Mankind is facing a crossroad—one road leads to despair and utter hopelessness and the other to total extinction—I sincerely hope you graduates choose the right road.
W. Allen
I’m feeling better. I sweeten with artificial sweeteners, pay with artificial payments, and I feel better. Day by day I feel better and better. I just still don’t feel good.
(Yesterday thirty-three-year-old N.N. was arrested while attempting to illegally cross the state border. He had already been arrested and punished several times in the past for attempting to illegally cross the state border.
Enemy armies have not only pikes but also bayonets.
A dark child with a bloated belly and eyes teeming with flies.)
Turn it off, I said.
(The police into the demonstrators. The demonstrators into the police.)
I’ll turn it off, yeah? said handsome Uchytil, who’s hiding his girl from us.
(Sitting demonstrators are loaded onto buses. A boy is lying on the ground and protecting his head with his hands. A police officer kicks him with his jackboot. Blood on the pavement.)
Jesus, said Píd’a.
Really, turn it off, said Huptych.
(Soldiers wading through the rushes. Soldiers standing over the dead. The dead: packed on the ground like hares after a hunt.)
I don’t want to watch it either, said Míša the nymphomaniac. (Jackets. Ties. Marble. A flood of jackets. Applause. Flashes and microphones. A factory. Another factory. Yet another factory.)
By the way, leave my Cubans alone, said Píd’a.
First Tale
There are a lot of Cubans working here now, see, said Píd’a.
Apparently they were all in Morocco before, said handsome Uchytil, who’s hiding his girl from us.
And when that march was going by, I mean, like, the May Day one—you know? said Píd’a.
Under the Mirabeau Bridge there flows the Seine, said Huptych.
Yeah, so—there was a brass band blaring from some loudspeakers overhead. And then along came the Cubans: holy cow: white shirts, samba, Cuba sí, Yankee no—they even out-shouted the loudspeakers.
Those Cubans really like to demonstrate, said Míša the nymphomaniac.
And then they walk by—and it’s still just business as usual—how did you put it?
Under the Mirabeau Bridge there flows the Seine, said Huptych.
Yeah—and one lady from the stands got all turned on and shouted into the quiet: long live folk dancers!!!
and some guy who was walking right under the platform sort of—oddly—as if he were just waking up—goes to her: oh hello…!
(Behind the so-called hunger strike stands the interests of foreign powers.
In the land there is so-called hunger.
Then both delegations laid wreaths on the tomb of the unknown soldier.
An impeccable organization delivers results.
Grilled chicken can successfully be ground into meatballs.
The firm’s management resolved that they must come to a conclusion.
The young apprentices like the new residence hall.)
What’s so great about those seventeen-year-olds is how they’ve got fresh new untouched IDs, said Huptych. With a girl like that, it’s a pleasure to have to show your papers, said Píd’a.
I had a friend, a real devil, said handsome Uchytil, who’s hiding his girl from us.
Second Tale
He’d, like, get into line at the drugstore and yell to the cashier over the old folks’ heads: excuse me, do you have any of those condoms with the little ducks on them?!—And once he was chopping wood and there were wasps flying all around him. His hands were full, so he just swore at them, but then one of them landed on his shoulder—so then he, like, wanted to shoo it away with his head, but he only ended up shoving it into his ear. That bugged the hell out of him, so he hit another one that had landed on his thigh with all his might. Only he forgot he had an axe in his hand. The result of which was he got a Velorex.
Hearing the way you guffaw, I wouldn’t want to see you pissed off, Huptych told me.
(A youth in a U.S. Army jacket slowly and clearly tells us what we should think about the situation in the world. A second can only affirm: because. The first points out: not solely, however! Let’s take into account and add to that. Since, and hence, so then, therefore, and such: preposterous. Would-be and fabricated. Let’s look at the diagram. Thank you for your attention.)
Once I knew a boy, I said.
Third Tale
His name was Tomáš. And once this Tomáš and a friend were pissing in front of the pub, and while they were standing there looking off into the landscape, they bet on whose girl was more hysterical. And all of a sudden Tomáš’s Jája ran out of the pub, slapped him every which way and then ran back in. And so Tomáš won the hundred crowns.
It’s tough with chicks, said Huptych.
But it’s a drag without them, said handsome Uchytil, who’s hiding his girl from us.
It’s impossible without them! said Míša the nymphomaniac.
Do you know what Pepík Souchop says? that you shouldn’t sleep with girls, because they like it, said Píd’a.
(Lively, welcoming, cheerful. With a velvet contralto she warmly invites us: the tops of some birches. An all-girl chorale. The birch grove turns with us. A man is riding a horse. A woman is sitting at a window. She has an unbleached white smock, and beneath it two heavy breasts. She is silent. We move around her and view her from every angle. A tilting of her head: we look into her nose.
And: beyondthewindowthemercilesswindtearstheleavesfromthetreeswhichonlyreluctantlysurrenderthemselvesandtheirleavestotheautumnjustarrivingandtothemercilesswindtearingleavesfromthetrees. The man rides the horse. The woman looks out of the window: her palm crosses her forehead. The man throws up his hands and falls off the horse. The woman looks out the window at the merciless wind, which and-so-on. Someone’s arthritic hand heavily pats her, like a little cow, on the crown of her head. The man lies in a drift of leaves, the horse grazing above him. Credits.)
Did I already tell you about that Fiat? The convertible? How that little prick just had to park it right next to a freight train? And how all of a sudden he found himself sitting buried up to his neck in coal? said Píd’a.
Yeah, you did, we said.
Never mind, he said.
Once I was on the night shift, said Huptych,
Fourth Tale
and a patient came to me, white as chalk and shaking all over.
I go: what’s the matter? and he goes: nurse, I’m terrified that we’re going to have world war three …!
What was I supposed to do with him, you know—so I strapped him down…
—going insane is also a form of love—
—God’s seed streams through the darkness and we retreat into it—something has already cooled, something is gas, for a fraction of a flea’s hiccup there is a little oxygen and a little water and a little grass on something—and now we’re here too! and we have our whole lives ahead of us!!!
What are we supposed to do with that? All that time?
(Six silver girls on legs a little longer, heels a little higher, in pants a little tighter, and hats a little wider than ordinary, run out onto a silver riser on which an enormous ball of mirrored surfaces turns, reflecting off the bodies of the silver girls, who glisten back into the system of mirrors, which sparkles with all its might—
—into their midst runs a platinum blonde, yes, it’s an angel! she shines in fractured rays and reflections, she ascends the silver steps, yes, she’s smiling at us—yes, she’s nodding at us: at you! at me! hey, you there! the world is here because of us! because of the two of us! hey! you! yes, I mean you! toss your cares away! look how gloriously I glimmer! come on a trip with me! we’ve got our little apartment! how colorful traffic jams are! you’re the one I’m waiting for! so just be happy! it’s easy after all! look! you only have to sparkle and dance and laugh like me!!!)
—a frigid tango of sterile dreams in colorful wisps of artificial steam—
—and I inject a shot of rum into my veins, so I can better digest the thoughts of the deceased, who read the thoughts of the deceased, who read— (et cetera—)
—and I send it on — — —
— — and then I gather up all my toys, so I’ll believe them—
—and I collect my remains and lie down next to you—
—come close to me—closer — — more — — — I’m cold…
You told us you didn’t smoke anymore, said Píd’a.
Do you know how long we’ll be dead? I said.
(The shadow of a dry branch. A flickering candle. A man is looking elsewhere—now he notices us: he smiles painfully and reads aloud from panels that he loves people. He feels like one of them, truly: he’s like an ordinary person. Like each of us. He’d awfully much like to be a worker on the line. Or a miner: he’d go down the pit with the guys and he’d be made entirely of coal-dust. He loves life. He’s awfully glad to be alive. He believes that man can control the universe with those hands.)
What if they don’t take it under cover, when we come from the rampart—humankind, that is—
what do you suppose those bedbugs, beetles, and roaches will do with our libraries…?
I think we’re first in the world for the number of poets per capita, I said. Now that’s a lifeguard, said Píd’a—and we all had a good laugh. (the thing is that back then we said: we want a magazine! and them: what do you want a magazine for when you don’t know how to write?
and us: so we can’t go to the pool until we learn how to swim?
and them: we learned how to swim in ponds!
and us: but now swimming isn’t allowed there!
around and around, three and a half hours.)
Once I bumped into an acquaintance, said Míša the nymphomaniac
Fifth Tale
after an awfully long time. I had only heard that he was doing well. Incredibly damned well indeed was how he was doing. And when I saw him, I dashed over to him and call out: hi! At first he didn’t say anything, then that must have felt silly to him, so he also goes: hi. And I go: how are you? To which he says: weeeeell, you know… And I say: yeah—I know… And he looked at me real close up and hissed: fuck off, fuck off!—and walked away.
Until some greater sum divides us! shouts Píd’a. It’s just grand for us, that we’re some of the oldest young beginning authors in Middle Europe, I said—
—and across my soul fell the inert sorrow of the “middler” — —
—the mute rumblings of the inner depths subsided—
—Ahasver moved away—
—and the future—accepted in advance, understood in advance—arrives like a fresh past—
—I look out from within my next cadaver with the acute feeling that somewhere—something— — — doesn’t match up — — —
—come close to me—I’m cold …
Long live the pool for youth literature! I cry, so we’ll laugh some more. Yeah, that time back in Louny… said Píd’a. Zuzana was still here then, said Huptych. Hm, I said. What else can you say to that?
(in memory of Zuzana Trojanová)
Translator’s Note:
The author Alexandra Berková belonged to the Gloret group of writers who met together during the 70s and 80s in then-Czechoslovakia. Mentioned in the story here are also: Miroslav Huptych, Josef (Píďa) Kejha, Miša Pánková, Josef Souchop, Karel Uchytil, and Zuzana Trojanová-Úlehlová, who died in 1979 at the age of 25.