive, I noticed.
Ten.
Deal.
I sat by myself. Jícha. Yeah, I wasn’t wild about him. But the least they could do is publish his books now. Who though? I tried to remember that thing Spider recited to me at the bar. Bout the fountain. I’d forgotten, but … maybe I could put out somethin a his. With the cash from Rudolf. That’d be classy. What’s it matter to Jícha now anyway though. What’s it matter to anyone, I mused. I’ll grab my girl and we’ll bolt. Somewhere far outta reach of any long fingers with nails so filthy no constitution can touch em.
A couple kids in hoods dashed into the bar, cops on their tails. They swept em out in a second. Without any reporters’ flashbulbs in sight, the kids didn’t even resist. It was like the moment never happened. Then some beggar walked in wearin blindman’s glasses, but it was just an act, they’d never swallow that etude at DAMU.* The waiter gave him the heave-ho. Had a pretty good view from behind the bar. Probably got a show like that every day. My homeland’s in convulsions and the rats’re rompin along the surface.
Almost forgot about that stuff from Jícha Rudolf’d brought me. I tore open the envelope. At the beginning was a note: “Do as a novella and also try as a play. See what Potok says, it could work for them. They’re still performing.” Behold! A message from the dead … from the old days. I took a look.
Initiation ceremony, font of the story, hero must pass through a tunnel whose slimy walls crawl with repulsive spiders, taunting him with their long furry limbs, the cold wet slap of a monstrous worm beats beneath the sound of his footfalls, in whose echo we hear the stealthy tread of his doppelgänger, as the whoosh of scaly wings pierces the silence. At each and every step the threat of a sudden fall, brutal murder. Pain. And a mocking cackle. An endless train rumbles somewhere overhead.
A story of life as initiation, the final passage into maturity while staring death in the face, a maturity separated from the grave by nothing but a thin wall, three bricks thick, and from the neighbors’ you hear the sound of muffled conversation and coughing as a harbinger of mysteries to come, some plot, you don’t know what. Those few moments in the protagonist’s life extending from the winter of the first encounter in a shadowy bar to the golden sparkle of mountains in summer (to be described later), when he lay stretched on the rack of passion, writhing near death at the mere illusion of his little harlot’s mouth, be it in his cell or in that sunny home where their limbs so feverishly intermingled, or in a solitude filled with gnawed fingernails, poorly digested booze, and indigestible paranoia.
In this time of trial he most resembled the dancers of the ancient people, treating the slender threads of his perception as recklessly as an old rag, an unwanted painting received in the course of a drinking spree. His perception was frayed with the same effort with which our fathers and grandfathers once drove wooden spikes beneath the skin of adolescents’ backs and thighs, and dragged them into the wilderness, where they were left to alternate between waking and dreaming, and the weaker ones died of exhaustion. But he who lived through the sacred delirium of the dream dance acquired strength and saw his protector in animal form. He returned to the circle of the tribe, and was solemnly invited to take part in normal life, as if nothing had happened, and then went on, obedient to his power, in the dance of love and death, drinking solitude, which did not kill him, maturing, nearing the end.
For our protagonist, however, there is no barbaric brother, no tribe, awaiting him at the end of the journey, no one but he himself. The forest, a nest of thorns, the harlot, and her honey. Good.
Well, to tell the truth, dear Jícha, I said to myself. But I decided not to say the rest … a little one-act maybe, some kina emotive-type thing, sort of like in remembrance … but.
I walked across town to the pharmacy. The neon. A diamond in my memory now. A fixed point swathed within the purplish, oozing flesh of my brain. The place where I first saw her.
I combed through all the buildings. Nothin. Feeling hungry, I walked into a greengrocer’s shop and rejoiced at the sight of unfamiliar fruits. They had the vitamins goin on decent here! Ate a couple bananas, that did the trick.
Cleared out. And it was night. A very frustrating one. Didn’t have the strength left to ride out to Chebků. I stretched my strides toward Gasworks, back to my hole. It can wait’ll tomorrow, I gotta sleep.
Walking up the stairs to my den, slowly I switched off again, absorbing the old building’s sounds. I was back in my refuge, this was where I’d come from. I knew the damp map of every wall here, traveled them many times. I kept my back to the windows as I went along the walkway. Learned that early on, couldn’t’ve lived here otherwise. I opened the door … and froze stiff. There was somebody in the chair at the table. The room was dim. No, it’s not her … a man stirred and switched on the lamp, it was Vohřecký. Side Pocket.
Come on in an close the door.
I did, it was a relief actually. I’ve always been a fan of fast cuts, but this Rudolf … the guy was a little too fast.
Makin yourself at home, huh?
That’s right, said Vohřecký.
Where’s your partner? You don’t look whole on your own.
You’ll get over the wisecracks soon enough, sit down.
I didn’t like his bossy tone, but I knew I’d get used to it.
So tomorra you go inda action, said Vohřecký. Vang’s got almost his full team a gooks together, just a couple missin he can’t find still. Tomorra you go see um, pay a visit to your old pals the Laosters. That’s what you guys call um, right, the Vietnamese? The ones that slope chick a your pal Bogler useda rub shoulders with. One of um works for us. Vang’ll be there too. You’re gonna offer im your services.
Fuck alla you.
That’s your business. By the way, bein the diligent guy that I am, I combed through all the leads on that girl a yours … Závorová … the one that emigrated. Or did she? Huh, Mr. Human Rights Activist? Or maybe she did somethin else? Somethin ugly an hadda pull a fast vanishing act? Didn’t even give her snookums a smooch?
Boring!
You punks, toss around a few flyers, thinkin it’s who knows what … human rights!
Baloney, cop … you’d never understand … that was real life, what’re we even talkin for.
You really think so, Vohřecký rocked forward in his chair. My chair. Lemme tell you somethin about real life … I was in Angola! You punks back here writin your petitions … we knew alla that … alla that was covered an I … you didn’t even vote, you chump, an you thought you had a life. Only fightin you ever did was with your weepy-eyed mama! Bitch was climbin the walls when we took you in.
It occurred to me maybe Vohřecký was liquored up. Why else would he be tellin me this? But actually … maybe I can pry somethin outta him.
Would you like a drink? I’ve got some Fernet.
Yeah. But listen da me, that whole time you were needlin me, you little punks … an those jackass philosophers, yappin away bout human rights … literati, they were just burned up they weren’t on TV! Only reason they worked in those boiler rooms was so somebody’d take their picture an send it to the West. They knew how da sell themselves. But you punks. You know I felt sorry for you? That guy Čáp, hadda bash him up good da get him da understand. That pal a yours, Hadraba … hah-hah, my pal now too, least he’s a man. You know he clocked me once? Human rights! So I laid offa him. Rights my ass. This Cuban down in Angola, Jesu Morales … walkin death, that guy, even the freedom fighters were scared a him … I’m down there, little buddy, drivin in my jeep, an I see this broad … I pull over an bang she hits the deck an spreads her legs, my first day, those Cubies had um trained all right. Morales dressed all in black, had a machine gun on the hood of his jeep … Baby Jesus, they called im … couldn’t stand priests, shot up a weddin one time cuz of it … people’d run for their lives when he came da their village: Okata, okata Chesito nagada! It’s Baby Jesus, everybody run! … first few nights it kept ringin in my ears, then I got used to it … he’d tear down the road, just honkin at people da get oudda his way … didn’t give a flyin fuck … he knew the freedom fighters wanted his ass like nobody else’s … you punks didn’t know jack about real life, as you put it … real! Real was when they caught im an we found his head afterwards … in the kitchen … strung his legs up on the gate so we’d find pieces all the way in … never knew who was who down there, what with some a the Cubies bein niggers an all … there were uniforms lyin all over the place, from all kindsa armies … didn’t strip um off the dead down there … an me an the rest were Czechoslovakia, wasn’t a lot of us, just specialists, special forces … the hell you starin at? Yeah people keep quiet bout it these days. But without our doctors those Cubies woulda been dancin on air! An who da you think built the bridges? I was proud to be Czech … real was when we were crossin the water an Franta Mázlů got picked off, hadda leave im there in the mud … that stuff a yours, that was just a game! An we let you play! An guess what we learned down there off the darkies … guess. Lectric current, that’s right, little buddy … those darkies can take it … Cubies droppin like flies an those darkies’d crawl right off through the mud an find those mines no problem, yep, always found just that one … one black girl … got stuck with a bayonet in the belly, our Doctor Rak sews her back up an next thing he knows her bed’s empty … found her over in the women’s barracks, eatin an apple! What were you punks doin then, writin petitions … Vohřecký started laughin his head off.
