The Superseding, a Prague Nocturne 141
| | | | The Return of Král Majáles PRAGUE’S INTERNATIONAL LITERARY RENAISSANCE 1990-2010 AN ANTHOLOGY
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Edited by LOUIS ARMAND Copyright © Louis Armand, 2010 Copyright © of individual works remains with the authors Copyright © of images as captioned
Published 1 May, 2010 by Univerzita Karlova v Praze Filozofická Fakulta
Litteraria Pragensia Books Centre for Critical & Cultural Theory, DALC Náměstí Jana Palacha 2 116 38 Praha 1, Czech Republic
All rights reserved. This book is copyright under international copyright conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the copyright holders. Requests to publish work from this book should be directed to the publish- ers.
‘Cirkus’ © 2010 by Myla Goldberg. Used by permission of Wendy Schmalz Agency.
The publication of this book has been partly supported by research grant MSM0021620824 “Foundations of the Modern World as Reflected in Literature and Philosophy” awarded to the Faculty of Philosophy, Charles University, Prague, by the Czech Ministry of Education.
All reasonable effort has been made to contact copyright holders. |
Cataloguing in Publication Data
The Return of Král Majáles. Prague’s International Literary Renaissance 1990-2010 An Anthol- ogy, edited by Louis Armand.—1st ed. p. cm. ISBN 978-80-7308-302-1 (pb) 1. Literature. 2. Prague. 3. Central Europe. I. Armand, Louis. II. Title
Printed in the Czech Republic by PB Tisk Cover, typeset & design © lazarus
Cover image: Allen Ginsberg in Prague, 1965. Photo: ČTK. Inside pages: 1. Allen Ginsberg in Prague, 1965. Photo: ČTK. 2. Street view of the Globe bookstore, opening party, July 1993. Photo: Mark Baker. 3. Crowd outside the Globe book- store, opening party, July 1993. Photo: Mark Baker. 4. Beef Stew after-party at Paseka, 1995/6; centre Paul Martia and Alan Ward. Photo: Karl Skarstein. Opposite: Tim Rogers, post card poem, “Brilliant” (1998). | Contents
Introduction THE RETURN OF KRÁL MAJÁLES 1
Michal Ajvaz Two Compositions 61
Jorn Ake Atlas Ptáků 67 Raphael 68 On Dogs & Urban Warfare 69 Great Pickup Lines of the 20th Century 70 Birdwatching at Yaxchilan 73
Gwendolyn Albert Final Rewards 75 abulia 76 democracy 77 economic power 78 Jocasta 79 Letter to Eileen Myles 80 10 | Hana Androniková V. Samsara 85
Louis Armand The Vanishing Syndrome 105 Psychopathologies of the Commonplace 107 Three Testiments to Apollonius 108 Correspondences 109 Oaxaca, Oaxaca 112 Circus Days 113
Julie Ashley Interlopers 117
Alex Barber The Last Bus 137 The Edge of the World 138
Kip Allan Bauersfeld from The Superseding, A Prague Nocturne 141
Kevin Blahut Sinbad 149 Alcohol’s Marionette 150 Young Hands 151
Petr Borkovec Sonograph 153 Pine 155 Ode 157 Snow General On 158 Two Owls 159 The Work 160 Room 161
Sarah Borufka Night Train 163 michael brennan Apogee 167 The disaster of grace 168 No Second Chances 169 bil brown from 3:15experiment 171
Isobelle Carmody The Man Who Lost His Shadow 185 louIS charbonneau The 217 Bus to Hell (or Klamovka) 203
Věra Chase Fluidly Along the Beach 211 | 11 Sunday Mail 212
Julie Chibbaro Skin 215 Fractal Swing 221
Joshua Cohen Cafédämmerung 233
Lara Conway Psychopathology of Everyday Life 243 The Cities of Madame Curie 246 The Well of Night 251 christopher cook The Cyclops 277
Christopher Crawford A Whistling Sound 283 head holiday 284 Men at Sea 285 Divorcee Disco Music 286 One Two Three 288 Letter to Self from Deathbed 289 O’Hara at the Beach 290 Cellar 291 The Tablecloth Trick 292
Lewis Crofts And so they came 295
Pierre Daguin Three Poems 299
Stephan Delbos Honeymoon 303 Tiny Miracles 304 The Rusted Door 305 Advent 307 This Lighter, 308 Verdant; A Word 309 What the Poet Told Me 310
Danika Dinsmore a girl in prague is a temporary thing (14.7.00) 313 26.7.00 314 28.7.00 315 Mostar, Bosnia (6.8.00) 316 13.8.00 317 Dol, Croatia (11.8.00) 318 War Story (10.8.00) 319
David Doubek 12 | Artistic exercises 321 Then good fortune was unexpectedly worked in 322
Daniela DraZanová Ezra’s Bar 325 Eva 337
Vít Erban A Small, Cold Sun 347 The Belly of the Centipede 349
G.S. Evans from Bohemia 352
Robert EverSz from Gypsy Hearts 359
Vincent Farnsworth dalek bird poem 367 not long 369 They Have Arrived 370 amerika’s top forty 371 Out Dying on the Vine 372 she disappeared during a trip 373 Spring 374 twenty years of No Future 375 Years of Reprieve 380
Sylva Fischerová Mothers 385 Inside the Description 386 The Language of the Fountains 387 This Century Blossoms Black and Green 388 Who Makes History 389 Road to Nowhere 390 The Blind 391 Draft in the Head, Draft in the World 392
David Freeling Eulogy 395 Last Words, Café Colubris, Prague, November 4, 1996 397
Jim Freeman Thinking Me 401 Muddy Water 402 Setting Fire to my Life 403 Just Another Kid 404 Big Boats 405
Róbert Gál from Agnomia 407
Thor Garcia Dagger 413 | 13
Myla Goldberg from Cirkus 431
Elizabeth Gross Lines from National Geographic 443 Lines from National Geographic (2) 444 Liar to Gardener (I) 445 Liar to Gardener (II) 446 Liar to Gardener (IV) 447 Leaving Vyšehrad 448 Lines from National Geographic (June 1975) 449 Questioning room, post-Fall 450 Lines from National Geographic (date unknown) 451 Lines from National Geographic (3) 452
Stuart Horwitz Waiter Poem 455 Numbers 456
Howard Hunt The Ministry of Strange Affairs 459
Travis Jeppesen from The Suiciders 479
Ivan Martin Jirous from Magor’s Birds 489 To Amalrik 490 […] 491
AlexandER Jorgensen “La Paix” 493 The Wading Bird: Or, Gideon’s Ephod 494 Litter & Litter 495 Terminal 496 Tesla 497
Richard Katrovas Love Poem for an Enemy 499 The Boxers Embrace 500 The Bridge of Intellectuals 501 George W. Bush was Very Nice to Me 502
Vít Kremlička Tynia 505 Cinema Arcadia 506 The Attempts of a Commodities Expert 507
Jane Kirwin A Shed in Bohemia 509 Caffeine 510 Power Station, Ústí Nad Labem 511 14 | One Made Earlier 512 Teaching Czech to Foreigners 513
Maya Květný Promise 515 Poodle Ruff Muzzle 517
Toby Litt Elizabeth Bishop: The Complete Poems 519 Auerbach 520 Celan 521 Schnittke 522 Great Railway Journeys of the World 523
Christopher Lord Tres Mujeres de España 525
Paul Martia Žižkov Pub 545 Godspead 546 Before the River Flooded 548
Jason Mashak Opiate of the Masses 551 WTFWJD? 552 On Questions 553
tom mccarthy from Men in Space 555 John McKeown Alcohol 573 Wild Poppies 574 The Day You Love Me 575
Maureen McManus Collateral 577 Poetry Totem 578 Turf 579 Joking Apart 580 Deconstructing Eternity, A-Z 581
Joshua Mensch The Marvelous Marvels Forward 583 Quick Start, Long Night 584 Art Appreciation 585 My Third Arm 586 New Continent 587 Seance 588 And so the River Passes like a Long Blue Yarn 589 The Fine Print 590
Tomáš Míka A Castle 593 Life Delusion 594 A Dream of a Foreign Land 595 | 15
Ewald Murrer End of the Circle 597 Temptation 599
Ken Nash Maurice Utrillo 603 The Two Lives of Edward Hopper 604 The Great Simanoa 607 Anima Husbandry 609
Scott Jonathan Nixon Draža Mihailović 613 the wastebasket 615
Peter Orner Belief 619
Tony Ozuna El Czechano 621
IVA PEKÁRKOVÁ 647 from Elephants in the Dusk
Kateřina Piňosová Again 653 Jaroslav Pížl It’s drizzling 655 Insteps upwards 656 Night on itself choking 657
Magdaléna Platzová from Salt, Sheep, and Stone 659
Paul Polansky A Child’s Job 665 My Father Told Me 667 I Thought I Had Survived 669 Z-2012 670 Disturbing the Peace 671
Justin Quinn Prague Elegies 673 Musílkova 682
James Ragan The Hunger Wall 685
Martin Reiner Catherine Deneuve’s Fate 687 […] 688 16 | The Same Day 689
Tim Rogers No Thy Self (An Exercise in Diet) 691
Kateřina Rudčenková Rubble 699 White Shield 700 Never-Ending Conversation 701 Tower 702 Of Words 703
Jaroslav Rudiš Splinters 705 A Grenade in the Lap 707 The Night that Michael Died 708
Šimon Šafránek Gas Station Blues 711 Jeanne d’Arc au rivière du Styx 712 Bad Day 713
Revan Schendler Night Watchman 715 Souvenir Cards 716 Mother’s Teapot 717 Harvest 718 Return 719 An Unobstructed View 721
Theodore Schwinke God’s Holsteins 723 God’s Heifers 724 God’s Cow 725 So He Threw it in the Air 726 Heaven Buys Us Drinks 727 There’s No Love Like the Love of a Piano Player in a Whorehouse 730
Patrick seguin Kitten’s gone to London 733 two sheets 734 the purpose you hunt 735
Bethany Shaffer Happy Household 737 Geometrics 738 The Swans of the Vltava 739
Joe Sherman Day of the Burnt Toast 741
Phil Shoenfelt The Train of History … Derailed 747
Jenny Smith from Egon for Ten Voices 755 | 17
Donna Stonecipher Album 761 The Reservoir 762 Cantilever 764 Silver Spoon 766
Holly Tavel Ars Poetica 769 All About the Swiss 773
Jeri Theriault Fox Heat 777
Alan Ward Thomas Dandelion 781 Ignoring Traffic Signs on the Genealogical Reel to Reel 784 Green Life Hydrogen Fusion 787
Anthony Tognazzini 86 Things That Happened Between 2:35 and 2:38 This Afternoon While I Was Lying On My Bed Trying To Take a Nap 791 Teresa’s Second Dream 795 Working Out with Kafka 797 Jane and I at Home One Sunday 798
Lukáš Tomin Kye Too 805 Nicole Tomlinson Untitled [Gielard] 813 Double A 815 Body Simulations 816 Again 819
Jáchym Topol About 500 Diary Pages 821 but now 822 and there is this spider and 824 Rhythm 825 Meanwhile it’s Nighttime 827
JAROMÍR TYPLT from When You 829
Lawrence Wells Godzilla vs Stalin 831
Alice Whittenburg The Last Elephant 845 Under a Rock 847 Hedgehog 849
CLARE WIGFALL 18 | Norway 853
Laura Zam from Collaterally Damaged 867
Lucien Zell Wind to Wind 877
Contributors 878 Bibliography 893 Editor’s Note
The 1990s found Prague at the centre of an unprecedented cultural experiment. This anthology attempts to record what became of that experiment.
Thank you to all those who in one way or another facilitated this project and to its many contributors. Particular thanks are due to Alan Ward Thomas, Ken Nash, Vincent Farnsworth, Gwendolyn Albert, Jim Freeman, Michaela Freeman, Alice Whittenburg, Greg Evans, Travis Jeppesen, Mario Dzurila, Mark Baker, Kevin Blahut, Jason Mashak, Eric Wargo, David Vichnar, Kevin Bisch, Curt Matthew, Gwen Orel, Mimi Fronczak Rogers, Bernie Higgins, Sandra Dillon, Greg Linington, Julie Ashley, Lacey (Eckl) McCormick, Jenne Magno, Nancy Bishop, Marek Tomin, Ken Ganfield, Dan Kenney, John Bruce Shoemaker, David Vaughan, Jeff Buehler, Bethea Zoli, Alex Zucker and Clare | 19 Wallace.
This anthology is dedicated to Zdeněk Stříbrný, whose generosity and encouragement during the early years have here finally born fruit; and in memory of Lukáš Tomin, whose work remains the foundation. Girl being arrested during lead-up to the Velvet Revolution, 1989. Photo: Herbert Slavík. 20 | Introduction THE RETURN OF KRÁL MAJÁLES
… the beautiful engineers are all dead, the secret technicians conspire for their own glamour in the Future … —Allen Ginsberg, “Král Majáles,” 7 May, 1965
There are cities in the world that exercise a particular influence over the minds of writers, artists and historians because they seem to manifest a type of spirit, a genius loci, through which an intellectual vitalism is channelled or communicated. Cities galvanized, in their very substance, by a cultural electricity—a vortex—their names imbued with powers of conjuration—Paris, | Berlin, New York, Prague. Such is the mystique of the mind’s geography, that thought and poetry find their location in a given place and time which nevertheless appear transcendent. Equally, there is a question of pragmatics: culture, wherever it is conspicuous, happens by implication and association, like a political crime. The end of “the Empire of Stalinist tyranny” signalled by the fall of the Berlin Wall and the Velvet Revolution, not only projected Prague into the centre of a new Europe and a new European consciousness, it also reignited—however briefly—the libertarianism with which the city, ever since the “thaw” of the 1960s and the Prague Spring, had been symbolically associated. Following the communist putsch of 1948, Prague—once the heart of Mitteleuropa—became an annex of that historical and cultural fiction known as Eastern Europe. As Michael March noted in his preface to Description of a Struggle, this pseudo-territory had been “a lost continent for over forty years.” The cultural landscape which emerged in Prague during the Soviet Union’s collapse was thus one both newly central and yet fundamentally decentred; both singular and radically plural. “In the twentieth century,” as poet Tim Rogers observed, “it was possible to be born in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, enter grammar school in Czechoslovakia, go to high school in Germany, work in the Czechoslovak Socialist Republic,
Ivan Klíma, Introduction, Description of a Struggle (London: Picador, 1994) xix. Michael March, Preface, Description of a Struggle, xvii. then retire in Czechoslovakia and die in the Czech Republic—all without ever leaving Prague.” Writing in a special issue of the New Orleans Review—“Ten Years After the Velvet Revolution”—Petr Bílek noted that Czechoslovak poetry in the early 1990s exhibited a type of historical schizophrenia. Most of the work being published in the immediate aftermath of the revolution “had been written in the seventies and eighties, but repressed by the old order.” A similar view was expressed by Alexandra Büchler in her editorial to an issue of Transcript devoted to “Iron and Velvet: A Decade of New Czech Writing.” Büchler: “Haste and indiscriminate publication of what had been banned and censored until 1989 made for a chaotic scene.” This was evident even at the time. “Czech literature of the 1990s,” wrote Daniela Drazanová in a 1993 issue of Prognosis, “exists in fast-forward and reverse. Publishers are printing the formerly banned works of “dissident” authors, previously censored Czech classics, and the efforts of fresh and relatively unknown writers.” Such an outpouring produced a sense of hyper-anachronism (“time exploded”), and a cultural disconnect with a younger generation, which often found itself alienated from the historical revision in progress and with more affinity for contemporary literature from elsewhere. Some, like Ewald Murrer and Jakub Rosen, established their own journals, such as Iniciály, | devoted to publishing writers under thirty. At the same time, the picture of “Czech” poetry after the revolution was complicated by at least three other factors: the competing claims of newly returned émigrés; the ethnic and political divisions which would lead to the partitioning of Czechoslovakia in 1993; as well as by conflicting East/West representations of the Prague literary scene inherited from the Cold War and transformed by the rapid growth of an international literary community within the city itself. What this meant in reality was something like Brion Gysin’s dictum: “Nothing is true, everything is permitted.” Jaromír Slomek, a critic at Literární Noviny, summed the situation up when he wrote that “Czech literature of the nineties is something completely different from the books being published in the nineties.”10
Tim Rogers, “The Metamorphosis of Prague,” Book Magazine 9 (March/April, 2000). Petr Bílek, “Czech Poetry of the Nineties,” New Orleans Review 26.1/2 (2000): 16. Alexandra Büchler, Editorial, “Iron and Velvet: A Decade of New Czech Writing, Transcript 6 (2003): www.transcipt-review.org. Daniela Drazanová, “Transitional Literature,” Prognosis, 25 June-8 July, 1993: 2B. Jáchym Topol, qtd in Rogers, “The Metamorphosis of Prague.” See Tom Burkett, “After Big Brother, Unchained Writing,” Prognosis, 21 August-3 September, 1992: 3B. The last words of Hassan i Sabbah, Old Man of the Mountain, quoted in John Geiger, Nothing is True, Everything is Permitted: The Life of Brion Gysin (New York: The Disinformation Company, 2005). 10 Qtd in Drazanová, “Transitional Literature,” 2B. David Horák, Ewald Murrer, Ivan Brezina and David Černý.
| Out of this complex genealogy, no clear sense of what inaugurated the “Prague moment” can really be gained. Throughout the “Normalization” period of the 1980s, the Prague intelligentsia had been systematically suppressed. Much of the writing to appear in print during the early 90s had first circulated in samizdat, using typed carbon copy. Prague writers experienced their own cultural milieu as a series of arbitrary discontinuities, mediated (according to changeable State policy) by the official publishing apparatus, access to educational institutions, and the availability of exit visas. The 1984 awarding of the Nobel Prize to the Prague poet Jaroslav Seifert (one of the original signatories of Charter 77)—and the consequent accessibility of his work in translation—created a type of parallel universe outside communist Czechoslovakia (ČSSR), shaping a literary consciousness entirely at odds with prevailing realities within the country. One of the “greats” of modern Czechoslovak poetry, Seifert’s writings brought with them evocations of Prague as the city equally of Vítězlav Nezval, Karel Teige, Toyen, and of Guillaume Apollinaire, André Breton, and Marina Tsvetaeva. During the same period, apparently apolitical writers such as Miroslav Holub were also becoming well-known abroad. Holub was a frequent contributor to British journals like Encounter (founded by Stephen Spender) and the Times Literary Supplement. Alongside Seifert, Holub was widely regarded by many outside the ČSSR to be a major defining figure of the Prague literary scene. British poet laureate, Ted Hughes, famously described him as “one of the half-dozen most important poets writing anywhere.”11 This was starkly at odds with the reception of Holub’s work among the mainstream of Czech academics and critics. In her introduction to the Arc anthology, Six Czech Poets, Alexandra Büchler writes—as late as 2007:
That Miroslav Holub is by far the most widely-known Czech poet is symptomatic of the ready acceptance of cerebral poetry of linear thought, “universal” ideas and easy-to-decipher allegories on the one hand, and a reluctance to engage with poetry referring to an unfamiliar culture and literary context on the other. Even Seifert, whose work received a brief flicker of attention following the Nobel Prize award, did not merit as prominent a place in English-language publishing as Holub, whose work was brought out by Penguin and Faber, and later by Bloodaxe.12
This typecasting of Holub as somehow exemplary of a failing—on the one hand, of a “universal” poetics and, on the other, of the English-speaking literary establishment (as culturally myopic)—masks, behind a facile ethnographic binary and an undeclared aesthetic ideology, a set of more fundamental issues that have continued to inform how the various cultural dialogues that make up the contemporary Prague scene are reported. Holub, an accomplished immunologist, maintained—against this kind of | parochialism—a sense of the artist’s moral duty to enquire about the state of the world at large.13 For Holub there was no room after the revolution for the perpetuation of the “ghetto mentality” that had gown up within the mainstream of Czechoslovak literature—in many respects “a typical minor literature,” in Bílek’s words, which “preferred to dwell on specific domestic issues rather than be part of an international exchange.”14 In the early nineties, in the face of war in former Yugoslavia, history indeed appeared to cast a long shadow over the future of a re-unified “Europe.” Holub, who steadfastly rejected the victim-culture that cast the Czechs as the butt of Austro-Hungarian, Nazi and Soviet oppression, insisted that
11 Qtd in Sarah Boxer, “Miroslav Holub is Dead at 74; Czech Poet and Immunologist,” The New York Times, 22 July, 1998, A17. 12 Six Czech Poets, ed. Alexandra Büchler (Todmorden: Arc, 2007). Cf. “A Conversation with Arnošt Lustig and Miroslav Holub,” Trafika1 (1993): 157. Holub: “I was told by some important people at the American embassy: ‘You are only protected here by being published abroad.’ So I learned in the 1970s to write with the view of the English translation in my mind. And nowadays I write almost immediately both language versions.” 13 In the inaugural issue of International Quarterly, he insisted that concerns such as global ecology must not simply be ignored by retreating, for example, into a type of arcadia of national identity. Responsibility for the state of the world is a shared burden, one that cannot be eschewed by glib assertions that history, in the abstract, is to blame. This was a long-held view, dating back to his collaboration with poets like Jiří Šotola, Miroslav Florian and Karel Šiktanc, and their collective rejection of “abstract ideological proclamations.” See Miroslav Holub, “Náš všední den je pevnina,” Květen 2 (September, 1956): 2. 14 Petr Bílek, “Czech Literature in the Post-Communist Era: The Socio-Historical Context,” Transcript 6 (2003): www.transcipt-review.org. historical “blame” could not simply be apportioned according to binaries of political or cultural hegemony. He shared a commitment to unpleasant truths—a commitment similar to that of other poets, like Paul Polansky and Gwendolyn Hubka Albert, who in the late nineties devoted much energy to exposing the hidden history of the Lety concentration camp (a camp for the internment of Roma and other ethnic and political undesirables, exclusively operated by the Czech collaborationist authorities throughout World War II).15 But if Holub thought of himself as first and foremost a “European,” he also argued against forgetting the specific responsibilities we share for our local and internal landscapes.16 The process of lustration—the exposure and prosecution of former communists—remained controversial in post- revolution Czechoslovakia. Holub, who was blacklisted through the 1970s but who some critics attempted to associate with the former regime, never turned away from the necessity to face up to one’s history in its most specific yet also most universal aspects.17 The apparent ideological rift between a broadly “western” poetics and the national sensitivities of some Czech translators and academics—as made clear in the case of Holub—has arguably less to do with poetics as such than with a certain “resentment” which applies equally within the sphere of specifically “Czechoslovak” and later “Czech” literature of that period, in which dividing lines are often perceptible in terms of personal politics and | political histories—between émigrés and non-émigrés; dissidents and non- dissidents; anti-communists, socialists, anarchists, democrats, capitalists, monarchists; and also inter-generationally. In a typical remark—which takes in the work of writers like Ivan Blatný and Jiří Gruša—Bílek writes:
Most of the poetry written in exile had few original ideas to offer; it reiterated views already held by its writers and readers. And, paradoxically, this poetry exhibited many of the same features of the official poetry published by the communist regime in Czechoslovakia …18
It is equally telling that, of the twelve poets Bílek chose to include in the Summer 2000 issue of the New Orleans Review—a survey of the state of contemporary poetry in the Czech Republic—none were born after 1963, while only three (Sylva Fischerová, Božena Správcová and Jáchym Topol)
15 See Black Silence: The Lety Survivors Speak, Paul Polansky (Prague: GplusG, 1998). 16 Miroslav Holub, “Troubles on the Spaceship,” trans. David Young, International Quarterly 1.1, “Europe in Transition: East and West” (Spring 1993): 96-99. 17 As noted by Jiří Holý and Jan Culík, after 1968, Holub was dismissed from his position at Prague’s Microbiological Institute and his work wasn’t published in the ČSSR again until 1982, following a degrading public self-criticism, which permitted him to be employed in a junior position at the Institute for Clinical and Experimental Medicine. Holub’s position at the Microbiological Institute was only restored in 1995 (“Miroslav Holub: 13 September 1923-14 July 1998,” Obituary Notice, www.arts.gla.ac.uk/Slavonic/Holub.htm). 18 Bílek, “Czech Poetry of the Nineties,” 19. were born after 1952. The attempt to frame these disparities in terms of the legacy of the Cold War, of ‘68 and the “Moscow communiqué,” or of ‘80s normalisation, serves only to obscure—or attempt to obscure—the fact that in Prague, as elsewhere, fundamentally self-serving agendas remain at work in establishing claims over cultural discourse,19 with political or aesthetic ideology often providing an otherwise arbitrary basis of critical proscriptions.20
2. While the widespread influence of, in particular, 1960s western music upon pre-revolution (dissident) writing has been well-documented, literary criticism in Prague has for the most part remained aloof from popular, and properly contemporary, culture.21 Outside the academies it is hardly surprising that figures like Lou Reed, Frank Zappa and Allen Ginsberg remained, throughout the early nineties, major cultural icons in post-communist Czechoslovakia, adored by former president Václav Havel. As late as 1998, students were conducting 24-hour readings of Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s poetry during the Beat publisher’s visit to Prague that May. While the Beat movement is now frequently accused of being politically “naïve” and— like surrealism (which continues to prosper in the city)—anachronistic, its | sustained popularity indicates, if nothing else, a disaffection with the sorts of cultural binaries (capitalism/socialism) that—although the terms have changed since the end of the Cold War—have been preserved in the current status quo. To appreciate the ongoing significance of the Beat legacy in the ‘90s, one need only look to Prague’s hugely successful 1998 Beat Generation Festival—in whose catalogue Karel Srp published the StB (secret police) files documenting Ginsberg’s 1965 visit.22
19 See Kai Hermann, “The Fall of Prague,” Encounter (November 1968): 85-92. 20 One finds, for example, that certain discursive forms of modernist poetry are tacitly earmarked as Soviet (Yevtushenko); while a return to lyric “subjectivism” is viewed as a specifically domestic response to the uncertainties and vicissitudes of a world from which higher temporal authority (“the constant presence of an obvious enemy”) has been removed. See Bílek, “Czech Poetry of the Nineties,” 21. 21 Cf. Gwen Orel, Performing Cultures: English-language Theatres in Post-Communist Prague (PhD dissertation; University of Pittsburgh, 2005) 18-19: “The subversive power of jazz and rock-n- roll were linked explicitly with the English language: early groups had names like Hell’s Devils, Crazy Boys and Beatmen. In 1970 the communist regime forbade the use of English in rock- n-roll culture: bands could no longer sing in English, take English names, or cover songs from British or American bands. Rock-n-roll had become so important to the Czechs that it was the 1976 trial of an underground Prague band, Plastic People of the Universe, that led to the formation of Charter 77.” 22 In a 1996 interview, Ginsberg—who had since obtained, via a Freedom of Information Request, access to his FBI files (he was placed on a “Dangerous Subversive” internal security listin 1965)—was quoted as saying: “I found that the FBI had translated a denunciation of me by Prague’s Mladá fronta, saying that I was a corrupter of youth and alcoholic—which I’m not— and not to be trusted. They sent it over to the Narcotics Bureau to send to my representative, Congressman Jolson, wanting him not to answer my questions and request for protection and complaints about the set-ups, the entrapment procedures of the Narcotics Bureau, because I Allen Ginsberg, crowned “Král Majáles” at Výstaviště, 1965. Photo ČTK. |
Against the propaganda of free market capitalism (celebrated uncritically after the revolution by supporters of Václav Klaus) and of cultural nationalism, Ginsberg’s refusal of ideological partisanship—“the Communists have nothing to offer but fat cheeks and eyeglasses and lying policemen / and the Capitalists proffer Napalm and money in green suitcases to the Naked”23— represents a critical stance which, in the era of the IMF and the WTO, appears to have once again received a certain validation.24 The question that remains is how much of this re-validation is connected with any formal advancement of poetics, and whether or not the impact of Ginsberg and the Beats upon the Czech cultural consciousness has evolved beyond its historical moment.25
was irresponsible, as is proved by this communist newspaper … and that anything I said might be turned to embarrass him. So I realised that in certain areas, the Western police and the communist police, by 1965, were one international mucous membrane network. There was hardly any difference between them.” Allen Ginsberg, interviewed 11 August, 1996—cited in Herbert Mitgang, Dangerous Dossiers: Exposing the Secret War against America’s Greatest Authors (New York: D.J. Fine, 1988) and The National Security Archive, CNN, episode 13: “Make Love Not War: The Sixties,” 10 January, 1999. 23 Allen Ginsberg, “Král Majáles,” Collected Poems 1947-1980 (London: Penguin, 1985). 24 “I must say that I see little difference between the armed and violent governments both Communist and Capitalist that I have observed.” Allen Ginsberg, The Letters of Allen Ginsberg (Philadelphia: Da Capo, 2008) 474-5. 25 Arguably, with the exception of writers involved with the international scene, the major experiments in late-twentieth century English-language poetics, aside from the Beat movement, have had little appreciable impact on Czech literature. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the pop-literary view from the outside also remains dominated by the Beat legacy and in particular that of Ginsberg. Ginsberg visited Prague twice during 1965 and discovered that he had attracted a significant following in the city, even accumulating royalties on his work. While staying at the Ambassador Hotel on Wenceslas Square, Ginsberg was free to meet with local poets and translators while nevertheless being kept under surveillance by the StB. Due to his popularity among students, he was proposed by one group as their representative at the newly reinstated Majáles or May festival, at which he was elected Král or “King” by a large assembly of students. During the days which followed, Ginsberg was subjected to increasing harassment by the communist authorities, who took a dim view of his sexual promiscuity and suspected his political activities, before he was finally arrested and expelled from the country—allegedly for corrupting the city’s impressionable youth. Ginsberg’s account of being crowned “King of May,” and his subsequent deportation, was recorded by Richard Kostelanetz in a New York Times article two months after the event. The article begins with the pronouncement: “To university students all over the world today, Allen Ginsberg is a kind of cultural hero and sometimes a true prophet.”26 Kostelanetz reports that Ginsberg arrived in Prague from Poland on the 30th of April (his second | visit to the city), after visiting Russia. Ginsberg’s account commences from the following day:
I walked in the May Day parade that morning, and that afternoon some students asked me to be their king. I agreed; they put me on a truck, and I travelled in the procession of the Polytechnic School [ČVUT], with a Dixieland band on a nearby truck. The procession went through the city to a main square, where 10,000 to 15,000 people had gathered. I made a speech, dedicating the glory of my crown to Franz Kafka, who once lived on that square.
From there, we are told, the procession continued to the Park of Culture and Rest (Park kultury a oddechu Julia Fučíka; the present-day Výstaviště exhibition grounds) where Ginsberg found himself elected Král Majáles by an assembled body of “100,000” students from all of Prague’s universities.27
A few days later, late at night, someone suddenly attacked me on the street, screaming “bouzerant,” which means “fairy” or “queer”; and all of us, including the students with me, were arrested by the police and taken down to the station. I wasn’t released until 5 A.M.; they took affidavits from the
26 Richard Kostelanetz, “Ginsberg Makes the World Scene,” The New York Times, 11 July, 1965, 32. 27 Ginsberg, “Král Majáles.” | others. I suspect the attacker was a policeprovocateur , but I can’t prove it.28
On the 7th of May, Ginsberg was arrested and held in isolation before being put on a plane for London Heathrow (it was during this flight that he wrote the poem “Král Majáles”). Almost twenty-five years later, Ginsberg was working to bring attention to the plight of Prague’s dissident community. In January 1989, Ginsberg appeared alongside The Fugs’ Ed Sanders and Vratislav Brabenec, of The Plastic People of the Universe, at a New York concert in support of the Czech poet Ivan Martin Jirous (known as “Magor” or madman). Jirous had been imprisoned by the communists for reading protest poems in public. Jirous, an art historian by training but prohibited from working, was known for his conception of the “Parallel Polis,” or “Second Culture”—the belief that art could expose the régime’s falsification of social reality and bring about its collapse by “living in truth.” The city to which Ginsberg returned a year later in 1990 was very soon to undergo a type of transformation few cities ever experience. Over the next few years, Jirous’s “Parallel Polis” would come to seem like a more fitting description of the separations occurring within Prague society on both an economic and cultural level—the outcome on the one hand of a fantastically corrupt voucher privatisation scheme (widely heralded in the West as a new 10 | economic miracle),29 and on the other by the large scale return of former Czech émigrés and the rapid increase in the size of the city’s international community. A New York Times article estimated that by 1993 there were up to 30,000 Americans alone living in the city.30 Many of these had some connection with the emerging “scene”—as writers, translators, editors, publishers, artists, filmmakers, human rights activists, booksellers, teachers, students, musicians or groupies. This loosely formed community—the new “Second Culture”—gave rise to a constructed myth of the city which combined a nostalgic Bohemianism, a Western hankering after cultural authenticity (the “poetry of witness”), and a type of Wizard of Oz fantasy set in juxtaposition to the 1980s “culture wars” and political bankruptcy of the Reagan/Thatcher era in the US and Britain.31 As Bruce Sterling wrote in 1993, in an article for Wired magazine:
this is a very ‘90s city. Even its artistic problems are ‘90s artistic problems: the struggle of a bewildered and put-upon generation to speak authentically in an era whose central directive is to reduce all art and all life to an infinitely replicable commodity, to turn Kafka into a T-shirt and Havel into a carny
28 Kostelanetz, “Ginsberg Makes the World Scene,” 32. 29 See Robert McLean and Hana Lešenarová, “Bribe Case Turns ‘Economic Miracle’ Sour,” Prognosis, 10 November-16 November, 1994: 5. 30 “Y(oung) A(mericans in) P(rague),” The New York Times, 12 December, 1993, 671. 31 The height of this phenomenon was perhaps the US cable television pilot for a resident sitcom to be called “Prague 1,” produced by screenwriter Eric Stunzi in May 1993. attraction, to shrink-wrap cultures as pasteurised package-tour exotica, to make art a bogus knickknack and heritage the hottest-selling market segment of the Museum Economy.32
Prague, mired in its own and others’ histories, has never been a stranger to myth and mystification. “It’s uncanny atmosphere,” notes Heinz Politzer, “had impressed observers as early and as independent of one another as the American Longfellow and the Northern German Wilhelm Raabe.”33 But Prague’s influence over the Anglophone imagination dates back further still. At least—if one is inclined to excesses of cultural genealogy—as far back as the beginnings of modern English. (Prior to that, even, we find Anne of Bohemia serving as the patron of Anglo-Saxon poet Geoffrey Chaucer, with whose writings—on the model of Boccaccio—the long migration of a vernacular literary English is said to have begun, born—as it were—of translation.34 It was at this time, too, that Jan Hus, whose statue stands at the centre of Prague’s Old Town Square, sparked a political and cultural revolution in Central Europe by translating and teaching the work of Englishman John Wycliffe.) From Shakespeare’s imaginary Bohemia, and the Prague of John Dee and Edward Kelley, to the real and romanticized post-Revolution city of the 1990s, is perhaps not such a great leap. Nor would a comparison appear | 11 entirely strange. The metamorphoses of Prague following the Velvet Revolution of November 1989 in part revived, in part invented, a pan- European and cosmopolitan tradition that forty years of communism never quite succeeded in snuffing out. From the Utraquists to the Plastic People of the Universe—from Hus, via Masaryk, to Havel—from Arcimboldo, via Kafka and the surrealists, to Klíma—the idea of Prague persists as a type of Xanadu of cultural resistance in which a poetry of universal ideas, contrary to Auden’s glib pronouncements, might indeed make something happen. As Sterling notes: “A lot of writers come here, not because Havel can teach them how to write, but because Václav Havel is a symbol of what words-in-a-row can do.” 35 When Ginsberg made his speech in 1965, dedicating the glory of his May crown to Kafka, he was acknowledging a symbolic debt to a writer who, though he was a Praguer to the very core of his being, was also a German-speaking Jew (whose collected writings, incidentally, were not comprehensively
32 Bruce Sterling, “Triumph of the Plastic People,” Wired 3.01 (1993): www.wired.com/wired/ archive/3.01/. 33 Heinz Politzer, “Prague and the Origins of Rainer Maria Rilke, Franz Kafka, and Franz Werfel,” Modern Language Quarterly 16.1 (1955): 49. 34 See David J. Wallace, “Anne of Bohemia, Queen of England, and Chaucer’s Emperice,” Litteraria Pragensia 9 (1995): 1-16. 35 Sterling, “Triumph of the Plastic People.” translated into Czech until the very end of the twentieth century).36 Kafka, the great ironist of state bureaucracy and individual alienation, defined what it meant not to be the citizen of any singular nation or state, but to be a creature of that “Parallel Polis” which is not merely a collocation of architectures, municipalities and ordinances, but a type of cultural vortex whose topology is both particular and universal. In a world beset with nationalism and fundamentalisms of every kind, it is worth being reminded that the figures, the places and moments of cultural modernity—at any time—have always been in some sense foreign.37 In 1990, returning to Prague at the invitation of mayor Jaroslav Kořán, for the first time since his expulsion in 1965 (“to reclaim my paper crown”),38 Ginsberg gave a “momentous poetry reading” at the Philosophy Faculty of Charles University.39 In the audience were many of those who had been students when Ginsberg was expelled from the country twenty-five years previously—including Havel—and were active in the literary underground before the Velvet Revolution. Karel Srp, founder of the dissident Jazz Section (1971), has pointed out that the connection between Prague and Ginsberg dates back even further, to the mid-1950s with the journal Světová literatura.
The editors were the first to publish Ginsberg’s Howl in Czechoslovakia, 12 | as well as stories by Kerouac and Ferlinghetti. As these authors sometimes illustrated the dark side of the United States, communist censorship tolerated them.40
For Joseph Yanosik, “the influence of Ginsberg’s [1965] visit on Czech culture should not be underestimated,” and was, according to him, a major catalyst for the ‘68 Prague Spring.41 Ginsberg’s return thus signified for many the inauguration of a new
36 Richard Kostelanetz, “Ginsberg Makes the World Scene,” The New York Times, 11 July, 1965. 37 The so-called “Velvet Divorce” of 1993—the separation of former Czechoslovakia into two separate states, Slovakia and the present-day Czech Republic, marked a critical point in which national revivalism posed a serious threat to Prague’s restoration as an international city. To a certain extent, cultural nationalism remains endemic within the major state academic institutions, at odds with the lived reality of the city’s cultural practitioners. 38 Allen Ginsberg, “The Return of Král Majáles,” Collected Poems 1947-1997 (New York: HarperCollins, 2007): 982. At a performance at the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics, 30 June, 1992, Ginsberg noted that, during the quarter century since his expulsion from Prague, no election of the “King of May” had taken place, the tradition only being reinstated in 1990. His return provided the opportunity for pointing out, once again, the irony of America having been held up, in the Cold War imagination, as a Land of the Free. In his poem, Ginsberg writes: “And tho I am the King of May my howls and proclamations are banned on America’s electric airwaves …” 39 Brian Kruzick Goodman, “Allen Ginsberg—King Majáles,” The New Presence 4 (Winter 2004): 41-43. 40 Qtd in Darrell Jónsson, “When Poetry was King,” The Prague Post, 7 May, 2008. 41 Joseph Yanosik, “The Plastic People of the Universe,” Perfect Sound Forever (March 1996): www.furious.cpm/perfect/pulnoc.html Alan Levy, with James Ragan, at the Globe bookstore, 1993. Photo: Mark Baker.
| 13 cultural moment which, under the presidency of playwright Václav Havel, would result in what the expatriate American newspaperman Alan Levy later—in an often quoted editorial—called the “Left Bank of the nineties”:
We are living in the Left Bank of the Nineties. For some of us, Prague is Second Chance City; for others, a New Frontier where anything goes, everything goes, and, often enough, nothing works. Yesterday is long gone, today is nebulous, and who knows about tomorrow, but somewhere within each of us here, we all know that we are living in a historic place at a historic time. Future historians will chronicle our course—and I have reason to believe that they’re already here—but even they will need to know the nuts and bolts of what it was like and how it felt to live and be in liberated Prague in the last decade of the 20th century.42
Writing two years after Levy, Sterling concurred:
Prague is very much like Paris in the ‘20s, but it’s also very much unlike Paris in the ‘20s. One main reason is that there is no André Breton here. People do sit and write—stop by The Globe, the crowded émigré bookstore on Janovského 14 in north Prague, and you’ll see a full third of the cappuccino-sipping black-clad Praguelodyte customers scribbling busily in their notebooks. There are many American wannabe writers here—even better, they actually
42 Alan Levy, Editorial, The Prague Post, 1 October, 1991. manage to publish sometimes—but there is not a Prague literary movement, no Prague literary-isms. No magisterial literary theorists hold forth here as Breton or Louis Aragon or Gertrude Stein did in Paris. There isn’t a Prague technique, or a Prague approach, or a Prague literary philosophy that will set a doubting world afire. There are people here sincerely trying to find a voice, but as yet there is no voice. There may well be a new Hemingway here (as The Prague Post once declared there must be). But if Prague writers want to do a kind of writing that is really as new and powerful as Hemingway’s was in Hemingway’s time, then they will have to teach themselves.43
Like Ginsberg, Levy had been expelled from Czechoslovakia by the communist authorities. Originally from New York, Levy moved to Prague in 1967, where he chronicled the Soviet invasion the following year—recounted in his book Rowboat to Prague (1972; reprinted in 1980 as So Many Heroes). In 1971 his press accreditation was revoked and, along with his family, he was expelled from the country on allegations of spying. For many years he lived in Vienna, where he served as foreign correspondent for the International Herald Tribune and as dramaturge of Vienna’s English Theatre. Levy returned to Prague in 1990 and subsequently became editor-in-chief of The Prague Post, from its founding in 1991 until his death in 2004. Of his contribution to the city’s cultural life, Havel wrote: 14 | Alan Levy chose to become active in our country during what was for us a very sensitive and important period—the time of creating a free, open environment for the media. Because of his human qualities and professional experience, he quickly became recognised as a not inconsiderable figure for whom I had great respect.44
Levy, the author of 18 books, published interviews with W.H. Auden, the Beatles, Fidel Castro, Vladimir Nabokov and Ezra Pound—a body of work that, for some, helped to establish the requisite genealogy for viewing the post-1989 Prague scene within the broader historical context of previous international milieux in Paris and Berlin. He also represented a sense of continuity with a Prague of the past. As the only accredited American journalist in the city during the years immediately following the ‘68 soviet invasion, Levy was able to lay claim to a particular authority in seeking to foster the young, post-revolution scene. He was, nevertheless, merely one of a number of longer-term expatriates whose activities, in some respects, constitute this scene’s pre-history—among them the Academy Award-winning animator, Gene Deitch; the “Rhodes Scholar Spy,” Ian Milner; PEN translation prize winner Gerald Turner; and Mary
43 Sterling, “Triumph of the Plastic People.” 44 Václav Havel, quoted in Mark Nessmith, “Top Post editor Levy dies at age 72,” The Prague Post, 8 April, 2004. Ian Milner, Jean Bertram, Margot Milner and James Bertram, outside Milner’s house in Podolí,1951. Photo: Jarmila Milner. | 15
Hawker, daughter of the defector George Wheeler, a former major in the US military government in West Germany. Both Hawker and Milner worked in what is today the Department of Anglophone Literatures and Cultures, in the Philosophy Faculty of Charles University—the same university department in which Prague Structuralism was first theorised in the 1920s by the likes of Vilém Mathesius, Jan Mukařovský, René Wellek and Roman Jakobson. Before his death in 1991, Milner served as the translator of poets such as Holub, Sylva Fischerová and Vladimír Holan. During the years leading up to the Velvet Revolution, philosophers, musicians, artists and writers from the “West” continued to visit Prague, despite the restrictions put in place by the communist authorities. The seminars of the underground university—hosted during the 70s and 80s by dissident philosophers including Ladislav Hejdánek and Julius Tomin (father of the writer Lukáš Tomin)—brought to the city the likes of Jacques Derrida (detained in Ruzyně prison in December 1981) and Roger Scruton, and has been examined in detail by Barbara Day in her book The Velvet Philosophers.45 Meanwhile Philip Roth’s The Prague Orgy (1985) helped to maintain the myth of Prague literary Bohemianism, echoing the émigré writer Milan Kundera’s
45 Barbara Day, The Velvet Philosophers (London: The Claridge Press, 1999). Unbearable Lightness of Being (1984).46 In May 1989, Joan Baez—one of many 1960s artists to influence Czechslovak dissident groups—performed a concert in Brno, openly criticising the regime (she performed a reprise concert in Prague on 17 November, 2009). At the same time, writers like Gwendolyn Albert (studying linguistics in Prague on a Fulbright scholarship) were becoming involved in the day- to-day operations of the Občanské Fórum (Civic Forum, soon to constitute the first post-communist government, headed by Václav Havel). When the revolution began in earnest, more than a week after the fall of the Berlin wall, Albert was working in Civic Forum headquarters in the Laterna Magika Theatre, assisting Rita Klimová (later to become Havel’s first ambassador to the United States). In an account later published in the Prague Post, Albert records the moment, on 23 November 1989, when Alexander Dubček—the former ČSSR president deposed by the Soviet invasion in 1968—addressed the crowds from the balcony of the Svobodné Slovo newspaper offices on Wenceslas Square, standing beside a Václav Havel who had only recently been released from ten months’ imprisonment.47 This symbolic conflation of the Velvet Revolution and the Prague Spring served to feed a broader, international romanticism about the city and its political and cultural circumstances. 16 | With glasnost still working its inexorable way towards the collapse of the Communist Party in Russia, the post-revolution euphoria in Prague served as the backdrop for a self-willed literary renaissance. As Bílek notes:
After the revolution, almost two thousand private publishers emerged. Instead of two periodicals covering all of contemporary literature, suddenly there were dozens of monthlies and quarterlies appearing and disappearing.48
This renaissance was in part fostered by the rapidly growing international community in the city and by a reading public hungry for news from the outside.49 Regular publications soon began appearing in English, German and French. In November 1990, five Americans from Santa Barbara founded Prague’s first English-language newspaper, Prognosis, which published bi-
46 It is notable that, throughout the nineties there was in fact no Czech edition of Kundera’s novel. From 1985, Kundera himself wrote exclusively in French. 47 Qtd in Kimberly Ashton, “Speaking Out: American Activist Passionate about Human Rights,” The Prague Post, 25 July, 2007. Cf. Alan Levy, “Gwendolyn Albert, Militant Pacifist,” The Prague Post, 12 June, 2003. 48 Bílek, “Czech Poetry of the Nineties,” 20. 49 A trend which has continued. According to figures compiled in 2005, 28.8% of all books published in the Czech Republic were translations—2,211 of those from English alone (Dana Soupková, Czech Literature in English Translation, unpublished MA thesis, Masaryk University, Brno, 2006: chapter 1.1). As Miroslav Holub notes: “translations have been an integral part of Czech culture since the nineteenth century.” See “A Conversation with Arnošt Lustig and Miroslav Holub,” Trafika1 (1993): 157. weekly (and for a brief period weekly) until its closure in March 1995. Many of the writers to emerge on the Prague scene worked for the paper in one capacity or another—including John Allison, Anthony Tognazzini, David Freeling, Randall Lyman, Thor Garcia and Louis Armand. Less than a year later, The Prague Post—a weekly newspaper with ambitions more orientated towards the status quo—was founded by Lisa Frankenberg and Kent Hawryluk (two former Prognosis employees), with Alan Levy as editor-in- chief. By 1993 two further papers where briefly in print—Prague News (half in German) and the Bohemia Daily Standard—representing the apogee of the early “left bank of the nineties” phenomenon.
3. The middle of 1991 saw the first of Prague’s international writers’ festivals, initiated by the former New York book seller and director of the Prague Book Fair at Palác Kultury (until 1993), Michael March. The same year saw the publication of March’s Child of Europe: The Penguin Anthology of East European Poetry. This anthology, like the Prague festival, grew out of a project beginning in the 80s. As March recounts:
I established poetry festivals and readings at Keats House [in London]— publishing and introducing with George Theiner, editor of Index on Censorship, | 17 the work of such great poets as Vladimír Holan—before moving the readings to the Arts Theatre and Donmar Warehouse Theatre. From 1983, they became the “Covent Garden Readings.” In February 1989, I brought “Child of Europe” to the National Theatre, presenting poets from eight communist countries, at a decisive moment. The Festival was broadcast on television and radio, and praised in the press. In May 1991, I moved the readings to Prague—to Valdštejn Palace, which was opened for the first time in living memory to the public.50
The inaugural festival featured, among others, Miroslav Holub, Eva Kantůrková, Irving Layton, Karel Pecka, Paul-Eerik Rummo, Zdena Salivarová, Josef Škvorecký, and Petr Odillo Stradický. 1992 saw Robert Bly in Prague as a guest of the festival, and in succeeding years a roster of internationally renowned authors (Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Susan Sontag, Harold Pinter, Jorge Sempún, Alain Robbe-Grillet, Robert Creeley) appeared alongside Czech writers such as Ivan Klíma, Hana Androniková, Jáchym Topol, Sylva Fischerová, Jaroslav Rudiš, Sylvie Rychterová, Michal Ajvaz, Petr Borkovec and Ewald Murrer. In February of 1992, Howard Sidenberg—a former doctoral student in Russian politics at the University of California-Santa Barbara—founded Twisted Spoon Press out of a communal apartment in Smíchov. Sidenberg,
50 Michael March, Prague Writers’ Festival website: www.pwf.cz. who had arrived in Prague the previous year, joined with translator Kevin Blahut, artist Kip Bauersfeld, and writer Lukáš Tomin, to establish the sole continuously operating English-language literary press in the country.51 The first title to appear was Tomin’s debut novel, The Doll, described by Fay Weldon as
A visionary work, by an extraordinary and important young writer. As cultures and languages mix and merge, Tomin meets the consequent literary challenge head on, and actually makes this reader hopeful about the future of the novel.52
Tomin, the first of two sons of prominent dissident intellectuals (his mother, Zdena Tominová, was spokesperson for Charter 77), had lived in the UK, France and Canada since 1980 and wrote three novels in English (all published by Twisted Spoon). A series of poems had earlier been published in the London Literary Review along with an article on the souring of the Velvet Revolution in The New Statesman. After his return to Prague in 1991, Tomin became a regular contributor to Literární Noviny, Iniciály, Host and The Prague Post. His second novel, Ashtrays (1993), illustrated by Alf van der Plank, is regarded by many as the masterpiece of the Prague renaissance 53 18 | of the 1990s—described by the Post as “a linguistic tour de force.” Without ever having received the wider recognition his work warranted, and which his early reviewers suggested was immanent, Tomin committed suicide in 1995 at the age of 32—his body was discovered at the foot of a cliff in the Šárka valley.54 His third novel, Kye, was published posthumously in 1997. Reviewing it, Anthony Tognazzini wrote of Tomin as “a fine formalist whose narrative experiments are bold and intriguing.”55 During its almost twenty years of operation, Twisted Spoon has produced books in translation by Bohumil Hrabal (Total Fears, written between 1989 and 1991 as a series of letters to an American student in Prague, April Gifford), Ladislav Klíma (Glorious Nemesis, translated by Marek Tomin), Eva Švankmajerová (Baradla Cave, translated by Gwendolyn Albert), Pavel Brycz (I, City, translated by Joshua Cohen and Markéta Hofmeisterová), Vít Kremlička (Selected Writings), Róbert Gál (Signs and Symptoms) and Tomaž Šalamun— alongside work by Louis Armand, Joshua Cohen, Søren S. Gauger, Travis Jeppesen, Christopher Lord and Phil Shoenfelt—garnering strong reviews in the Times Literary Supplement, the London Review of Books and the Los Angeles Times. Throughout, the emphasis of the press has been, in Sidenberg’s words,
51 Julie Ashley, “Of Words and Twisted Spoons,” The Prague Post, 16 October, 1996. 52 Lukáš Tomin, The Doll (Prague: Twisted Spoon Press, 1992)—publisher’s blurb. 53 Michael Halstead, “Book Review: Ashtrays,” The Prague Post, 23 March, 1994. 54 Day, The Velvet Philosophers, 69. 55 Anthony Tognazzini, “Tomin’s Final Novel,” The Prague Post, 26 November, 1997. “on introducing both new works from contemporary writers and work from an earlier period that has been neglected in translation.”56 Soon after Twisted Spoon published its inaugural titles, Prague’s first English-language literary journal appeared in print, in June 1992—founded by Doug Hajek and fellow Canadian Laura Busheikin, with former Los Angeles resident Tony Ozuna (who had arrived in Prague two years earlier), and designed by soon-to-be-prominent Czech artist Veronika Bromová. Deriving its name from a play upon the pan-Slavonic for “tongue” or “language,” Yazzyk was avowedly cross-cultural, publishing work both written in English and translated from Czech and Slovak. Seeking in part to emulate former underground magazine Revolver Revue57 and Joachim Dvořák’s more recent Labyrint Revue (a journal devoted to articles on culture, writing and the arts largely in translation), it included such writers as Jáchym Topol, Michal Ajvaz, Egon Bondy, Iva Pekárková, Eva Hauserová, Ivan Jirous, and Jana Krejcarová, alongside David Freeling, Randall Lyman, Věra Chase, Toby Litt and Daniela Drazanová. A consistent feature of Yazzyk’s cover was the incorporation of the tri-part design of the new Czech flag. The first two issues (with a print run of 2,000 copies) sold out within twelve months of publication—number 2, on “Erotica, Sexuality and Gender,” having since become a rare collector’s item. There was rumour of a fifth number, to be edited by Cyril Simsa (translator, critic, essayist and science fiction writer). “Fantasy and the Fantastic” was to | 19 be the theme, but the journal folded before it could appear. Although running to only four issues, Yazzyk was a major accomplishment and paved the way for many of the journals that were to follow. In his article on the Prague scene in Wired, Bruce Sterling wrote of Yazzyk: “it may not be the best literary magazine on the planet, but it’s the best one to deal with this corner of it.”58 Ozuna describes how the first issues came about:
Our contacts for writers and translators were all from the mailing lists of the Czech underground, who were operating out of an office for VOKNO magazine across the street from Hlavni Nadraži. We were able to easily solicit texts from many translators: James Naughton (Oxford University), the translator for Bohumil Hrabal, Miroslav Holub, and Alexandra Berková; Peter Kusy (Columbia University), the translator for Milan Kundera; and Paul Wilson, Václav Havel’s translator. Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Allen Ginsberg urged us to use poetry translations of Ginsberg’s Czech counterpart, Egon Bondy (whom we did publish in two issues). The Bondy was only published due to the collaboration of Martin Machovec, who is the current (as he was at that time as well) expert on literature of the underground.59
56 Howard Sidenberg, Twisted Spoon website: www.twistedspoon.com. 57 Revolver Revue was founded in 1985 and published in samizdat until 1989, after which it achieved regular publication. 58 Sterling, “Triumph of the Plastic People.” 59 Tony Ozuna, letter to the author, 22 January, 2010. Anthony Tognazzini at Beef Stew, 1993. Photo: Michaela Freeman.
20 | Also in June of 1992, Aleš Najbrt and photographer Tono Stano started up the bilingual RAUT magazine, funded by Reflex, and produced on large format (100cm x 70cm) glossy paper, featuring photography, interviews and new writing—including Toby Litt and Tomáš Míka’s translations of Jaroslav Pížl in issue 2. Three months later saw the beginnings of the Beef Stew poetry readings. The first reading took place on the 13th of September at Rubín Theatre, in Malá Strana and continued, two weeks later, at the original Ubiquity Club’s “Reggae Room” (located adjacent to the upstairs ballroom at Slovanský Dům, later the site of Tam Tam club). Two weeks after that the readings moved to the Prague Cultural Centre/Ženský Domov in Prague 5, near Anděl metro station, where they continued until the end of the year. From February 1993, Beef Stew moved to its permanent venue in the downstairs club at Radost/ FX, on Bělohradská street. Initiated by New York poet David Freeling, Beef Stew ran every Sunday evening for ten years, during which time the readings were coordinated by a string of writers including Anthony Tognazzini, Jim Freeman and Willie Watson. A favourite venue for British and American journalists reporting on the New Bohemia, Beef Stew became the epitome of Levy’s rive gauche hype.60
60 One memorable episode involved organizer David Freeling shouting “This is not a democracy, this is a poetry reading!” in response to complaints by sections of the audience about free speech when a fist fight broke out after Beef Stew regular Jeremy Saxon punched a heckler in Freeling: “Everyone wants to find a great writer. We’re all waiting for something to escape the pot.”61 Beef Stew was variously loved and loathed by members of the international community and the media alike. Many sought to find in Beef Stew symptoms of a cultural disconnect. Gwen Orel, in Performing Cultures: English-language Theatres in Post-Communist Prague, described the open-mic readings as “a cultural ghetto where [American] expatriates performed their ambivalence.”62 For many involved in the Prague scene, Beef Stew was nevertheless—particularly in its early years—at the heart of a substantial English-speaking subculture.63 While the epicentre of that subculture shifted many times as the decade progressed and literary circles eccentrically formed and reformed across the city, a list of those who performed in the Radost basement reads like a Who’s Who of the Prague ‘90s. Among them, Lukáš Tomin, Julie Chibbaro, Myla Goldberg, Peter Orner, Stuart Horwitz, Alan Ward Thomas, Anthony Tognazzini, Robert Eversz, Karin Cintron, Neil Danziger, Theo Schwinke, Paul Martia, Jay Godwin, Shannon McCormick, Joe Sherman, Louis Armand, Donna Stonecipher, Ken Nash, Julie Ashley, Vincent Farnsworth, Jenny Smith and Jeri Theriault— many of whom went on to build important careers both in Prague and abroad. Perhaps due to limited book publishing opportunities in Prague at that time, many worthwhile manuscripts never saw the light of day—a signal | 21 for detractors to declare, like Gary Shteyngart (author of The Russian Debutante’s Handbook and one-time reader at Beef Stew) that the scene lacked talent.64 Myla Goldberg, author of Bee Season (Random House, 2000) and Time’s Magpie: A Walk in Prague (Crown, 2004), was a regular reader at Beef Stew between 1993 and 1994, where she presented chapters of an unpublished novel Cirkus, an intricately structured story about the last days of the Kludský family circus (1902-1934), which circulated in typescript and became one of several underground Prague classics without ever making it into print. Julie Chibbaro, author of Redemption (Simon & Schuster, 2004), was another regular, arriving in 1996. She described the Beef Stew readings as “life-changing”:
to have a weekly audience response helped me to understand what worked
front of a Czech TV crew (ČTK1) who recorded it all on tape. (Alan Thomas, letter to the author, 10 February, 2010.) 61 Qtd in Randall Lyman, “Open Mike,” Prognosis, 5-18 March, 1993: 3B. 62 Orel, Performing Cultures: English-language Theatres in Post-Communist Prague, 73. 63 Typically the readings were followed by late-night drinking sessions at a nearby bar. In the early days it was Stará Beseda in Žižkov (next to where the Clown & Bard later was at Bořivojova 102). Later, the after-reading venue was Paseka, at Ibsenova 3 near Náměstí Míru (a former haunt of Václav Havel), for several years. After Paseka, U Havrana near I.P. Pavlova became the post-Stew watering hole of choice. 64 Gary Shteyngart in conversation with Coilín O’Connor for Radio Praha / Český Rozhlas, 26 March 2004. and what didn’t in my pieces (at least to an extent). It was hosted by an excellent writer named Anthony Tognazzini and held at Radost. Around that same time, about five of us got together and started a writers’ workshop, helping each other learn and improve. One of the writers recommended I submit my work to a little mag called Optimism Monthly, edited by Alan Ward Thomas. He ended up publishing a number of my stories and novel excerpts (about ten) in the next several years. An editor, David Speranza, at another journal, The Prague Revue, also asked for a story, “Chrome,” which was published in the Autumn/Winter 1996/97 edition of the Revue. … My time in Prague transformed me from a person who thought she was a writer into a professional.65
Along with David Freeling, Anthony Tognazzini was a central figure in the Prague expatriate scene. Over a period of six years, Tognazzini published in almost every English-language periodical in the city, writing regularly for Prognosis and the Prague Post. According to long-time patron and sometimes publisher, Jim Freeman, Tognazzini was one of the major voices to emerge from the early 90s and is perhaps the most closely associated with Beef Stew. His collection of short stories, I Carry a Hammer in my Pocket for Occasions Such as These—published in 2007, by BOA in New York—originated as a chapbook produced by Alan Thomas’s Presidential Press, ten years earlier. 22 | Peter Orner—a lecturer in Anglo-American law and Human Rights at the Law Faculty of Charles University—began publishing in the Atlantic Monthly while living in Prague. The Second Coming of Mavala Shikongo (Little, Brown, 2006) was described by Dave Eggers in the Guardian as a “georgeously written book … bursting with soul.” Orner’s first book, a collection of short stories entitled Esther Stories (Houghton Mifflin, 2001), was ostensibly written chapter-by-chapter for the weekly Beef Stew readings. As Orner recalls:
I was working on my first book,Esther Stories. Each Sunday night I read with a group of writers at the Beef Stew reading series in the basement of Radost. Beef Stew was led by Jim Freeman. I loved Beef Stew because it was such a supportive environment and also because it gave me a deadline. Each week, I had to finish something. It didn’t matter what the hell it was, it simply had to be something. It was odd down there in the dark. Some nights the light wouldn’t work and I remember being barely able to see what I was reading.66
Writing in the Lonely Planet guide to Prague (2008), former Globe bookstore partner, Mark Baker, notes that “with 20 years’ hindsight … it’s possible to say the critics were too quick to pounce.” The Prague scene, he adds, “spawned more than its fair share of decent writers,” among others:
65 Julie Chibbaro, letter to the author, 3 January, 2010. 66 Peter Orner, letter to the author, 3 January, 2010. • Jonathan Ledgard, a long-time Prague correspondent for The Economist … the author of the acclaimed novel Giraffe (2006), based on the story of the slaughter of central Europe’s largest giraffe herd by the Czechoslovak secret police in 1975. • Maarten Troost … a reporter in the early days of The Prague Post and the subsequent author of two hilarious titles: The Sex Lives of Cannibals (2004) and Getting Stoned with the Savages (2006)—books that could have been written about Prague but are actually about his later adventures in the South Pacific. • Olen Steinhauer [who] spent time here in the mid-’90s before decamping to Budapest to write five acclaimed Cold War spy thrillers. The fourth book, Liberation Movements (2006), opens in the Czech Republic and shades of Prague can be seen throughout the series. • Robert Eversz [who] has lived off and on in Prague since 1992 … his 1998 novel Gypsy Hearts is set here. He’s written several popular noir thrillers, including Shooting Elvis (1997), which explore America’s obsession with celebrity culture.67
The story doesn’t end there. Defying the notion that Prague’s international scene was principally a North American enclave, Toby Litt—author of ten books, including Corpsing (Hamish Hamilton, 2000), Ghost Story (Penguin, 2004) and Journey into Space (Penguin, 2009)—completed three novels between 1990 and 1993, while teaching English at the Economics Faculty of | 23 Charles University. As Litt notes, however:
All three Prague novels are still unpublished, as is the Prague-based novel, dissidents, I wrote back in England. Eventually, The Prague Metro helped me get an agent, Mic Cheetham, who still represents me.68
Tom McCarthy—author of the widely acclaimed Remainder (Alma/Vintage, 2006)—had a similar experience. Living in Prague until 1993, where he worked at the Fine Arts Academy (AVU) as a life model, McCarthy only succeeded in publishing his own Prague novel—a roman-à-clef in part about the city’s contemporary art scene, entitled Men in Space—in 2007. Reviewing Men in Space for The Observer newspaper, Lee Rourke wrote: “McCarthy is fast revealing himself as a master craftsman who is steering the contemporary novel towards exciting territories.”69 Zadie Smith, in the New York Review of Books, described McCarthy’s Remainder as “one of the great English novels of
67 Neil Wilson and Mark Baker, Lonely Planet: Prague, 8th ed. (London: Lonely Planet, 2009) 33. “This list was compiled early last year and would now also include Matt Welch’s Myth of a Maverick (nonfiction), Leslie Chang’s Factory Girls (also nonfiction) and Brendan McNally’s Germania. I also didn’t include John Allison’s very funny The Adventures of Joe Marlboro (in Prague) … The late Alan Levy wrote several books (not mentioned above), including Rowboat to Prague (on the 1968 Warsaw Pact invasion) and The Wiesenthal File” (Mark Baker, letter to the author, 2 February, 2010). 68 Toby Litt, letter to the author, 26 January, 2010. 69 Lee Rourke, “Men in Space,” The Observer, 9 September, 2007: 27. 24 |
Misery Loves Company, 1995: Chip Persons, David Nykl, Peter Dubois, Chris Clarke, Leah Gaffen, Laura Zam, Sean Fuller, Ewan McLaren, Celise Kalke, Victoria Toth, Richard Toth, William Hollister, Gregory Linington, Robert Russell. the last ten years.”70 Louis Armand read at Beef Stew intermittently from mid-1994. In 1997 his first poetry collection, Séances, was published by Howard Sidenberg’s Twisted Spoon Press, being described by Miroslav Holub as “luminous and original” and by John Millett, editor of Poetry Australia, as “among the best work written anywhere.”71 A second volume appeared from Arc four years later, while his first volume of fiction,The Garden, came out in 2001 from Salt. Meanwhile Phil Shoenfelt, formerly of the New York band Khmer Rouge, published a bilingual volume of song lyrics and poetry—The Green Hotel/ Zelený Hotel—with the Prague-based publisher Maťa in 1998. His first novel appeared in 2001, with Twisted Spoon, entitled Junkie Love—described by Nick Cave as “a nice nasty read.”72 Having received numerous independent book awards, Junkie Love was taken up in 2006 by Random House. Another long-time Prague habitué, Christopher Cook, published a novel, Robbers (Carroll & Graf, 2000), and a collection of short stories, Screen Door Jesus (Host, 2001), to critical acclaim. Like Goldberg’s Bee Season and McCarthy’s Remainder, Cook’s Screen Door Jesus was also made into a film.
4. By the time the Beef Stew readings came to an end in 2002, more than twenty of those writers active in Prague during the first decade after the | 25 revolution had embarked on noteworthy publishing careers. Such accounts give the lie to opinions, like Shteyngart’s, periodically aired in the media to the effect that Prague in the nineties was little more than a haven of “bored liberal arts trained cubicle drones … recession refugees and debt artists fed on the myth of ‘20s Paris and ‘50s New York.”73 Writing in the August 2007 issue of the Washington D.C. periodical, The Smithsonian, Jonathan Kandell— casting an appraising look back over almost two decades of literary revival— rightly concluded that expatriate writers had indeed “made remarkable contributions to Prague’s post-Communist renaissance.”74 As this renaissance gathered steam in the mid-nineties, an increasing number of initiatives broadened the scope and complexion of the international scene. The English-language press continued to expand (at least 25 periodicals appeared during the ‘90s alone—from underground zines like Riding Black
70 Zadie Smith, “Two Paths for the Novel,” The New York Review of Books 55.18 (20 November, 2008). 71 Publisher’s blurb. 72 Publisher’s blurb. 73 Alexander Zaitchik, “Let the Kazoos Sound: A Decade of English Press in Prague,” Think (November/December, 2001): http://www.thinkexpats.com/component/content/article/85- publications/190-let-the-kazoos-sound-a-decade-of-english-press-in-prague.html 74 Jonathan Kandell, “Americans in Prague: A second wave of expatriates is now playing a vital role in the renaissance of the Czech capital,” Smithsonian magazine, August 2007: http:// www.smithsonianmag.com/people-places/prague.html##ixzz0e6bJDanM 26 |
to financial reviews like the Prague Business Journal), while at the same time opportunities in theatre and film began to open up. The years 1991 and 1992 saw the creation of at least three English-language theatre companies, each at least partly orientated towards producing new work: Peter Krough’s North American Theatre (which opened its first, and only, season with Larry Shue’s Wenceslaus Square); Victoria Jones and Clare Goddard’s Small & Dangerous (managed by Camille Hunt—who a decade later would be a partner in the successful Hunt & Kastner Gallery); and Black Box International Theatre (initially Studio Theatre, headed by Elizabeth Russell)—opening with the premier of Jim Bunch’s “Lay Down by Me” under the artistic direction of Nancy Bishop.75 As Gwen Orel notes:
The presence of English-language theatres in Prague in the nineties coincided with the ongoing transition to a market economy in the Czech Republic, as the English language itself became increasingly the international language of business and culture.76
75 Orel, Performing Cultures: English-language Theatres in Post-Communist Prague, 46 and passim. 76 Orel, Performing Cultures, 1. While Small & Dangerous lasted only a year under that name (during which time it produced a long list of short plays by local writers: Sean Fuller’s Death in Smichov, Tim Stanley’s Belongings, Robert Russell’s Icebreaker, Victoria Jones’s Sailor, Vijai Maheshwari’s Boy, Girl and Probability, Robert Eversz’s Cowboys and Indians, Mark Rayner’s Duet for Killers, Clare Goddard’s hanging, Bryn Howarth’s Who Will Untie Us? and William Lee’s Refugees), it nevertheless survived through the mid-nineties as Big Knees—a partner of the Misery Loves Company ensemble—continuing to stage new work by two of Prague’s most successful English-language playwrights, Fuller and Laura Zam.77 In the wake of these early theatre ensembles followed a long line of others: Exposure, Beautiful Confusion, Prahaha Productions, Channel Surfing, Prague Ensemble Theatre, English Workshop Productions, Bear Theatre, Prague Playgroup, the Old Town Theatre Project, Black Snow, the Prague Playhouse, and Blood, Love and Rhetoric. In 1996, Four Days—a non-profit theatre association headed by Denisa Václavová—initiated the ongoing International Theatre Festival 4+4 Days in Motion (4+4 dny v pohybu), featuring dance and movement theatre. From 1998, the seminal Misery Loves Company, founded by Richard Toth, shifted its focus from text-based to more physical, post-dramatic theatre, under the name Miloco (led by Daniel Fleischer-Brown), establishing the Fulcrum Festival of Physical Theatre in | 27 2000 and devising original work throughout the often dry years of Prague’s turn-of-the-millennium theatre scene. But in the early nineties, emerging companies like Small & Dangerous and Misery Loves Company remained closely integrated with the local literary community. Plays were regularly commissioned from writers who read their scripts at Beef Stew and whose work began to be published in magazines both abroad and in Prague. At the same time, opportunities in film became increasingly frequent with the foundation in 1993 of the highly successful Stillking production company. Some of those involved in the early theatre experiments—like Nancy Bishop and the poet Maya Květný—subsequently went on to important careers (both Bishop and Květný are now major casting agents in Prague’s studio film industry). 1993 also saw the establishment of several new English-language publishing houses, whose activities—while mostly short-lived—fed a general wave of optimism about the future viability of a commercial literary market. These included: Praha Publishing (one-time publisher of Prognosis, now the name of a producer of medical text books); Two Tongues Press—conceived, yet never realised, by Canadian, Marilyn McCune (its first title was intended to be short story collection by James Ragan); and Modrá Músa—formed by another Canadian, Laura Scanga, and two Americans, Michael Vena and
77 Orel, Performing Cultures, 71-75. 28 |
The Globe before and after. Bottom: Martin Machovec, Allen Ginsberg, Mark Baker (with Prognosis editor John Allison in the background), 1993. Scott Rogers (a classics student from the University of Virginia). In July of the same year, Rogers—along with three Prague Post writers, Jasper Bear, Mark Baker and Maura Griffin, joined by Rogers’s future wife Markéta Janků—opened what was to become Prague’s major literary landmark of the ‘90s: the Globe Bookstore and Coffeehouse. Established on the former site of a small laundry service in Holešovice, at Janovského 14, the Globe catered to a mixed clientele of translators, bibliophiles, anglophiles, students and the local literati. With its distinctive motto—in libris veritas; in kava vita—it quickly became a magnet for visiting writers as well as a base of operations for many in the now established international community. Along with Café Kandinsky, at Kamenická 9, and basement bar/clubs like Pokrok and Fraktal, the new bookstore contributed to the growing perception of the Letná-Holešovice district as Prague’s “Greenwich Village.” During its first year, the Globe hosted readings by Allen Ginsberg,78 Martin Amis, Ivan Klíma, Arnošt Lustig, Ludvík Vaculík and Jáchym Topol.79 Those who worked at the Globe over the years, until its relocation across the river in 2000, included Dan Kenney and the late Edmund Watts (who both published newletters from there), the poet Tim Rogers, artist Kip Bauersfeld, and singer Tonya Graves. Writing in the Prague Post fifteen years later, Frank Kuznik observed: | 29 In the heady days of the ‘90s, when Americans arrived almost daily in Prague with backpacks and visions of joining a new Left Bank brimming with artists and writers, literary readings were a staple and center of the expat community. Many were held at the Globe, which in its heyday as the only English-language bookstore in town attracted visiting authors such as Richard Ford and Amy Tan, and a steady stream of amateur poets.80
Soon after the Globe opened its doors, its resident press—Modrá Músa— produced the first anthology of contemporary English-language writing from Prague, entitled Bohemian Verses, edited by Scott Rogers. A deluxe hardbound edition, using handmade paper from the sixteenth century Velké Losiny mills, the anthology included work by Jeffrey Young, James Ragan, David Freeling, Daniela Drazanová and Kevin Blahut. In his introduction, Rogers—with Anita Lynn Forgach of the Prague Fine Arts Academy—wrote: “it is a fact that in Bohemia under communism it was a custom for ‘books to perish like birds.’ … The book you now hold, which respects and makes use of the fine Czech tradition of bookmaking, stands in sharp contrast to the books of those Czech writers of the not-so-distant past who persevered with
78 Ginsberg also read that year (1993) at Viola, a long-established literary venue on Národní, and at the American Centre on Hybernská. 79 Mark Baker, “Reviving a Lost Literary Scene,” The Prague Post, 1 November, 2006. 80 Frank Kuznik, “Literary Revival,” The Prague Post, 7-13 May, 2008: A7. only handwritten, typewritten, or mimeographed texts (samizdat).” Rogers and Forgach go on to add:
Since the Velvet Revolution of 1989, the arts in the Czech Republic have flourished in a renewed atmosphere of freedom of expression. Prague has once again regained its former magnetic appeal as an international focal point for young artists, musicians, and writers, all of whom have come to this city to participate in the new Czech renaissance. Though the writers represented in Bohemian Verses differ in age, gender, motherland, and purpose, all for various lengths of time have called Prague home.81
As the years pass, this question of calling Prague “home” has become more complicated and vexed. With the 1990s receding from view and the communities it engendered disappearing or being merged within less easily identifiable social networks and structures, so too has the very conception of a contemporary Prague “scene” become more difficult to reconcile with its fin-de-millénaire antecedents. It is understandable in this light why no further anthologies appear after Bohemian Verses for the next seventeen years—a perhaps unforeseeable timeframe within the uncertainties and flux of the new Republic. The experience of Prague as a habitation of foreigners “at home” has had to be experienced and thought-through differently from the 30 | post-Revolutionary romanticism that often confused the lived city with its mythological doppelgangers in Paris and elsewhere: imagined communities ranged in opposition, mutually evoked, invented and reinvented.82 With the concept of history still ideologically overburdened by the legacies of Marxism, on the one hand, and confronted by a rampant (amnesiac) consumerism, on the other, many writers turned to an anthropological view of their situation, recognising that history, as Miroslav Holub once said, “is always a failure by definition…”83 Navigating the contingencies of daily post- revolution experience became for some the foundation of a poetic—evoking Nathanial Tarn’s idea of poet-as-anthropologist. For others, contingency pointed the way to alternative realities, to psychogeographical overlays and counter-rational mappings of urban territories—rending the city as a type of amalgam of mythology and poetic construct. Whatever anthropological dimension there might have been to the early literary renaissance, it nevertheless remained a creature of circumstance in which a whole “generation” found itself, irrespective of ethnicity, in radically foreign times. “It is on this basis,” as Gwendolyn Albert observed already ten years ago, “that people from all over the world have met and
81 Bohemian Verses: An Anthology of Contemporary English Language Writing from Prague, ed. Scott Rogers (Prague: Modrá Musá, 1993) xvi-xvii. 82 Indeed, as I write this I am reminded of František Palacký’s famous remark: “If there were no Austria, we would have to create it.” 83 “A Conversation with Arnošt Lustig and Miroslav Holub,” Trafika1 (1993): 163. attempted to communicate with one another in post-1989 Prague.”84 And yet it remains true that whenever writers have committed to make this city a “home,” as Rogers says, they, in turn, become creators of new “histories” and custodians of a Prague which is today as foreign to the pre-revolution city as it in turn was to the Prague of Brod, Kisch, Ungar, Werfel, Meyrink, Rilke and Leppin. At the same time as the Globe was opening, bars and nightclubs across the city were catering to the semi-exotic “new Bohemian scene” and a barrage of rapidly shifting cultural paradigms. Edmund White, writing for Vogue, observed:
The Czechs can’t seem to explore fast enough all they missed out on during 40 years of communism. They’re digging down into their pre-war modernist heritage. They’re keeping their bars open 24 hours a day, they’re translating books from every language, and they’re travelling as much as the disadvantageous exchange rate permits. The frantic desire to catch up accounts for much of the exuberance of this thrilling youthful city.85
Echoing a sixties euphoria, post-revolution Prague was a mix of low rent communalism, drugs and open possibility. Dozens of squats existed in the city’s suburbs and downtown, adjacent to such well-known landmarks | 31 as Charles Bridge (including Asylum, a semi-legal performance space on Betlémská street established by the poet Jay Godwin and home to the Electric Circus and a diverse theatre performance community). Many of the buildings that housed them had been left in legal limbo following the ‘89 revolution and the ensuing restitution laws which sought to return formerly nationalised properties to their pre-1948 owners. Among these was the Art Deco Café Slavia, located opposite the National Theatre, a centre-piece of Prague’s pre- communist literary culture. Slavia closed for lengthy periods throughout the early ‘90s under administration by the Academy of Performing Arts (AMU) and a Boston company, HN Gorin. On 8 November 1993, the “Society of the Friends of Café Slavia” (Glen Emery, John Bruce Shoemaker, Marek Gregor, Ladislav Provan) gained access to the building and reopened the café for two weeks—attempting to restore the café’s former ethos—until the authorities had it closed down again on the 20th.86 As the nineties progressed, an increasing number of subculture bars and clubs opened in neglected buildings across Prague. Many of these became well-known, like Mamma Klub (Elišky Krásnohorské in Josefov), “Klub Stalin” (located beneath the demolished Stalin Monument in Letná), Bunkr
84 Gwendolyn Albert, “Allegiance to the Strange: Prague Expatriate Writing of the Nineties,” New Orleans Review 26.1/2 (Spring/Summer, 2000): 161. 85 Edmund White, “Prague’s New Face,” Vogue, September, 1994: 352. 86 “Destiny of Café Slavia Still Unknown,” Carolina 96 (26 November, 1993): carolina.cuni.cz/ archive-en/Carolina-E-No-096.txt. Glen Emery and John Bruce Shoemaker at Obecní Dům, 1993.
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(in a former Civil Guard nuclear shelter, along with Radio 1, at Lodecká 2 in Nové Město), Jo’s Bar & Garáž (opened in 1992 by Canadian Glen Emery—a former resident of the ČSSR in the ‘70s and ‘80s—on Malostranské náměstí), Repre (briefly located downstairs in the pre-restoration Obecní Dům—co- owned by John Bruce Shoemaker, frequent sponsor of Twisted Spoon Press, Trafika, Optimism and Think), Tam Tam (located on the second floor in Slovanský Dům, now a boutique mall at Na Příkopě 22—operated by Christoph Brandl), and Klub X (first in Palác Metro on Národní, then in the basement of Dětský Dům, across the street from Tam Tam at Na Příkopě 15). The Thirsty Dog/Formanka (not to be confused with the present Žíznivý Pes), a bar which opened on the river-side of Obecní Dům for only 18 months during 1993 and 1994, achieved particular notoriety before being shut down on the 7th of June by city health inspectors. Allen Ginsberg read there, Joe Strummer (of The Clash) performed there, and Nick Cave wrote a song about it for his album Let Love In.87 These venues catered to a broad demographic, often mirrored in the crowded private salon-style gatherings presided over by patrons and poets such as Bruce Damer and Věra Chase.
87 Glen Emery in conversation with Coilín O’Connor for Radio Praha / Český Rozhlas, 25 June 2007. 5. For the following three years, the Prague scene ran on overdrive. In 1993 alone, three new literary journals appeared.88 Grasp, edited by Revan Schendler and Robert Haas at the Philosophy Faculty of Charles University, had to wait sixteen years for its second issue to see the light of day in 2009 (when it was revived by its current editors Andreas Patenidis and Iliya Bolotyansky). The other two journals fared significantly better. One Eye Open / Jedním Okem, a journal of women’s issues in Central and Eastern Europe, was founded by twenty-five year old American, Deborah Dubois, who—along with Laura Busheiken of Yazzyk—joined prominent Czech feminist Jiřina Šiklová in establishing the Gender Studies Centre in Prague.89 One Eye Open was targeted to an audience across the former Soviet bloc, with a view to addressing the shared situation of women in the post- communist region, where public awareness of problems routinely addressed by feminists in the West remained minimal. While One Eye Open was, up until its last three issues, primarily a literary journal, it was nevertheless consistently addressed at creating gender dialogue. Speaking about the significance of the journal’s title, Dubois explained in an interview that “people’s eyes aren’t open here … Getting one eye open is a start.”90 One Eye Open would eventually run to eight issues, the last appearing in Winter 2006. Its editors included Věra Chase, Eva Věšínová (Kalivodová), Clare Wallace, Marci Shore and Jacqui True. Among the journal’s contributors were Eva | 33 Hauserová, Maya Květný, Magdaléna Lubiejewska, Randall Lyman, Jakub Zahradník, Pavla (Slabá) Jonssonová, Sylva Fischerová, Louis Armand, Rebecca Floyd and Kirsten Lodge. The ambitions of One Eye Open were also shared by a number of women’s writing groups that grew up in the city, led by poets like Laura Conway and Lenka Králová (whose “Art of Disappearing” group held regular readings at Žižkov’s Klub A and published a bilingual anthology under the group’s name in 1999). Undoubtedly the most widely respected journal to appear in the 1990s was Trafika, named after the traditional Czech tobacconist/newspaper shop, founded by three Americans—Michael Lee, Alfredo Sánchez, Jeffrey Young (with Scott Rogers serving as managing editor). Published by Modrá Músa and the World Literature Society, Trafika began life as a quarterly, slipping into an irregular rhythm with number 5 (from which point it is registered as being published by “Trafika Inc.” in New York), then appearing again only twice in the succeeding four years—its last issue under the sole editorship of Young, in Autumn 1999. Rogers once made the prediction: “In five years’
88 As Bílek notes, during this same period Czech-language literary publishing contracted. “Since 1993, except for books by a dozen big names, almost all Czech poetry has been self-published or produced by presses whose names appear on only one book” (“Czech Poetry of the Nineties,” 20). Additioally: “Data from 2001 suggests that out of 3,136 registered publishers, one third published one book a year” (Bílek, “Czech Literature in the Post-Communist Era”). 89 See Randall Lyman, “Word Soup,” Prognosis, 5-18 March, 1993: 3B. 90 Qtd in Lyman, “Word Soup,” 3B. 34 | time, Trafikawill be established as one of the premier magazines of the world, enhancing Prague’s reputation … There is a great Czech literary tradition to which we are contributing.”91 On its debut, the journal was described by one reviewer as “slickly vacuous,” with only a nominal connection to the city’s literary community, despite its widely advertised Prague connection.92 Yet the success of Trafikalargely stemmed from its strictly internationalist orientation and its emulation of iconic journals like Granta and the Paris Review. “We believe,” Rogers said of the journal, “that literature is international in scope.”93 In six years of operation, it published a number of important Prague writers, including Lukáš Tomin, Michal Ajvaz, Jáchym Topol, Sylva Fischerová, Ludvík Vaculík and Petr Borkovec (his first appearance in English, in Trafika 3), alongside such recognisable names as Gilbert Sorrentino, Joyce Carol Oates and John Barth. A few Prague writers also found temporary editorial work at Trafika, most notably the poet Donna Stonecipher, whose book The Reservoir was published in 2002 by Georgia University Press. Still in 1993, Divus—the art publishing house founded by Ivan Mečl, released its first English-language title, the Australian Miles Lewis’sBatman’s Hill. At the same time, the first chapbooks began to appear from among the writers associated with Beef Stew, including Anthony Tognazzini’s Introductions from the Execution Stand, Ken Nash’s Palaver & Other forms of Intercourse, and Darren Waters’s Notes on the Second Coming. In the following | 35 year Jim Freeman’s micro-press published Stuart Horwitz’s 123 Thoughts on Writing and Aesthetics and Jay Godwin’s Priceless Poems from Worthless Words (Freeman would go on to publish three more of Godwin’s books over the next two years). Other chapbook titles appearing contemporaneously included Maya Květný’s Nestled Indecorous, Anthony Tognazzini’s Everybody’s Book and Karin Cintron’s Waiting out the Night. Meanwhile, Julie Ashley founded the first of several Beef Stew-related writing workshops which ran more or less continuously from 1993-1998. Among its members were Myla Goldberg, Jeff Herzbach, Alan Ward Thomas, Paul Martia, Jim Freeman, Anthony Tognazzini, Chris Beneke, Julie Chibbaro, Neil Danziger, Karin Cintron, Jenny Smith, Shannon McCormick, Theo Schwinke. May 1994 saw the inauguration of the revitalised Prague book fair, Svět
91 Qtd in Michael Halstead, “Literary Symbiosis Drives Ambitious Magazine,” The Prague Post, 9 March, 1994. 92 Christopher Sheer, “Review of Trafika 1,” Prognosis, 29 October-11 November, 1993: 7B. Like Trafika, the Prague Summer Writers’ Workshop—initiated in August 1993 by Trevor Top (publications officer at the ill-fated Central European University) and Robert Eversz—was sometimes criticised for it seemingly nominal connection with the local literary community. Linked initially to the University of New Orleans, and later coming under the directorship of Richard Katrovas, the Workshop has for many years brought visiting American students and faculty to the city. During its first year, sponsored by Czech PEN, the Globe, Prognosis, X-Ink and Trafika, the 1994 workshop hosted seminars by Miroslav Holub, Arnošt Lustig, Alan Levy, Ivan Klíma, Eda Kriseová, Jiří Stránský, Martin Šimečka, Josef Škvorecký, Zdeněk Urbánek and Ludvík Vaculík. 93 Qtd Halstead, “Literary Symbiosis.” Knihy, with regular panel discussions with local and international authors co-ordinated by translator and director of “Literature Across Frontiers,” Alexandra Büchler. In November, Jiří Stránský hosted the 61st World Congress of PEN International, whose theme for that year was “Literature and Tolerance.” Writers attending included Václav Havel, Arthur Miller, Harold Pinter, Tom Stoppard, Ivan Klíma, Arnošt Lustig, Sylvie Richterová and Salman Rushdie (but not Lawrence Ferlinghetti, who declined). Meanwhile two other English-language periodicals appeared. The first, Transitions, a news publication, ran for five years (1994-1999) before moving online. The second was X-Ink (running to six issues), describing itself as “Prague’s monthly cultural arts forum,” edited by Matthew Salt. Adopting the same large format as Yazzyk, the new bi-lingual magazine included writing on art, theatre, film, design, music, architecture, as well as poetry and fiction. Its staff included playwright Sean Fuller and Twisted Spoon copy editor Amy Nestor. During the same year Bruce Damer—with Jitka Kafková and Geraldine Mucha—opened D-Salon, hosted by the artist Kateřina Štenclová, with a view to generating patronage for contemporary art and new writing in Prague.94 The salons took place at the Novotného Lávka club, near Charles Bridge, and featured exhibitions and performances, including film actor James Mitchell Lear’s “Hemingway Reminisces.” Meanwhile, international 36 | media attention turned to a one-off experiment organized by Ken Nash and Karin Citron at the English School of Prague, involving twenty fiction writers (Myla Goldberg, Ken Nash, Karin Cintron, Julie Ashley, Thomas Alan Ward, Jeff Herzbach, Karel Skarstein, Jason Penazzi-Russell, Lawrence Wells, and others), on the 9th of April—the 24-hour “Novel-a-thon.”95 1995—the year Radio Free Europe moved its headquarters from Munich to Prague’s former Federal Parliament building—was greeted with the arrival and rapid departure of Velvet magazine, Prague’s first “city magazine,” precursor to Pozor: News from Around the Bloc (edited by Kevin Bisch and Elizabeth Cornell) which lasted all of 1996, and Think (edited by Jeffree Benét and published bilingually), which continued until 2002 and established itself as something of a bête noir of the Prague expatriate community—anticipating the fortunes of the Prague Pill in 2002-2003. The remainder of the nineties witnessed a succession of publications with widely different reputations aimed increasingly towards politics and business, including The New Presence (from 1996), Threshold Praha (1997), The Prague Tribune (1997-2007), Freezerbox Magazine (edited by Alexander Zaitchik and Cedric Howe from 1998 to 2008), Central European Review, (1999-2002), and Transitions Online (the continuation of the earlier print magazine, commencing from 1999). In 1997,
94 Deborah Michaels, “New Salon Aims to Increase Arts Patronage,” The Prague Post, April 6-12, 1994: 3a. 95 Michele Kayal, “In Prague, Overnight Novels a Test for U.S. Expats,” USA Today/International Edition, 11 April, 1994: 9A. the art magazine Umělec was founded (published by Divus)—appearing in a separate English-language edition from 2000 onwards, under the editorship first of fiction writer Jeff Buehler and then of playwright William Hollister. While Jejune: America Eats its Young was initially published in Oakland, California—appearing biannually from 1993—editor Gwendolyn Albert’s return to Prague in 1995 helped to further diversify the city’s publishing scene. In the intervening years since her participation in the events of November 1989, Albert—along with partner Vincent Farnsworth—had begun to establish herself as an important new writer in the San Francisco Bay Area, having produced a volume of poems written earlier in Prague, entitled Dogs, with Ed Mycue’s Norton Coker Press in 1991. Farnsworth, the journal’s managing editor, divided his time with being a sound-installation artist (founding the Pazvuky Noise Project with bassist Dan Kenney) and, beginning in the late ‘90s under the stage-name Reverend Feedback, front man for the now legendary Blaq Mummy. Throughout the latter half of the ‘90s he organised readings at the Globe and elsewhere. In 2001 he published his second collection of poetry, Immortal Whistle Blower, with Bill Lavender’s Lavender Ink press in New Orleans. Unlike earlier English-language literary journals in Prague, Jejune was avowedly grungy in its aesthetic and outwardly anti-establishment in its political orientation. Tim Rogers, reviewing Jejune 8 for the Prague Post, | 37 compared it to the mimeographed zines produced out of New York’s Lower East Side in the ‘70s—Ted Berrigan’s C, Ed Sanders’s Fuck You, and Anne Waldman and Lewis Warsh’s Angel Hair.96 As often focused on issues of civil rights as it was on new writing, Jejune published articles and interviews dealing with the rise of neo-fascism and the plight of the Czech Republic’s Roma community. Number 8 carried an interview with poet Paul Polansky and Nazi-hunter Lubomír Zubák, about the cover-up over Lety concentration camp, along with an interview with Petr Uhl, former dissident and (at that time) Czech Commissioner for Human Rights. Jejune continued for six years, running to nine issues in total (all, except the last, wearing a cover designed by artist Mark Neville), publishing work by a range of local and American writers, including Bill Berkson, Tom Clark, Theo Schwinke, Jeremy Hurewitz, Paul Polansky, Sapphire, Spencer Selby, Alexander Zaitchik, Jenny Smith, Robert Bly, Jules Mann, Robert Bové, John McKeown, Eileen Myles, Lydia Lunch and Ed Mycue. Contemporaneous with Jejune, but appearing regularly every month over five years, was a magazine that was probably the most fully identified with Beef Stew and the Prague expatriate community—Optimism Monthly. In an interview in February 1996, long-time editor Alan Ward Thomas commented on the idea behind the magazine:
96 Tim Rogers, “Jejune: Angel Heir or Devil’s Advocate?” The Prague Post, 16 December, 1998. The purpose of Optimism Monthly was to help overcome the tremendous cynicism that arose after the initial buzz about the Paris of the ‘90s wore off … We try to stay loyal to regular contributors and always have new writers in each issue. We’ve already published over a hundred writers, quite a few of them for the first time … What interests me most are new voices. For example Jenny Smith’s “Egon” or Theo Schwinke’s poems about God and animals; Julie Chibarros’ voice is delightful and unlike anything I’ve ever read; Anthony Tognazzini has written cubist fairytales … there are headways being made into new ground.97
Published by Tim Otis, with production support from Tim and Mimi Rogers, and edited for much of its run by Alan Thomas (the last twelve numbers being edited by Laura Conway), Optimism contained artwork and writing by a long and impressive list of local and visiting writers, including Maya Květný, Anthony Tognazzini, David Vávra, Dan Kenney, Jim Freeman, Laura Conway, Paul Martia, Donna Stoneceipher, David Freeling, Neil Danziger, Julie Ashley, Alan Baird, Jeremy Saxon, Stevieanna DeSaille, Ken Nash, Ira Cohen, Joie Cook, Tim Rogers, Jenny Smith, Stuart Horwitz, Theodore Schwinke, Karl Skarstein, Věra Chase, Peter Svobodny, Isobelle Carmody, Christopher Lord, John McKeown, Alice Whittenburg, Kirsten Lodge, Julie Chibbaro, Patrick Seguin (editor of the fugitive zine RASH), Phil Shoenfelt, 38 | Róbert Gál, photographer Lucia Nimcová, Anne Waldman, Vít Kremlička, Kateřina Piňosová, Šimon Šafránek, Julia Vinograd and Jeri Theriault. 1995 also saw the beginning of another international review in the mould of Trafika, begun by a group of editors linked to Jáma Restaurant and Klub X—Jason Penazzi-Russell, David Conhaim, Max Munson, Will Pritts and Todd Morimoto. Changing its name for the second issue—from Jáma Revue to The Prague Revue—the new journal set out with ambitions, like Trafika’s, to be a quarterly before settling into an annual rhythm with its last three issues. Unique among Prague’s literary journals for its devotion to publishing original full-length plays (including Joe Sutton’s “An Eternity,” William Borden’s “Hangman,” Richard Toth and William Hollister’s “Dumb,” and Přemysl Rut’s “No Tragedy: A Little Czech Macbeth”),The Prague Revue also holds the honour of having printed the only English translations of Bohumil Hrabal’s poetry (issue 5, 1998). Among those to serve on the Revue’s editorial board were Jan Flemr, Michael March (director of the Prague Writers Festival), Howard Sidenberg (of Twisted Spoon), David Speranza, Louis Armand and Clare Wallace (formerly of One Eye Open). Rebekah Bloyd—co-translator of Miroslav Holub’s The Rampage (1997)— described the Revue as “daring and original.”98 Reviewing number 7 for the
97 Alan Ward Thomas interviewed by Dan Kenney, [unpronounceable symbol] (February 1996). 98 Qtd in Stephan Delbos, “Description of a Struggle: The History of the Prague Revue,” Luna Park Review (2008): www.lunapark.com/PragueRevue.htm Prague Post, Tim Rogers observed that “the strength of the Revue lies in writing from times and places that have not received much attention in English.”99 Its 1999 issue (number 6)—dedicated to the memory of Holub—included a feature on the Spanish “Generation of ‘98”; number 5 (Winter 1998) included a selection of Portuguese poets translated by Richard Zenith; while number 7 (2000) presented the work of eleven contemporary Slovenian writers, guest edited by Brian Henry and Andrew Zawacki. Among the Revue’s many notable contributors were Daniela Drazanová, Anthony Tognazzini, Ewald Murrer, Laura Zam, Arnošt Lustig, Igor Pomerantsev, Jakub Deml, Julie Chibbaro, Ivan Klíma, John Kinsella, Miroslav Holub, Karel Srp, Michael Brennan, Justin Quinn, Vít Kremlička, Susan M. Schultz and Aleš Šteger. In December 1995, in an old Blues club on Národní street called Klub X, The Prague Revue sponsored its first X-Poezie readings, which would continue at its new location on Na Příkopě, in the centre of Prague’s downtown, almost weekly until the club’s closure in 1997. X-Poezie was a mix of open-mic and featured readers—among them Ivan Klíma, Miroslav Holub, Peter Bakowski, Justin Quinn and Yevgeny Yevtushenko. The readings spawned a series of chapbooks, produced in collaboration with Twisted Spoon Press, including poetry by Louis Armand and Lukáš Tomin’s Kye Too—posthumously published in a limited edition in 1999. Under the imprint of the Prague Revue Cultural Foundation, the Revue—in 1996—published Yevtushenko’s | 39 Neumírej před smrtí as a hardcover book in Czech translation and—in 1999—David Conhaim’s novel Autumn Serenade. After a seven year hiatus, the Revue reappeared under the managing editorship of Stephan Delbos, in 2008, making a foray into the Prague Fringe Festival with a production of Joe Sutton’s play “Assorted Other Duties.”100 Contributors to the revived Revue included Lewis Crofts, Ken Nash, Louis Armand, Christopher Crawford, Douglas Shields Dix, Lucien Zell, Elizabeth Gross and Catherine Hales. In 1996, the Revue’s Jason Penazzi-Russell initiated the first Prague Culture Festival, bringing together Prague’s music and English-language literary communities, with readings by Donna Stonecipher, Anthony Tognazzini, David Freeling and Louis Armand at the Malá Strana blues venue, U Malého Glena. The festival anticipated by three years the Poetry Day festival (Den poezie), founded by Renata Bulvová and Bernie Higgins (directors of Klub 8) in 1999 and taking place, every year since, during the two weeks around the birthday of the Czech Romantic poet Karel Hynek Mácha (16 November). In 2003, the management of the festival changed to Higgins and Martin Sborník (comprising the Společnost poezie/Poetry Society). For the first few years after it began, the festival also sponsored thePoezie pro cestující (poetry- on-the-metro) project. Participants during Den Poezie’s ten year history
99 Tim Rogers, “A Delectable Selection of Literary Diversions,” The Prague Post, 27 June, 2001. 100 The Prague Fringe Festival was established in 2002 under the directorship of Steve Gove. include Věra Jirousová, Kateřina Rudčenková, Alexandra Berková, Graeme Hetherington, Věra Chase, Vincent Farnsworth, Gwendolyn Albert, Laura Conway, Šimon Šafránek, Kateřina Piňosová, Phil Shoenfelt, Louis Armand, Patrick Seguin and Róbert Gál. Returning to 1996 we encounter two more English-language periodicals. One, a small-circulation zine published out of the Globe Bookstore by Dan Kenney and Eric Wargo—entitled [unpronounceable symbol]—containing a mix of reviews, commentary and interviews with local personalities (running to five issues); the other, a biannual with international ambitions, originally co-produced in Prague, London and Dublin—entitled Metre—edited by David Wheatley and Justin Quinn. Quinn, resident in the city since 1992, has become over time a respected translator of Czech poetry, in particular the work of Petr Borkovec and Ivan Blatný. His first volume of poetry, The O’o’a’a’ Bird, was published by Michael Schmidt’s Carcanet Press in 1995 and was nominated for the UK’s Forward Prize for best first collection. While Metre made little direct connection with the Prague scene during the nine years that it operated an editorial address in the city, it nevertheless created a different, largely Anglo-Celtic, context for the reception of some Czech writing in translation. One issue—number 12 (Autumn 2002)—was devoted to “Reports from Central Europe,” and contained work by Cyprian 40 | Norwid, Marcin Sendecki, Ewa Lipska, Tadeusz Różewicz, Mila Haugová, Afanasy Fet, Ivan Blatný, Petr Borkovec and Anthony Caleshu. In their introduction, Justin Quinn and Fran Brearton evoked a contemporary neglect of writing from the former Iron Curtain countries, noting that the West lost its interest in poetry from the Soviet bloc with the eastward spread of capitalism:
Once a certain western sentimentality about suffering had been exposed, it seemed that critical debates about Central European writing had nowhere left to go. The attempt to market “the poetry of perestroika” markedthe last gasp of an existing debate rather than the beginning of a new critical dispensation.101
Arguably, this situation was indicative of a more general loss of prestige of poetry in English-speaking countries during the 1990s—exemplified in the UK by the abolition by major presses like Oxford of their poetry lists—as well as by a revaluation of the “role” of poetry in Central Europe itself. As Ivan (“Magor”) Jirous has remarked, it was possible under the former regime for anyone to write poetry and go to prison for it, but this didn’t mean the poetry itself was of any worth, other than as a political provocation.102
101 Fran Brearton and Justin Quinn, “Introduction: Reports from Central Europe,” Metre 12 (2002): 85. 102 Ivan Jirous in conversation with Alex Zucker and the author, Club Jilská, 24 November, 1994. What Brearton and Quinn argued for, in place of this widely typecast “poetic mode of political allegory,” was “a much more complex and interesting panorama of [the] various literary cultures, constrained in the past by … forms of politicisation, beginning to explore and rediscover other modes.” In short, they called for “a re-assessment that understands a genuinely international map of poetry through its working in national tradition as well as within a broader European poetic language.”103 Given the context, it is hardly surprising that the selection of poets which followed was made primarily on grounds of “nationality,” with scant effort to address either the essentially multicultural character of contemporary Central Europe, nor even the complex profiles of individual poets. The fact that Blatný, for example, had been in exile in Britain from 1948 until his death in 1990 (time spent largely in psychiatric institutions), and wrote in English as well as Czech, wasn’t allowed to impinge upon an ostensibly ethnocentric argument—the type of ethno-“internationalism” so savagely caricatured by David Černý’s recent Entropa installation at the Council of Europe headquarters in Brussels (January 2009).
6. Robert Creeley’s visit to Prague in May 1998 provided an opportunity for a consideration of the dominant tendencies in English-language poetics in the | 41 city, between the legacy of Ginsberg and the Beats, on the one hand, and that of Black Mountain and its many outgrowths on the other. The previous year, Alan Ward Thomas, editor of Optimism, published his first book—Dandelion: Scattered Reflections on Allen Ginsberg—while in 1998 Vincent Farnsworth, in Exquisite Corpse, and Louis Armand in Sulfur both published responses to Creeley, who reciprocated, refering to Armand’s writing as “generous and engaging.”104 (Always supportive of younger poets, Creeley also entered into a long correspondence with local poet Alexander Jorgensen, initiated connections and gave moral support.)105 By the end of the nineties, a core of poets had emerged in Prague whose work stood out from this tradition and was gaining increased recognition—among them Gwendolyn Albert, Laura Conway, Farnsworth, Armand, Michael Brennan, Jenny Smith and Bil Brown. Conway’s first book, To Knock Something Hard in the Dark, had appeared from Bench Press in San Francisco in 1981. Concordia, in Prague, published her collaboration with Kateřina Piňosová—The Alphabet of Trees—in 2002. In 2005, her work was anthologised in the New American Underground, being described by the San Francisco Chronicle as “joining the ranks of Ginsberg,
103 Brearton and Quinn, “Introduction: Reports from Central Europe,” 86; 87. 104 Robert Creeley, letter to the author, 31 May, 1998. 105 Alexander Jorgensen, “Emails to a Younger Poet,” Jacket 31 (2006). 42 | Ferlinghetti, Corso.”106 Farnsworth’s first collection of poetry, Little Twirly Things, was published by Norton Coker in 1992. Evolving the concept of “deep poetics”—attempting to “fuse the contemporarily relevant and political with perennial truths”107—Farnsworth’s writing attracted the attention of Tom Clark and Andrei Codrescu, who later referred to him as “the sage of Prague”108 (Codrescu read with Farnsworth at the Globe in July 1999). In 1998 Farnsworth was a member of the Allen Ginsberg Memorial Committee chaired by Amiri Baraka and in 2000 starred, with Thor Garcia, in Tally Mulligan’s filmHigh Low. In 1999, Farnsworth—with the late Igor Tschai—had co-ordinated Armand’s first solo exhibition in Prague, “Paintings,” at the ArtNatura gallery downtown. The following year, Armand’s poetry was included by Michael Brennan and Peter Minter in their breakthrough anthology Calyx: 30 Contemporary Australian Poets, heralded by critic Marjorie Perloff as “poetry no one can afford to ignore.”109 Brennan, whose Vagabond Press published work by Pierre Joris, Charles Simic and James Tate, guest-edited issue 7 of the Prague Revue. In August 1999 he hosted Jacket editor John Tranter in Prague (Tranter read at the Globe after presenting a lecture at Charles University). Brennan’s first collection, The Imageless World, was published by Salt in 2003 and received the Dame Mary Gilmore Award. In September 1998, Bil Brown, a former student of Ginsberg and Stan | 43 Brakhage, founded the non-profit Pražská škola poetiky (Prague School of Poetics), with Jenny Smith and Jenne Magno. The school organised a series of festivals and bilingual workshops focused on writing, performance and improvisation, involving writers such as Anne Waldman, Jerome Rothenberg, Bernadette Mayer and Lydia Lunch. As Magno relates: “There was a feeling at that time that Prague was the vortex.”110 Collaborating closely with the Schule für Dichtung in Wien, the Pražská škola also played host to some of the writers and performers loosely associated with the Vienna School, including Nick Cave and Blixa Bargeld. According to its mission statement, the Pražská škola’s major objective was “the cultivation of a responsible poetics” linked to outreach and humanitarian programmes:
Poetics is a hidden science that investigates and expands the parameters of
106 David Lerner, Julia Vinograd and Alan Allen (eds.), The New American Underground: Vol. 1. San Fransisco—Poets from Hell (Victoria, BC: Trafford, 2005)—cover blurb. 107 Qtd in Bill Lavender and Dave Brinks (eds.), “Death Interrupted: A Colloquy of Words from New Orleans,” Big Bridge 14 (2006): www.bigbridge.org/BB14/. 108 Exquisite Corpse: Cyber Corpse 4 (April/May, 2000): www.corpse.org/archives/issue_4/index. html. 109 Michael Brennan and Peter Minter (eds.), Calyx: 30 Contemporary Australian Poets (Sydney: Paper Bark Press, 2000). 110 Jenne Magno in conversation with the author, 15 February, 2010. creative expression, and is described by American poet Charles Bernstein as “the continuation of poetry by other means.” The Pražská škola poetiky, a new international school of poetics based in Prague, upholds this dictum by hosting an intensive annual programme of exchange, invention and performance, as well as year-round activities designed to ignite a dialogue within the international writing community and the Prague community at large.111
The Pražská škola was described by Lawrence Ferlinghetti as “important for the development and recognition of Czech poetry,” while Anne Waldman— co-founder with Allen Ginsberg of the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics, in Boulder, Colorado—called it “a unique visionary project, promoting literature and writing and the artistic imagination across cultural borders … creating new dialogues and possibilities in the next millennium.” As Ide Hintz, co-founder of the Schule für Dictung, wrote:
Central Europe has always been and always will be a genuine transmitter and translator between cultures and languages (traditional and utopian). Prague hosts and neighbours many languages (spoken and written). The Velvet Revolution—together with other post-Stalinist revolutions—was prepared mostly by poets, artists and intellectuals.112 44 | The same year (1998), Bil Brown collaborated with Jameson Welsh to form Involute Press, publishing Jenny Smith’s Egon (previously serialised in Optimism). Brown, Smith and Magno also participated in the Allen Ginsberg commemorative readings in Vienna that year, along with members of the “Labyrinth” group (Peter Waugh and Karin Kaminker). The end of 1997 saw the opening of another literary café, GplusG, this time in Prague’s inner eastern suburb of Vinohrady—a partnership between former Slovak dissident Fedor Gál and son Róbert. Four of Paul Polansky’s books appeared under the GplusG imprint between 1998 and 1999—a volume of poetry, two edited volumes drawing upon the poetry and oral histories of survivors of the Roma holocaust, and a novel (The Storm) which focused on the “crimes of the Czech authorities” against its Romani population. The novel caused a scandal in the Czech Republic and largely disappeared from bookstores due to the provocative nature of comments made in the book’s preface (concerning Václav Havel and Karel Schwarzenberg).113 From 1999, Polansky became increasingly involved with the plight of Kosovo’s Roma. In December 2004, the City Council of Weimar (Germany) awarded Polansky its prestigious Human Rights Award in recognition of his work (Polansky
111 “Living Word Outreach Poetics Program” (1998). 112 “What is Pražská škola poetiky?” press release (January, 2000). 113 Valentina Confido, “I Give you my Word: The Actions of Paul Polansky,” Undefeated: Poems 1991-2008 (Rome: Multimedia Edzioni, 2009).. | 45 was nominated for the award by the Nobel laureate Günter Grass). Among the other authors included in the GplusG series were Leslie Feinberg, Jorge Semprun and Jan Urban, though Polansky—ex-boxer, big game hunter and draft-dodger in the mould of a latter-day Hemingway— remains the author perhaps most closely identified with the press, while his Roma advocacy work is most proximate to that of Gwendolyn Albert, a pioneer in the field, who founded the Kosovo Roma Refugee Foundation in 2002 and in 2004 was elected as the first director of the Czech League of Human Rights. A series of international readings at Café GplusG during 1999 (“Mezinárodní Literární Večírek”) was hosted by Theodore Schwinke, with a community of writers including Farnsworth, Polansky, Albert, publisher Howard Sidenberg, Jeri Theriault, John McKeown and Jenny Smith (whose play Tall Cotton was performed that year at Jazz Club Železná in mid- September, with Greg and Andrew Linington). Seven months earlier, in February 1999, a new bilingual quarterly appeared online, edited by Alice Whittenburg and Greg Evans. Called The Café Irreal, this new journal announced itself by way of a manifesto on “irreal” literature—defined by Evans as engaged with underlying impossibilities in the depiction of the physical world, which is rendered both unpredictable 46 | and fundamentally inexplicable. Unlike its predecessors, The Café Irreal was devoted to a clearly defined aesthetic philosophy, evolved from that of the Prague surrealist movement of the 1930s. In its eleven years of online publication, The Café Irreal has published translations of Ewald Murrer, Věra Chase, Jiří Kratochvil, Ladislav Novák, Michal Ajvaz, Pavel Řezníček and Alexandra Berková, alongside work by Michael Stein and Lucien Zell. Rounding out the year, Jeri Theriault published her first collection of poetry, East of Monhegan / Na východ od Monheganu, translated by Lída Sasková, while Bil Brown and Danika Dinsmore coordinated the Prague chapter of the month-long “3:15 Experiment” (August 1999).114 But as the year came to an end, so did a major local institution. Unable to renegotiate its lease, the Globe Bookstore and Coffee House was forced to move from its original location across the river to its present address on Pštrossova in Nové Město. Retaining only two of its original owners—Scott Rogers and Markéta Janků—the Globe was reconceived as an internet café and service provider (Globopolis). The new dot.com, recipient of the largest venture- capital package in Czech history, lasted only a year before folding. Rogers moved on to be chief operating officer of the new In Your Pocket guidebook publishing group. The bookstore was sold to a German investor, Michael Homan, and in 2006, after years of financial struggle and dwindling clientele, was resold to its current owner, Moscow-based Michael Sito.
114 See www.315experiment.com. | 47
Portrait of Paul Martia, by Ken Nash (from Prague on 13 Beers a Day, 1993).
6. The second decade after the Velvet Revolution began with signals of impending doom. While millenarians across the world were locked down in their bunkers out of fear of nuclear Armageddon sparked by mass computer malfunction, cultural sceptics were announcing the failure, end, or non-existence of Prague’s “left bank of the nineties.” Moreover, as Francis Fukuyama was busy insisting, history itself had come to an end, the internet had abolished the culture of the book, and culture was henceforth to exist only in a type of retrospective virtuality in an new post-literate age. Few involved in the local scene were bothered by this new Munich accord aimed at whipping the Prague renaissance off the map. As poet Jenny Smith noted in an interview: “Time magazine declared Prague dead. That’s good.”115 With the election of Tony Blair as British prime minister, and the electoral coup d’état of George W. Bush in the United States, the beginning of the twenty-first century appeared in temper far removed from the elation and optimism which greeted the fall of the Berlin Wall a decade earlier. A series of new wars, economic crises, the erosion of the social contract across Europe and the English-speaking world, climate politics and impending ecological disaster, combined to create a sense of regression and lost opportunity. At
115 Qtd in Angela Primlani, “Composition in Prague,” The Prague Post, 22 September, 1999. Gwendolyn Albert and Mirek Vondraška addressing an anti-war rally on Jan Palach Square, 2002. Photo: ČTK.
48 | the same time, a new wave of social militancy appeared to spread across the developed world in response to the excesses of globalisation and the re- emergence in many countries of a quasi-police state. In September 2000, the International Monetary Fund/World Bank summit took place in Prague’s communist-era Palác Kultury, attracting some 12,000 international protestors. For weeks the city was subject to a heavy police presence reminiscent of the lead-up to November 1989. Two years later—on the 4th of March, 2002— the US State Department released its annual report on human rights in the Czech Republic, heavily criticising police brutality during the IMF/World Bank protests. It was a pattern that would be repeated at the Prague NATO summit in November 2002, only three months after the city’s devastating floods. With the election by parliament of the economic rationalist Václav Klaus to the presidency on the 28th of February, 2003 (the deciding votes having been cast by delegates of the largely unreformed Communist Party or KSČM), many people began to wonder about the progress of Czech political culture after the Velvet Revolution. As Gwendolyn Albert noted: “there was a promise of a kind of society in 1989, and there is a big gap in that promise.”116 Following the 11 September attacks on the World Trade Centre in New York, armoured vehicles appeared in the centre of Prague, alongside concrete barricades manned by heavily armed militia—largely around the
116 Qtd in Ashton, “Speaking Out.” American Embassy and Radio Free Europe headquarters (declared to be prime terrorist targets). A never-substantiated claim had it that one of the 9/11 hijackers, Mohammad Atta, met with Iraqi officials in Prague onthe 8th of April, five months prior to the attacks.117 (Many of the barricades and police checkpoints remained in place throughout the decade.) With growing American belligerence in the Middle East, a number of Prague’s literary community took an active lead in the anti-war movement—including Gwendolyn Albert, philosopher Erazim Kohák, feminist Mirek Vondraška and journalist Arie Farnam, protesting against the US invasion of Iraq and the so-called doctrine of pre-emptive war.118 On the 6th of March, 2003, student Zdeněk Adamec doused himself in gasoline and set himself ablaze on Wenceslas Square only a short distance from the spot where philosophy student Jan Palach had immolated himself in January 1969 (six other students followed Adamec’s example in the ensuing months). In a note entitled “Action Torch,” posted on the internet just prior to his suicide and condemning the Iraq war, Adamec wrote:
We didn’t get any better even after the Velvet Revolution … The so-called democracy we gained is not a Democracy. It’s about the rule of officials, money and treading on people.119 | 49 While it is generally recognised that the turn of the millennium represented a difficult time for the international scene in Prague, news of its demise had been greatly exaggerated. Continuing its project of outreach and social advocacy, the Pražská škola poetiky evolved in late 1999 into two complementary programmes: Projekt 2000 and Prameni, both under the general directorship of Jenne Magno. Projekt 2000: “The Subversive in Voice and Verse,” was a workshop series and festival of experimental poetics and performance. Among the poets who presented workshops were Jerome Rothenberg, translator of Vítěslav Nezval and founder of ethnopoetics, and the increasingly present Anne Waldman. The Projekt 2000 festival took place at Galerie NoD, 10-28 November (2000)—dedicated to “stretching the boundaries of word, text, voice and vision.” Participants included Waldman, Kateřina Piňosová, Anna Vaníčková and Antonie Svobodová (working with “bodytext”), Pavla (Slabá) Jonssonová, Iva Vodražková, Kateřina Kotková and Lydia Lunch.
Projekt 2000 supports an underrepresented portion of the artistic community in that [the] festival is a tribute to experimental women writers, artists and
117 Patrick E. Tyler with John Tagliabue, “A Nation Challeneged: The Investigation; Czechs Confirm Iraqi Agent Met With Terror Ringleader,” The New York Times, 27 October, 2001. 118 Jennifer Joan Lee, “A Movement Mushrooms,” The New York Times, 6 March, 2004. 119 “Torch 2003,” iDNES.cz, 6 March, 2003. performers. Not only are women artists underrepresented in the Czech Republic, but very few are translated into English … and very few American women artists have been translated into Czech. This is an important time socially and politically for women in the Czech Republic. The festival will take place less than 6 months after an all-female shadow cabinet formed in response to the [Czech government’s] all male cabinet and one particular member’s comment that women do not belong in politics. It is a time for strong, creative, independent women’s voices to be expressed.120
The arts group Prameni pursued “poetry by other means” in a continuation of Pražská škola’s outreach programme. “Parallel Poetics: Dissent, Discourse and Democracy” (2000) was an attempt at opening discussion into “the importance of uncompromised individual expression and parallel artistic culture to the creation and preservation of civil society”:
We believe that discussion of the role of poet and artist in society, the importance of self-expression to the development of the individual and society as a whole, and the impact of parallel cultures on local and global change, is essential in the Czech Republic.121
From September 1999 to June 2000, Prameni developed the “Living Word 50 | Poetics Project” with Kateřina Piňosová, designed as a series of workshops with students at the Romská střední škola sociální v Kolíně. The project was sponsored by the Just Buffalo Literary Centre in New York, and was designed as a poetry exchange between the Roma students and students of the Native American Magnet School #19 in Buffalo.122 A remarkable volume of writings by the students, produced during the workshop sessions, was published in 2003 as Život Fungoval a Nakonec Skončil/Life Went on and Finally Ended. In 2003, the Pražská škola was formally subsumed by Naropa University/ Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics, under the directorship of Anne Waldman, launching the short-lived Šanalan Poetry Festival, with Jenne Magno remaining as co-ordinator. The festival, running from the 11th to the 18th of May, featured Irina Andreeva (of physical theatre group Novogo Fronto), singer Ida Kelarová, Jáchym Topol, Alexandra Berková, Rikki Ducornet, Anselm Hollo, Pavla (Slabá) Jonssonová, Ivan Klíma and Kateřina Piňosová. Concurrent with Šanalan was the first Vienna-Prague “Poet-Artist- Performers for Peace,” sponsored by Urbannomadmxs and Prameni, at the St Martin-in-the-Wall church on Martinska (16 May), with Gwendolyn Albert, Kristin Weight, Ken Nash, Franz-Karl Prüller, Victoria Oscarsson and Peter Waugh.
120 Projekt 2000, press release (May, 2000). 121 Parallel Poetics: Dissent, Discourse and Democracy, proposal (2001). 122 Matt Gailitis, “Exploring Possibilities,” The Prague Post, 31 October, 2001. Edmund Watts at Uni Jazz, 2002.
During the first three years of the decade, seven new regular reading series grew up in different parts of the city. The Fra reading series at Café Fra in Vinohrady (hosted by Petr Borkovec, an editor of the Czech literary journal Souvislosti and considered by critics to be the pre-eminent poet of his generation); “Poetry Jam” and “Poetry in the Twilight” at Železná Jazz club downtown (hosted by Lucien Zell and Ryan Mergen); “In One Voice” at Uni | 51 Jazz (hosted by Edmund Watts); the Jejune readings at the Clown & Bard on Bořivojova street, Žižkov (hosted by Vincent Farnsworth); “Mr Hyde Park” at Literárná Kavárna Obratnik in Smíchov (hosted by Kristen Weight, running from 2002-2003); and the Alchemy Reading and Performance Series, commencing at the newly opened Shakespeare & Sons bookstore and café in Vršovice (modelled on its Parisian counterpart), before moving to Tulip Café and eventually the Globe. Begun in 2003 after the closure of Beef Stew, the monthly Alchemy open-mic (hosted first by Laura Conway and then Ken Nash) has featured book-launches by Lewis Crofts (The Pornographer of Vienna, 2007) and Clare Wigfall (The Loudest Sound and Nothing, 2007), and readings by Justin Quinn, David E. Oprava, Carrie Etter, Holly Tavel, Alistair Noon, Jeremy Saxon, Kateřina Rudčenková, Věra Chase, Richard Katrovas, Howard Hunt, Donna Stonecipher, Louis Armand, Greg Evans, Alice Whittenburg, Jorn Ake Boys( Whistling Like Canaries, 2009), Jeremiah Paleček, Jane Kirwan, Jim Freeman, Joe Sherman, Thor Garcia, Vincent Farnsworth, Alan Levy, Róbert Gál, Myla Goldberg, Gwendolyn Albert, Lucien Zell, Gene Deitch, Šimon Šafránek (Fiery Wheels, 2000), Jeri Theriault, Christopher Cook and Phil Shoenfelt. 2000 saw the brief appearance (for six issues) of the literary broadsheet Plastic (Semtext), edited by Louis Armand. Semtext published essays and poetry by Justin Quinn, Marjorie Perloff, John Kinsella, Peter Minter, Juliana Spahr, Lukáš Tomin, Brian Henry, John Tranter, Susan M. Schultz, Michael Brennan, D.J. Huppatz, Sandra Miller, Rod Mengham, Andrei Codrescu, Bruno Solařík, Emmanuelle Pireyre, Ethan Paquin, Nicole Tomlinson, Pam Brown, Brendan Lorber and Aleš Šteger.123 It became the model for the Prague Literary Review, a monthly tabloid-format review founded in 2003 by publisher Roman Kratochvila (of Shakespeare & Sons) and editor Michael Levitin. From its second issue the PLR, as it became known, was edited by Armand, with a focus on a core of writers including Aleš Debeljak, Joshua Cohen, Travis Jeppesen, Drew Milne, McKenzie Wark and others. Cohen and Jeppesen had both previously been editors of the Prague Pill, a free newspaper published by John Caulkins from 2002, with a focus on culture and political critique. The Pill in certain respects resembled the earlier Prognosis, and its antagonistic relationship with the Prague Post mirrored the former’s. With the collapse of the Pill in 2003, Cohen and Jeppesen worked freelance for magazines like Think Again and Umělec—Jeppesen producing some of the most committed English-language art criticism so far to appear outside academic publications. Disorientations: Art on the Margins of the “Contemporary,” a volume of Jeppesen’s writings on Central and Eastern European art, was published by Social Disease in the UK in 2009. Prior to arriving in Prague, Jeppesen’s novel Victims was selected by Dennis Cooper to debut his Little House on the Bowery series for Akashic Books in 2003. In his review of Victims for the PLR, Tom McCarthy wrote: “the book 52 | holds a remarkably confident and able line through complicated waters, diving into interiority, surfacing in direct speech, aquaplaning into prose that’s brilliant at times …”124 Jeppesen’s second novel, Wolf at the Door, appeared from Howard Sidenberg’s Twisted Spoon Press in 2007. Also published by Twisted Spoon was Cohen’s first book, a collection of short stories, entitled The Quorum. A draft of Cohen’s book-length monologue, Cadenza for the Schneidermann Violin Concerto (Fugue State Press, 2007), appeared in PLR 2.2 (March 2004). His monumental novel, Witz, was published by Dalkey Archive in 2010, described by Steve Erickson as “inspired as it is audacious ... the wracked dream of a new Genesis. At the dawn of twenty-first century fiction, the only question is whether Joshua Cohen’s novel is the Ark or the Flood.”
7. In May 2004—coinciding with the Czech Republic’s accession to the European Union—Armand, with Kratochvila, founded the Prague International Poetry Festival (První Pražský mezinárodní festival poezie),
123 Some of the work from Semtext was later gathered in a special issue of Litteraria Pragensia— “Contemporary Poetics,” vol.11, no.22 (2002)—edited by Louis Armand and including contributions from Susan Schultz, Marjorie Perloff, Stephen Muecke, Steve McCaffery, Véronique Vassiliou, Rod Mengham, Drew Milne, Kevin Nolan, Augusto de Campos, D.J. Huppatz. This in turn became the basis of a collection of writings published as Contemporary Poetics by Northwestern University Press, in 2007. 124 Tom McCarthy, “When God Drops the Remote Control,” PLR 1.3 (2004): 17. | 53 a week-long series of readings sponsored by the PLR and Twisted Spoon Press.125 The readings, in Czech and English, took place in five venues across the city, incorporating Ken Nash’s Alchemy readings at Tulip Café, and ending at the historic music club Malostranská Beseda. The festival brought together over forty poets from Prague and around the world, including Anselm Hollo, Charles Bernstein, Trevor Joyce, Drew Milne, Andrzej Soznovski, Tomaž Šalamun, “Kollaps” (Jaroslav Rudiš, Alex Švamberg, Pavlína Medunová), Laura Conway, Phil Shoenfelt, Travis Jeppesen, Šimon Šafránek, Vincent Farnsworth, Rod Mengham, Věra Chase, Gwendolyn Albert, Róbert Gál, Stephen Rodefer, Fritz Widhalm, Nichita Danilov, Sándor Kányádi, Munayem Mayenin, Cristina Cirstea, Martin Solotruk, Peter Šulej, Vít Kremlička, Martin Zet, Jeff Buehler, Jaroslav Pížl and Martin Reiner. Writing in the Poetry Society Newsletter, Vincent Farnsworth observed:
A recent death and a recent birth have made for a new reality in the creative scene of English-language poetry in Prague. The death was literal, that of Alan Levy [2 April, 2004], the local newspaperman who first called Prague the “Paris of the nineties.” The birth, metaphorical, was of the Prague International Poetry Festival, which has laid the groundwork of a new phase in expatriate poetry in the Czech Republic. Borrowing the term “deep poetics” from political scientist and poet Peter Dale Scott’s writings on the 54 | deepest machinations and impulses within world political crises, the death of Levy and the birth of the Poetry Festival coming closely together in time signal a shift in the strata of “deep poetics” in Prague.126
Of those participating in the festival, eight had been or were soon to be published by Twisted Spoon. Beginning in 1997, the press had begun to develop a series of new writing in English from Prague, alongside translations of contemporary writing from across Central Europe. Books by Milan Simecka, Natasza Goerke, Emil Hakl, Pavel Z., Andrzej Stasiuk, Søren A. Gauger, Radu Andriescu, Iustin Panta and Cristian Popescu, all appeared after 2000, as Twisted Spoon continued to gain international recognition as the sole major English-language literary press in the region. At the end of 2004, Armand ceased being editor of the PLR. The remaining four issues were co-edited by Cohen, Jeppesen, Sidenberg and Róbert Gál. During its relatively short life, spanning fourteen issues, the PLR had published work by a long list of notable writers, including Karen Mac Cormack, Allen Fisher, Petr Borkovec, Marjorie Perloff, Ron Silliman, Keston Sutherland, Bruce Andrews, Jáchym Topol, Vladimír Hulec, Søren A. Gauger, Jorn Ake, Bob Perelman, Kate Fagan, John Kinsella, Anselm Hollo,
125 Mindy Kay Bricker, “On the Wings of Poesy, a Gathering of Literary Lights,” The Prague Post, 13 May, 2004. 126 Vincent Farnsworth, “Paris/Prague?” Poetry News (Summer, 2004): www.poetrysociety.org. uk/content/publications/poetrynews/pn2004/pinprague/. Nancy Bishop and Joel Sugerman. Production still from Rex-patriates, 2004. Photo: Minna Pyyhkala.
William Allegrezza, Kevin Nolan, Peter Minter, Michael Rothenberg, Charles | 55 Bernstein, Peter Šulej, Philip Hammial, Véronique Vassiliou, Tomaž Šalamun, Dennis Cooper, Alan Halsey, Kateřina Piňosová, Lukáš Tomin, Stephen Rodefer, Donald F. Theall, Lou Rowan, Václav Kahuda, Laura Conway, Ivan Blatný, Raymond Federman, Susan M. Schultz, Eva Švankmajerová, D.J. Huppatz, Larry Sawyer, Sandra Miller, Tony Ozuna, Justin Quinn, David Seiter, Alan Sondheim, Gregory L. Ulmer, Clare Wallace, Dane Zajc, Clark Coolidge, Nicole Tomlinson, Ken Nash, Phil Shoenfelt, Gwendolyn Albert, Jeri Theriault, Lucien Zell, Joe Sherman, Simon Critchley, Pierre Daguin, Vincent Farnsworth and Jeremiah Paleček. After the collapse of the PLR, Jeppesen and Cohen founded BLATT with Anagram bookstore owner Miro Peraica as publisher. BLATT continued in the same format as the PLR, releasing three issues in 2006 and producing Jeppesen’s Poems I Wrote While Watching TV. A reading series and mini- festival were hosted by the magazine at Café Metropole in Vinohrady, until Jeppesen’s departure for Berlin in 2007. Cohen had already returned to New York the year earlier and he was not listed as an editor for the final issue of BLATT. With Prague’s second post-revolution literary renaissance well-underway by mid-decade, the overly hyped ‘90s began to recede into distant memory, but not before Nancy Bishop issued a retrospective reappraisal in her satirical 2004 film Rex-patriates (in which Alan Levy had a cameo role shortly before his death). Reflecting on the experience of making the film, Bishop notes: People often ask “why did you come to Prague?” After time passed, I realized that the question should be “why are you still here?” … I realized I wasn’t alone when Alan Levy, editor of The Prague Post, coined the phrase “rex- patriate; a returning expatriate, someone who has lived here, goes home, but can’t get Prague out of his or her blood and returns.” Tony Laue, the screen writer of ... Rex-pariates, had similar experiences and we decided that we had a story to tell. We recognized that our lives in Prague could be divided into three phases. “The honeymoon” is the beginning, when you fall in love with Prague, when all things Czech are magical and fascinating. The second phase—“escape from Prague”—is when the fascination shatters and gives way to an existential loneliness and infuriating frustration with the cultural divide. If you manage to make it past this point without bolting or defenestrating yourself, you realize the third phase—“normalization.” This is when things are neither good nor bad but Prague becomes home, and your native country doesn’t seem like home anymore. We later learned that these are actual phases of emigration that have been classified by psychologists. The film took the form of a mock documentary. We told the story through the eyes of archetypal characters; the writer, the artist, the actor, the entrepreneur and the academic. Alan Levy played himself bringing a sense of reality to the film. We wanted it to be unclear if the film was real or not. In Rex-patriates, Levy explained how even after he was forced to flee following the invasion of ‘68, he always wanted to die in Prague, even if 56 | it meant having his dead body dropped in from a helicopter. Alan died in Prague three days before the opening night of Rex-patriates. His ashes are in the Vltava.127
For Farnsworth:
If Levy’s passing marks the end of the (failed) Left Bank era,Rex-patriates is its cinematic epitaph. A farcical send-up of the expatriate in Prague stereotypes … the film takes its name from Levy’s phrase for Americans who spend time in Prague, experience reverse culture shock when they go back to the US, and then return to live in Prague as “re-expatriates.” By playing himself in a film that pokes fun at the expat art scene, Levy signalled that his prediction would no longer hold sway. In the Deep Poetics view, when he passed away this last April, Levy resolved the “Paris of the ‘90s” conundrum: he took it with him.128
From 2005 to 2007, Bethany Shaffer and Chris Crawford co-hosted the “Poezie a Provokace” reading series at Villa Incognito, in Prague’s Smíchov district. Among the writers who presented their work there were French-American poet Chris Tysh, Greek poet Dimitris Lyacos, Larry Jaffe (American poet and social activist), the Irish performance poets Neil McCarthy and Stephan
127 Nancy Bishop, letter to the author, 4 March 2010.. 128 Farnsworth, “Paris/Prague?” Murray, alongside Clare Wigfall and the “Ancient Geeks,” Jane Kirwan, Lucien Zell, Karl Körner and Willie Watson. Although established in 2002, Litteraria Pragensia Books began regular production only in 2005, publishing mainly academic titles, including work by Slavoj Žižek, Rachel Blau DuPlessis, Ivan Havel, Tom McCarthy, Michal Ajvaz, Lisa Jarnot, Greg Ulmer, Johanna Drucker, Vadim Erent and Bonita Rhoads, Christian Bök, Keston Sutherland, and J.H. Prynne. In 2008, two volumes of writings by playwright Stewart Parker appeared under Clare Wallace’s editorship, including Parker’s previously unpublished TV plays. The press had formerly been linked to Litteraria Pragensia journal, established in 1990 by Martin Procházka at the Czech Academy of Sciences, which published work by Stephen Greenblatt, Jerome McGann, Mark Poster and Natalie Zemon Davis in its early issues. Both the journal and the press maintain connections to the legacy of Prague Structuralism and are identified with the resurgence of a “Prague School” of critical theory and poetics. From 2008 to 2009, Michael Koshkin and Jennifer Rogers’s Hot Whiskey Press was briefly active in Prague. In May 2008 Stephan Delbos and Marika Ley hosted Evropský Sen/The European Dream, a three-day festival of poetry, music and visual art from Prague and Berlin, at Chapeau Rouge, Popo Café Petl and the Globe. Participants included Catherine Hales, Mathias Traxler, Josef Hrubý, Alistair Noon, Lucien Zell, Elizabeth Gross and Christopher | 57 Crawford. During the same year, Natalya Dotsenko and Zuzana Hronková began an irregular poetry performance series at the Anglo-American University library—initially at a location on Maltézské náměstí (opposite Prague’s “beat hotel” at number 8), later at Letenská 1—with readings by Joshua Mensch, Justin Quinn, Alexander Jorgensen, Lucian Zell, Delbos, Crawford and Armand. April 2009 saw the week-long Micro-Festival Poetry Series, hosted by Armand, spread across four venues in Prague (Shakespeare & Sons, the Globe, Café Fra) and Brno (Skleněná Louka), featuring a mix of local and visiting writers including Petr Borkovec, Pam Brown, Stephan Delbos, Vincent Farnsworth, Michael Farrell, Philip Hammial, Jill Jones, Trevor Joyce, Kevin Nolan, Justin Quinn, Martin Reiner, Maurice Scully and Tomáš Míka. Rakish Angel, the first in a series of poetry pamphlets devoted to new Prague writing, appeared in November, containing work by Gil Fleischman, Jason Mashak, Sarah Borufka and Kateřina Rudčenková, edited by Stephan Delbos. By the end of the year a loose grouping of poets had begun to emerge, appearing regularly at the Alchemy reading series and, from February 2010, at Poezie Suterén—a nomadic weekly forum for poetic research and new writing in English and Czech, beginning in the basement of Café Ideal in Vinohrady—with readings by Scott Nixon, Joshua Mensch, Chris Crawford, Louis Armand, Stephan Delbos, Sylva Fischerová, Jaromír Typlt and Anne Brechin. With the decade coming to a close, there has been a tendency to speak of yet a third “renaissance” in Prague’s international literary scene. From a perspective of twenty years, the lure of periodisation, of identifying different groupings and tendencies, presents itself in ways that it did not in the past. The textual record, however, remains uneven and incomplete, rendering an historical view opaque at best, even when from time to time broad outlines appear to present themselves or defining traits seem to recur. It is of course no more possible to define such a thing as a Prague “poetics,” as it would be for any other geographical location. And yet, like communities of writers intimately identified with other cities around the world and at different times, it may be that a “Prague School” (or schools) exists. Yet whatever collective aesthetic may be attributed to writers living and working together in this particular space, it is always worth keeping in mind the nature of any habitation which goes beyond the mere contingencies of urban geography. “Our” space, as Henri Lefebvre once wrote,
remains qualified (and qualifying) beneath the sediments left behind by history, by accumulation, by quantification. The qualities in question are qualities of space, not qualities in space. To say that such qualities constitute a “culture,” or “cultural models,” adds very little to the matter.129 58 | How such a space is imaginatively constituted in and by language is the question which is perhaps most pressing for any writer, and above all for the writer whose habitation is first and foremost that of a foreign space, over which no sovereign claim is possible—“the foolish crown of no ignorance, no wisdom anymore”130—which is, of course, the space of language itself. Language, to paraphrase an often-evoked idea, establishes the realities for which history must seek explanation. Prague, the name of this city, echoes the word práh, meaning “threshold.” And it is the sense of living on a threshold— of performing in the gap between what history is able to measure and what its legislators seek to proscribe—that lends to this habitation its character of ostranenie—of strangeness and estrangement—just as in those old black and white Prague films that show us a protagonist trapped behind a mirror, face to face with a doppelganger about whose inner nature we struggle to grasp anything. Whatever else after twenty years may be said to characterise the Prague “scene” and its literary subcultures, in the end we have only the words with which to build anthologies and make sense of. As poet Barrett Watten says: “Finally the operators disappear and one language looks at another.”
129 Henri Lefebvre, The Production of Space, trans. Donald Nicholson-Smith (Oxford: Blackwell, 1991) 230. 130 Ginsberg, “The Return of Kál Majáles.” | 59 60 |
Photo: Jan Rasch Michal Ajvaz Two Compositions (from Empty Streets)
As I left the station the heat of the afternoon entered my lungs like a hot paste in which I distinguished the smells of asphalt, crumbling plaster and rotting fruit from the market nearby. Here the bus had its terminus; it stood on the other side of the street, on a break with its engine switched off. Then the bus drove up and I took a seat right at the back. As the walls beyond the windows changed I thought over my visit to the station concourse. I still had no idea whether my chat with the shop owner would be of any use to me in my search for Viola, but whatever it meant it had left me feeling pleased. I’d met people like the owner of Tam-Tam before. The life of one was very | 61 much like that of another. There wasn’t any real need for them to tell me their stories; I could tell by the way they moved their hands as if directed by a light, invisible current that the rest of their body was too heavy for them. Thirty years ago, when the realities of life in this country were transformed into a kind of weird dream and hope retreated from the world, in silence they went away into the void, a void which took various forms. There was nowhere in the world now emerging they were able to live, so they found themselves a no-place and settled there, for years. When ten years ago the dream dissolved, they were used to this void in which they had lived for so long; they loved their no-place, its magic was well known to them, they were at home with the miracle of its fauna and flora. What the world was now offering them, so it seemed, was precious little. All those years partaking of the wonderful nectar of nothingness had made them hard to please; they had no appetite for food of another kind, nor could the splendours of any other building compare to those of the palace of emptiness. So they stayed there. This does not mean that they all lived on abandoned station concourses; often they walked among us. But wherever they were, still they were nowhere, carrying with them their emptiness as if it were a lightweight tent. Other people would feel rather sorry for them, were sometimes contemptuous of them: “He’s not capable of coming back to the real world,” they would say. Even so, perhaps those who said these things had some kind of awareness of how much our world needed the point of view of those who never came back. It was a point of view which protected the sick things in our world by spreading around them a healing emptiness, a balmy nothingness which took long years to mature and as such was a fruit of the past, bringing sense, conciliation, hope and joy. At home I put the CD into the player and lay down on the couch. The first composition I would hear had a strange title: The Revelation and End of the Orange Book: a sonata whose pianist plays behind walls at three in the morning. Though the man at Tam-Tam had prepared me for it, at first I was more than confused by the music I heard. For a long time there was no sound at all, then after five minutes or so there was a sound which might have been that of a train in the distance. I had to quiet my breathing and strain my ears. There was another long silence before I made out the faint hum of a distant conversation. This was submerged by another wave of silence, from which I unpicked various rustlings, creakings, something somewhere knocking into something, something rolling around something and then stopping, something pointed which was scratching, something crumbling ... These might have been tiny sounds on the outer wall of a house, or a din softened by a great distance. Try as I might to hold my breath, I was half an hour into the piece and still I hadn’t been able to make out a single note from a piano. Perhaps the walls 62 | behind which the pianist was sitting were so many that I was not going to hear anything of his composition. Then again, why should I be disappointed by a sonata which is swallowed up by walls? I was beginning to understand the man at Tam-Tam: these sounds which bordered on silence were changing my apprehension of both sound and silence. It no longer seemed that there was any great difference between them. While silence was full of nascent sounds, sounds were drenched in the silence out of which they were born. And so it was enough for me to listen calmly to the silence of a night in the early 1980s, the subject of Cj’s narrative, and to know that it contained a piano sonata. But then the sonata really did make itself heard. The notes of a piano softened by distance and many walls insinuated themselves among the other sounds, by which they were received in friendship. The piano music did not rise above the other sounds. At that moment its notes were the children of silence just as were theirs. And likewise its main purpose was to protect and preserve the fabric of the silence, the breathing of which continued to give life to all sounds without making differences between them. The pianist was surely playing far away, behind many walls; several times the sonata was lost for a while in the silence or else it was stifled by the rustlings of a town at night, sounds which were barely louder than the sound of the keys. I tried to make out which moods and sensations this distant composition was conveying. The problem with this was that all these seemed to have their base in the mother, silence; their separation from her was incomplete and each took a share in ensuring her peace. Yet the small step they took from the mother was enough to reveal a dark desperation, which was then lost in the reconciling silence. At those moments when the piece was heard somewhat more clearly, it was possible to make out a recurring melody which was playing variations on a basic motif of four notes—D, A flat, B, C—as they rode the mournful arc from initial rise to the resignation of decline, and back again. A short time later the sonata was lost again in the silence. The silence lasted some ten minutes, after which came a scraping and scratching before the piece ended. I might compare the piece to a blank, white screen, upon which all there is are a few greyish lines, which are at first sight practically indiscernible. It lasted almost an hour, and for most of that time all there was to hear was silence. My thoughts returned to the man at Tam-Tam; I could understand why he liked music like this. His whole life he must have cultivated an appreciation of nothingness, learned to savour the nuances of emptiness. I thought, too, of Viola listening to the sounds of the night, and wondered if there was some kind of connection between the night-time silences Julie had spoken of and those of twenty years ago. Indeed, was not his composition witness to Cj’s having at that time sat at night in an unlit room, listening for something? Among the sounds of the night, had he been searching for the same voice as Viola? And, of course, still I did not know what the Orange | 63 Book of the piece’s title was. Perhaps it was precisely this which held the key to the Viola mystery and that of the double trident. From the composition all I had been able to make out was that the book was connected closely with an immense sadness. What followed was the piece which had the double trident as its title. If you were not listening to it with any great concentration you might have noticed in it very little to set it apart from traditional forms of music. But it was not my impression that Cj was returning humbly to tradition after his experimental period: rather, that here silence was engaged in a campaign of aggression on tradition’s territory. It seemed that since the composer had spent some time in sound’s borderlands and had there learned the life of silence, he heard the rhythms of silence in every sound and every note; now he wished to deploy its power in the realm which in relation to the mutterings of silence was the most distant, and which put up the greatest resistance to them. This was the realm of notes, rhythms and keys, musical motifs and melodies which were pure. The piece began with a babble of different motifs, dozens of them perhaps, invading each other’s territory and then blending one into another, as if caught up in a dreamlike whirl. The world this music was opening up was one of chaos, but also one replete with hope and expectation. At the same time it seemed to me that it was shot through with the melancholia of reminiscence: perhaps the composer was recalling a joyful beginning of long ago. Out of this whirl three different motifs came to the fore and then fought themselves free; each of these took on echoes of the others, more and more they came to resemble one another, without, however, surrendering their uniqueness. In the piece’s next part they became entwined to form a single melody, though not even then was the fusion complete as each motif retained a semblance of independence. I had an image of a rope woven from three sources. And who was to say that these sources were only three? Out of the three-in-one melody I was able to distinguish with ever greater certainty a fourth strand, one which was light in both colour and weight and which differed from the original three. It was as if the composer had wished to suppress it, as if he had not wished or was not supposed to refer to it but at the same time had been unable to prevent himself from thinking of it. I had the feeling that a darker and heavier strand would succeed the one which was denied, as if this was a thin, light, practically imperceptible thread from a coil of rope really immensely strong and able alone to bear the entire load. While I was listening I fiddled with the case of the CD. At one point my eye was caught by the double trident symbol which gave the piece its title; it suddenly came to me that it could be some kind of diagram of musical composition, where the lower oval represented the undifferentiated whirl of the beginning, the three arms of the lower trident the three strands of melody 64 | which would work themselves free. That the arms drew closer to each other meant a growing similarity between the individual motifs, while the vertical line which the arms of the lower trident led into denoted the weaving of the motifs into a single melody. Then I had another idea: did not the content of this piece provide a history in music of the White Triangle? Was Cj’s music perhaps describing how Cj, U and Nm drew closer together, to the point where a fellowship was formed, which at that time may or may not have been the White Triangle. Let us see, I told myself, whether the shape of things will continue to correspond to the development of a piece of music. But what was I to make of this fourth, more luminous strand? There was something in it which reminded me of the melody in the last piece played by the night-time, wall-muffled piano. And this it did indeed become: the notes D, A flat, B, C sounded again. After this the Orange Book motif melted back into the luminous strand out of which it had broken. What was the meaning of this? I had the feeling that the Orange Book had somehow closed, had retreated from the world. Might someone have stolen or destroyed it? If this composition really was referring to a time twenty years before, it was of course highly likely that the Orange Book—whatever it was—had existed in a single typescript, and that this had been lost. I remembered similar instances from my own experience. Shortly after this the luminous strand, too, died away. The notes I was hearing now displayed the starkness of despair. With the expiry of the luminous strand some kind of break occurred in the composition: I was convinced that this moment signified the horizontal line in the diagram which was the intersection with the vertical, so dividing the symbol into two halves. As the piece went on a dissonance built among the three remaining strands, and three melodies again extricated themselves from the whole; the vertical line opened itself up into the three arms of the upper double trident—the ways of Cj, U and Nm had parted. The whole thing drew to a close in notes which expressed conciliation and sadness, as in the first piece. Each of the strands held echoes of the magically transformed notes of the luminous strand and the motif of the Orange Book. I had the impression that Cj was letting me in on the secret I’d been struggling to untangle, that he was keeping nothing from me—but he was telling me all this in the language of music, which I was incapable of transferring into words and pictures. The least penetrable of the events the music described came in the middle of the piece and represented the cross line at the centre of the symbol. This was the blind spot the man at Tam-Tam had spoken of; it referred to the time when the mysterious Orange Book had appeared or been discovered, soon after which—it seemed—somehow it had vanished. It was my bet that during this time the double trident symbol had first appeared, meaning that the double trident was a diagram which represented its own creation. For a little while yet I mused on the events Cj’s music was telling of, until | 65 the effort of doing so gave me a headache. I couldn’t stop myself feeling agitated. Unable to stay in the flat, I determined to seek out the building with the double trident which the Tam-Tam man had mentioned. I hurried out to make sure that I got to the station while it was still light.
Translated by Andrew Oakland. First published in Café Irreal 26 (2007). 66 |
Photo: Jorn Ake Jorn Ake Atlas Ptáků
This morning the bird arrived with the wrong colors more beautiful in the Prague outside the window than in the book full of pictures with wrong names. I tried to watch my language at the kitchen table without losing sight of my tongue. My wife said I needed lessons and some money to be happy at a bookstore with some coffee. I thought only about my tongue’s depression. The birdseed washed away with the rain but the bird came back again and again, | 67 returning to the continental tree from the island window ledge, another’s bell voice counting the trips out loud. The magpie arrived on the chimney and called down his ř-ř-ř-ř-ř-k that I could not make with my tongue. My wife was being right in Bratislava, then Budapest and finally at a dam on the river Danube where wetlands were more unfortunate. I could not say what I saw. I was looking through binoculars at a country with a history of oppressive lenses. The language was my fault. Still, when the falcon flew over the birds fled no matter what name I used, and the lady in the window of the other building waved to me or at me or just away from herself. Raphael
The air raid sirens are like truth spilled from a bucket at the top of a pole—
soon someone will be dead or heavily wounded
and their house will be in flames.
You hear the doors of the neighborhood open and close, slamming each way,
while underneath, your heart’s pounding
as you grab the kids and shove them down into the shelter
68 | where you wait.
After, you go back upstairs to finish with breakfast or reading the paper—
nothing changes, except for the dead.
I used to call my sister in New Jersey to tell her we were okay,
but she’d just say, Do you know what time it is here? It’s the middle of the night.
We were all asleep. On Dogs & Urban Warfare
If a bird then a dog then another bird. If food then the dog again and again. If the sky then a gun and a hand and a helicopter. Oh helicopter, like a bird, then another bird, the dog’s run off, where’s the food, where’s my gun, when’s that hand pointing at the sky going to go off empty again again.
| 69 Great Pickup Lines of the 20th Century
The red barn blue sky green trees amber water spuming white over granite as a minor league pitcher leans over a fence towards a girl with big teeth,
Your eyes are like Coca-Cola, he says.
This is an honest poem.
In 1909 Albert Kahn spent his fortune on 72,000 autochromes lumières, a color process made of starch rolled onto a glass photographic plate,
convinced people would not destroy what they could see was made of flesh.
This was followed by World War I.
70 | World War II.
And Kodachrome.
So much depends upon…
In 1966, Larry Burrows saw a colored man stagger into the arms of another colored man on a hilltop in a forest of slaughtered trees near Dong Ha,
only they were colored differently and no one was laughing at the name of the place, the mud and blood thicker
than laughter
and dismemberment better than memory at recalling what was torn from the body and what was given back in carefully labeled bags.
Makes you think all the world’s a sunny day…
On February 1, 1968 General Nguyen Ngoc Loan put a bullet in the ear of Nguyen Van Lem and Eddie Adams made it black and white. Still, color came out of Nguyen Van Lem’s brain and entered the mind of several million Americans, who said in survey after survey that blood sure looks like blood when seen on an RCA.
His master’s voice.
Then today in Jerusalem, a woman leaned into the window of a car and a katyusha rocket from the West Bank cut her in half, the photographer angling to get not just the blood but the body and the car flaming like a cauldron dropped out of the sky into the forge of Hephaestus.
If you hear nothing, you had better get the fuck down.
My first camera was a Nikon, purchased after seeing one slung around the neck of Tim Page | 71 reclined in Vietnam like it was his sofa.
Even now, when I walk out into my backyard I think of Vietnam, not because my backyard is a jungle—
I don’t even have a backyard.
I live in New York City on East 96th Street. One grandfather was a minister, the other, a surgeon— a Presbyterian and a Lutheran.
So before me there was a belief in God, and then a string of images I remember flowing out of Vietnam like entrails carefully unraveled from an opened body.
The Lutheran put men back together on a hospital ship in the Pacific during World War II. The Presbyterian spent the war in a prison camp in Manila, Philippines with his family.
I became a poet.
…a red wheelbarrow, glazed with rain water, beside the white chickens.
Take a plane across the country a week after a major disaster and look for Srebrenica, Mogadishu, Banda Aceh
lodged in a Motel 6 of the national consciousness and you’ll find free coffee, a clean mattress and all the donuts you can eat before the salesmen get up.
This is my backyard.
Take a photograph. It’ll last longer.
Meanwhile, a boy leans through a low hole in a wall to look at a group of American soldiers 72 | carefully working their way up an alley in Sadr City
no wider than he is tall—
the hole placed perfectly for an IED.
Hey baby, come here often?
Longer and longer. Birdwatching at Yaxchilan
The afternoon after the curassow, a helicopter with a government minister from Guatemala looking for his son, a kayaker on the Usumacinta three weeks late for dinner—
Nobody, we haven’t seen any bodies in the river today—
That night, the URNG serenaded teenage Mexican soldiers from across the river | 73 with the screams of jaguars they’d learned by sleeping light, tracer bullets arcing overhead like hummingbirds fighting in the heat of midday.
Later in Lagos de Montebello the children of refugees showered us with flowers then threw rocks at our car as we left.
From Boys Whistling Like Canaries (Spokane and Cheney: Eastern Washington University Press, 2009). 74 |
Vincent Farnsworth & Gwendolyn Albert, Tábor, 1994. Gwendolyn Albert Final Rewards (a collection of facts)
Charles VIII, a monarch accidentally smashed his head against the lintel of a doorway in the Château d’Amboise and died in agony (1498). His dying words were: I hope never again to commit a mortal sin, | 75 nor even a venial one, if I can help it.
{a venial sin being one which is pardonable, such as clumsiness}
Machiavelli, a politician said at the last: I love my country more than my soul. and Žižka, a religious fanatic: Make my skin into drumheads for the Bohemian cause! and Goethe, a poet: light, more light abulia
1. dissidents hung in the boiler room translating Plato
2. divide the waste among the worlds publish a classification
3. the inventor of dynamite shows his remorse not so Robert J.
4. cradle the skull of your nursery school teacher primary colors snack
5. a muffled crusade meets a microphone the horses balk
6. there is a nation of common assumptions 76 | day night hunger cold rest
7. to distract myself from personal distress I think of the unjustly murdered
8. to distract myself from the unjustly murdered I go to the movies
9. enemy you are the treadmill you are the thread running breakfast to dinner
10. friends, where is the boiler room where are the subtitles for our film? democracy
you can’t hear yourself think so you give your voice to someone else the choice of choices avoiding its self- evident truths but GOOD LUCK! surviving the banks of wasted effort | 77 on which this flag can be seen to wave it stands for you so you stand for it as through the night sky through the sea and under the earth people murder in your name just a little something you can call your own yes you stand for this and you stand that then it’s time to vote economic power
producer distributer good and service loan shark war profiteer all toil to survive in a world of blooming lilacs
pigeons icebergs Sauvignon grapes silverfish earwigs seismic rifts silkworms, little white daisies turning
pink, the sweep of cirrus clouds the Doppler effect, the fennel seed basil, mustard, olives, capers
tenderness toward the very young the sick the old or for no reason algae, tobacco,
78 | plums and viruses poppy seeds cornstarch honey space between the candle
and the flame, vitreous waves of the sea and
sunshine adrenaline tears from laughing hair that curls and lips and breasts
a castle moat overgrown with green on a world patrolled
by satellite Jocasta
is a survivor the next day she cut off all her hair and sat at the window her morning gown the color of bruises her beautiful feet bare she was the context of their first moments they pushed and pulled her like hot wax like wet cement in Vienna she | 79 rode the streetcar a hundred women drank coffee spoke German wore eyes the color of bruises this is what it means to be Queen
80 | | 81 82 | | 83 84 |
Photo: Thomas Langdon Hana Androniková V. Samsara
I have always been intrigued by the fact that cows in India are sacred. Unmolested, they roam the streets of towns and villages. In some parts they have a bell round their neck and a jasmine topknot on their head, sometimes they are painted. But mostly they are wretched. Gaunt, filthy and sick, they munch away on pounds of rotting waste, eating up slops, paper, or bits of cloth they find along the wayside. Drivers, rickshaw-men and pedestrians break their necks avoiding the cows sprawled in the middle of the road. Anyone who happens to bump into one must face the outrage of the crowd. Cows have power. They can bring traffic to a standstill. And people show them respect. Yet many of them die of starvation. | 85
Mother was brisk and impatient, and Zam was as slow as a cow’s digestive system. By the time anything finally worked its way through Zam’s wiring her nerves would be in shreds. I had no problem with his tempo. Zam would mix a dough of water and dark, coarsely ground wheat flour with a little bran. He pinched off a bit of the dough, rolled it into a ball, then flattened it into a pancake, flipping it from one hand to the other. That regular slapping sound is music. Chapatti. As soon as the thin pancake landed on the circular opening over the fire it puffed up. His skilled hand swiftly turned it over and it was done. The Indians eat chapattis with everything; they stuff them with vegetables, scoop up sauce with them, wipe their plates clean. The chapatti is their bread as well as knife, fork and spoon. A complete place setting all in one.
My father worked until he dropped. He would stay on at the site until he felt he had things more or less under control. Sometimes he didn’t come home for days on end. The Indians were stubborn, but that didn’t bother him. No one was more mulish than Raquel. The coolies were willing, they just refused to work with anything technical, with new tools, with anything not tested and proved over centuries. He tried to pacify Ruda Martinec, who he had been levelling the site for three days, yet the result was hard to see. Just deep furrows and gaping holes sixty yards across, twelve feet deep. —Sorry, boss, I really don’t know what to do. I’ve brought in some carts so they won’t wear themselves out filling the holes, but they just beg me to let them carry the stuff on their heads. I tell them hell will freeze over before they’re done, but they complain that shovels make their hands ache. We don’t know how to shovel soil, they moan, let us carry it in baskets on our heads. Yesterday they demonstrated how useless they were at it—and today they’re on strike. —Hell freezing over probably doesn’t mean much to them. —How on earth am I to run a sight with these primitives? How can I make them get something done and at the same time make sure they don’t ruin what’s been done already? Thomas looked grave. —You realise where the snag is, don’t you? Ruda shrugged and made a long face. —If you treat someone like an idiot, they’ll start acting like one. He set aside the roll of drawings, locked the office and followed Martinec back to the workmen. He picked up a shovel. Let’s show them how it’s done. If a sahib can use a shovel, they will follow suit. Martinec grabbed a shovel and joined him. 86 | —You’re taking a bit of a chance, boss. Suppose they don’t join in? I bet they can spend hours just watching. —Let’s see who gives up first. —Well, I think we’ll be fit to drop and they’ll still have the strength to stand there gaping. The workmen stuck it out long enough for both sahibs to be sinking, but not long enough for Thomas to give up. After two or three hours, the crowd around them grew, some of the men started to fidget and touch the wooden handles of the shovels. Then gradually, cautiously, they yielded to the monotonous rhythm. Ruda straightened his back and slapped Tom’s shoulder in approval. Tom staggered like an old drunk.
He was to look in on the boss. Bártoš was pacing the office, waving his arms in agitation. From the window he could see the open space on the river bank. Piles of bricks, bamboo scaffolding, the ground looking as if a bomb had landed, people everywhere. An ant-hill on fast forward. —We need that three-storey building and we need it now. The old warehouse is bursting at the seams. When can you start? —As soon as we complete the loading bays at the station and get the drains linked up. Fortnight, I assume. —What? You want to start concreting during the rainy season? —Yes. —Seriously? —Yes. —Okay, you know what you’re doing. When are you going to start shifting the jetty? Can you speed things up? Thomas paused for a moment. He didn’t like false promises. —Well, I could, but I’d need more people. From home. —Don’t you have enough? He could feel the exhaustion. His neck stiff with a string of sleepless nights, his lungs loaded with forty cigarettes a day. But here was a chance, an opportunity not to be missed. He fought hard to concentrate and make his point so there could be no room for doubt. —Martinec is busting his hump, but he can’t keep up with ordering all the materials. I deal with the suppliers myself, or he’d never get any sleep. Kielkowský spends the day and night on the plans, doesn’t have time to deal with budgets, so I do that myself too. Švarc handles deliveries and Zítek does the accounts, fulltime. So there’s no one to oversee the actual site. —How many? —Two or three should be enough, but no greenhorns. I need men who know what they’re about, aces who understand construction and can keep the workmen on their toes—this needs redoing, mix the mortar properly, get this rendering fixed. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. | 87 —I need men who can get the coolies to stop carrying everything on their heads. Bricks, cement, mortar, at a snail’s pace. Otherwise we’re going nowhere fast. They have to be people steeled against these folk’s perpetual tomorrow. —I’ll ask for two foremen. You’ll have them here within five weeks. —Thanks. We’ll move the jetty after the monsoons are over.
He was standing knee-deep in the muddy water. The formwork strained to the limit, soil dissolving into a brown mash and the persistent patter of raindrops landing in hungry puddles. —Where the hell are they? Ruda Martinec, his wild mop of hair plastered on his head like a helmet, was yelling into the shafts of rain. —Don’t know. But if they don’t get here this minute, we’ll be up shit creek! Thomas took two flamingo steps closer and surveyed the layout. —Get out of here! I mean it. —What about you? —Let’s go! A landslide. The earth shifted and holes opened up in bomb crates. Not one company, for miles around, was doing any construction work, except for the geniuses at Baťa. Sinking foundations and setting concrete in the monsoon, you’d have to be insane. Or suicidal. Thomas knew he was neither. He only needed more pumps. By the end of the week they had evolved an efficient method: the flood of pumps set against the rain, the mixer pouring concrete into the foundations before the holes disappeared under water. Inch by inch, they poured the concrete into the crisscross of shuttering. They linked finished skewbacks with strips of rebar to deaden the shocks from earthquakes. The foundations were ready in six weeks. Ruda Martinec shouted to him over his shoulder. —Your wife rang, boss. He straightened up and for a moment wondered what that meant. —Has something happened? —She asked the same. Said she hadn’t heard from you for a week. Wanted to know if you’re still alive. He nodded. Thanks, Ruda. —You ought to go and see her. I can take care of things here.
Arm bent, fingers gripping a white handle, pale brown liquid filling a china cup. She was pouring herself a cup of tea. Leaning against the doorframe, he observed the curve of her back. 88 | —Did you send for me, madam? Her startled cry bounced off the wall. She swung round, the teapot lid clinked. —You frightened the life out of me! His footsteps were leaving visible traces of mud. —Frightened? —I didn’t recognise you. Her smile still heavy with the fright. Layers of dust had turned his hair a strange grey colour, half-an-inch stubble betrayed a weeklong absence of the razor, and the darkness of his complexion could be as much from the sun as from dirt. Millwheels of sweat in the armpits of his shirt. —You look like a savage. He stepped towards her. —Where is he? —Who? Daniel? In bed. She breathed in a medley of odours. Sweat, cement, tobacco, lime, mortar, rain. He took the teacup from her hand and set it back down on the tray. The tablecloth behind her was a field of flowers and tropical fruits. He lifted her onto the table. Breathless, she tried to resist. —He’s not asleep yet. He’s waiting for his story. —Let him wait. —Mu-mmeeee! —I don’t think he’s going to. His eyes shot up, he let go of her dress. —Can you tell him something short? —Can you go and have a wash? She ran her hands down her dress to smooth away his hand prints. He switched off the dining-room lights, headed for the bathroom and reached for the soap. He left the door ajar to catch the bedtime story.
I’m going to tell you about the brave warrior of the Mixtecs who became the first ruler. One day, he climbed a hill and cried out: Whosoever wishes to be lord of this land must defeat me in battle! Everyone heard, but no one wanted to pit their strength against his. As he came back down the hill, the rising Sun tickled his face. The warrior thought that the Sun was challenging him to a duel. So he took his bow and shot an arrow at the Sun. But the Sun didn’t even notice and continued on his way across the sky. The warrior remained on the alert right until the moment the Sun set below the horizon. I’ve conquered the Sun! he shouted into the silent landscape. I’ve conquered the Sun! And so he became the first ruler of the Mixtecs. And ever since that time the Mixtecs have called their rulers “he who conquered the Sun.” | 89 —But that was only a short story. —I’ll tell you a longer one tomorrow. —But the Sun didn’t even fight with him. —No, it didn’t. —So how could he win, without a fight? —You sometimes can win if the other one doesn’t put up a fight. And sometimes you can win by not fighting yourself. You let the other one think he’s won. As the saying goes, discretion is the better part of valour. And the Sun had the discretion not to put up a fight. You can only do that when you are so strong that you don’t have to prove you’re better. Now, go to sleep.
When she entered the bedroom, he was grinning. —So how could he win, without a fight? —Stop it. —I’m not sure if he understood your definition of a victory that isn’t one and a fight without fighting. I certainly didn’t. —Well, he did. —And there’s me, always puzzled who he gets his brains from. He laughed and grabbed at her. —You’re roaring like a tiger. If Dan hears you he’ll have nightmares. —Just as long as he doesn’t come in here.
A monsoon storm swept across Batanagar. It was too much for the warehouse roof. The iron sheeting rolled up like wrapping paper, roof fittings and mountings gave under the weight of water. The wall of the engineering works collapsed; the bamboo scaffolding of the petrol station lay scattered like matchsticks. Any prospect of a decent sleep vanished in the rainy haze.
Once the monsoons passed, my father came to Darjeeling to bring us back. We had taken refuge there for a few weeks to escape the stifling heat and floods. Mother, Kavita and me. I looked forward to getting back to Calcutta. I was sitting in the kitchen, watching Zam’s hands. He crushed the cooked lentils, heated some oil in a frying pan, browned a spoonful of cumin seeds, added a finely chopped onion and waited until it turned golden-brown. Then he tipped the mashed lentils into the pan and sprinkled in a spoonful of turmeric, a pinch of salt and some green chillies. In fifteen minutes it was done.
The construction division had to remodel some of the larger stores. They divided the work, splitting India into parts, and set out. Tom headed south, to Hyderabad and Madras.
90 | After three weeks he returned to Calcutta. He came home late at night, tired and hungry. He crept into the bedroom, sat on the bed and watched her sleeping, her breath feeding his lungs, her dreams shifting stars and planets on his navy sky. Dressed, he fell asleep next to her. In the morning, he woke to an empty bed, spaced out and slow. He found her in the bathroom; she was sitting on the edge of the bath, breathing deeply. —Raquel, what’s the matter? He bent over her and inspected her closely. She was unusually pale. —I’ll send for Doctor Seagal. —He was here yesterday. I’m all right. —All right? Did he say that? She smiled. —I’ve got another builder for you. He raised an eyebrow and let out a whistle. —I bet I’m the last to know. —Well, you’re hardly ever home. —You could have written me, like last time.
They told me I would be getting a little brother or sister for my sixth birthday. I wanted a brother. Girls in India count for nothing. Kavita once told my mother that when her cousin had a baby girl her husband was so angry that he cut his wife’s ear off. It was clear to me that girls were a punishment.
Then there were days when my mother was out of sorts. I came to the dining table straight from bed. She looked at me sternly. —Go and brush your teeth and get dressed, now. You’re not having breakfast in your pyjamas. —Why do I have to brush my teeth in the morning when I haven’t eaten anything all night? She glanced at Thomas, quite upset. He went on stirring his coffee and that made her even more annoyed. —Daddy will explain. —Do what mummy says, Dan. I’ll explain afterwards. I flounced off towards the bathroom and listened to snatches of what they were saying. —Darling, how am I to explain that he must brush his teeth in the morning when he hasn’t eaten all night? Anyway, I’m in a rush to get to work. —I just haven’t got the energy to argue with either of you, Tom. —I know. But you look good. She rolled her eyes. —He so takes after you, Raquel. Analysing everything, and woe betide if something doesn’t make sense. He can’t stand rules for rules’ sake. —Come on, Tom. Cleaning one’s teeth in the morning is not just some rule; it’s basic hygiene. | 91 —There you are. I can go and explain it to him now you’ve given me a decent case to make. She looked for something to throw at him. There was a bowl of oranges behind her, she reached for one, but he was already at the door. —I’ll get you some knives, the kind they throw in the circus. That’ll be more fun.
Martinec came hurtling into the office, frantic. —There’re some cobras in the warehouse, boss. Dozens of them. —So? Chase them out. —But—but how? The men are scared of them. —Damn, heat at home and cobras at work. A few minutes later Tom showed up at the warehouse with a bunch of grinning natives at his heels, each armed with a stick and a sack over the shoulder. —Right then, Ruda. These men will show you how to get rid of a few snakes. He marched straight inside, a stick in his hand. Martinec was racked with doubt. —Are the bastards poisonous? Tom paused at the door and treated Martinec to a lukewarm smile. Fatal, he said dryly. —But the good news is that people who die of a cobra bite are cleansed of their sins. They get buried whole, you see. They don’t have to be cremated. It’s redemption, actually. —Oh. I feel much better now.
* The child was born still. Kavita said it was a curse, that the Shivor’s crone had cast a spell on mistress. I didn’t really understand, but I felt something dreadful had happened. I remember my parents, their bodies wrapped up in pain, my mother’s eyes blank pages, no stories to tell. I walked through the house, silent, invisible to everyone. I overheard Kavita telling Zam that mistress had been seized by demons. I was frightened, but I knew my father would do everything to drive the demons away.
He tried to reach her. —Raquel? Something in her flipped, sinking down into a place he couldn’t see. He held her tight, but his arms felt empty, his voice fractured in his mouth. He kept saying her name. Stay with me; his fingers gripping her loose flesh. 92 | Please, don’t. You can’t leave me like this. Slowly her eyes came back, her face unfolded as she recognized him, filling out in the grip of his arms. He was shaking, his lips against her face. —Promise me you won’t go mad.
Through the crack in the door I watched the people in the house, doctor Seagal and others I’d never seen before. Then they took something away in a small wooden box. I stayed with Kavita, who kept chanting her mantras, calling on her gods and good spirits, leaving me behind in a wake of broken shapes and sounds. After that, everything changed. Mother stopped telling me bedtime stories, which lasted the whole summer. Father would come home early and take me for walks or to the cinema. There were dozens of cinemas on Chauringi. I remember them all, and the cartoons, too. Mickey Mouse, Felix the Cat, Popeye the Sailorman, and my father next to me, laughing like a kid. Before I went to sleep he would tell me about the work at the site, and about the most beautiful buildings in the world.
Agra. Mogul architecture. The Taj Mahal. A white marble mausoleum on the edge of the desert. Rabindranath Tagore wrote that the Taj Mahal was a teardrop on the cheek of time. In 1631, when his wife, the Persian princess Mumtaz Mahal, died in childbed, Shah Jahan summoned the best of Asia’s artists, craftsmen and builders. It took them twenty-two years to complete the spectacular shrine. Legend has it that Shah Jahan was so distressed by his wife’s death that in just a few months his black beard and hair went completely white. The palace changes colour with the seasons and with the time of day, blushing at dawn, gold with the moon on it. The colours are said to reflect the changes of a woman’s mood.
—Mummy also feels pink sometimes. —Yes, she does. —Can we go and see it? —Would you like to?
A year later we did. On the way to Agra we stopped at Benares.
Pilgrims at the ghat, in the river of rituals, the sacred rite of washing. A Hindu with the golden beads of a Brahmin round his neck, the highest caste. The goddess washing away all human sins. The Ganges. Long ago she had flowed in Heaven. Father told me that Benares was older than Jerusalem, a city already ancient when Rome was formed. The holiest place on the Ganges, centre of the world. If you die in Benares, you become one with the universe. Mother turned round. Two steps from her sat a young man, dark-skinned, | 93 almost naked, his chest covered in black hairs, in the lotus position. Deep meditation in the midst of the chaos at the ghats. I strayed away from my parents, delirious, wandering among crowds, taking in images, smells and noises. A knot of people squatting round a fire, a charred body on a pile of wood, only dried feet poking out from the flames. I stood transfixed. I tried to turn away, but rooted to the spot, I kept looking at the remains of the burning corpse. And there I saw him. A legless man, crooked, with a humped back, who had no trouble walking. The pilgrim’s arms were his legs. The way he walked on his hands made me wonder why we needed legs at all. My body is a prison in which I suffer for my past lives, he said. The Ganges is a goddess, the Ganges is pure. Forever.
Rain streaming down the ghats, dead bodies burning on pyres for the ashes to be carried away by the river, cries framing the air. Rama’s name is truth. Rama’s name is truth. Rama’s name is truth. Do you see, Danny? They’re burying a holy man. —His body won’t be burned? —No. They’ll wrap it in cloth, weight it with stones and throw it in the river. The bodies of holy men and children are without sin, they don’t have to be purified by fire. —So if I died now, would you throw me in the river too?
Benares. A groove in the memory. The nighttime river swallowing a purple sky, hundreds of fires and stinging smoke. The dark orange glow on the walls of the temples, the dead in embroidered covers, the living in colourful plaids. Human bodies are torches in the chain of temples and recurring births and deaths, in the cycle of day and night, of months and years, in the boundless river of a human longing for purification and eternal deliverance. Salvation on the stone steps beside the sacred waters.
At Benares, our journey leaves the Ganges and turns towards Agra, others continue upstream. The legless Jaman Lal carries his mother’s ashes in a canvas bag, so as to throw it into the river at Hardvar and add his name to the book of Hindu pilgrims. There in the Himalayas the goddess Ganges flows down the hair of the dancing Siva, garlands of flowers burning, floating on the river to unite the soul of the deceased with the souls of the grieving. There, the legless pilgrim will have his head shaved and set off once more, into the desert.
Raquel wrote to Regina.
If I hadn’t fallen in love with India long before this, I would have been swept off my 94 | feet on the way to Agra. Like when I started dancing lessons. I don’t have much to compare it with, because I’ve never been anywhere else abroad, but the Orient has enchanted me. No one’s in a hurry, no one makes plans, cows meander through the streets in a flood of sounds and colours. It’s an endless carnival, one costume more inventive than the next. Everything here has colour, even the air; sunlight shimmers gold and the night is blue. I no longer suffer at the sight of poverty. I even got used to the crippled beggars crawling in the dust of the streets, little children who grab at your sleeve until you give them something. The longer you stay in this country, the more ordinary all these contrasts seem. Cashmere scarves and pearls and coral beads from the Indian Ocean; a myriad human faces, languages and gods.
The Rowlatt Act of 1919 allowed imprisonment without trial, for opposition to British rule. Oppression and revolt, Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi and passive resistance. A tiny man moving hundreds of millions of people. The temples opened under the weight of Gandhi’s words. There is no god, he said. If god were here, everyone could enter, for he dwells in each one of us. Gates, for centuries closed to lower-castes, sprung open, ancient prejudices crumbled. In 1935, the British parliament approved a new Constitution for India, which the Indians failed to appreciate. Officials of the Indian National Congress condemned the new Act, though a year later they did contest the elections held under the new constitution. They won and took office in seven of the eleven provinces. The gentlemen of the Muslim League conceded and Muhammad Ali Jinnah offered his cooperation. The representatives of the Congress, intoxicated by their triumph and blinded by their own arrogance, rejected his offer, thumbing their noses at the League. The gulf between the two sides grew too wide even for Ghandi to cross. In 1939, when the Viceroy announced that India was at war with Germany, the ministers of the Indian Congress were shocked, then tendered their resignation. No one had asked their opinion.
My parents admired Ghandi, his non-violent struggle for the liberation of India. Raquel read the Bhagavadgita. She knew whole passages by heart; she studied Buddhism, carried away by its simplicity and conciliatory nature. Unlike Hinduism, it did not justify the caste system. She told Tom about the basic ideas and principles of non-violent resistance. Ahinsa. In Sanskrit, sin means “willing to kill,” ahinsa is the opposite, “unwilling to kill.” Ahinsa means non-violence. Tom looked interested. —So you like non-violence? Unbelievable. If I weren’t physically stronger than you, I’d be dead ten times over. As she glanced at him, he remembered the shattered dishes from their | 95 last scene. Ahinsa. He kept his mouth shut. I’ve spent a fortune on cups and plates. China’s useless; paper plates would be more practical.
The Taj Mahal. I was looking at the black marble inscriptions, the grand gateway, while my father got carried away. —The gate is a symbol of the divide between the world of the senses and the world of the spirit. For Muslims it is the gateway to Paradise. —What does it say here? —They’re quotations from the Koran. See how the writing is the same size wherever you stand? It’s a trick by the masters of calligraphy, a perfect optical illusion.
Finally we went inside. Arrays of cypresses and fountains, the symmetry of the Persian garden, a strip of water reflecting the Taj Mahal. At first sight it seemed small and distant, but that was another illusion, which faded away to be replaced by just another. The Taj Mahal grew. With every step it gained magnitude, us at its feet, I felt as if I were looking at the greatest building in the world. For Muslims four is a mystical number, my father said. Every element of the structure is made up of four parts, or a multiple of four, only the mosque is one, facing towards Mecca. Amazed, my head back, I turned slowly and the design of the dome kept changing, quotations from the holy book pouring down the inside walls. The image above me became a maelstrom, the ornamentation whirling round, and before I realised what was happening I hit the ground. Father hauled me to my feet. Boy! You can’t spin when you’re looking up. The mosque had a twin, a guest house; white marble flowers on red sandstone instead of quotations from the Koran. And then the centrepiece, the queen’s tomb in an octagonal space, echoes of ages, a glimpse of her shape in the tangle of light shattered against the milky glass. I shivered. Outside, everything was different. The mosque, the tomb, it would never fly without the minarets. Four slender fingers reaching up to the sky, lifting the giant above the ground.
We waited until dusk. Darkness set to show us another of the woman’s moods. In the evening it is white, lily white. Ancient love in cold marble. —What will you say if someone asks you what the Taj Mahal is? Father sometimes asked very strange questions. —A dream that comes true.
* 96 | The construction of Batanagar proceeded at a dizzying speed. They had sent him two pros, Pešat and Semotám. Pešat tossed himself on the drawings and paperwork that had been shuffled here and there for the past several weeks. Tom leaned against one heap and nodded. —Do something about this, Jiří, as fast as you can. The bureaucrats would have a field day. Then he took Semotám on a tour of the site. They stopped by a group that was digging trenches and putting in the shuttering. Tom leaned forward and blinked. —What do you think you’re doing? Ruda Martinec straightened and smiled at Tom and the tall, greying man behind him. Tom pointed to the shuttering. —Is this some sort of joke? Where are the plans? —No joke, this is the formwork for the foundations. —Fine, but what are you using as a guide? —The fence, boss. The blueprints are shit, excuse my French Tom smiled. Let me introduce you. Vladimír Semotám, site foreman, our fresh reinforcement from Zlín. Ruda Martinec, site foreman in India, takes fences as guidelines. So next time you’ve got problems with the plans, Ruda, get Vladimír to keep an eye on the men and you go and talk it out with Kielkowský. From now on I don’t want to hear there isn’t time. —Sorry, boss, but you can’t talk to Kielkowský. —It’s perfectly possible to talk to anyone, including Kielkowský. Even my wife from time to time, crossed his mind. —Before you start pouring in the concrete, give me a shout. I’ll come and check the dimensions. And take Vladimír out for a drink tonight and while you’re still sober put together a basic vocab of building terms and instructions. Vladimír doesn’t know a word of Hindi, so give him a hand. Otherwise he’s of no use here. That evening Martinec and Semotám stitched together a model Czech- Hindi dictionary: mix that mortar better, add more cement, more water, it’s all crooked, take it apart, and the like. Theoretically, it was perfect; practically, the twenty closely typed pages were a bit too much. The next day Semotám could be seen roaming the site with his nose in his notepad, flicking through it back and forth. A few days after the reinforcements arrived, Tom set off on his own rounds. He walked quickly, but quietly, trying to be invisible, as always, when he needed to check how things were really going. He sneaked towards a group of workmen who weren’t exactly overdoing it. They speeded up. He was sure he hadn’t been spotted yet, so he didn’t understand the abrupt change. One of the men gave a warning nod. —Watch it, Dammit-Sahib coming! And they were at it, hammer and tongs. Then round the corner came | 97 Semotám with his handmade dictionary, his loose canvas trousers flapping around his thin legs. Now and again he tripped, not looking where he was going, he kept scratching his head, as if thinking hard. Dammit-Sahib. Where had they got it from? Semotám tottered across to the workmen and pointed to a course of badly laid bricks. He wanted to say something, but got stuck in the pages of his dictionary, ruffling them back and forth, trying to find the right word. Dammit, where is it, he mumbled. Dammit, I’ve seen it somewhere. The men were nudging each other. —How do you say it, dammit. Ah, here it is. Beaming, Dammit-Sahib delivered the relevant sentence from his notes. The workmen, with smiles on their lips, began dismantling the bricks. So that’s Dammit-Sahib, Tom shook his head as he made his way back to the office. I wonder what the varlets call me.
When mum was well again, she said it was time for me to learn to read. She gave me a book full of pictures and letters and taught me how the letters went together to make up words. I could write DAN and wanted to know how to write Raquel and Tom. I had a lot of fun tracing round the letters with crayons and decorating them with faces and bodies of people and animals, outlines of the temples we had seen, or the flowers and trees that grew everywhere around. Dad would try to find the original letters or numbers hidden in the drawings. Come on then, let me see those spelled doodles, he would say as he sat down to dinner.
Time and again my mother told me I had to study. Knowledge is important, she used to say. Sluggish footsteps reached us from the hallway. —Knowledge doesn’t guarantee anything. A suntanned forearm in a rolled-up sleeve leaned on the door frame. Tom was standing in the door with a sceptical smile and a cigarette hanging from his lips. He was mumbling, words borne on fumes of whisky and I couldn’t make out what it was. —Far from it. People who overstress education protect themselves with a false sense of security. —What? She looked uneasy as she gazed at the corner of his shirt poking out of his trousers and his unbuttoned collar. Unconsciously she ran a hand down her blouse buttons, to check that she was tidy, and waited. —Yes, a false sense of security. The feeling of being superior to the uneducated. So they are proud of something that doesn’t exist. He removed the cigarette from his lips and carried on. —To have knowledge, my son, does not mean to understand. The depth of human understanding can’t be measured by erudition, can it, Mummy? 98 | She turned to me. —Go and get washed, Dan. Daddy’s tired. From the stairs I could hear them. —Don’t go confusing him, Tom. He could at least learn to read and write, don’t you think? I agreed with her on that. Then her tone altered. —What’s happened? Are you all right? —Absolutely. The plantation is complete, now we got a roof over our heads, the local snakes, too, of course. One big happy family. It’s glorious; I’ll take you by in the morning.
Batanagar. Baťa’s town on the banks of the Hooghly. The river carrying barges, boats with rice, construction materials, jute. Corpses wrapped in cloths. Years ago, he had discussed the project with the architect. Here would be the railway; here the port, the works, the administration block, housing. The houses smelled of fresh paint and drying concrete, the pavements were covered in gravel, a cobra here and there. Tom was showing Raquel the houses for employees, plastered brick boxes, lined up, looking like sugar cubes. Living-dining room, kitchen and cook’s quarters on the ground floor, three en-suite bedrooms and a balcony upstairs. Bamboo fences. —We can move in. Take your pick. Her eyes bulged and she started to stutter. —Me, but, it… no. I don’t want to move. —But everyone else is here, even Bartoš. We’re among the last not to have moved in. Don’t you like it? It’s just like the house in Zlín. —Just like? It’s not like it at all. It’s completely different. There’s nothing to do here. Look around you. He said nothing, just thrust his hands in his pockets. He knew how this would end. —What do the women do here when their men are at work? Embroidery? Knitting? I’m no good at knitting, I don’t want to knit. He crossed from the window to the door and back. He fished his silver cigarette case out of his pocket, then cautiously patting his other pockets he located his lighter. For a moment he rolled it between his fingers as if warming it. —I couldn’t stand it. They have a cook to do the cooking, a nanny for the kids, and it’s an hour to town by car, so what the hell do they do all day? What can they do? He clicked the cigarette case open, took out a cigarette and snapped the case shut. He tapped the cigarette against the case, then rolled it between his fingers. —Well, tell me! He turned his back on her. He ran his finger across the little knurled wheel and the lighter flared. He brought it up towards his face, jammed the | 99 cigarette between his lips and pushed the other end into the flame. He took a deep pull. The tobacco crackled, blazing orange. —I don’t want to move. Our house in town has character and— He removed his cigarette and exhaled the smoke. —Crumbling plaster, mould in the corners— She dismissed him with a wave of the hand. —It’s not that bad, and it isn’t even very expensive. We can afford it. If you don’t want to pay for it, I’ve still got Aunt Esther’s money. I can use that. Tom, here—it’s so— He kept pulling on his cigarette, the lighter and cigarette case now back in his pockets, gazing at her through the smoke. His silence stirred her up. —I don’t want to. I like your job, I respect it, but we don’t have to live at the plant. Here you can see it from the window, it’s just round the corner. I’d go mad. We’re not going to swap our banyan trees for this bush country with a factory. I don’t want to! He looked at her as if watching theatre. —And Daniel. When he goes away to school, I’d die here! She was about to collapse. Then she saw him laughing; he threw up his arms in defeat. —Enough. Stop, please. Spare me. My heart’s bleeding. She put her fingers to her lips, trying to calm down. Her hand was itching; she was dying to slap him. She couldn’t stand that amused, indulgent expression. —All right, then. We’ll stay in town. —You don’t mind? How could he mind? She was shifting her feet like a child. How could he refuse? It wasn’t worth the heat. —They’ll point at us and call us anti-social, but what wouldn’t I do for your peace of mind. And for his own.
When he came in from the site, he opened the post and leafed through the month-old, September 1937 issue of Svět. He laughed with delight and began reading aloud a piece on the construction of the Zlín skyscraper. The seventy-seven-metre tall administrative building will house a staff of two hundred. It rises to sixteen storeys, all linked by four automatic lifts, a lift for visitors, a paternoster and a goods hoist. The skeleton went up in five months, one floor every ten days. But the showpiece is the officeof the company head. An office in a lift, air-conditioned, with a wash-basin, pneumatic mail, electricity outlets and a telephone. So the boss can pop up on any floor, behind anyone’s back. He grinned. How did they manage the wash-basin? 100 | They put me down for an English school. I didn’t fancy boarding, but the fact that I was going to be in the same class as Sam McCormick put me at ease. His real name was Samuel, but everyone called him Sam. His father was an officer in the British Army, and he and his wife Betsy would come to visit. I preferred going to their house, because Sam’s older brother Rupert had a rifle and during the holidays he taught us how to fire it. Mr McCormick was a typical English gentleman. He would sit in the living-room or on the terrace behind his newspaper, which offered some notional protection from the verbal onslaughts of his energetic wife. In his hand he would have a cigar the size of a stick of salami. He rarely spoke, just a word or two now and again, as if they were precious gems. On a couple of occasions he invited my father to his club. So, did you have a good chat with Mr McCormick, mum would ask when he got back. I’d be intrigued to know whether he actually speaks at his gentlemen’s club. —Yes, when he orders whisky. For her part, his wife Betsy had plenty to say for both of them. Mostly she went on about problems with the servants and the unbearable climate of Calcutta. Here and there she would skate onto the thin ice of how the boys should be brought up. Such a responsibility, such a burden for her, and yes, she bears it alone, with no help. Or do you imagine that that husband of hers, that waxwork with a cigar, ever gets involved? He never lifts a finger, unless to light another cigar; he leaves everything to her. One day she would stuff some dynamite down his cigar, she giggled and went prattling on.
I knew what my new school was like; we had been there once with the McCormicks to visit Rupert. Each boy had the full paraphernalia, uniform, textbooks, PE kit. We went for a walk in the grounds, looked into the classrooms and the boys’ studies, strolled round the tennis courts and playing fields. It all smacked of discipline, a rod of iron. I felt pangs in the pit of my stomach. The ritual of mealtimes made the greatest impression on me. The whole school gathered for lunch, pushing and squabbling, then they sat down and instantly stopped talking. They sat in silence, plates steaming, but no one touched their food. All you could hear was the sound of breathing. Then a man in a black gown and a funny hat appeared, with a little flag in his hand. Like before a race, he solemnly raised the flag above his head, the eyes of all turned towards him. He flagged them off. Now! At that moment a symphony of knives and forks clinking on plates broke out as they started to eat as one.
Before I went away to school, my mother insisted that I kept my things neat and tidy. She said it was a matter of principle and she was uncompromising. Your room’s a dump, she would say. When, in my own defence, I pointed | 101 out that daddy didn’t tidy up after himself either, she erupted. Over dinner she announced that it would do neither of us any harm to watch where we dropped things. Father froze in mid-bite, perplexed. He looked like he’d never heard such heresy. —I can’t speak for you, Daniel, but my things are always tidy. I assumed his countenance. —Mine too. Mother hissed, laid aside her knife and fork, stabbing us with her eyes and briskly left the dining room. We looked at each other, but then quickly rose to check where she had gone.
My mother was unpredictable.
She ran upstairs and stormed into my room. Just inside the door there was a pile of clothes, two drawers of the antique chest hung half-open exposing a jumble of socks and underwear, bits of plasticine and a brand-new pencil case on the floor under the table, some braces and my satchel a little way off. The desk top looked as if a bomb had hit it. She swept the clothes up from the floor, moved the length and breadth of the room, tripping, puffing like a badger, her arms full of dirty socks and underpants. She paused and crammed them into one of the open drawers. Then she lugged it all the way out and at one go swept everything off the desk into it and hurtled out of the room. Red in the face, she propped the drawer on the window ledge, holding it level with one hand, and with her other hand flung wide the shutter. I couldn’t believe my eyes. In a daze I stared as my underpants, socks, shirts, pencils and exercise books went out of the window, floating down into the busy street below. Wait… don’t… not that… I stuttered. Mess overboard, she snapped. I watched passers-by as they were looking up, startled by what strange rain the gods had sent down on them, dodging each falling object, then nudging one another as they saw it was pieces of a boy’s wardrobe. My father stood beside me, stunned. I sprinted down the stairs to sweep up my room from the pavement. Before I had gathered everything up another load landed. As I stood in the hall with an armful of my clothes and broken pencils, I realized that now it was my father’s turn. I dropped my load on the chequer tile floor and ran back up the stairs. My parents were discussing the issue through the closed door of the bedroom. Mother was pounding her fist on the oak while father had barricaded himself inside. —Promise me you won’t throw my underwear in the street and I’ll let you in. —Open up! 102 | —Promise, or I’m afraid we’ll be spending the night apart. And you wouldn’t want that, would you? —Coward! Open that door! Eventually she gave up and promised. Afterwards, father came to help me get my things together. He called it solidarity. I appreciated it, but I would have rather seen him running in the crowds, picking up his socks, facing the gazes of bystanders. I’ve never been so embarrassed.
Between December and March, a cold wind blows down from the peaks of the Himalayas, briefly driving the heat from the streets of Calcutta and its clammy houses. In April, the wind changes direction and the hot air of the south once more holds all India in thrall. Extremely high temperatures, extreme drought. Then in the summer come the long-awaited monsoon rains, which last until September. If they don’t arrive, the place is stricken by deadly heat and starvation. In late September and October, the wind turns back again, bringing the threat of tropical cyclones.
End of September, 1938. News kept arriving from Europe. Munich. The frontiers of Czechoslovakia were annexed and two weeks later the Wehrmacht occupied the Sudetenland. —Unbelievable. They sold us out the backdoor. Daladier, that sod. And Chamberlain. The perfect aristocratic fool. That was one of the rare occasions when Tom got really angry. Raquel placed a hand on her forehead. —I can’t believe it. The land of Beethoven, Goethe, Schiller. Heine. He scoffed. —What about Nietzsche? Maybe there were always more lunatics than ordinary people and we just never noticed. As if the World War wasn’t enough, here they come again, dusting off their epaulettes, they cheer on that maniac with the moustache, swallowing every bit of his nonsense as if it were holy writ. Once a Prussian, always a Prussian. He never spoke like that. —How can you say such things? You’ve got German blood yourself, Tom. —Which is why it frightens me. Treitschke, Nietzsche, Hitler, hear how they rhyme? The myth of the Übermensch who can do anything in the name of his innate superiority. Isn’t that insane? —But Nietzsche’s indifference to the sufferings of others is a long way from wanting to harm anyone. —Is that less depraved? The result, my dear, the result is the same. Everyone considered my father an optimist because of his even temper, but it wasn’t true. Rather, it was my mother who held out for the good in everyone. He harboured no such illusions. After the events of 1938 my father | 103 had no doubt that the Germans were serious about racial purity and that any Jew who got in their way was a potential corpse.
Translated by David Short. First published in Words Without Borders (November 2007). 104 |
Photo: Cait Regan Louis Armand The Vanishing Syndrome (i.m. Miroslav Holub, 1923-1998)
I’m never sure of reaching you … All of these letters—I should be able to say that as I speak I limit the world but it’s useless to try to integrate life and death and to act rationally. Which is what might be meant by “becoming human” as opposed to Pseudo-Dionysius who considered that god transcends | 105 contraries and this dictum was taken up by Nicholas of Cusa as the clearest definition of divinity: “you must regard the centre and poles as coincident—using the help of your imagination as much as possible …” (As they say, apprehension takes place as a movement between seeing and uncertainty …) For example today I’m trying not to draw analogies between the sky and a statistical curve or flight paths or mechanised and anonymous histories. (Do you think I’m being ironic?) But no, there are other people, single strangers or crowds appearing continuously—when they are not seen they are heard—which leads me to believe momentarily in a collective witnessing of events. (Monsieur Armand, vous délirez!) And this in a country still suffering after forty years of schizophrenia. It’s true, Prague is like a giant Potemkin village, which accounts for the sense of ostranenie even while crossing the street (any street) or entering a tabák (to buy a packet of Gauloises)—Stalin, or Frida Kahlo’s monkey stares from the cover of a fashionably retro magazine. (One reads about Trotsky’s assassination, it must have been the anniversary— ambivalence?) Holding a cigarette that way, the eye of it looking up through the window, the orange halo of a streetlight. It’s raining again and grown dark— I sit down at a corner table to write this thinking about the seductions of amnesia— the first time we met (in a room overlooking “Red Army Square”) it had been another anniversary—Jan Palach’s funeral. “So the counting out began,” you said, “to separate the sane, who / Veil themselves in words, from the insane, who rip off / Feathers from their bodies …” And I can’t help recalling that story of Hrabal’s about a swan 106 | doused in petrol and set alight by drunken soldiers—the hopeless flapping of its wings and the Vltava’s blithe indifference. But that isn’t what I wanted to tell you. (Bored with the absurd and the too poignant “image”?) No, I wanted to tell you the joke about the great Czech poet whose death, like his poetry, was acclaimed mostly in translation. (I enclose for your amusement copies of the obituaries published in the Prague newspapers.) As someone said once: “That is no land for old men …” Or perhaps I should quote Mayakovsky instead, who died young and wrote: Dans mon âme pas un cheveau blanc / Aucune douleur sénile … But there’s nothing unexpected in that, besides it’s getting late and the writing— you know the saying—is on the wall: vÝchod—sortie—ausgang—exit … ET ILS, ONT TOUS FOUTU LE CAMP!
First published in The Prague Revue 6 (1999). Psychopathologies of the Commonplace (for Bob creeley)
inchoate and always coming back to a point of starting out before the age mimicked us. the zero of endless re-birth in conjugations of to be and other non-places? times square, for example, or caught mid-flight above the date line an embryonic consciousness … but what does it matter to have been, here or there? the same narrative of disappointment in the eyes of everyone or alone crossing an intersection, somewhere— was it strange that the scene never appeared to be questioned by our passing it? that the intimacy of streetlights was nothing more than a wished-for recognition of ourselves in the embrace of the inanimate (at dusk | 107 in a half-familiar suburb, or menaced by the distant barking of a dog, cerberus-like, guarding each avenue of escape) … and being lost always in the unspecific as though and as though with our motives no longer returning in the guise of ordinary things, even when it seemed they were all written down (the testimonials, the witnessed accounts of mundane fact) … but when in time we are left to the dumb-show of our shadows’ diminishing how will we know which of those meanings ever concerned us? today or tomorrow or today. as if there were a difference in the way it would end (that stupid blinking of an eye exhausted of perception) and afterwards to remember, to name it at last, even as the words break off and no longer resemble us. did they ever?
First published in Sulfur 44 (1999). Three Testiments to Apollonius (for Czesław Miłosz)
—Non, je ne regrette rien. What was required of me is what I attempted: simplicity, always simplicity. When we were children, who was to say the Argonauts never stood beside the Vistula preparing a sacrifice to their shrewd gods or scheming to steal our national myth? We grew up jealously behind city walls, imagining the erotic pleasure of creation. The Greeks had raided everything they could find: the mannerist prosody, the epic fatalism. Their school-masters bullied us into becoming poets. We knew what ethics was and did our duty.
—I always suspected your words which you call silence. If the future exists, why should it listen 108 | to our private misgivings? our furtive dialogues with all those we could not love or save? our bad faith at having been condemned in absentia by what we could not write? War and occupation were our normalcy. They bred their own language refusing to be stuffed in books and goaded from time to time with sentiment. Our childish gods were officially dead, sold-off for the sake of a footnote to History.
—Soon our sweet movie comes to an end. We rise from the dead again and everything begins, exactly as it was meant to. It was enough to know that someone must also have thrown the last stone, that images do not belong to words, that we alone know what an horizon is. Life takes its toll. A mechanical dog laughs and perhaps it is us it is laughing at. An old grammarian with his mental puppet show, rehearsing the great show-trials of the Slavic poets. One by one, they are snuffing out the conjectures. On our heads they are reconstructing the old borders and checkpoints; soon they will not need to prohibit us.
First published in Big Bridge: War Papers 2 (2008). Correspondences
I walk out in the bleak village and look for you – Ted Berrigan
1. To begin with, a letter, a copied address. Dear X, New York is dying. Berrigan died twenty-five years ago waiting for the obituary. All the great artisans have forgotten you, once again embarked upon that second life, a product of the god who failed. I lie awake in the park at night listening for children’s playground noises. A dreamless charity settling the old accounts: Louise’s rum-mouth, Clare’s vagina, Petya’s yellowgreen eyes. | 109 Pieces of time and circumstance in a one-night show, dressed in newspaper and hazard lights. Broke everything because you loved to make things out of pieces. Jane in the Midwest with her bandaged ego, Natascha in Germany. A breakdown-signal flashing a hundred-thousand Marilyn Monroes, steeled against some dim freeze of pain and happenstance. How long can we outlive John Keats? The act itself is not extensive. It is a moment’s alcoholic urgency pressing against you, feminine and tough, emptying your pockets. This is what sleep becomes, staring up into a still, small place, all the outcomes methodised.
2. I was glad to receive your letter. I was thinking about you just that moment and why I hadn’t heard from you. You’re my mainstay from the beginning. My lifeline, my umbilicus. A piece of autobiography cut-off mid-wrench. We were the late ones who made it too soon into this world. There were bugs in your brain, white ants and black ants stealing softly across fields of permafrost. Red leaves covered them in autumn … You were the one with eyes like a zoo. Woman- hater, man-hater, snarling down 14th street. I never knew you, I only wanted to be real, pretending to follow-on into the disconnect. A chair beside a window, a face or a piece of furniture. Minimal driftage of an ear’s desolate murmuring, of rain stirring ashes into tarmac. We grew up naked in the afternoon, into the same non-story. A maternal ear and dead perfume: staring at the cellophane, the mascara windows, the neon meat hanging there by the thinnest of threads.
3. A naked man in a window behind fiftha venue. 110 | Six a.m. breakfast special: Fear eats the soul. Time to arrange a new day, take it up and lock it. Walking and forever walking beneath a sun that burns a white hole in the sky. Anachronisms loom up everywhere in this city, like The Brain that Wouldn’t Die, Terror creatures from beyond the grave. Shocking but true! And now we’re all here, wandering through the eye’s atomic fallout shelter. Sex pictures of a captive mind: The Infamous House of Madame X or The Diabolical Doctor Z and his Fiendish Creation. Will it ever be possible to find our way back through games and repetition? The headlines have nothing new to say. All in place, nothing in order; whole in spite of being pieces. The crowd goes on with its life of nonsense, embarrassing us into joining-in. A ceremony of replacing the foot that precedes with the one that follows, face to face with the traffic signal’s menace.
4. Sweating it out under night-cover humidity: how many genetic modifications preceded us? Daybreak, copping it sweet in Chelsea, Midtown, then on to 92nd street. Big Charles makes coffee, fried eggs, toast on the side. Nourishment if not for the soul (it is important to eat, come what may). Listening meanwhile at the talk-machine, hooked into the ear of things. True stories told in rhyme. We are all perhaps the adopted points-of-view of somebody. Should we be blamed for this? Your letter arrived and I’m sorry too not knowing where the future lies. John today is sick, D’s leaving town. (We live according to details unrequited by History.) Back again on the Lower East Side, why not live perpetually in transit? Reading a ping-pong ball’s return flight—the moment lengthens, days pass this way. Or the world is nothing more than an unstable intelligence that cannot decide what to do with us. Still, there are reasons to inquire.
5. It was mid-June, a type of hysteria overtook us. | 111 We were playing the part of latecomers to a scene that had passed on. The Yankees at home to Pittsburgh, jazzmen in the park. A national hero nobody seemed to recognise lay passed-out at the foot of the temperance monument. Who can judge, if the visible world is just so much furniture beneath a sky painted with static and feedback? N called from a payphone in Europe, searching for the secret lives of other people in faraway places. But these were only re-enactments. Their promises, hinging upon facts, could not be held. Dreaming of a man’s or a woman’s full, bloodied mouth and darkening eyes. Who engineers the mirror image? We expected some type of movie, exposing the reason why. But somebody had left the door open, slipping out into rain and blackened celluloid. Thoughts, also, escape at every opportunity: after hundreds of hours of staring, there is nothing to look at, nothing left to see.
First published in the Warwick Review (2009). Oaxaca, Oaxaca
Imagine not suffering. Moonlight over the zócalo like a silent movie’s comforting simplicity. That was before the words came, the lost cause and ennui. High and alone lives the sad oleander. Ours was the politics of an ant crawling around inside a box. Strangers single you out for comment, going on and on about the weather. Or seeking redress for a journey we could never have undertaken. A demon in a box, chanting in the dark: Podrán masacres nuestros cuerpos, pero nuestra dignidad e ideales, jamás! But there’s nothing sure you can say about anything. The irrational crowd asleep in the shade of oleanders. They have nowhere else to go. Carnival lights strung across the zócalo. And you who seek the one immobile point in time, 112 | gazing from an arcade at the barefooted women. Believing that all things are reversible— that the longest way around is the shortest way home.
First published in The Prague Revue 8 (2008). Circus Days (for Hugh Clarence Ultan)
1. It’s morning & we’re on our way—the park & leaves hanging in autumn sunlight like analgesic. Hands travel in all directions at once— astride the giant green shoulders, juggled up into another day’s sinewy disjuncts. Hello, are you happy? Funnelled through the mysterious ordination of events: Kleomenes at Thermopylae, mantis-eyed, staring into darkest comedy. Sat in the cold under the Big Top— the elephant at the door, the monkey running around in circles doing tricks. Scenes of hope & despair. But we are becoming the future, not knowing when to stop. Backwardly, navigating insipient weather—butterflies, stamps, old shoes, those delicate painted lips that send us, kneeling, into sleep.
2. At the bottom of the box my mother is there | 113 who is not in her right mind. The moon with its puppet strings showing, frictionless knots slipping & unslipping. Nor is this the light at the end. Dear, it is always late, you will lose count thinking of it. Also, one of its themes is Time. Collecting the left-overs in soup tureens—remits of La Place Blanche, staring Pépé le Moko-like at the departing logos. What will we do tomorrow if it doesn’t return? A constant activity would be a surface without grips, unsizing us. Night grows ugly, all nerves & sex, looking & not looking. A violet-blue window seems to be inside the room & at the same time outside it. Or a stranger is mounting the stairs, pointing at us.
3. Why not describe everything backwards? Scenes of scotch-taped celluloid, navigating the gross weather. Headlines stand out in bas relief, thrusts of form between interludes of grisaille. Improvise something on this theme. Sifting the left-overs, Pasternak’s territory of conscience. Humanity finds the myth of personal freedom intolerable, unlike a work of fiction. Waiting for that girl with the eyes of a trapeze artist on the corner of West 57th street. Thoughts travel in many directions at once, electronics, science fiction, footprints on the moon. What I’ve been painting is a life’s work index of first lines, whoever reads them? Standing outside the Art Students League like a character in a novel hopelessly excluded from its plot.
4. Grew up in a time of last ideas & normalisation, thick-necked, under hellish weather. Street preacher shouting if God’s self-sufficient what are we doing here? Sitting opposite a table for company, one litre of red wine after another. Signals writ large all through the air—a last minute blunt cutting out of sky, its variations, before the venom sets in. Parts of a face, a man’s or a woman’s, perfume. But already it’s late. Anatomised an hour, moving straight ahead sideways out the door. Outside the window a green sky cuts out giant writing in hard autumn schist. Oh, my nerves are bad tonight. Why blame the sins of a permissive mother? History is what happened at other times 114 | among strange people, unashamed of letting us watch.
5. All through the air signals flash out of margins, saturating it. It even gains a type of solidity. It sits there in the world like a brain, naked & useless. Spreading out from North American winters—dead leaves mulching into excrement. Dollars stir the rain into an autism, a giant lozenge pressing through windows & ventilation ducts. We stood there watching it, designed to self-destruct into dreariness & forbearance. A whole year of mouths ending only in paraphrase, rumours, plagiarisms of nature. The scapegoat artist hangs in sunlight, complicating our greybrown scenery. In it for the dollars? You must be crazy. Kleomenes at Thermopylae. A private joke in a parallel room. The windows unaccountably fogging up.
6. Something about the weather. Figures against a black ground moving in all directions at once. Pigeons flocking under the circus tent of Manhattan skyline. Momentary, headlong, physical insurrections that end underground riding the subway to afternoon teas, sex & privacy. Evenings of paraphrase turn emaciated or womanly—out-waiting the rain, it is perhaps a symptom after all. A barbershop quartet stands out in bas relief on the opposite side, hurrying you to self-doubt & secrecy—coupled to a surmise that it, the day, ought to be seized & usually wasn’t. But did we promise ourselves happiness? Looking & not looking for the key under the door, to get to wherever time comes from, or to relent, or to be taken “all in all.”
7. Am I talking to myself again? Waiting for catharsis to unfold, the way things happen in restored old subtitled films. Hello, are you happy? Those little painted lips behind store windows among the window- dressing. The story begins with intimacy & evolves into a threat. A zone of silence where we stand & scrutinise the naked body, in vague penance. It is difficult not to run out of the room, stupidly looking for the departed years. & still the light in the trees. The lowering sky & waning light—a sky you want to get out from under. The danger is in conclusions. | 115 Again words point an abstract finger to exert will, put things in order—names, images, objects cancelled out. The kid says “You die!” But already it’s too late.
8. Things seek attachment: behind the door, a room on the second floor, light through the trees. In sleep you stretch forward to touch the scenery. Soon enough time to perform the last act— counting down these dry years, looking under the table for the joke that got away. Our cruelty makes us stupid—pratfalls & false hilarity. We’re still getting there, the long road out to the deserted lot & ruined chimney stacks teetering. When it comes, I’ll go on bargaining to the last breath, Kleomenes at Thermopylae, under the Big Top, arraigned before the horses & sequined women, the strong man, the dancing bears. What was our reason for coming here? What false assurance did we accept?
First published in When Pressed (2008). 116 |
Photo: James Prohaska Julie Ashley Interlopers
If I had learned anything in the past year—from almost dying in a car wreck, from selling everything I owned and moving to a post-communist country, from making more friends in six months in Prague than in the rest of my twenty-three years put together and watching them leave just as fast as I’d made them—I’d learned expectations could be treacherous. So when Chloe and I finally had sex, I wasn’t foolish enough to expect that just because of one great night she was magically going to become mine or anything un-Chloe like. I didn’t want her to think for a minute that like so many guys before I’d ever try to change her, or trap her. So I didn’t tell her how happy I was the morning after she crawled into my bed. I just offered | 117 her coffee, fresh cherries, smoked cheese, and the caraway-sprinkled Czech bread that came in loaves shaped like flattened footballs. She sat at my narrow kitchen table still wearing the t-shirt I’d loaned her last night. She stretched out her legs, arched her shoulders and back, and flung her graceful arms overhead in a sort of casual full-body yawn. “I was dreaming of Paris this morning,” she sighed. “I almost thought I’d wake up there.” “I had a really weird dream, too,” I said. “That you and I….” I waggled my eyebrows. “Ludicrous, huh?” She laughed. “About fucking time, I’d say.” She extended her long legs under the table and past my legs, bracing them against my kitchen wall as she flexed and arched her feet. No woman I had ever known seemed quite as at home in her own flesh as Chloe. I peeled her right foot from the wall, moved it gently into my lap, and began kneading its grubby sole with my thumbs. This, I figured, must be my reward for having been patient and friendly so long—that at last I could reach out and simply touch her as naturally as if we belonged to each other. “Mmm,” Chloe said, leaning back in her chair. She let her head droop to one side, like a heavy bloom bending the stem of her neck, and reached for a slice of mustard-smeared bread, chewing and swallowing as she closed her eyes. “Mmm, Nick,” she said. “I’m so glad you were fun. Otherwise it would have been awful.” I stroked her thick-skinned sole, fingers listening to the small shifts of her toes and the tensing of tendons beneath her foot’s surface. “What would have been awful?” Opening her clear blue eyes, she nudged her right foot from my palm with the insistent big toe of her left. “If you had sucked in bed,” she said. I raised my eyebrow sardonically at her. Giving her right foot a last parting pat, I turned my focus and hands to her left. “Well, obviously I didn’t think that you would,” she said. “Or I wouldn’t have bothered. But you could have been a slobbery kisser…” “Or I could have insisted that you do my laundry. Or I could have had a ring hidden under the pillow—” These were among the many complaints that Chloe had lodged against guys she had met, and slept with, and finally discarded during the four months we’d been good friends. “It was just such a tacky ring,” Chloe sighed. Looking thoughtful, she sucked the meat from a cherry, then plucked the pit from her tongue with two fingers and tossed it into her drained coffee mug. “What meantI , though, Nick, is that you and I are already real friends and that’s why I didn’t jump your bones sooner. It just would have been too depressing if it hadn’t worked out.” I nodded and kept on rubbing her foot. Back in April when Chloe and I 118 | first met, she had been infatuated with a Czech theater actor; that stopped when he asked her to do his laundry. I chalked his request up to cultural difference—all the Czech guys I knew had their laundry done by their moms, wives, or girlfriends—but Chloe called it symptomatic of the actor’s narcissism, which made him a boring lover as well. Her next, a Scottish journalist, had kept referring reverently to Chloe’s “artistic temperament.” (“Like I was some kind of flighty wood-nymph,” she griped. “Irritating as hell.”) She had spurned the Hungarian tennis pro because he tried to give her a ring after only three weeks. This meant, Chloe said, either he was too serious about her, or that he believed he could buy her affection. Men tended to romanticize Chloe—her blond curls and the fine bones of her face, her slapdash and eccentric wardrobe, the way she always said what she meant without ever caring what anyone thought. But I thought I knew her well enough not to make any stupid mistakes. I finished massaging her left foot and placed it carefully next to her right, back against the kitchen wall. “Now you aren’t going to get weird on me, right?” she asked, as I released her foot. “You promised? We’re going to keep on being friends?” “As if I would ever stop being your friend.” When we had eaten the last of the cherries, Chloe pulled my t-shirt off over her head. Her flesh glowed peach-beige against the shabby backdrop of my kitchen—but only momentarily. Then she stepped into last night’s dress, buttoning it up the front, and ruffled my hair. “Alas,” she said. “I can’t dally longer. Time to go sell hats, my man.” We always ran into each other in town, so I didn’t make plans to meet up with her later, only touched her chin lightly after we kissed. “See you soon, huh?” She turned away, smiling. “You know all my haunts.” After she’d gone I got back into bed and tunneled down into the sheets. I could smell her, all over me, all through my bed. Later, contorting my limbs at the corners of my cramped bathtub in order to squeeze my head under the faucet, I could smell Chloe steaming out of my hair. I rode the tram east past the neighborhood brewery, past the cemetery, past the new McDonald’s, and over the Vltava River, which sparkled like crumpled tinfoil in the sun. At Café Velryba, I found my pal Simon hunched musing over a plate of bland lentils, sipping gritty coffee from a glass. “Ahoj, Nick,” he said, gesturing at a chair. “Is Tricky Ben back yet?” “Not yet,” I said. “Should be any day now.” “Didn’t he fly to Amsterdam, though? Could take him weeks to get out of there, no?” Simon waited while I ordered lunch, and then leaned slightly toward me. “Pretty good reading, last night, huh?” Simon hosted a weekly open-mike reading. “How about that love poem of Evan the Poet’s?” The poem had been delirious, graphic. Evan didn’t interest me, though. He was the kind of guy who bragged about never revising his poems for fear of dampening their “divine spark.” | 119 Fiona said she had heard him proclaim, one typically sodden night at the pub, that his book of poems would be done any day and that it could possibly make him immortal. “I guess that Evan’s got a new girl?” Simon’s deep voice rose in pitch at the end of almost every sentence, as if each statement were truly a question. The words new girl made me smile inside, but I knew I should not mention Chloe to Simon. One cardinal don’t in Chloe’s book was blabbering triumphantly all over town. (“Trying to mark his property,” she’d said, when her Scottish beau had done just that. “Like a dog pissing on a hydrant. Grotesque.”) So I changed the subject. “Been writing much lately?” Simon adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. “I’ve been working on a few things?” He squeezed out only a few poems each year—hence his Prague moniker, Two-Poem Simon. “I don’t want to force anything,” he said. He held his hands near his chest, palms flattened out against one another: a gesture reminiscent of prayer. “So I’m trying not to push too hard? Art is chance, right?” I nodded. I knew it was an excuse for Simon not to write, but also I believed in chance. It had brought me to Prague. Back in Cleveland the previous fall, I’d been speeding home from work, half-heartedly looking forward to an evening of re-runs and take-out Chinese after staring at ad copy on a computer screen since nine that morning. Everyone said how lucky I was to have found “creative” work right out of college—never mind if the job made my brain curl with boredom. That night as I was driving home, the ice-coated highway beneath my bald tires scarcely seemed more real to me than the cut- and-paste images and empty words I’d manipulated on screen all day. I was accelerating to make a green when a guy in a Buick burned through his red light. I swerved on ice, skidding, and plunged through the guardrail. My car flipped once, twice, and slid to a rest, upright, in a ditch. I woke up the next afternoon with a headache that wanted to jump through my skull. My face had slammed the wheel on first impact, leaving a gash that was now a stitched, puckered line. (Healed, it adds vague interest to my bland face—a white streak slanting rakishly through one eyebrow.) My parents, and the doctors, called my luck a miracle: I’d escaped with just that gash, and minor abrasions. The miracle, for me, was quite different: waking up that day with the hospital’s fluorescent glare in my eyes, I suddenly knew I’d been wasting my life. I knew that I despised my job, the monthly payments on my car, my furniture, my credit cards—so many things I couldn’t define that made life seem hopeless and stunted and small. My parents took me back to Akron for a few days’ bed rest. That Sunday, Mom brought me the newspaper. There, in the centerfold of the travel section, was Prague—a breathtaking jumble of towers and churches, of spires glinting bright against ancient hewn stone. The article claimed that the Czech capital was swarming with American expatriates; just speaking English could 120 | get you a legal job, though the people interviewed didn’t sound like they worked very much. Living was cheap, Czech beer was delicious, and young adventurers from all over the world were meeting there, just like Paris in the 20s. I was no Picasso, no Stein—just an amateur cartoonist and scribbler. In any case, I was far too nineties and self-conscious to believe that I could participate in something as vital as Paris in those days had been. I’d seen enough MTV to suspect that anything I chose to do was probably already becoming passé. But still, there was Prague, in soft-colored ink, beckoning like a pastel Disneyland. The following week I gave notice at work, calculated the costs of my move, and researched the resale value of my car. I arrived in February and met Tricky Ben my first night at the hostel. “Thirsty Dog tonight?” Simon asked, as I rose to leave. “Probably.” I bade him goodbye and strolled through Stáré Město, to work. Prague’s weekly English-language newspaper was run like a frat- house garage sale: whenever a little money came in, the Progress staff threw an open-bar bash and worried later about the print budget. The job wouldn’t last, and it didn’t pay well, but nobody cared what time I showed up as long I turned in one cartoon each week and had proofread every page once by print time. Around four o’clock, Tricky Ben showed up at the office. A mammoth pack was tethered to his back like an awkward portable home. He thumped the pack down next to my desk, bear-hugged me, stepped backward, and pumped on my hand. “Man, I am totally thrilled to be back!” Four months in the States hadn’t changed Ben at all. His cheeks were ruddy with too much sun. His Levi’s were frayed at the seat, knees and cuffs. Gray-blond strands poked out from beneath the bandanna he always wore tied round his head. He told me he’d spent the night on the train and asked if he could crash at my flat. “Drop your stuff there, at least,” I said, thinking of Chloe. “If it looks like I’ll need the place to myself, we can find you another couch for the night.” “Your landlord hasn’t by any chance hooked up the hot water yet?” Ben asked, hopeful. “Don’t be absurd. In the middle of summer? He swears he’ll have it fixed in the fall.” Ben took my keys and we arranged to meet in the evening. By a quarter to six I couldn’t stand any more squinting at black spikes of type. I hurried out into the late afternoon, hoping to catch Chloe during the hourly rush at the astronomical clock in Old Town Square. The golden early evening light refracted off the cobblestones, glinted off trams, newsstands, into my eyes. As the first bell struck, the tourists bunched in front of the OldTown Hall’s clock tower raised their cameras to their eyes. Sky blue windows beneath the clock’s face slid open to show bowing mini-apostles. A merchant figurine jangled a bag; vanity swooned at herself in a mirror; a skeleton tolled a tiny gold bell. The crowd snapped shutters at the show, zooming and | 121 panning with camcorders. Sometimes I wondered if this type of tourist ever saw “sights” with their physical eyes, or if they lived their entire vacations squinting through lenses that miniaturized, through dull glass viewfinders crosshatched like targets. After all six bells had rung, the clump of spectators slowly dispersed. Two yards away, a gray-haired man was pointing at one of the hats attached to Chloe’s voluminous skirt. She smiled, unfastening it, and held a mirror up to his face. Chloe’s aunt had a hat factory near Brno, so all afternoon during tourist season she strolled around the center of town, wearing a blue faux renaissance dress with hats pinned everywhere on its hoop skirt. As the last of her customers turned away, Chloe glanced up from her change pouch and saw me. Then she came toward me and hugged me with the top part of her body, careful not to crush the hats. A white ruffled bonnet, part of her costume, looked incongruously sweet on her head. Chloe had never met Tricky Ben, but she’d heard about him. I told her he had shown up at the office and asked if she wanted to meet him tonight. She sighed something about prior plans, but said she would love a coffee right now. We ducked down a side alley crooked like an elbow, into a deserted café. Fiddling with a hook on her dress, Chloe stepped out of her blue overskirt and draped it across an empty table. She wore a hooped petticoat underneath. “God, that dress gets heavy” she said, dropping into a chair and sipping her espresso. “You know, I’m starting to feel claustrophobic as hell. I can’t believe what a village Prague is.” Most people, including Chloe and I, lived in the prefabricated high-rises fringing the city, but everyone came to Prague’s center for fun. Once you knew anybody at all, you ran into them all the time on the streets, in the pubs, on the subways and trams. In Cleveland and Akron, where I’d lived my whole life, I’d hardly ever run into a soul. Back in the States people zoomed by, sealed up in their separate cars. “The thing is,” she said, staring into her coffee, “I’ve got to get some distance from Evan. He hunted me down twice today while I was working, gave me a new poem each time. I mean, it’s flattering and all, but, Jesus, you heard what he read Sunday night… .” My belly felt hollow. “You’re talking about Evan the Poet?” We all met so many people in Prague that we preferred monikers to last names. She nodded. “The same.” “Why’s he hunting you down?” “All I did was sleep with him a few times. I never said he could be public about it.” I stared at the golden face I had kissed for the first time the previous night, realizing Evan the Poet had kissed it. I forced my eyes downward and gulped my espresso. “So that’s who you’re seeing tonight?” 122 | She rolled her eyes, nodding. “I wish I weren’t. He’s taking it so seriously.” Something in my stomach twisted. Of all the posers and pricks about town, she’d had to fuck Evan the pretentious poet. Had fucked him recently, no doubt. I couldn’t believe how she’d told me, offhanded, as if I would have no reason to care. I stood, blood slamming between my ears. “You know, I’ve got to run meet Ben.” She stood, in her petticoat, coffee half-full, and said we should meet for lunch the next day. I lied about some prior plans. On the streets the tourist swarm buzzed thick. I hunted Old Town’s winding streets until I found the right kind of place—yellow bottle-glass windows, smog-smeared, and a tiny sign above the door that said just Pívníce, nothing in German, Italian or English. Inside, men in baggy blue laborers’ clothes were swigging pilsner from heavy glass steins. As soon as I slid into a chair the waiter smacked down a foam-headed beer. I couldn’t stop picturing Chloe’s face, so rosy and pretty and framed by white frills as she mentioned, casually, sleeping with Evan. I had tried so hard that morning to seem unsurprised and cool, undemanding. Maybe I had convinced her too well. The first time Chloe had slept at my place was early in May, shortly after we met. We’d been out dancing with mutual friends and had gotten on the same tram, heading home. Chloe explained that after midnight she had to ride to the end of the line, then wait forty minutes for a night-bus outside the sleazy Smíchov train station. I said I lived just two tram stops up, and had twin beds that did not even touch. She would be safe sleeping there, if she wanted. Of course I didn’t touch Chloe that night, nor the many nights after that when her sleeping over seemed logical and, gradually, cozy. Early mornings, when we trudged into my one-room flat, I would hand her a clean t-shirt and duck helpfully into the bathroom. When I came out she’d be curled under the covers of the narrow bed separated from mine by a nightstand and a lamp. We’d lazily chat until we drifted off. Over that long chain of nights I learned about Chloe’s disposable lovers, about her parents’ hideous marriage, and that despite her artist’s pose she wasn’t sure she could paint worth a shit but she had to keep trying because what else was there? The man sitting next to me nudged my shoulder, pointing at my untouched foaming mug. “Na zdraví!” he said. I raised my stein toward him, muttering it back. On the first sip, the mug’s rim sliced into my lip. I flinched, set it down. My neighbor shook his head, sympathetic, as I wiped the blood from my lip. Helpfully, he rotated the stein so that the unchipped rim faced me, then said, “Na zdraví!’ again. I thanked him, drank, and then pulled out my sketchpad. It opened to a drawing of Chloe, and I flipped through four more, looking for a blank page. Chloe had inherited her Czech-born father’s high, Slavic cheekbones, | 123 as well as deeply domed eyelids that made her blue eyes seem wistful and wise. Morning after morning, while she slept, I had sketched the linesof Chloe’s cheeks and chin, her full lips—as if by recording the minutiae of her, by drafting a blueprint of her architecture, I could somehow participate in her. When she woke up I’d always clap the book closed and claim I’d been working on a cartoon for Progress. I thought about tearing these sketches out. I could crumple them into the pub’s thick glass ashtray, ignite them, and watch them flicker, smoke, burn. But the delicate lashes I’d drawn on her cheek tangled me up and I left them all in. Early that morning, before we had gone to sleep, I had tried to memorize how Chloe looked, moving above me with her eyes closed, lips parted. The gray-blue dawn light made her skin translucent, ghostly and cool. Had Evan seen her like that too? He had shed his foul poet’s hair on her body. His sweat had slicked her arching back, her curved belly. I knew that my jealousy was out of line, beyond my rights. Chloe, after all, had promised me nothing. I turned the page to blot her out, and tried to focus on where I was. I sketched the dusty plastic plants lined up on a ledge by the opaque window. The man next to me offered a shot of férnet. I accepted. We spoke in broken English and Czech until our few mutual words had worn out. At eight o’clock, I was waiting as planned at Narodní třída. As soon as Ben stepped off the tram he said, “I’m ravenous. Let’s eat. The Konvikt Klub’s still open, right?” I was glad to have Tricky Ben back to distract me. We cut through an alley to Konviktská Street, ducked into the building and rang the pub’s bell, but nobody let us in the barred gate, so we sat on the floor in the hallway and waited. After five minutes a cluster of American Eurorail-types burst through the little arched door of the pub and into the hall on the gate’s other side. We caught the gate as they left and went in. Some killjoy guidebook had written up the Konvikt Klub as an underground pub not yet flooded by tourists, so lately getting a table was tough. We plowed through deep-fried battered cheese, boiled potatoes and pickled cabbage, watching a middle-aged tourist couple push their barely- touched food plates away and begin to call loudly, crossly, for their bill. The hostile waiter bustled by, pretending not to understand English. Ben scowled, shook his head. “Look at those interlopers,” he said. “They’ll give us all a bad name in this town.” “Yeah,” I said, raising an eyebrow at him. “Any fool could tell that we belong here.” We asked for the bill in our best restaurant Czech, hoping to prove that we weren’t like the others. The waiter rewarded us with a sneer. “Mind walking around?” Ben asked, on the street. “I’d like to bask in the city a bit.” 124 | The sun had sunk, the sky was deep violet, and the hexagonal-headed wrought-iron streetlamps glowed behind dust-fogged glass panes. We climbed a narrow set of steps onto the street that flanked the Vltava, walked through dark piss-scented arcades. Emerging on a riverfront square, we looked over the bridge toward Mala Strana. Upriver, the castle rose, lit, on its hill, while the mingled songs of several musicians trickled down the bridge toward us, as if down a cobbled chute into the Old Town. We waded out into the throng, past drunken tour-groups, kissing couples, and a wild-haired guy playing music for cash. The man could hardly sing or keep time, but he had friends playing congas and shakers and he had the audience singing along—three dozen people from as many countries earnestly belting out “Hey, Jude.” Once on the left bank, we started uphill. Cobblestones slipped by under our feet. On the facades, above broad arched doors, the painted plaques of old house-signs hinted at long-inscrutable stories: the red eagle, the three little gold violins, the golden goblet, the golden key. Among the tourist-trap restaurants and shops in the row of steep-tilted houses stood an old pub, U Hrochů. In March, when I was new in town, Simon, Ben and I went there. The place was brimming with Czech men who all seemed to know one another already. We had taken the only free table, pulled soggy cardboard coasters from the holder and placed them on the ash-riddled table. “A real neighborhood pub in Malá Strana,” Simon had said, appreciatively, always on the prowl for new hangouts. “Right here on the route to the castle. Who knew?” But after we’d waited a full fifteen minutes a black-vested waiter finally came over and said, “Jsme zavřeno.” We’re closed. When Simon used his most polite Czech to protest, the waiter flipped a coaster onto its blank side, scrawled “Reservé” on it with a pen, and slapped it on the table. “Jenom jedno pívo?” Ben begged. Just one beer? The waiter vigorously shook his head. All the Czech guys were nudging each other and smiling. “Guess they don’t like our kind?” Simon had said, back on the street. “What do they think we are, tourists?” At the base of the old castle steps Ben said he’d walked around enough and asked what we ought to do with our evening. I told him that the hip place this summer was a pub in Staré Město called the Thirsty Dog. “Let’s hit it,” Ben said. “Carpe diem. You know, seize the carp.” We rode the metro under the river, crossed Old Town Square near Kafka’s old high school, took the dark alley behind the Týn Church, and only got a little bit lost in the twisted spaghetti of medieval streets before emerging at the Thirsty Dog. Inside, murals jumped along the white walls—warped cartoons of cats and dogs, balloons and bones. Evan the Poet spotted us through the crowd and hurried over, dark-eyed and tanned and wearing black slacks that looked as if they had actually been pressed. Chloe came with him, resplendent in green, carrying her black knit cape. “Hey,” Evan crowed, slapping my shoulder. “Near-Death Nick!” | 125 I introduced Evan and Chloe to Ben. “I’ve heard about you,” Chloe said. “You’re the one who sells magic tricks on the street.” “Just one trick,” said Ben. “Mainly I work the bridge. I sidle up to tourists, show them this little coin trick I invented—it’s actually easy but it looks good—then I sell them the secret for a small fee.” “Did I tell you I’m almost done with my book?” Evan asked me. He gestured at Chloe, who had turned to watch Ben demonstrate his coin trick. “She’s the best inspiration,” he said. “I just walk around town, writing sonnets to her in my head.” Ben tapped my arm. “Hey, man, there’s old Two-Poem Simon!” Simon had just strolled into the Dog, wearing a too-large tweedy suit- jacket that must have been hot as hell in that pub. He had told me recently that he was trying to cultivate a shabby “disaffected poet” look; he thought it suited his metal-framed glasses and his role as host of the open-mike readings. Ben went toward Simon, and I would have followed if Evan’s hand hadn’t been clamped on my shoulder. Chloe leaned against the bar, smiling at me. One bare foot was pulled out of its sandal and pressed against the inner knee of her opposite leg. Evan swiveled to follow my gaze. “Isn’t she a vision?” he said, looping his hairy arm around her waist. “Some kind of enchanted dryad. You’re gorgeous,” he told her. “Where’d you get that dress?” “This woman who wanted to sleep with me once picked it up in a second- hand store.” “And did you sleep with her?” Evan asked. “Do you really want to know?” Ben and Simon had joined us, all grins. Simon poked Ben in the ribs with his elbow. “Suppose you didn’t smuggle in any of that Amsterdam weed?” “Nah, but I’ve got a huge chunk of hash.” “You carried it yourself on the train?” “I started out with a few ounces each of this sweet hairy bud and good black hash. Bought two big jars of peanut butter. Who could blame a red- blooded American boy for smuggling Skippy into a dry country? I scooped a big hunk off the top of each jar, stuck the drugs, in the hollow there, right? Then scooped the peanut butter back in—I ate a spoonful or two so it’d fit— and smoothed it over all pretty and slick. Rolled the jars up in two separate bags and put them on the overhead rack so they couldn’t be definitely traced to me, in case of drug-sniffing hounds or whatever. But I slept a few hours on the train naturally, and some asshole stole one of the jars. Fucking train was full of Eurorail kids. One of ‘em thought, ‘Aww-right! Score! Peanut butter!’ Probably thought it was real kind to leave me one jar.” Evan propped his elbow up on the bar next to Chloe. “How about if we go home now?” he said. 126 | “I’m going to head downstairs,” I said. “Anybody want to come?” Simon checked his watch. “It’s near one. It should be a pretty good scene?” “Maybe some other night,” Evan said. He was running his fingers down Chloe’s neck while he fumbled with his other hand for the beer mug he had left on the bar. Chloe rolled her eyes at him. “You guys go on downstairs,” she said. “I’d better get this man to the tram stop and prop him up there before he falls. “ Evan took a deep swig of his beer, and then set it behind him on the bar without removing his eyes from Chloe. “You are a Greek goddess in that green dress.” He was using the same singsong intonation he used when he read his poems to a crowd. Simon, Ben and I turned away. “So Chloe and Evan?” Simon said, just outside the Dog, in the wheedling voice he used for good gossip. “How long’s that been going on?” His glasses glimmered in the streetlight. “A while,” I said. “I kind of thought the two of you… ?” He let his voice trail off, suggestive. Ben raised his eyebrows. “You and her?” “We’re just friends.” I pictured Evan with her at the tram stop, tangling his claws in her hair. “Naturally people suspected?” said Simon. “You don’t have a thing for her?” “Do you?” Ben asked Simon. Thin shoulders shrugged beneath Simon’s loose suit-coat. He said, “Doesn’t everyone?” We walked around the corner to the main entrance of Obecní Dům. It was an undulant cream-colored building, sinuous S-curves all flowing together. We trooped downstairs, past the art nouveau tile-work, and into Klub Repré. In the outer lounge room of the club, smoke and people hung thickly around velvet couches. We wandered off separately to cruise the joint. I found Fiona on a purple sofa that clashed with her screamingly red hennaed hair. She asked if I’d like to dance. In the club’s cavernous inner room a d.j. was spinning the usual mix— Nirvana back-to-back with the Doors, Smashing Pumpkins followed by Steppenwolf, Abba, the Beastie Boys, the Cure, the Clash, Public Enemy and the Rolling Stones. A Czech friend of mine had explained to me once that the mix didn’t seem incongruous to him: “We got all this music at the same time. All in ‘90 and after. It is all excellent for dancing, yes?” Fiona and I shrugged at each other as “Magic Carpet Ride” revved up. Then she commenced shimmying, rolling her hips, and I commenced to flail my limbs. Simon boogied over to us, wearing the tweed suit-coat tied round his waist. He shouted over the music, “Want to check out the Bunkr, maybe? Or Ubiquity? The Rock Café?” I glanced pointedly at the packed floor. “This isn’t enough of a crowd for | 127 you?” He worked a shrug into his dance moves. “Not really anybody we know.” I said I was thinking of heading home soon. “It’s early,” said Simon. “Only around two, I think. Things will be just picking up at the Borat?” We tracked down Tricky Ben at the bar, then all straggled upstairs and onto the street, down Celetná, spilling tipsy across Old Town Square and on toward the river. A full moon was blazing over Prague’s labyrinth. A Czech woman whom I’d dated in the spring had taught me the Czech word for moon—měsíc—and since then whenever I looked at the moon I mouthed měsíc, such a melting, lilting word. Sometimes a new word could make everything different, could make it shift right in front of my eyes, even if that thing had always been present, as constant as breathing or dreaming or sleep. Clusters of people were sprawled on the bridge, singing raggedly along to the strum of guitars. I’d sat there several nights myself, sharing bottles of too-sweet Czech wine with people I had just met and didn’t share a language with, speaking in gestures when we had to speak but mostly just singing along with the others. We all seemed to know a few of the same songs. Tonight these singers seemed desperate to me, nobody singing in the same key. I wondered if any of them heard each other. I wished that I hadn’t had to see Evan, drunk and dumb and crazy for Chloe. I wished she had never climbed into my bed. I hadn’t been expecting it. Sure, we had hit it off from the start, but until last night I had assumed that was partly because we had never had sex. Back in May, when I had first gotten to know her, I had decided that I was too proud to offer myself as one more of her eager dogs. But last night, after the open-mike reading and the requisite post-reading beers, all but one seat on our night tram was full. We’d both dived for it, giggling, and somehow she’d ended up on my lap. When she turned to make a joke our mouths came so close, but, thinking of how Chloe saw men who chased her, I had merely smoothed the hair back from her face and, feeling strong in my fake nonchalance, had turned away and peered out the window. Back at my place, I handed her the usual shirt but when I came out of the bathroom this time she lay stretched out on top of the sheet. The white t-shirt stopped at the top of her thighs, her nipples were dark just beneath the thin fabric. I didn’t dare to let myself see. I crawled into my separate bed, burrowed in. She snapped off the lamp between our two beds. I heard her shift a little and sigh. “I’m not all that sleepy,” she said, and then briefly paused, as if poising to leap. “I guess I’m feeling a little excited.” My head was all aglow with beer; the dim room smelled like the spice of her armpits. 128 | “Didn’t you want to kiss me?” she said. “On the tram? I almost kissed you.” “Of course I wanted to,” I said. “If we fuck tonight,” she said, “that’s not going to ruin our friendship, is it?” I turned my gasp into a choked laugh. Streams of gold from the streetlight outside washed in through the slits in the Venetian blinds. Chloe lay on her side, on the edge of her twin bed. “You’re the best friend I have left in this town. So just tell me honestly, Nick. Please don’t lie.” She was sliding off her bed. I shifted to make room for her. “There’s no way that I would stop being your friend.” She flipped back the bedsheet and climbed in beside me. The fuzz of her unshaven legs brushed my shins. “I thought so,” she said, “but you can’t be too careful with guys.” The blond curls that framed her cheeks, eyes, her mouth, were glimmering in the rising light. Our toes touched first, then our knees, then our hips. “Sometimes a guy will act like my friend, then I’m stupid enough to sleep with him, and it turns out he’s not my friend anymore. You wouldn’t be like that, would you?” I traced her brow with the tip of my finger, as if gently smudging a line on a sketch; I touched, as tenderly as I knew how, the thin skin at the corner of her eye, swept that finger along her cheekbone, into the silky curls over her ear. She was all golden and pressed up against me. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. I was leaning against the bridge’s railing, a stone notch digging into my chest, when Ben came up and clasped my shoulder. “What’s with you, man?” he said. “You feeling okay?” I told him I’d see him back at the flat. “Don’t be an idiot. Fun’s hardly started.” His blue bandanna looked black in the moonlight, its spots against the darkness like stars. “You do have a thing for that Chloe girl, don’t you?” “So what if I do?” “I guess that sucks. Did Evan steal her from you, or what?” “Nothing like that. Sometimes she comes home with me because she lives way southwest, on one of those bus lines. She sleeps in my extra bed.” Ben toyed with the loose ends of his bandanna, peering at me dubiously. “That’s all?” “Chloe falls for no one,” I said, not willing to confess to Ben that I ranked with Evan as one of her fools. “She uses ‘em and sheds ‘em like skins. I doubt that Evan realizes yet.” “Brutal,” Ben said. He leaned way over the rail of the bridge, let his feet push off the ground so his belly balanced on top of the wall, then jumped back down with a loud clump of boots. “If her taste is that awful, good riddance. You’ll find someone better soon. Meanwhile, man, carpe diem. Why don’t we seize the proverbial fish?” | 129 Further down the bridge, Fiona and Simon were just drifting away from the statue of St. John of Nepomuk. Ben went toward them. I stepped up to wish. The legend says that a Bohemian king had John, a priest, tortured, thrust in a sack, and tossed over the side of the bridge. The bronze relief plaque beneath the saint’s feet depicts the moment of his martyrdom: all the king’s minions gathered around, their raised bronze bodies dark with years, and the bright crumpled man-shape of John in his sack soaring over the wall of the bridge. That’s what you wish on: St. John-in-a-sack. By now he’s so worn and shiny from fingers that if you didn’t know the tale you would probably think he was jumping, escaping. I fixed my finger on tiny St. John, looked up the dark river that split the lit city. I never wished for something specific because that meant I could be disappointed; besides, I never knew what I needed until it slapped me, hard, in the face. The secret of life, as far as I knew, was that nobody really knew what he sought. We were all groping our way through life’s mazes. I watched the dark changing face of the river, millions of lapping watery tongues folding back into one glassy mass. Ben had it right: seize the fish while you can. Seize the fish, kiss the fish, let the fish go. I swirled my finger one last time over St. John’s bright falling body. Amen, amen, amen, I thought, then walked over to my friends. They had reached the point on the bridge’s western end where stone steps led down to Kampa Island. “Party on Kampa!” Simon was crowing. Fiona was twirling her long wild hair to the music coming from the pub under the bridge, on the island. “He-e-e-e-ey!” a loud call fluted over the bridge. Chloe was sprinting toward our small group, her dark cape flapping around her green dress. When she reached us she latched her hands on her knees and leaned over slightly, catching her breath. “I saw you from across the bridge. I was just walking to my night tram.” “Evan isn’t with you?” said Simon. “Ditched him at his tram stop,” she said. “I’m so glad I caught up with you.” “We’re heading down to the island,” said Ben, “to smoke some hash and howl at the moon.” Kampa was nearly deserted that night—just a few couples tangled on blankets and a clump of hippies strumming guitars. We found a spot on the grass, settled in. Ben loaded hashish into his little pipe and we all passed it around. The moon had turned yellow, the night was deep blue. The hippies’ music trickled toward us. My friends were all voluble, happy and high. Next to me, Chloe leaned back on her elbows. I wondered how she had got rid of Evan. I wondered if she would sleep with him again or if she had knocked him once and for all from the dizzy perch he’d enjoyed at the Dog, when he had still believed she wanted him personally, had thought himself 130 | special and chosen and blessed. She wouldn’t deliberately hurt him, of course, any more than she’d longed to hurt me. And in the end I would have to forgive her, because she would see nothing for me to forgive; she’d made me promise, after all, that having sex would change nothing between us. In the end, I was the one who had lied. She was laughing in the moonlight, playing with Fiona’s red hair as she hummed along with the strains of the Beatles’ “Yesterday” wavering, in several hopeful keys, toward us through the summer night. Fiona leaned closer, into Chloe’s shoulder. “Perfect night for an orgy,” she said. Chloe laughed, twisting Fiona’s hair in her hands. “Pity about the company, though.” She swept a mass of the snaky red hair across her own face. At first I thought either the hash was too strong, or the moonlight must be tricking me with the blue way it bounced off that wild, hennaed hair but, blinking, I realized that it was no trick. Chloe was actually kissing Fiona, whose hair was foaming around their joined faces. I’m not sure who dove in next, but soon we were all in it, rolling around, and everything was moonlight and tongues, and it was more curious than erotic: peculiar the scratch of Ben’s sunburned cheek, how bony men’s shoulders were under my hands, how soft both women were in contrast. Imagine comparing how four people kissed when each of them was so fresh in your mind: Simon earnest and mushy-tongued, warm; Ben precise and passionate; Fiona was like kissing a plum, her plump mouth small, open, pulpy inside. Chloe was sweet-breathed despite the hashish, her tongue like a question, her curls in my fingers. Above us, in the old trees, things were singing. Somehow I unbuttoned her dress and took her white breast into my mouth, moon- warmed and slippery as a fish. Then Ben moved in on her other breast, Fiona’s mouth caught Chloe’s mouth, Simon’s lips were on my neck, and I had begun to feel very strange. The moon ceased seeming like an excuse. I didn’t want the rest of them there. But it was Chloe who pushed us all away, and soon the excitement thinned into exhaustion. The hash buzz ebbed and the grass in our clothes was starting to itch and everyone began to say that this interlude shouldn’t become public knowledge. We climbed the stone steps to the bridge. I nudged Ben and whispered, “Would you mind crashing at Simon’s tonight?” He lowered his eyebrows, squinting at me. “You’re not feeling weird about this thing, are you, man? Because you know it’s women I like.” “Of course. I just want some space to myself.” “Understood,” he said, with a little salute. On the bridge he went east with Fiona and Simon. Chloe, as usual, went west with me, though we didn’t talk about where she would sleep. The tram schedule at Malostranské Square said we had thirty minutes to wait. Chloe suggested that we walk a bit, so we started uphill, toward the castle. “Why didn’t you go to Evan’s?” I asked, carefully pacing my words to stay calm; each word fell a cobblestone’s distance apart. | 131 “Because he was acting so gross at the Dog, like he thought that he owned me or something. I just left him at the tram stop to stew in it.” “I’m not a huge fan of Evan’s,” I said, “but you shouldn’t play with people like that.” She glanced at me, then away, and then back, her blue eyes narrowing. “Maybe I shouldn’t have slept with the guy, but it seemed harmless enough at the time. You weren’t hurt that I did, were you?” “Past tense?” She stopped walking. “Shit. Are you hurt?” I nodded and shrugged. “Christ. Don’t be, Nick. It’s not personal. I think I’m through with him, anyhow.” She grabbed my arm. “Hey, do you know about Drahomira?” I didn’t. She led me up a crooked alley, across narrow Janský Vršek, where alchemists used to live in a tower, up a crumbling flight of steps, and partway around the base of the castle. “Okay, we’re almost there,” she said. “This is your reward. Ta-dum!” Set into a peeling wall was the sort of pedestal-cubbyhole usually filled by some saint or other, but this curved niche contained just one red candle, burning low, and what looked like a very shriveled bouquet. “It’s a chapel for Drahomíra,” said Chloe, “the mother of Good King Wenceslas.” “So she was another saint?” “No.” Chloe laughed. “That’s the fabulous part. She wasn’t a martyr, or murdered or mutilated or married off against her will like every other woman in Czech history. She was pagan and she had power of her own. Of course she was a murderer, too, but you can’t ask for everything in a role model.” “Why the chapel for her, then?” Chloe laughed harder. “This is the spot, the very spot, mind you, where Drahomira was dragged into hell. I guess there were witnesses.” Winding our way back downhill we felt the strain of the slope in our knees. Below and ahead of us lay the dark city, glittering here and there with small lights. We strolled through the gap in a crumbling wall and into the orchards next to Petřín. Straying from the jagged path that meandered among the apple and pear trees, we sidestepped our careful way down the steep lawns until we found a good hollow for sitting. The grass was cool, moist. It tickled my ears. “It’s freezing this time of morning,” she said. She gathered her cape more closely around her. “Nick, I think that I’m moving to Paris.” I begged her pardon. “You know I love French—the language, the wine, the lifestyle, the men.” She shifted her head in the grass beside mine. “But probably I can’t move there till fall. I’ll have to sell a whole lot of hats.” 132 | “Why Paris?” “I’ve been thinking about why I’m still in Prague,” Chloe said—originally she’d planned to stay just six weeks, to make some quick cash selling hats, then move on—“and I couldn’t find any reason at all.” Her voice in the dark sounded dreamy and tired. She said that Paris was a real city, with a real art scene, and real museums, with real challenges. “Prague’s too easy to be true,” she said. She said that her whole life in Prague seemed like some ridiculous dream; it couldn’t go on forever like this, and when the expatriate bubble burst she wanted to be far away. “Why not just enjoy it?” I said. “Why ask questions, go looking for problems? Haven’t you got all that you really need?” She sighed. “Maybe you need less than I do.” Anyway, she said, she was sick of the transience, of how all the friends she made kept on leaving. “Prague isn’t a real place at all, for Americans. It’s some kind of surrealist way station. Everyone’s always coming or going.” “That’s another lesson,” I said. “Christ, everything is a lesson for you.” I heard her plucking at the grass, ripping strand after strand from the earth. “A lesson in what?” “Impermanence. Trust. You meet these people; you learn to love them; they leave and of course you miss them a while, but you trust those spaces to fill in. And they do: you keep meeting more people, finding adventures. This is real life, same as everywhere else, only it happens here at light speed.” “A college friend of mine is in Paris,” she said. “She says I could work as an artist’s model. Everyone says I’ve got the bones for it. My Prague phase was great and all, but it’s over. All of my best friends are gone or they’re leaving.” I touched her cheekbone. “I don’t count?” “You’re too complicated,” she said. She glanced at her watch. “You know, we missed the goddamn tram.” She said she was starting to feel awfully tired. “Take a nap right here,” I said. “My head’s on a rock.” I patted my shirt pocket. “Put your head here.” She smiled and moved her head to my chest. I felt my heart throbbing just under her ear. “This really is much nicer,” she murmured. She shifted an arm to encircle my waist, flung one knee over my knees. I adjusted the loose folds of her cape to keep her bare legs covered and warm and smoothed the thick fabric over her torso. She sighed. Her forehead nuzzled my chest. The moon had dipped toward the horizon; its whitish light turned her curls strangely silver. Her head jerked suddenly, then relaxed: a last protest before consciousness fell. When I awoke the sky was more purple than blue; the blazing moon had paled and moved. Chloe was leaving, I knew it for certain, and I would fill her place with new friends. I would start again. Again. I hadn’t expected anything different, but now I was swallowing it, knowing deeply—which | 133 was something else altogether. Dew may have fallen, because I was cold. The sleeves of my thick flannel shirt weren’t enough. Mist seeped down the long wooded hill, down among Malá Strana’s red roofs, into its locked courtyards and gardens. Mist was drifting across the dark river, and curling like intrigue throughout the Old Town, a ghost ivy clinging to the brass spires. A deep peach light spread across the horizon. I realized these ancient hill orchards faced east, perfect balcony seats for the dawn. Craning my neck and propping myself gently up on my elbows, I could just see Chloe’s face. I traced the shape of her lips with my eyes and thought how unfair genetics could be, how random and unjust beauty’s lure. If Chloe hadn’t looked like a painting, would I have cared that she’d been fucking Evan? It was talking with her that I loved most of all—at least that’s what I told myself—but how to separate our talks from watching her face when she grimaced or smiled, from the way her lips curved and stretched when she laughed? If Cleveland had been half as lovely as Prague, would I have ever needed to leave? Chloe shifted, yawned, and opened her eyes. “You make a pretty good pillow,” she said. I told her the sun was about to come up. We stretched, unkinked our limbs, sat upright. The city below us was gathering shape, hazy outlines of buildings, curved streets, sharpening in the new light. The three-dimensional map of the city was rising from the night like a prayer. Curved bands of light advanced on the dark, pushing back the violet-blue sky as if it were a domed lid on the city, being lifted gradually, sliver by sliver. Day touched the river and set it to shimmering; it spilled down the length of the medieval bridge. Chloe had thrown the black cape from her shoulders; her dress was the same bright green as the lawns. “Is it like this every day?” she asked. “It can’t possibly be this beautiful, can it? Every single goddamn day?” “It must be,” I said. “We’re just never watching.” Chloe was holding her chin in her hands; her blue eyes were open wide. “We’re idiots,” she said. “Such fools.” She snuggled her shoulder into my chest. The round edge of the sun wobbled up behind the Old Town like the rim of a blazingly new golden coin. Its face expanded, lengthened, bulged, until the sphere detached from the land and the clouds. Rising smoothly, it dangled over the city. I thought of how long that sun had been rising, every day while the city slowly took shape—a millennium of myths and wars, hopes and nightmares mapped in stone, until Prague had become this strange pearl, in this valley, a dream I could cradle right there, in my eyes. Long before even that, it was rising, over a river, a lush wooded valley riddled with groves more sacred perhaps than the squabbling churches that later usurped them. The sun would still rise when this city was rubble. I would not be here to see. But this moment, I thought, this I could keep. I had to remember a glimmer 134 | of this, how full and blind and lost I was in this wonder that went on with or without me. Day pushed the night back, the mist slid downhill, and light burgeoned into the bowl of the valley. The miracle was daily, eternal, and we were just passing across its gold face. Something was always rising and falling and here we were in the palm of its hand, born on a cool morning into its garden. The monastery bells tolled some hour. Chloe pulled away and yawned. “I’ve seen what we came for,” she said. “Let’s go home.” | 135
Brunch at Julie Ashley’s flat in Holešovice, 1996. In this photo: Lacey (Eckl) McCormick, Julie Ashley, Shannon McCormick , Kate Fitzpatrick, Tim Simmons, Abbey Achs, Deb Achs, Neil Danziger, David Freeling, Anthony Tognazzini, Alan Ward, Scott Bellefeuille, Theo Schwinke, Nicole Achs Freeling, Sandra Crouch. 136 |
Paul Martia, Alan Ward Thomas and Alex Barber, Vaclávské náměstí, New Year’s Eve, 1999. Photo: Karl Skarstein. Alex Barber The Last Bus
I’m scared I’m sacred I’m overflowing with potential. Fossil children, hold your breath the light is coming, words fade into the dunes. The captain of bones lives to trade a single flower for sand he can pour through his glass to get more time. The last bus comes at midnight. Our chivalry has gone unnoticed. I am who I am without you. | 137 You only needed me to get this far. I spent a past life ruling and raping and this one paying back my trespasses. I’m just figuring out the rhymes of my own shadows. Thank you for having me. Once the plate of kharma. The Edge of the World
I drove to the edge of the world and forgot my name.
No
I drove to the edge of the world and forgot.
138 |
Opposite: Alex Barber, “Lester & Zippy,” Think magazine, 2001. | 139 140 |
Kip Bauersfield, “Boy with Glasses,” oil on canvas, Prague 2004. Kip Alan Bauersfeld from The Superseding, A Prague Nocturne
Emil in the moonlight He’d been walking for a long time. Walking. He didn’t know how long. Walking over the face of the earth. At times he thought he could feel the sea at his side. At other times he felt himself wandering in endless valleys, across forested steppes, beside the roaring flow of enormous rivers. At a certain point he knew he was moving inland. Deeper and deeper toward the heart of the continent. Ahead the moon shone full through a silver lined rift in the clouds, illuminating the red tiled roofs and golden spires of the village at the Church above the Black Woods in a watery luminescence that made the | 141 whole of the village seem to float upon the dark body of the land. The road sloped down and to the left and he was walking, still walking, walking in the direction of the moon. How long had it been? How long? He couldn’t say. The Egyptian Dynasties, the Minoans, Mycenaeans, Phoenicians, Celts, Greeks, and Romans had all fallen, felled by the merciless, almost human, hands of time. Europe had seen wars and more wars, periods of darkness and relative light. An indifferent Earth swallowed corpses by the billions, belched smoke and flames, trembled and wet itself after the heavens cried. How long had it been? The tubercular hands of a denuded apple tree reached from the empty expanse of a near-by field, the moon light painting silver shards of a mirrored glass into its rain soaked fingers. How long had it been? Too long, that was all. And perhaps not long enough. There were times when he thought he could smell the salt air of the sea. Times when the after-thought of far away factories burned his eyes. Times when the whole of the world was lost in a listless hazy coal smoke, times when the piercing freshness of the pines made him forget his body high in the clear unseen alpine air. Times when he bruised his feet upon the jagged rocks. He’d been walking for a long time. An ambulance sped passed as he neared the edge of the town trailing a cape of thin mist that pressed into his face. For a moment he closed his eyes, to hear all the better the never ending sound of his footsteps upon the earth, to hear the beating of his heart. The moon drew him out like the tide. He liked it best when he could see its body in reflection upon wet asphalt, in pools of still water. A couple passed, arm in arm, laughing, on the other side of the road. Then he was in the village, the raised golden cross of the church spire guiding him on through the narrow winding streets. There were only a few lights, dim and veiled, here and there, at street level. The village seemed to close in upon itself, hidden behind stone walls, doors, curtained windows like secret memories in the mind. Theirs was a different world than his. He could hear the folks in the pub as he neared the square, laughing and shouting and singing. Making merry on this night. On this night as so many nights before. Someone was playing a violin. He heard a door close and a dog barking. He heard muffled shouts and pounding. Again he strained to hear the sound of his own footsteps. The expanse of the deserted square opening before him, the Gothic church of the Saint of the Guardian Angel rising up from the far end, moonlight 142 | sleeping on its green copper garrets, moonlight licking the edges of the golden spired ball and cross, moonlight caressing the darkness inside the bell tower. Still he heard pounding and muffled shouts, the sound of a nail from his worn down heel scuffing the cobblestones. He slowed down ashe approached the faintly rocking ambulance parked on the empty square. The muffled shouts and pounding evidently coming from inside. He winked to the moon as he paused and undid the latch, then turned, walking out across the street and the top of the square to the left. The bewildered Harvey Kreis froze as the ambulance doors unexpectedly swung open. He knew never to expect what he expected. His nerves were fractalized, generating ever new yet eternally similar patterns of pain. And the sight that greeted him, the sight he’d unwillingly come so far to see? No more than the darkened facade and drawn metal shutters of a bookstore. The rain slicked sidewalk was empty save for a few soiled leaflets advertising a circus. He pushed further open the doors to improve his view, prepared to see the executioner, testing the trap door of the gallows, sharpening the blade of the axe in a bloodied white smock. With uncertain relief Kreis stepped cautiously down from the ambulance. His mind had been spun so perfectly in the centrifuge of this unfathomable evening as to resemble, at this hour, calm itself. Carefully he closed the doors behind him. He jiggled the latch to ensure it was properly locked. Then staggered and almost fell back, the ridge of his lower spine slamming into the cold, rusty metal lock on the shutters of the bookstore, arching then inward in equal and opposite reaction, his head careening back on his neck to take in the cloud covered vault of the silvery darkened heavens, his eyes rolling to meet the now cloud fractured body of the moon as it waned behind the roof of the church, his chin then giving way to the summons of gravity, as it fell with a nod, his eyes working to fix upon a lonely figure moving without haste toward the far side of the square. With everything in him he wanted to call out, to shout, but by virtue of his own fear this proved impossible. For a few moments he wavered in front of the bookstore his eyes riveted to the figure rapidly disappearing among the nocturnal shadows of the buildings on the far side of the square. Fearing both solitude and company, as a thin but rain ready cloud veiled the body of the moon, the howl of a far away dog set him to fright and Kreis found himself walking briskly out into the shadows. Walking, walking still, through narrow walled streets, a faint incline growing stronger as the street turned to a cobblestone path and then into a muddy trail draped in wet leaves, rimmed by rain weighted blades of green grass, fenced off to the left, the night air rife with the pungent smell of brown coal smoke, invisible dogs whimpering timidly, the moon calling out to him with a smile one moment and then turning away, leaning back, hiding her | 143 face the very next. He could hear the old communist era PA system switched on and off and then on and off again. A cock crowed in the distance. The sound of static from a speaker on a nearby telephone pole immediately raised the hairs on the back of Kreis’ neck. He stopped, stung by the silence, the burning at once assuaged by the sound of water running in the subterranean sewers. Kreis sized up the darkened streets nervously, a pale amber-orange street light flickering on to cast his elongated shadow across the windowless wall of the two story house beside him. The sight of this frightened him again, forcing him to up the pace, in an ever more irrational attempt to catch the figure disappearing now into the woods below. And he was walking down through thick matted grass to the stream, branches poking his exposed flesh, snagging on his clothes, mud ever more slippery, the face of the moon now wearing endlessly interchangeable masks, falling toward the dark undulant body of the earth visible through the twisted trees. The sound of snapping branches behind him turned his head. Kreis froze mid-step. The man meet his eyes as the body of the moon chaffed the upper ridge behind him, watching for an instant as Kreis’s pupils reflected the moon in miniature before falling back into the darkness of an intervening cloud. He turned away and as he crossed the stream a legion of invisible frogs leapt into the water as if fleeing a snake. He headed up the hillside into the woods without so much as a word, the moon now setting behind the ridge. They walked on, occasionally stumbling, in a blind silence, through the Black Woods, for an indeterminate measure of time, before finally, in a small recess formed by a cleft in the hill side, in the middle of a ring of dark sturdy pines, the man stopped. He turned slowly, extending the full length of his arm. He was reaching out, his palm up-turned…
Like happiness, only falling “Well go on, walk, time is of the essence you know,” said the man in coat tails glancing down again at his gold pocket watch, adding with a bow, “Your Majesty.” Favasha stood upon the carpet of clouds bathed in a golden moon light. Far beneath her the Vltava wound like a white gold snake through the heart of Bohemia, ever refilling inspiration’s ancient chalice with the new wine of unrequited dream… “Go on, it’s just down there, he’s waiting, go on…” said the man in white 144 | gloves knitting his fingers nervously, “it won’t take long at all.” “What won’t take long?” asked Favasha turning around to see only the distant face of the moon gazing at her unremittingly through a rift in the wind blown clouds. Our two friends had vanished. “The ceremony of course, it is what you agreed to,” said the man in coat tails suddenly beside her, swinging his watch back and forth like a pendulum. “What ceremony?” insisted Favasha. “Never to fear, you’re the guest of honor, he’s selected you to read it!” said the man in white gloves on the other side of her as he took her by the elbow. “To read what?” “To read it, what else!” said the man in coat tails taking the other elbow rather forcefully. “What it?” “The gospel of course! You know…” said Mr President beginning to tug at her as she leaned back in resistance. “I’m afraid I don’t know what your talking about.” “The book, he wants you to read the gospel, after all you helped write it, we all helped write it, but you especially, and to give it to him as a gift, on his birthday no less, he’s invited only the best for the occasion I assure you, now hurry up…” explained the man in coat tails with a beaming smile and a wink of his left eye, his hand firmly on her elbow but applying no force. “But what gospel, and who’s he?” asked Favasha relaxing for a moment. “The gospel you helped write, the one you burned Your Majesty, flames have always been dear to his heart. Don’t ask how he treated Theophilus after he torched the Library at Alexandria. His joy was immeasurable! You couldn’t have given it to him in a nicer way. Your generosity will be duly rewarded we assure you. He as you well know is the Lord,” said both our friends in unison as they at one and the same time heaved on her arms like a fisherman his full nets and Favasha like the projectile in a catapult went flying. There was a strange electric blue phosphorescence to the air as she flew over ravines and gullies, dipping and swaying held close to the body of the earth in the white gloved talons of some prehistoric bird with leathery wings, a gold pocket watch rocking round its neck as they flew, over springs of stallion blood leaping into the air boiled and ebullient, past the poisonous emerald eyes of insects in bogs of peat moss, and on among the fragmentary dreams of grave stones translucent and radiant, past trees with leaves of noosed rope, to a forest of giant frost-covered pinwheels that twinkled in her wake like falling meteors… Further on she began to rise carried through a frozen maze of men and women she’d thought but stars adorned in an armor of white hot crabs that, as they moved sideways to withdraw, exposed tired faces which appeared | 145 as death masks peeling and cringing and laughing. As she looked away, Favisha suddenly saw the mirrors through which she was flying, mirrors and cobwebs woven of tattered flags, bits of fabric and splintered glass sticking to her hair and pouring from her watery eyes like cathederaled candle light. It was then that the creature in whose claws she hung began to descend in a deep arching spiral and she was overcome with waves of an emotion tinged in shades of utter amazement, dizzying and euphoric, yet terrifying, a strange, twisted feeling that slowly overwhelmed her, consumed her, devoured her, a feeling much like happiness, only… falling.
White, white, white upon white Favasha’s field of vision grew narrower, narrower and narrower, at last fading, fading to a field of white, white, white upon white that soon enveloped her.
The reading Slowly Favasha returned, slowly, falling into herself as from a great height, a height through which the whole of her life had stretched, contracting now, condensing into bits of sound. Whispers, endless whispers, whispers of an unforgivable sin. Whispers crowding out her mind, writhing beneath her skin. Opening her eyes she saw only darkness, before slowly something began to expand and her eyes adjusted to the deep, faintly flickering amber that solidified the air, molding and shaping it like dancing shadows froman unseen fire—forms banished as soon as created. It was as if her eyes had opened on a piece of fabric rippling in the wind, draped across her face, a living fabric, crawling, as if woven of worms, the worms themselves then woven of ever smaller worms, coarse and hairy were the quivering fibers of the air, inching upward, dancing bits of shadow defining the shifting spaces in-between, infinite, alluding to something impossibly beyond, as if the space behind her she could not see, but feel, feel behind her, was out there somewhere, defining that fabric, giving the air form, on the other side. Her eyes scraped against it, their movement pressing in like a finger to soft wax, the intaglio space of their passing shifting her focus in an impossible search for a point to define. Favasha could feel her chest swelling, breasts pressing into the space before her, inside becoming outside like a breath held without walls, defined only by its own expansive continuity, by the impossibility of escape, of the need to merge, to be one with itself. “Go on,” said the voices in unison. “On go now, reeead!” they whispered. 146 | She couldn’t tell if she was looking up or down, straight ahead or to the side. There was no way to tell, but her chin was high, her throat strained, the back of her neck crushed down upon itself as if someone was pushing her forehead into the center of the earth, trying to force it to collapse upon itself, yet at the same time pushing with unimaginable pressure up along her spine, and out into the cosmos through the back of her skull. The only way to escape the pressure was through her eyes and they rose as if climbing a ladder, following the fabric up, up and up, detailed and slow in motion, until, exhausted from the climb, the line of her sight met with an edge, as if a wall, upon which she could focus, an edge defined by a shift in color, the darkness beyond alluding to a space less solid, deeper, demarcating the ledge upon which her gaze for a moment could rest. It was then that far, far above her, at the top of the infinite arch of her vision, she could see a pin point of electric blue light with a white circle at the center, an infintesimally small circle as clear as an eye held to her face yet further away than the farthest star that began to fall, rocking on the air, pulling away from the electric blue light beyond, growing slowly larger, slowly larger, falling toward her. “Go on,” whispered the voices, swirling around her, inside her, pausing to inhale through her open pours and orifices, “Reeead!” they hisssed. All grew immeasurably cold, a cold that sliced and scraped, peeled and burned. Favasha’s eyes followed the falling white body for an indiscernible amount of time. It could have been seconds, days, years, eons. Its edges began to fissure and splinter, to fray, to curl into a crescent, the darkness separating it from itself. And as it did so, it began to glow brighter and brighter and brighter. When, at last, the white body appeared to be just above, as if it was about to fall into her eyes, she realized, suddenly, with immaculate clarity, what it was. A feather. A simple, single, feather. Solitary and distraught. Glowing as it rocked through the air above her eyes, glowing as it passed through her, drawing her gaze down, down, down to the sheet of white paper into which it, and everything in her, then merged. Favasha was that sheet of paper, that feather, surrounded by a field of white upon white upon which, around her on all sides, dark lines began to slither and wind, building themselves up like self generating walls, gaining volume, flexing to cast the shadows of the labyrinth, pulling together, closing, opening, gathering in a stormy, stressed, guttural sound that tore through the space around her, the space that was her, as dark and light collided, with inexplicable force, exploding and imploding yet inviolable, to form a vortex that swirled around her, alive, fragments of the whirling walls reaching out toward her, pulling her apart, caressing her lips, her tongue, reaching down her throat. | 147 “Reeead!” screeched the voices from the impossible center of it all. And Favasha’s lips began to move, her tongue crawled up her throat—it dragged along her teeth, curled out over her lips before beginning to roll across the swirling walls around her, as pieces broke off in joints and arches and lines, pieces that grew in size and stature into letters and then words, towering, resounding words, lined up in rows, sounding off in tones ominous, catastrophic and unyielding, tones instantly subdued like the fading call of an echo off the canyon walls of desolation lake, into the whispering insistence of her own voice as it fell, as the feather did, slowly, down, down, down inside her. Until at last she could hear, hushed as if in a lullaby, from impossibly far away, the sound of her own voice, reading: “Late in the afternoon...” 148 |
Kip Bauersfeld & Kevin Blahut, 1996. Kevin Blahut Sinbad
One lately wonders at the identities of those who, when Sinbad’s head burned —as it sometimes must have— and he was able to perform —as he sometimes must have been— replaced him for a while with filthy terror.
Certainly they were insidious in charm, and if they walked valleys unmolested, it was menace, not faith, that got them through. | 149 This everyone knows. However, recovering, even Sinbad could regard only fragmentarily the gathered winsome faces of those whose rejoicing made him crave collapse. Young Hands
Young hands browned by tobacco, think they’ll grasp forever, last until the sun shines for you.
Large sections of your inadequacies I’ve memorized, all pale and square as cretins.
That time you took him and hammered him like a xylophone.
Another glass? Another bottle. Something to sear it blank.
150 | Alcohol’s Marionette
The talk and touch is knee-jerk, from faces smooth as television screens. Impossible to remember. Pacifists wave skeletal arms to incite to violence, cough a death rattle. They carry knives. Some drool, copulate and expire. There is a smell of apples rotted brown and soft buried in slimy autumn leaves, chemicals tirelessly knocking against each other to make empty venomous gesture and speech. My brother was exoskeleton eaten hollow by mites. kept running by a mite brain. Soaring breaks against it. Birdbeak cracked by thick glass that vanished in this light. | 151
A Petrified Head(New York: William Aloysius Books, 1993). 152 |
Photo: Petr Králík Petr Borkovec Sonograph (for Franz Hammerbacher)
A thrush up on the gutter —still spreading and already drying out— like a blot of ink in bold. I flexed a forking wand of walnut, an antler still hooked onto a ringing head, and it came springing back at me as though still on the tree. I looked for skulls in all the leaves and bones of stalks. The thrush sang. | 153
Teams combed the alders near the river. The stains left after branches tilt in the wind. They fleck and gather in the dry wind. A golden worm, it seems, works through the facing shore. Small bits of driftwood flock and cloud along in front of a dead carp, which in its turn, eye clouded over, snags in the shoulder of the river where branches burn: they blossom as in a documentary, the flames of fire in daylight with no smoke or sound; ash swarming up; the glow burgeoning.
Odd shells and old ceramics turn brightly green amidst the mud that’s full of seeds. Streams of magpies along the silt and swirls and streaks. A barge pulled up on to the beach has rusted into silence; a thresher’s belt—carefully caught among the lower wheels and cracked, toys with the thought of starting up again.
The thrush sang all the while. Against the twilight, now up on the gable. That metamorphosing stain, I thought, is almost like a bird—it looks like one. But everything flowed into it. And the song was still unchanging. I watched. Called everything the same. I listened. The thrush sang. I believed it all. What it seemed. How it looked.
Translated by Justin Quinn.
154 | Pine
1 Its supple top keeps on exploding as if behind a film, as if a fire down at its foot inflamed the air; flakes of flame.
The higher shelves give up. They waver backwards. The wind doesn’t charge them— flows over and aligns them. Medusa, green star-fish.
If you look at it, even the trunk is opening up and the air above the crown is frayed and shadowy.
Jays flash and work | 155 inside it, washing to and fro.
A gust threw dry leaves over it.
2 This morning, a drop cuts down the window. Beyond—somewhere in the land— there’s a retreat in all directions. But the ear is in on every plan.
Thaw. Snow leaps off the needles. The branch comes to a standstill, slowly, shifting movement somewhere to lower or to higher shelves. Inflow of black lines. Then for a long time it’s slowed again by darkening skies.
A great tit leaves its print but doesn’t sink into the ledge of snow upon the ledge, which dries, but doesn’t crumble, as though it has some promises to keep. 3 Dry and tame above the thaw. branch furnishings in room-lighting, warm.
4 A palisade of pines across the way, but clamour coming as if from only one of them. Another with a crooked basal branch, stout as a trunk, maybe stouter. A kestrel gathers strength to still itself, pressing on a spike, much like a sharpened shred of twisted skin. In the background, at the gate, a movement— they’re carrying out some heavy object, a bed or chest, but now it seems to be an injured person. Perhaps someone was hurt or maybe fainted. In the end, it seems they’re leading someone out in handcuffs, on each side two or three 156 | holding him by the collar and the arms. It’s hard to see the shouts and hear the clamour which maintains itself on the same and single tone.
Translated by Justin Quinn. Ode
A great tit swoops down to a book in hand in February, at a window screened by heat, and standing side on seems to have just set, the body’s flash and tremor all for its eye.
The winter holds on tooth and nail through it, stock still, glazed over—as you’d say—in feathers, beautiful and distinct, a moment measur- able only by other shining things, made out by gleam alone, which takes the measure of rhythms and dark ratios, the spillages of interval and edge—their likenesses knock you back almost to the icy sill.
That eye’s a mask. Of what? The warring frost and forest which open far out to the margins | 157 like sleeves, almost in darkness, and no emergence of wrist or fist, just cold light breaking branches on the horizon, where gazes go without saying, chapped lip, someone’s dry hand (almost), water like eyelets from snow melted on a sweater, and ribboned pine and quince above the door.
Translated by Justin Quinn. Snow General On
outlying fields—gone now. But still no revelation, nothing new:
an aftertaste of change, if even that, when you observe the planes—empty, flat—
and hold the very distance in your hand. The rooks delight and fly above the land,
a black panel, the shadow of an airship, a string of tugboats uniform in shape
which pulls along the same and single track the surface, which then coils and closes back,
the river’s bridge and bed, the river isle, 158 | the shore, the works and days of river life.
Like black hills crowned with the constant thunder of a highway, like weather’s distant trundle
inland, the shifting brilliancies and planes at lay-bys and at dirty filling stations,
there where the shadows grade back into murk, and headlights carve quick frescos from the dark.
Like a gaze blacked out by closing forest walls. Like the forest broken open by wood trails,
like wood trails which the forest dark then seals, like the forest razed to leave outlying fields,
as matt as these hinds poised before the sedge, a beast of prey that stands at something’s edge,
and an eye behind glass that turns behind them.
Translated by Justin Quinn. Two Owls
The street sleeved to their body, but outspread to their flight, to the buzzard, to the bat, the rounded edges of their vanishing caught by the streetlight’s glare: space briefly folded up in the hush of that back-draught.
Translated by Justin Quinn.
| 159 The Work
the river’s watermark, the swell of sunset on the west side of the sky. Soft folds of air caught in the current’s turn as long as the last bird has yet to fly.
A foot-bridge propped up on the surface, footsteps, a wrinkled beach, a pair of shoes, and sand, although withdrawn, which watches you discreetly, ice, which razors you, the strokes. Point
of no return. Man on a punt, depicted, perhaps observing his float’s glint and play. Who now encounters only things themselves. The roar and thunder. The foot-bridge rubbed away.
160 | Translated by Justin Quinn. Room
The window opens back against the curtains. The narrow pendulum is at a standstill, dark brown with gold behind undusted glass. On the left, a stove. Upholstery on the chairs is red, as is the quilt, as is the table in the Last Supper, which hangs above the bed. Old lipstick fills the dishes in the case, in one a rosary is coiled in its own heat.
A picture shows the Blaníks in the spring: a shaded angler can’t see the girl and dog nearing the foot-bridge. A cupboard, a head on it, hair-pieces, dust and clips. The television with lacework almost breathing underneath reflects a country road, the glint and flash of sunlight and a spire. On the smeared black screen all this takes on the colouring of ash. | 161
Translated by Justin Quinn. 162 | Sarah Borufka Night Train
I watched a woman With sandy hair And thick metal braces Ride through daylight
Over her head A metal contraption towered Like a halo Or a crown of thorns | 163 She was in a wheelchair
Always going down One way streets The wrong way Cursing
My friend called Her St. Bridget The saint of Ireland and Fallen Women
She smoked herself into a stupor And gulped down Bottles of night train
I am sure She Watched Bubbles Burst Like dreams That once mattered
When the bubbles had burst And the dreams didn’t Matter Anymore
She adjusted
Sip by sip
She told me about The giant, cow-sized dog She once saw in a dream
She said he confessed to her
He had never told the other dogs That he belonged to the same species 164 | It would be too confusing And maybe they’d hate him, He had said
The merciless New Orleans sun Was dripping on us
As she offered me a sip Of night train
I declined
She said She watched Her friends Become Moist and musty soil The kind that Mushrooms mosses Berries Sprout out of She said She once Watched Someone Important Become The earth That we all grow up to Be buried in
She swallowed and smiled a Vague smile
She was one of New Orleans’ fallen ladies
I never got her name I never told her mine
My friend Still sees her | 165 Riding that night train The wrong way Down Magazine street Into a dark night That asks no questions.
166 |
Photo: Jen Emery MICHAEL BRENNAN Apogee (for Tioui)
Pressed between two atmospheres, fatigue swelling in your eyes you rise up and face day, the intrigue of chance cast in the air, a face you assume, a name of so many syllables, so much history. Erstatz-coffee drawn from chicory, azure-leaves as bitter as morning’s current affairs: the interminable process of adaptation. You sort the ephemera of the real, loose leaf files, around some system, think of distant friends, sense the mutual gravitation of associated bodies, the logic of words forming syssarcosis, ill-defined ligaments that bind and underwrite the plausible. You breathe in as contingency allows. Close a door, a series of syllables expiring in the mind, fractals of thought rhythmic, | 167 language operating below itself, opening in ganglia, flowering toward an impulse to annihilate le travail de destruction. On the wall of the station the metro is a giant’s print, the concentric lines break through at points on the peripherique into the violence of unknown spaces. You press the green cardboard ticket between thumb and forefinger, and would decouple light from matter so that the universe grew transparent. You think of Kant unwriting God while a busker strums out a few lines of Brel je ne sais pas pourquoi le vent s’amuse dans les matins clairs. The woman opposite strokes a dog in a gym bag, stares, and you remember a girl in Maastricht now more distant than time and space allow, a name that returns in dreams of beautiful drownings. You cross the wooden tiers, the library stacks tower over you, the premeditations of their architecture grimly wry now the librarians no longer recall the catalogue’s shibboleth and so, of course, you have a drink or sit by the river.
First published in Jacket 11 (2000). The disaster of grace
It’s true the mirror was in love, finding itself in every face. It was not a function of syntax. His life was slurred. Yes, it’s true, the heart hid in the dark with the dream of light. How did you disguise yourself with only a pause? How hungry I grew after the lean years. The mirror stole the face I would have traded for such emptiness. All those wars of attrition. Silly lovers.
If I could reach you with anything but myself, what then might begin? Rest maybe. When the sleepless awake. When the dreamers sleep. What gentleness, the bricks barely brush these first flowers. Ahk, sly dog, teaching me touch. My hands fell apart in yours. Poor soul, dance upon my feet awhile. Hunger, never leave me alone. All that I left was a beginning. 168 | I could have cried for him, but for his friendship. No, not her, the drinking was alone. Oh, that the half-hearted might find each other! It was mid-winter when his eyelids said their farewells to each other.
First published in Jacket 27 (2005). No second chances
“I burnt every bridge I ever walked across,” he mumbled through thick whiskers into his coffee. It was the morning the hostages walked back into the station, unharmed after a year in the headlines. “I never asked for a second chance, and never gave any. I’m a man of this world. I don’t harbour grudges or regrets. I don’t know a thing about unrequited love, bad investments, long-lost friends or tax audits.” He was on a roll, you could smell the cinders of those bridges in his gravelly voice. “I’m a self-made man. I left home at fifteen, and never looked back. I never knew a family except these two boots. I’ve been welcomed into every house as a stranger and left so. I know the names of every street in every capital you care to mention. I don’t have a mother tongue, each tongue holds me equally to its tit. I’ve broken bread with the poor and lame, as with the rich and mighty, and never changed, or looked back, or wondered why, or how, or when I got there. I sleep easily, deeply, without dreams, without memory. I’ve never been depressed, or anxious, or fearful of any person, place or thing, but known them all. I’ve never felt fatigue, felt cold, or been wasted by heat. I’ve never given a second thought to success, fame, money, nor heaven and hell, or a life hereafter. They | 169 are empty as words to me, empty as love, hope, trust, fate, or regret. I know the shape of my hands, the weight of my feet treading the earth. I know of no home to return to, I have no brother to call my own, no lover’s warm arms wait for me, or hearth beckons. I know what it is to kill and be killed, to travel endlessly without heritage or inheritance. I have held a bloodied stone in my fist and learnt what it is to exist.” His confession left me a little haggard and confused, as though I’d been dangled over the edge of a pitch black canyon, simply because I was there. Gaunt smiling faces flickered across the TV screen over the bar, as he paid me two dollars for the coffee and started to exit by the side door. He turned as if on the edge of some further uncalled-for confession or prophecy. I expected apocalypse, or rapture, the ageless war, or to hear of the brother he has killed time and again over millennia, of the wandering and erring coming to its inevitable end, of the Mercy seat and redemption, the rising of the dead, of judgement, damnation and salvation. But no, not a word from that good-for-nothing, that cheapskate ape, not even a lousy tip. 170 |
Photo: Bil Brown bil brown from 3:15experiment
Noon: 03 august 1999 emblematical apoet Baraka I think said ”poets must enter philosofie” whoever sd it was right as the left hand distinguishes | 171 right brain action as philosofie /kultura pro panní/ a language alive Czech still adding words – still learning them, unlike others french this langue age of philosofie brought down an empire and (who?) what proletariat Midnight: 03 august 1999
losing count after the fifth Internationale: an ethiopian theocracz binds hands and feet this media feet purged small one too big flat w/ no nail dried blood around the wound after the fifth—pleading
172 | Noon: 04 august 1999
balance this two short shirt suits after eating salami my bowels ache... see a movie in a small room take a ticket How much time is spent spending it underground a series of views tunnels escalators when it’s dusk—see the light wind blows hair at the top step off
this morning laughing woke me up still funny in this dark | 173
Midnight: 04 august 1999 everytime I buy these Strikes a new girl but she looks the same on every package I smoke a lot walk past this pale nude cpl walking into a cunt
174 | Noon: 05 august 1999 this word reality this world— so, many times knew couldn’t be true or viable a resource—seeing things the way they (like an overcurious swarm) are The Way Things Are this dissertation it is academic after all the way things are buys and sells this worn stolen hocked sense another reality as the Czechs steal this word and make it “pet reality” like a lovely joke... maybe it’s closer to the source land houses accommodation hospice accommodating the feeding an overpopulation—a resource | 175 is nothing but a batterie given blood as it tastes like acid the tongue cannot even SPEAK fluent enough to draw names around it like these names matter from the top of a screen looking down hard concrete listing
Midnight: 05 august 1999
. gotta headache thinking . numbers are green and gold eyes behind squinting numbers lights dim fire burns wax smokes you can smell of it
176 | Noon: 14 august 1999
. The Secret . Whereas there is a distant dissertation The Speaking of Trees a desperate attempt a new delving into a release and a breath out of the cosmos a sign far as Moravia like a girl waves to a passing truck a simple misgiving a balloon at the top of the mountain they called it a slick cloth to catch celestial debris this new religion a woman menstruating fields would wither another age circumspect a woman menstruating twice in two weeks hospitalers would tear rags, & call it “god’s will” the death of a sign yet to be born the age awaits but is personal and distinct unlike it in this time Whereas the dissertation is given | 177 a new preface to this there is another such a life or a end and the heat of a brow given in 1999 either or create a sigil out of a name read it backwards pray no one hears Noon: 16 august 1999
She was the first to go the journalist that’s mouth is a proxy why wd you want to write about that? you wd know class from classy... come on …just a number of numbers or a name and what is more esoteric than finance look for something to throw out ignore something
the guy was cute accept the call his mother said keep the head up nose up chin watch the skirts cause that will keep you poor but to worship 178 | a woman in this country object of glory and desire her feet walk paved gold aura gold trellises throw petals stemmed thorns
said it: sometimes she just wouldn’t shut-up this was a problem her problem (as is like to say in czech) desire is forgotten it was a date not a discovery per se when guns pointed temple she was the first to go out spoken thinking between the faxes “the streets were a scene out of the movie Independence Day!” it could have been a funny story if it weren’t fucked up sometimes it takes up to a week before the family is notified two bodies on the side of a busy intersection Midnight: 16 august 1999 wherever it is ignore it /noir noc červené básník/ ignore it the loss isn’t laughing
| 179 Noon: 17 august 1999
walk past this in a suit and a glance toward the eyes walk past jeans a dirty nose not a glance at all eyes are dead all of this depends where the immobile rather, immovable recognition falls no more esoteric than finance dark night under-the-table básník no one will watch if you look the other way
180 | Noon: 18 august 1999
-IX°at the kraldum- (fragment) “As above… Archangels three: Metatron, the Prince of countenance (reflected from Kether), and Sandalphon, the Princess of Prayer, and Nephesch ha Messiah, the Soul of the Reconciler for Earth.
“unto whosoever shall make war upon her when established” thus “Fixed, culminated completed Force, whether good or evil” although I do not take evil for good for evil anymore than .theta-epsilon-lambda-eta-mu-alpha. A scarlet bow for his horns! there are no voices anymore
…so below” | 181
Midnight: 18 august 1999
address the plight as survivors are few above are there no more voices anymore? resident with claws for hands after fire can you see the light hands outstretched arms? after shock can you feel your legs? anymore there would be another hands grip loss symbol of a dress homes crushed bones broken skin pulled back attachment to an eagle and a red field another cross—these hospitalers aid in Istanbul unscathed …so below
182 | Noon: 25 august 1999
I find this circle trap by what I accept only what I expect if another bothersome tirade happens should the bones be pulled apart or should kisses all over that foot to this foot making little sense it is a trap like breathing closed behind this door is it a trap | 183 it is a draft is it a way-out scratching against a too far gone dementia find this 184 |
Photo: George Stawicki Isobelle Carmody The Man Who Lost His Shadow
Light floods from all directions, banishing every trace of night. Only a frozen transparency holds back the darkness. There is a young couple in the booth opposite sitting so that although they appear to be languidly independent of one another, their bodies touch all along one side from shoulder down through the hip and thigh to the heels, their connection far more intimate than if they had been wound together explicitly. They are not foreign as I am, and even in a no man’s land like this establishment, whose success depends upon its rejecting utterly any trace of the culture within which it finds itself, they belong in a way that I do not. | 185 Part of it may be because they are casually dressed while I am wearing my formal but now somewhat crushed travelling clothes. Or maybe it is that they are young and I am not. The girl is very tall and slender as women here seem to be—young women, anyway. The older women are as bulky as bears in their winter coats, their expressions forbidding and surly. The stewardesses on Thai airlines, which I flew for the first part of the trip here, were as small and fragile as tiny blown- glass blossoms, while the German stewardesses on my second flight, were older. Young matrons with thick competant arms and faces. Here the young women have still, remote faces. One can see it is a general type and the girl opposite fits it. The waiter brings them two drinks—orangina, perhaps, and a plate with two chocolate coated cakes. A waiter is an an anomaly in this sort of place, and yet his presence is a sign of the hybridisation of two cultures, each trying to consume and subdue the other. The girl takes up the plate and cuts into the cake, her expression unchanged. Inside the coating of chocolate is a pale soft sponge or maybe some sort of creamy filling. She offers the laden fork to the boy, and my stomach spasms dully in what might be hunger. He is sitting bolt upright, although she is now resting her back against the seat, her spine bent into a delicate bow and curled around the long flat belly. She eats the two cakes slowly, licking her lips and talking, but never smiling, never showing any emotion. Her companion nods, and watches her with ravenous attention. The waiter brings them a tall glass of fruit salad topped with a fat loose whorl of impossibly white cream. The boy’s turn, I think, but he gestures at the glass and the girl sets aside the plate she had been holding and takes it up. Again she scoops up cream and fruit and offers it to him, and again he refuses. She eats the whole parfait with the same dreamy absorption. When she sets the glass down, the boy runs his hand over her belly possessively, then slides it around to pull her to him to be kissed. When he releases her, I see that her hands have not moved throughout the embrace and her body retracts automatically to its former languid bow. The boy has become aware of my regard, and gives me a curious look. I do not glance away, embarrassed. I realise that I feel almost no sense of self consciousness. It is as if the affliction which has brought me to this strange outpost, has left me free of any need to pretend to be normal. The boy calls the waiter and pays the bill and as they leave, the young woman settles her limp, expressionless glance on me. There is no way of knowing what is going on in her mind. Perhaps nothing. Now that they have gone, my exhaustion returns and I begin to think of leaving. I wonder if I am afraid, but my emotions are slightly unfocused so that I am not sure from one moment to the next what I am feeling. Beyond the sheet of window glass are a utilitarian rank of petrol bowsers flooded with light, and beyond the asphelt surrounding them, lostin 186 | shadow, is a road leading back to the highway bounded on either side by a dense pine forest. That road connects to the city and I see it in the glass as I saw it through the frosted window of the taxi upon my arrival: a city street winding away and steeply up, street cobbles shining wetly. On either side of it, unbroken, ornate facades of buildings, art nouveau and gothic details picked out delicately by the buttery gold of the street lamps. The thousands of tourists who come to see this city, must feel they are stepping into the past, yet when the street was new, night would have been an all-consuming darkness so that nothing would have been visible; the brash light which symbolises the modern world thinks naively that it has banished darkness—from the streets, from corners, from the hearts of men and women. But it is eternal and it will find its way, its crack, its vein. The castle appears beyond the glass now, seeming to be lifted above the snarl of old town streets surrounding it on beams of light, to float in greenish illumination, and I find I am back in the taxi that is not a taxi. Such is the power of the castle, this city. The driver glances at me in the rear view mirror and tells me in brutish English that the lights are switched off the castle just before midnight. I think how I would like to sit somewhere—in a café perhaps, and wait to see it swallowed up by the night. “You have business?” he asks, a touch of curiousity. Perhaps he senses my affliction, though it is virtually unnoticable at night. He wonders why I am here. I could tell him that the turbulent history of this country, the stony eroded beauty of this city that is its heart, fascinates me. “Business,” I agree. A strange business. I do not know how I lost my shadow. After the first shock wore off, I told myself it was freak chance. My shadow might not even have known what it was doing when it severed itself from me. I could easily envisage myself walking and hesitating at some slight fork in the streets, my shadow going on sunk in its own thoughts, failing to notice that it did so without me. Seconds later, I would choose the other way. Maybe after a time it realised what had happened and retraced its path, but by then, it had long gone. That was one of my earliest theories. Hopes you might as well say. One does not like to admit the possibility that ones shadow has left on purpose. I consoled myself with a vision of my shadow, slipping frantically along walls and paths searching for me, wailing as forlornly as a lost child, occasionally plunging into pools of shadow and emerging with difficulty because it lacked a form to pull it from the larger shadow. But now, I can more imagine its relief at being cut loose. It may have been a fortuitous accident that freed it, or maybe it saw its chance to be free, and took it. Either way, I blame my passivity for our estrangement. Caught within the roaring machinery of the relationship between my parents, I had learned to defend myself with stillness. But having gained the habit of passivity, I could not lose it and so as an adult, I found it almost impossible | 187 to engage with life. I was a fringe dweller of the most meek and timid ilk and if someone had accused me of being a shadow in the world, I would have admitted it mildly. But that was before my shadow was lost, and I understood by the gaping void its absence left, that it is we who need our shadows, not they us. Without it to anchor me to the earth, I became dangerously detached. I dreamed of the reassurance of its company, its small tug at my heels, its soft movement before me, feeling out my path like a blind man’s cane. Without it to bind me to the earth, I am like one of those astronauts whose each step on the moon is so buoyant as to suggest that they might any second step into infinity. I am afraid that without my shadow, I will soon make just such a step into oblivion. It has gone far enough for me to understand that I am diminishing without its darkness to balance me. The taxi swerved violently to avoid another taxi that had tried to pull out from a side street and the driver muttered what sounded like a curse. I noted indifferently that I had not felt the slightest fear at our near collision. That numbness is an unexpected side effect of my affliction. Of course, I did not know what it meant to have lost my shadow. After an initial response of blank disbelief upon discovering it, followed by a mercifully brief period of doubting my sanity, I sought help. Ironically I went to a doctor first, a general practitioner more accustomed to removing warts and administering antibiotics and tranquillisers than to treating a man with an ailment as sophisticated and mysterious as mine. She offered me the latter and seeing the shape of her thoughts, I said somewhat haughtily that she need not suppose that anything was wrong with my mind. Could she not accept the evidence of her eyes as I had done? I lacked a shadow. What could be more empirically concrete? Yet she simply pretended to be confused by my symptoms. “What exactly do you want?” she demanded finally. I asked her coldly to refer me to a specialist in shadows, since her own training seemed to have left her ill equipped for more exotic illnesses. Somewhat maliciously, she sent me to a radiologist, whose view of shadows was shaped entirely by his seeking cancers and tumours in X-rays day after day. I can only say that his judgement was seriously warped byhis position. When I told him of my problem his eyes blazed and he clutched my arm hard enough to leave a bruise, proclaiming that I was the first human to have escaped the curse of shadows. He confided his belief that they were not bestowed by god as was generally supposed, but had been served upon us by some force which he refused to name. His mania was apparent when I questioned him about the purpose of shadows. He gave me an affronted look and asked what sort of man I thought he was, to ask him such a 188 | question; exactly as if I had asked the shade of his pubic hair. He examined the X ray plate he had insisted on taking and developing, suspiciously, then pronounced resentfully that he saw no shadow. After that, I gave up on the medical profession. I was not really ill,I reasoned. Having lost a shadow I was more like a man whose wife leaves him, clearing out their apartment with mysterious speed and efficiency. With this in mind, I consulted a private investigating firm. The man who ran the agency gave his name as Andrews. Since I could not not feel at ease addressing him in this manner, I contrived not to call him anything. “I’ve never been asked to shadow a shadow before,” he said when I had laid the matter before him. I can only suppose he meant it as a joke but I did not laugh. I am not good at humour, and I told him this. He squinted his eyes at me and seemed suddenly sobered as if my words had made him take me seriously. “Perhaps that’s it. Think of it from their point of view. Having to endure being dragged about, never having a chance to exert their own mind or will or taste. They’re worse than slaves because they can only emulate. Nothing they do is original. There must be millions of them constantly plotting a coup, fed by dreams of freedom. And on top of that, to be faced with living with someone who has no sense of humour. It must be unendurable.” He seemed very sincere, but a certain reticence in my own character prevented me breaking down and confessing my fear of precisely this thing—that some profound lack in me had driven away my shadow. That was a matter to be resolved beween my shadow and I. “Can you find it?” I asked him, finally, flatly. He looked through a leather ledger before consulting with his secretary, and after some negotiating, agreed that he should have a modest retainer for a week. If after that time, his enquiries had divulged no promising clues, our contract would end. If he did find a lead, I would pay him $100 a day thereafter, including expenses, until he found my shadow or my money was gone. I gulped a little at the size of his daily fee, but a modest, hard working life has enabled me to put aside a very good sum, and to comfort myself, I reckoned that ten thousand dollars spent on finding my shadow would still leave ample for my old age, and perhaps would even run to a convalescing trip to the Greek Islands off season after it was all over, so that my shadow and I could re-evaluate our relationship. Unfortunately after a week, the investigator could report nothing. He confessed that my inability to remember when I had lost my shadow was a stumbling block. I blushed when he spoke of this for his words seemed to me to suggest that I had been criminally careless. Though I continued to argue that the loss could only have happened a little before I noticed it, he seemed to doubt me, and made me doubt myself. Mulling it over, I discovered to my horror that I could not remember the last instance I had consiously noticed | 189 my shadow. I ran my mind over the day before my retirement, and then the week and months leading up to it. Finally, frantically, I began to run my mind over the years preceeding, but still I could not recall seeing my shadow on any specific occasion. I envisaged all of the bright sunny days I had lived though, from forest walks in the Autumn to a dip in the blazing summer heat, to no avail. I could recall seeing my reflection many times, but not my shadow. I told myself at one point that, after all it was only a shadow, and then was chilled, for perhaps it was just such carelessness that had driven it off. If that was so, I avowed remorsefully, I would show how I valued it by the very fervency of my search. Fortunately my retirement meant I had no appointments or ties to hold me back. In fact the investigator had the gall to suggest my retirement on the very day I had noticed my shadow missing, pointed to a link between the two events. Absurd especially since he could not substantiate his notion with anything aside from the most spurious and simplistic choronological causal link. Was he suggesting my retirement had provoked the departure of my shadow, I demanded? He bridled at my tone and though we parted politely, I did not go back to him. “Behind there, gardens,” the taxi driver said nodding at a high graffitied wall. I wondered why the garden was walled. Perhaps it was a zoological garden and some sort of wild life dwelt in it, but perhaps not. Already I could see this was a secretive city and in such a place, a garden might be considered to be dangrously wild, and needing to be retrained. I saw the driver watching me. “Gardens,” I said. But I was thinking of how I had returned at length to my building after recovering from my first horror at the loss of my shadow, having come to the conclusion than I must go away from my own country if I wanted to find it. My compatriots were not interested in shadows, after all. They were creatures of sunlight and brightness for the most part and even their violence was radiant and garish, devoid of true darkness. I needed to find an older world with crannies and corners. I needed a place where I would be irrelevant even if I was to behave in ways that would mark me eccentic or even mad. That meant a city. An old city. And then, that evening as if in an answer to my soul searching, the person using the control in the communal television room changed channels, and I found myself watching the end of a documentary in which the camera showed a series of views of an ancient city. The last shot showed a cracked wall, where a child’s shadow walked along the shadow of another wall, beneath a rolling scroll of names. The documentary ended abruptly and I gave a cry of disappointment. 190 | What is that place? Do you know where it is? I asked the other residents seated about in the mismatched chairs. A flat-flaced, somber eyed man grunted that he ought to know since it was his own city. He had been a child there. Before the occupation. His parents had escaped and had emigrated. I asked if they understood shadows there. It was a risky question but there was a surreal quality to the light in the room that allowed it. “There was a time when people had to be shadows there,” the man said. My landlady reproached me for my selfishness when I told her of my intended journey. “What would your grandmother think of such behavior.” I regretted immediately that I had once spoken to her of my grandmother, but I said that if anyone, she would understand most profoundly what I was doing. My landlady said sharply that it was probably so, since my grandmother had been as mad as a cut snake. I could see that she was offended in the way only a woman whose mind is so convoluted in its masochism as to regard everything that occurs in the world as being somehow aimed at her. Nothing that happened, not a car crash in another city in which a stranger dies, nor the razing of a park to build a racecourse, nor the swearing of a drunk weaving from a pub, is exempt from being gathered into her aggrieved personal worldview. Of course it is a stunningly self centred, even sociopathic means of regarding the world. My grandmother was a woman of incredible wisdom, but it is true that she was insane. Perhaps it was the weight of all that wisdom that cracked her mind open like an egg. When she was very old, not long before the end, she became disorientated physically. She was always imagining she was in the house of her father, no matter where she was; that my home, or the hotel or mental institutuion or public toilet, were somehow connected to it, if she could just find the right door. She was frequently exclaiming at a picture or vase, saying hadn’t that been moved from the mantlepiece in her father’s study, or from the hall table, and worrying that it would trouble him. “It is very vexing when things are moved around,” she would sigh and scrub at her forehead fretfully with a tiny clenched fist. It took some time for me to realise her apparent confusion was in fact an awareness of links which are buried under life, and hidden from reason. Children see these links between things very clearly, I believe. It is why they weep at one stranger and smile at another. So do the elderly who slough off reason without regret, see these links. Indeed perhaps with the same gusto as many of them throw off their clothes in public, they welcome back to themselves the Edenlike simplicity and clarity of childhood. Even before my grandmother died, I had begun to realise that her confusion was simply a deeper seeing of the world and the documentary had suggested to me that finding my shadow might take such vision. That frightened me because that manner of seeing cannot be learned or treated as a trick. That which allows | 191 one to see such links, of necessity blinds one to other things. Nevertheless, I vowed that at least I would follow this one strange clue without question. I told myself that bereft of its caster, a shadow must be forced to all sorts of ruses and opportunistic leaps to shift itself about. Chance must rule its progress and I was ready to let go of all the comforting order and planning that had so far hedged my existence, and give myself to the roads of chance. If one would enter the kingdom of heaven, one must come naked like a child. So my grandmother used to say. The airport had been very crowded, or so it seemed to me. But perhaps it is always like that in the international terminal. I presented my ticket and little bag to the departure desk. Boarding the plane, I felt exhilerated and thought of a quote I had read on my desk calender the day I left work. What does not kill you will make you stronger. It can only have been a warning, for little more than an hour later, walking to the tram stop in bright afternoon sunlight, I noticed that I cast no shadow. I and stared down at the ground in front of me, feeling the sun pouring on my shoulders and on the back of my head. I turned and looked up, intrigued and puzzled, to find out what second light source had erased my shadow. The shadow of the light pole alongside me, fell on a wall. With a feeling of unreality, I held up a hand to the wall, but was it cast no shadow. I have no memory at all of the remainder of the trip home. How had I managed it staggering with terror, yet neither losing my hat nor briefcase heavy with the paraphenalia from my desk? Another taxi swerved across in front of us, forcing the driver to run over the tram lines. The cobbles made the wheels drum under the seat, and I closed my eyes, remembering intimately the way I had been pressed into my seat as the plane left the earth and launched itself into a long drawn out vibrating dusk in which the sun seemed to hang for hours half submerged by the horizon. I had declined food, despite my hunger. I dislike the prefabricated nature of airplane food and resolved to treat the long flight as a period of fasting and mental preparation for my search. I did not drink any tea or coffee, but took only water as if I were on a religious pilgrimage. Night fell and twelve hours later, it was still night. I felt on that plane as I feel now; as if I have entered an endless night that will not be broken until I am reunited with my shadow. When the plane landed, it was so dark a day outside that it was indistinguishable from night. It seemed an omen to me. People exclaimed over the fog and there was talk of long delays for connecting flights. The woman at the transit station explained reproachfully to a complaining man from my flight that we were lucky to have been permitted to land at all. She looked interested to hear my destination. “That’s becoming very popular. Some say it is the Paris of the 1920’s all over again,” she approved in round vowels so plump they were like fruit 192 | waiting to be picked. Day passed imperceptibly into night and still there was no call to board. I resisted suggestions to stay overnight. The smell of food made me feel faint and I decided to break my fast and while the hours away with a leisurely meal; perhaps even a light beer. The last meal I had eaten was a dinner of lamb chops and boiled potatoes prepared by my landlady the night before I left. I was so hungry that the thought of even that grudging meal made my stomach rumble. Nevertheless, I was grimy and sweaty after the long hours of travel and I decided I would bathe before eating. I exchanged my last bank notes for English pounds, and managed to locate an attendant to unlock the shower and give me soap and a towel. In the booth, I undressed slowly and took a very hot shower, enjoying the water on my tired skin. Another effect of the loss of my shadow has been to render my skin dreadfully dry and itchy. After what seemed a very short interlude, the shower attendant hammered on the door and in an indescribable argot, gave what can only have been a command to make haste. I obeyed, surrendering the soiled towel and giving her a pound tip to demonstrate both my disapproval and my high mindedness. This transaction reminded me that I would now need to change a small travellers cheque if I wanted to eat. Coming out of the restrooms, I patted my pockets searching for my wallet. Unable to find it, I decided I must have left it in the shower cubical. Although I was convinced that I had not taken it out there, I checked. Then it came to me. I had removed my jacket to be hung in the plane, taking out both the wallet and the thick plastic sleeve containing my travel documents, and sliding both into the seat pocket. On arrival, I had taken out the travel agency pouch, but I had no recollection of retrieving the wallet. I went to the information desk, puzzled by my lack of apprehension. I put the curious deadening of my feelings down to jet-lag. “If you had realised immediately,” the man said regretfully, a touch of Jamaica in his tone. Nevertheless he will make some calls. Can I come back in an hour. Not a question. I sat down for a while near his desk, then it occured to me to see if I could simply report the cheques stolen and have them replaced. Money, after all, was my most pressing need. My cards and other papers could be replaced at another time. I spoke to the young woman at the Thomas Cook counter, who assured me the cheques could be replaced quickly, so long as I could provide their numbers which were supposed to be kept separately. I explained that the sheet of numbers was packed into my bag, which had been checked in some hours earlier, and might already have gone on ahead and even now be waiting for me at my destination. “That is against regulations,” she told me with certainty. “The bags must travel with the clients. Always.” I said nothing, knowing as she did that bags sometimes went without their | 193 people, just as shadows sometimes travelled alone. It wasn’t meant to happen but it could. The announcement for my flight to board came over the air. “I will have to get the cheques once I arrive.” I said. “You can’t mean to go there without money,” she exclaimed. The genuine concern in her tone simultaneously touched me, and reminded me of the mysterious nature of my trip. It came to me that this mishap was a sign that I was failing to understand. The young woman mistook the question in my eyes and leaned over her smooth counter to explain her words. “In a country like that, you must have money. Everything is for sale. Everything costs and you are safe as long as you can afford the price. Safety has a price, just like comfort or food or coffee.” I sensed that under these words, she was telling me something important but I could not seem to understand. My mind felt numb. I told her that I had made up my mind to simply go on. Surely this would be the most unreasoned response to what had happened, and therefore the most apposite. Maybe it was even a kind of test. At my request, she wrote the address of their office, saying there was surely a cheap bus to the centre and I could walk from there. Alternatively, I could take a courtesy bus to one of the bigger hotels. The Hilton, for instance, where they would not want money immediately, and would quite likely sort the lost cheques out for me. She was kind, but I had no desire to spend any of my money on a hotel like the Hilton, which raised in me the same objections as pre-packaged airline food or MacDonalds. I would not find my shadow staying in such a hotel and to go there would signal surrender. I would get a bus to the centre of the city after changing the little remaining cash I had, and walk about until day broke. Then I would get the cheques replaced. I did not try to make any plans beyond that, for even that might be too much. I checked back with the airline attendant who said no one had handed in the wallet. I gave him my landladies number in case it should appear. I disliked doing that, but I had no one else’s name to give other than my employer, who was not the sort to maintain warm connections with former employees. The severence payment was generous enough to make it clear that I was to expect nothing more of him. Boarding the small plane that would carry me on the last leg of my journey, I wondered what my boss would think if he knew I was on my way to a city full of shadows and danger, where everything had a price although I had no money, or so little as to be meaningless. Perhaps he would even regret my retirement, and wish he had persuaded me to stay on. The thought should have given me pleasure, but it was tasteless, and I began to feel uneasy about myself. 194 | On the plane I ate the small club sandwich offered, and drank as many cups of coffee as I could fit into the short flight. The food seemed only to make me hungrier and the sense of disorientation increased. It was no longer possible to pretend that I was not sickening. The face of the customs official at the airport was flat and severe, but his eyes were the same soulful brown as the man in the television room of my apartment house, and absurdly as he took my passport, I wondered if they could be related. “Reason for visit?” he asked. His thick finger tapped a blank space in the form I had filled out. He slid a pen through the small window in the glass separating his official niche from me. I took it up and noticed my fingers were trembling. I tried to focus my thoughts. It was incredibly difficult for even when I had understood the question I could not seem to think how to answer it. I looked at the official and found him staring and cataloguing my features for a report to be added to a file of suspicious foreigners. I could feel sweat crawling down my armpits. I forced myself to write. “Research,” he read. “What kind of research?” I felt I might be about to faint or have some sort of convulsion. All of my glassy calmness seemed to rupture. My heart beat in jerky arrhythmic spasms. Then suddenly, with a feeling delirious clarity, I understood that my reaction was a premonition connected to my ailment, and to my arrival in this country. Without thought, I simply told him why I was there. I felt as if I had peeled my skin off in front of him. I felt that having told him my secret, I could not draw a breath without his having permitted it. I felt a drowning, tremulous emotion as if I had put my life in his hands. I had powerful urge to kiss his hands. “Your shadow.” He said this, not as a question, but as a repetition so exact I realised he had not understood the word. His English must be regulation minimum and solely connected to his job. He stamped the passport and slid it to me with the visa folded on top. As I took it up, I felt as if I had shown myself naked to a blind man. But by the time I walked out into the night carrying my bag, I understood that this had been a necessary encounter; an emotional proceedure to be endured, and no less vital for entry to this country as getting an official visa. I felt stronger, though more detached than ever. From the timetable, it seemed as if I had missed the last bus to the city. A short, swarthy man sidled over and asked if I wanted a taxi. “Special taxi. Very cheap for you.” He had grasped the handle of my bag and was trying to wrest it from me. I held on and he ceased pulling at it. Perhaps he was surprised at my strength. “It’s impossible,” I said. “I don’t want to take a taxi.” He looked around furtively, and I had a memory of the Thomas Cook woman warning me about taxis in this city. She had claimed the majority were run by a vicious local maffia, and many of the drivers acted as pimps for | 195 gypsy prostitutes. She had told me of a taxi driver leaping out of his cab and beating two American tourists with a truncheon because they had crossed the street too slowly in front of him. Such fearless brutality suggested powerful if illicit approval had been bestowed officially. But the man holding onto my bag did not exude any air of power nor even of particular malignity. In fact, he looked more desperate than anything else. His clothes were ill fitting and grubby, the cuffs of his jacket and trousers badly frayed. I wondered if he really had a taxi, or merely sought to lure me to a discreet corner of the carpark and mug me. “I don’t have the money for a taxi,” I said. He stared at me in sullen bewilderment and so I made a dumb show of the day’s events, reaching for my wallet and discovering its loss. He let go of the bag. “No crown?” Now it was I who didn’t understand. Was it that he now somehow imagined I was like royalty who are reputed never to carry money? “You no want taxi?” This possibility appeared to confound him. “Later,” I said, pointing away from myself as if at some hours distant. Then it occured to me that the best way out of my dilemma might simply be to ride about in a taxi until morning, when I could visit a Thomas Cooke office. “I don’t want a taxi, but I would like to make a tour of the city?” “Tour? Now?” He gaped at me. I nodded firmly. “An all night tour. Fixed price. No meter.” “Tour,” he said, as if he was sucking the word to decide if he liked the taste of it. He nodded judicially. “Fixed price tour. Cheap. You come.” I made him name a price, then let him take my bag. After all, it contained little other than a change of clothes and several changes of underwear. He ran ahead into the misty darkness, and I tried to calculate how many hours since I had slept last, but was defeated by the time difference between my country and this one, and by daylight saving on top of that. Did they bother saving daylight here, or did they save night instead? I realised at some level that I was becoming dangerously light headed. My nostril hairs seemed to be on the verge of freezing and the air was so cold it hurt to breath it in. He was standing by a car. “No taxi,” he said. I took off my jacket and let him bundle me into the car. He drove quickly and it seemed to me it was uncannily dark outside. There were no lights along the highway, and no moon or stars. I told myself it was overcast, yet I could not help but feel the darkness was thicker here than back home, congealing at the edges. He did not slow as we reached the outskirts of the city. I stared out at the streets which flickered by like a jerky old black and white movie. Everything looked grimy as if the dense blackness were slowly rubbing off onto the city. 196 | “Metronome,” the driver said, nodding at a set of dark steps leading up from the roadside, and pointing up. “Up,” he said. “A metronome?” I asked doubtfully, thinking I must have heard wrong. “Doesn’t work,” he said. “Bad. Stupid.” Another taxi roared past us so fast the car shuddered. Its red tail lights burned like coals in the misty air. “Taxis very bad here,” the driver muttered. “All criminals.” All at once we rounded a sharp bend only to find our way blocked by the taxi that had passed us. Or perhaps it was another taxi. It had parked in such a way as to block the road completely. My driver stood on his brakes and tried to turn without stopping. The car slewed around and mounted the sidewalk with a great thump that at first made me think we had struck someone. Before I could speak, there was the sound of running footsteps and the drivers’ door was wrenched open. He gave a thin scream as two huge men dragged him out of the seat and began punching him savagely. He did not fight back. He merely held his hands over his face, and when he fell, he curled into a foetal ball. I could not see properly then, because another of the assailants was blocking my way with his back. I groped for the door to let myself out, but the lock button had been removed. There was a lot of screaming and shouting outside, most of it from the driver. Then there was an ominous silence filled with heavy breathing. The big man whose back had blocked my view, climbed into the front passenger seat and turned to look at me. His hair was dyed white, but his eyebrows were dark and almost joined over the bridge of his nose. Another thin man with dark greasy looking hair slid into the drivers seat and turned the key. The big man continued to stare at me expressionlessly as the car backed down from the sidewalk. Then he pointed solemnly through the window. As I turned to look, he hit me on the head hard, and a second, deeper night consumed me.
*
I woke to find myself lying full length along the back seat of the taxi that was not a taxi. My jacket had been thrown over me. From that position, I could see nothing except that it was still night. Gathering my strength, I sat up. Outside the car windows the darkness sped by. There was no sign of the city nor of any buildings. We were on a straight open highway, driving very fast. The driver said something and the big man turned and lifted a truncheon. I shook my head. “There is no need for that,” I said. I don’t know if he understood me, but he lowered his arm. He studied me as if my calmness interested him, then he said something in his own language | 197 to the driver. The other man shook his head and began to shout. The big man said nothing until he was silent, then he turned back to me and pointed through the front windscreen. “Kavu. Coff-ee,” he said. Looking down the road, I saw a faint illumination on the horizon. The brightness grew until I could see that it was an all night petrol station attached to a fast food restaurant. The car pulled off into an access road and curved round to come to a grinding halt in the gravel car park. We were at the farthest point of the light. There were only two other cars parked alongside the restaurant. One was very new and red. “You come,” the big man said. He said something else in his own language that sounded like a warning, and I nodded. They walked one each side of me as we approached the restaurant. The driver pointed at the bowsers and the big man shrugged, steering me deftly through the shining glass doors. The harsh light hurt my eyes and I was glad of the thick paw on my shoulder. I thought I might vomit because of the light, but could not think how to express this. The big man pushed me into a booth and eyed two men sitting in the opposite booth. “I just wish you wouldn’t bring up the war,” one said in an American voice. “It’s a sore point with these guys. They think we betrayed them.” “You did,” the other man snorted in laconic German-accented English. The thin driver sat down, and gave the two men a dangerous look, but the big man patted his breast pocket and shook his head. “All of that is ancient history. It’s in the past,” the American’s tone was irritated. Neither he nor the German seemed to have noticed our arrival. “Nothing is past here. Haven’t you learned enough to know that?” Silence fell between them, and I wondered what had become of my original driver. Had he been killed? The big man rose and went to a phone. The driver squinted at me through a fug of evil smelling smoke, looking as if he wished I would make an attempt to escape or call for help. “We could have got coffee closer to the border,” the German said. “Coffee. Sure,” the American’s voice was ironic. “We’ve gota deadline, Klaus. Why don’t you wait until we get somewhere civilised.” “You don’t understand,” the German said with friendly contempt. “You don’t understand anything but disinfectant and prophylactics. You’re afraid of everything, including your own shadow.” The mention of shadow galvanised me. For the first time, it occured to me that the final step on my journey might be death. I realised I had known that all along, but had feared to look at it squarely. To distract myself from the horrifying realisation that I was not much troubled by the thought of dying, I wondered what border we were to cross. Or perhaps we had crossed it already and were travelling in the opposite direction to the German and the 198 | American. “Aren’t you afraid of getting a disease?” The American asked, fastidious but curious too. The German laughed. “The possibility makes the pleasure more intense. Darker. But this place offers deeper pleasures.” “A stretch of god-forsaken highway where the snow looks like dirty sperm. And those women. The way they just loom up suddenly in the headlights with their black leather skirts and fishnet tights and fake fur coats, their eyes like petrol bombs about to blow up in your face. They scare the hell out of me. How can anyone stop. How can you get aroused by that?” “They wouldn’t be there if no one stopped,” the German said almost coyly. “I’ve stopped every time I pass this way, since the first time and every time I do, I am afraid. Nothing is more terrifying that to stop and take one of these women into the car. They take me down into the dark so deep I don’t know if I’ll ever come up. If it’s possible.” “But they’re just whores. Terrible rough whores with scars and thick thighs. I read in Time magazine that they’re the worst most dangerous prostitutes in the world.” The American’s voice was lace-edged with hysteria. “It’s true” the German murmured. “I’m not afraid. It’s the disease...” The German laughed and called for the bill, and as he paid, the big white- haired man returned from the phone. He nodded at two men as they left, then slid back into the booth beside me. It came to me that the phone call had been about me. That they had been waiting for it to decide my fate. Would they now kill me or beat me up and leave me for dead? Were they going to try to ransom me? Or use me as a hostage? These thoughts fluttered distantly though my mind, like leaves blown along a tunnel. The waiter brought three espresso. The white haired man must have ordered them when my attetion was elsewhere. I drank, enjoying the cruel strength of it. I had never tasted such bitter coffee before, like the dregs of the world. The caffein hit me like a punch to the heart. An hour passed and the phone rang. The waiter glanced at our table in such a way that I realised he knew my assailants. Probably even knew that I had been abducted. The big man went to take the call. He nodded. He shook his head. He shrugged and said a few words. He nodded again. He put the receiver back on its cradle and came back to the table decisively. He said two words to the driver. Who lit another cigarette. Neither of them spoke to me. Neither of them looked at me. A strange tension devoid of emotion filled me. “What will we do?” I asked. The big man tilted his head. “We? There is not we.” I grasped for something to say, to link us. To hold me to the earth. “There is the war,” I said. “The war is always going on.” | 199 I felt a sense of lonelieness, of being finally detatched that overcame a dull surprise at his speaking English so easily. There was the sound of an engine approaching. Both men looked away through the glass and I felt abandoned. The noise increased until the headlights loomed and fused with the light from the petrol station. The car had tinted windows so it was impossible to see who was inside. There was the sound of a horn and the engine continued to run. The big man rose from the seat beside me and nodded to the driver. Who reached into his pocket and threw a set of car keys onto the shining Formica. “You have your own business, eh?” the big white haired man said, and he winked solemnly and paid the bill. The two of them sauntered out the glass door and climbed into the waiting car. A taxi, I saw, as the doors slammed behind them, and it sped away sending up a spume of gravel in its wake. As the car drove out, another car pulled in. A young couple emerged and stretched. They entered and I watched them slide into the booth where the American and German had sat. Their bodies touch all along one side from shoulder down through the hip and thigh to the heels, their connection far more intimate than if they had been wound together explicitly.
Walking into the freezing night some little while later, I glanced back at the blazing lump of cement and glass. It looked surreal. Like some outstation at the end of the world. It began to snow lightly, white flakes swirling against the blackness. Climbing into the drivers’ seat of the taxi that was not a taxi, I inserted the key. The car started the first time despite the rapidly dropping temperature. I let the engine idle a moment, then put the car smoothly into gear. I felt no impatience and no fear. My body felt weak, but my hands were steady as I drove out onto the verge of the highway. I had no idea which way was the way back to the city. I went left remembering to drive on what was, for me, the wrong side of the road. It produced a queer feeling of unbalance in me, and as the light of the petrol station fled behind me, I reflected how strange and surreal it was to be driving into the unknown with such a feeling of absolute rightness. I could almost feel the proximity of my shadow in the paradox of it. The snow was still falling, yet blackness pressed against the car so hard I fancied it was slowing it down. After several kilometres, I realised that the car was indeed slowing. The petrol gauge showed the tank was empty. The car coasted and I steered it, my mind a blank. I felt no need to make a decision. I had gone too far to pretend control over my life now. I had gone out of the blue and into the black. Snow flew like huge moths. I squinted to see the white line through them. The snow thickened and I realised I could no longer discern white from black. The car was slowing right down, and I directed the wheel a little to the 200 | right, and at the same time, the snow ceased to fall, and I saw her; a woman standing beside the road against the vast rising mass of the forested hill behind her. She wore a slick black jacket and long black boots. As far as I could tell, she wore no skirt or stockings. Her long legs shone with the same blue-tinged white as her neck and face. Her hair was so blonde as to seem to give off its own radiance. The car rolled to a halt a few steps from the woman. She turned slowly and my heart beat slowed. I told myself she could not see me; that it would be impossible to see anything in all of that streaming light, but her eyes seemed to swallow the light, and penetrate to me. She came towards the car, approaching the passenger door in a sturdy undulating stride. She tapped at the window with nails as long and curved and transparent as a dragonfly’s wings. Aside from her hand splayed against the window, I could see only her torso; the patent leather, a liquiescent black, outlined her round hips and breasts. The passenger door opened and she entered the car as smoothly as a dancer to slide into the car, and with her came an icy blast of air. She was older than she had looked from a distance and more stocky. Her hair shone with such a silvery pallor that it might have been stranded with grey. She might have been close to fifty, and although her skin was like fine velvet, there were intricate webs of wrinkles at the edges of her eyes like the sort of embroidered lace created by wizened nuns in some strict fanatical order of silence. Her mouth was purple-black, as if she had sucked some dark potent fruit whose juice had stained her. Eve’s lips might have looked like that, after she bit into the fruit of the tree of knowledge. But her eyes were the bright shining miraculous blue of the skies above my own land, and nothing is more pure or relentless than that. “You are tired?” she asked in mangled English. “I have not slept for a long time,” I said. The words were difficult to formulate, as if my lips were reluctant to obey me. As if it was too late for that. “It is long. The road.” She reached out and switched off the headlights. We were plunged into the intimate ghastly green of the dashboard light. The colour made her look as if she were a corpse and her eyes seemed transparent. Her hair was black now as if it had become saturated with the night, or with something seeping out from the heart of all her whiteness. “What do you want?” She spoke English as if through a mouth full of liquid. “I am looking for my shadow,” I whispered. My own voice sounded foreign. “But it will cost you,” she said. She leaned away from me, and slowly, her eyes on my face, drew aside the slick black edges of the coat like the lips of a wound, to reveal the full smooth curve of her breasts where they were pressed together into a voluptuous | 201 cleavage. They were white as milk and downed like a peach. She reached a pale hand between them and scooped one breast out. It was so soft that her fingers sunk in it. Only now, with her hair swept back to bare her throat and bosom fully, did I notice that there was a vein coiling from her neck to her breast. It writhed under her skin as if it had its own life. It was as delicate as the threaded flaw in purest marble and it moved towards the tip of her breast as if to drink, or escape. I began to shake my head. I wanted to tell her that she was mistaken. I was ill, but not old. Not so old. She reached out her free hand to slide around my neck, and pulled me towards her. She was strong as a peasant and a ripe odour flowed over me as she lifted the breast, offering the thick nub of her nipple.
First published in Dreaming Downunder, ed. Jack Dann & Janeen Webb (Sydney: Voyager Books, 1998). 202 |
Photo: Lou Charbonneau Louis Charbonneau The 217 Bus to Hell (or Klamovka)
Everything had been cool up to the point we had to part. Alex to his bus to Bratislava and I to mine to Prague 5 the other side of the city might as well have been Slovakia. We hugged goodbye I felt like crying realizing how emotional HYSTERICAL I sometimes am. This was the moment feared twelve hours now the clocks had ticked on too long time to go our separate ways. HYSTERICAL. It seemed like days since we’d taken the cardboard squares with Bart Simpson on one side cut them in half with my knife swallowed decided immediately take the other two Bart dismembered racing through our bloodstreams wreaking havoc due to heavy doses laced across | 203 his cardboard body. You and your fucking connections all you did was drop the names and the door was open the waiter even brought the doses like they did the spaghetti when I was babbling on about the actor I knew who died on the way home from a concert how one day he was there playing a guy who died in a play I wrote the next day gone you begged me to stop talking about death and we realized we were tripping. Choked up I climb the steps of the Dejvická metro alone for the first time in twelve hours twelve years it seems. Prague never looked so ugly rain pouring down and muddy fucking muddy. Don’t worry it’s just a bus ride. But the rain. Spring rain fall rain summer rain winter rain. Always rain here why and mud so much mud on the streets all the time. Thinking about World War Two again can’t help it think about mud you think about war the two are intimately connected at least in Europe I’m part Jew anyway WHY ARE YOU SO OBSESSED WITH WORLD WAR TWO can’t be in Eastern Europe and not think about World War Two and how in this European rain I’d never survive didn’t survive too weak would have ended up in Stalingrad or Auschwitz or both part German part Jew take your pick but me and my weak constitution deutsch no blonde beast here der Untermensch get every cold that goes around lying in Stalingrad Auschwitz Terezín abandoned like I am now dying of gangrenepneumoniatuberculosisyounameit begging for a shot of penicillin but it’s hopeless ‘cause the nearest cc of penicillin is hundreds of kilometres away MY GOD WHY ARE YOU THINKING ABOUT THIS? It’s the acid should’ve known me and my paranoia been seeing pickpockets all morning starting to badtrip I guess RELAX. After all it’s just a bus ride keep telling myself twenty minutes and you’re home that’s all that’s nothing. Checking the times what luck one minute. Already a crowd bad sign lots of people equals little space liable to freak GET A GRIP. The 217 to Klamovka is always packed you should’ve known maybe walk it’s too far here it comes no turning back now. All that fucking mud and rain why today of all days where’s the sunshine Prague so fucking ugly sometimes never seen it so gray so dead so bleak so wet. Generally my Prague has no Old Town Square no Wenceslas Square no fairy tale buildings is just a boring ugly European city that I work drink trip feel isolated in bullshit it’s a beautiful city most beautiful city you ever lived in and you know it though part of the beauty lies in the fact that also ugly city of contrasts BABBLING AGAIN IN THE HEAD SHUT UP. Got a good seat by the window fogged up can’t see out don’t they ever clean these fucking windows. A young lady sitting down she caught my eye reading a book don’t know what about better her than some babbling babička with a dog in a bag couldn’t take that this morning not today with Bart still kicking my ass the mud’s bad enough don’t need a dog in a bag JUST BE COOL RELAX KEEP YOUR HEAD IT’S JUST A BUS RIDE NEVER FORGET THAT ALEX WHERE ARE YOU. Rain falling gently mud sliding bus creeping 204 | slowly here HERE WE GO! So many people in the bus wondering DOES EVERYONE LIVE IN FUCKING KLAMOVKA? Can’t talk to the lady with the book. Under normal circumstances no problem speaking Czech but not today. It’s been a good trip for a novice tripper even the melting faces were fun for a while took acid a couple times never took such a strong dose should’ve taken half too late shut up tune in turn on freak out RELAX. The faces on the morning metro. Never forget that. Prague’s morning faces. Faces of people beaten down defeated by half a century of communism. Never seen so many deformations tumors boils scars folds of fat faces here sure are different. Americans look so much younger. CAN WE NOT TALK ABOUT DEATH? They’ve been through so much here DO ME A FAVOR FORGET ABOUT WORLD WAR TWO PLEASE OK. The environment fuck it’s killing me too can’t even breathe these days. Eastern Europe. Fuck. The guy with the fucked-up jaw must have had an abscess or something it was moving all over his face you didn’t even see it Alex. The old man with the fucking greenyellow boil on his neck that was ready to explode and fill the metro with pus palpitating throbbing before my eyes I didn’t mention it to you at the time because I knew you wouldn’t appreciate it. The faces in the metro in the tram in the rain on the street faces never looked so foreign realization shock that I’m in a foreign country guess this drug just brings out what I’m really feeling and what I’m feeling is now is alone scared paranoid. My own hands keep melting everyone’s melting except you Alex. That’s what I like about you Alex you’re constant and you proved that by not melting once this morning. I melted had to run from the mirror when I saw what I’ll look like in forty years not a pretty picture already getting old that’s a fact wrinkles aches thinning hair it’s happening try to ignore it nothing here may be real but the aging process is the clock keeps on ticking like it did this morning when it sundered us sent you to Bratislava me to the 217 to Klamovka which is after all JUST A BUS RIDE Still raining look at the mud FORGET THE MUD. What’s the lady next to me reading anyway don’t look could be dangerous Lev what’s that znamení sign horoscope Lev wait Lion Lion what do we call it Leo that’s it OH GOD AM I LEO. No wait Scorpio ex-girlfriend maybe no she’s Taurus oh yeah mad for each other according to the stars that’s why it lasted six years some nice some difficult went away to Czechoslovakia because I knew it was all over. The lady next to me can go ahead and read her Leo and everything’s going to be just fine just get me to Klamovka that’s all I ask hope she doesn’t ask me my sign wouldn’t want to answer not in Czech not today besides no not talking to no more women today no no no. The girl at Borát club what was her name MARCELA demanding that I go home with her couldn’t even talk babbles at me then tries to drag me to a fucking night tram to my bed her bed some fucking bed to fuck in oh Christ Thank God didn’t do it would hate to wake up and SEE HER MELTING. Self-control prevailed didn’t do it you helped me through it Alex otherwise would have made some VERY WRONG DECISIONS the | 205 woman at the club of which I am a card-carrying member the trippers’ club daytripper I really am it’s day and I’m tripping PATHETIC the bartender at the trippers club sitting with me we staring into each other’s eyes not saying a word if I’d fucked her the big dude would’ve demanded two thousand crowns or more from me in the morning and busted my arm cut my throat beat my head if I didn’t pay all the time he’d be melting before my eyes BAD THOUGHTS. How do you know she was a prostitute anyway maybe she just liked you you just sat there silent tripping your face off hands trembling smoking a cigarette looking into her dark dark eyes couldn’t even light the cigarette she had pity on you reached over lit it holding your hand gently we held hands for a while you just sat there silent she waiting for you to say something then she just sighed stood up and walked away letting you know you’d missed your chance your bus 217 it was better that way because she’d have started melting in the morning. I didn’t fuck up with either girl Alex ‘cause I wouldn’t think of abandoning you LIKE YOU DID ME the bus is fine YOU’RE IN A FOREIGN COUNTRY. A little tense that’s all good to be alone wish I was alone too many people in this bus the air is close no oxygen. No one here speaks English that’s for sure melting people don’t speak English except for me who’s American and melting and can also speak Czech maybe they aren’t the ones melting at all had that occurred to you ALEX WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME MAKE THE MUD GO AWAY. What’s that five or six guys getting on the bus what’re they speaking that’s not Czech not Polish not Russian it’s Slavic that’s for sure harsh guttural maybe Yugoslavian sounds like gangster talk to me fucking gangsters talking gangstertalk wish they were speaking deutsch AM I A JEW gangster talk OH SHIT CAN’T TAKE THIS. Strahov hill rain girders garbage rust tractors industrial junk of various shapes and sizes trucks uphill moving uphill uphill uphill CAN’T WE GO DOWNHILL PLEASE What’re they doing six Yugoslavian gangsters probably killers look like it that’s for sure what’s that in his hand covered in cloth a knife Christ it’s just like Hrabal they arrive knives flash before you know it throats are cut blood gurgling knives sticking in backs legs arms fingers severed on the floor quick clean up the blood THEY’RE GONNA ROB US irrational just a bus ride remember GOING TO KILL US THEY’RE EXCHANGING SECRET GLANCES NOW GESTICULATING IN A WAY ONLY THEY UNDERSTAND ABOUT TO GIVE THE SIGNAL WITH A LAUGH AT WHICH POINT TURN TO US ANNOUNCEMENT GIVE US ALL YOUR MONEY I’VE ONLY GOT 50 CROWNS MAX THEY’RE GOING TO GRAB THE HOROSCOPE LADY HER BOOK’LL DROP TO THE FLOOR THEY’LL CUT HER THROAT IN A FLASH SMOOTH CLEAN CUT RAZOR HER BLOOD SPRAYS ON MY FACE ALEX YOU’RE ON A BUS TO BRATISLAVA I’M ON ONE TO HELL THERE’S NO ESCAPE HERE AT STRAHOV IN THE EUROPEAN MUD WORSE THAN STALINGRAD IN 206 | THE RAIN THIS FUCKING HUNGARIAN-MADE BUS WISH I BELIEVED IN GOD TIME TO START PRAYING. Things turning white hyperventilating signal to act KILL still hasn’t been given how many seconds passed three four a century heartbeat faster faster in fact MY GOD I’M HAVING A HEART ATTACK cardiac arrest on Strahov hill going to die in Eastern Europe in the mud in the rain in a Hungarian-made bus surrounded by people none of whom speak my language not at all like I’d have died did die in Stalingrad semi-heroic but surrounded by Yugoslavian cutthroats gangsters thugs refugees from a war I don’t even want to think about where people are starving forced to eat grass concentration camps blow each other away for no reason at all that’s what war is you fucking dodo obsessed with it aren’t we CAN’T BREATHE they’ve seen blood and violence toss me corpse that is out the bus without thinking don’t forget to grab my wallet first and watch and the Reeboks GOT TO GET OUT OF THE BUS CAN’T BREATHE ASTHMA ATTACK HEART STOPPED NO PULSE. Standing up pushing past the lady with the Leo she’s looking at me in horror all of them thinking I’m crazy guess I am this morning thanks to Bart Simpson son of Homer Homer shit THEY’RE ALL DOOMED TO A VIOLENT DEATH NOT ME I’M GETTING OUT OF THIS BUS THEY CAN TAKE A RIDE ON THE READING TO HELL BUT I’M SAVING MY YANKEE ASS. At the back of the bus are they following me stop bus please stop please stop don’t give the death signal before I’ve had a chance to jump let me escape please. Stops, I jump. Out in the pouring rain I run like I’ve never run before uphill away from the bus in the pouring rain tears streaming down my face I don’t care if they think I’m a lunatic of course it was crazy just tourists probably not even Yugoslavian just happened to be dark guess that means I’m a racist. Crying like a baby don’t even know where I am FOLLOW THE BUS SIGNS now it’s time to run down the hill alone goddamn it fucking alone ALEX HOW COULD YOU ABANDON ME LIKE THIS I STAYED WITH YOU DIDN’T GO HOME WITH ANYONE BESIDES YOU KNOW THIS COUNTRY AND I DON’T OR I DO BUT I REALLY DON’T I NEVER WILL NO ONE EVER WILL NOT EVEN YOU OR MAYBE JUST YOU. Still sobbing running down the hill at least it’s down now trucks splashing mud on me go ahead and splash deserve it feels good actually soaked to the bone wet hat my trademark Reeboks full of mud and rain gonna catch pneumonia probably already have 28 years old I can’t take this anymore living the life of a 20-year-old I’m a weakling why’d I do this to myself And suddenly I realize how silly I am 28 years old sobbing muddy wet at 10:45 on a Friday morning running down an Eastern European hill. And I ask myself: Is this what I threw away a PhD for a place in a program at a prestigious university I busted my ass to get into then getting in more than two years of assandballbusting success decided was headed for a nervous breakdown just up and went to Prague Professors shocked confused shrugging shoulders a year and half I’ve been here would be done with my coursework now working on a dissertation proposal on the road to a PhD | 207 and a cushy job talking about literature getting paid for it what could be better. Another truck splashes me. Good. Splash on. And I ask myself: Who the fuck are you? Do you even know? Mom and Dad think you’re a fuckup and that’s what you look like right now fucked up and a fuckup never wanted me to go into academia and when I decided to chuck it they decided it was time to want me to go into academia and now they never stop asking whether I’ll go back before my Leave Of Absence is up in another six months maybe I should go back. Calmer now still running down the hill coughing and I spot it like a sun after a hurricane the blind see the deaf hear the crippled walk and scales fall from my eyes. Klamovka. My sad little hill with the broken park benches and the patches of grass now mostly mud I want to shout for joy when I see this little hump of earth looking like the bald head of an old man me in 40 years. I’m crying again but this time it’s ‘cause I’m happy feel like shouting HOME I’M HOME And I remember the bus ride which I survived like the battle in Stalingrad though I’ve still got both my legs arms ten fingers just a bus ride but more than a bus ride the war is over time to pick up the pieces. I survived life was on the line SIX GANGSTER REFUGEES SPEAKING GANGSTERTALK A HERO SHIT. I feel like falling to my knees and kissing the earth mud dancing in puddles like Gene Kelly feel like running into the pub there where the old drunks are hunched over their beers lips trembling whiskered sad wrinkled Eastern European faces sagging drowning in a neverending beer THEY MADE IT THROUGH THE WAR TOO want to hug them buy them all a round shout JSEM DOMA KAMARÁDI JSEM TADY. I’ll shout out loud and kiss them all one by one my Czech friends who don’t even know they’re my friends ‘cause it’s HOME and suddenly I’m no longer missing Alex ‘cause I’m HOME and I know now how Dorothy felt returning to Kansas. And I tell myself: I’m gonna shout at the top of my lungs at the Klamovka tram stop and tell everyone how I just survived the WAR most harrowing bus ride of my life was on a bus ride to hell and everyone on that bus is in hell now assuming there ever was such a bus in the first place. I’m gonna tell them all in Czech at the tram stop at 10:59 on a Friday morning how happy I am to be in Prague that I’m not going home after all I am HOME I’m a journalist got a job here it’s HOME because I live here. Then I see a woman in a skirt and high heels under an umbrella moving with quick little steps heading home to work to her children to the store to her lover who knows where on a Friday morning like any other Friday morning like everyone else going on about their normal daily business and it hits me what a fool I am they don’t care that I’m glad to be HOME after all I’m privileged and can afford to trip to waste an entire day work when I please got no kids no pressing responsibilities they all have real lives and I’m just like other Americans here living in some kind of limbo running from myself and my problems which followed me here anyway to je jasné. And I 208 | realize: I’m no free spirit just a parody of a free spirit afraid to grow up and take a job that’ll force me to sit behind a desk afraid of growing old which is happening anyway tick-tock afraid of being a professor in a suit talking about Hamlet for the thousandth time writing articles about books about books about books by people who never lived and experienced nothing and that’s all Prague is for me a fairyland a floor between floors where I got off because I want to be young forever and 30 is just around the corner guess that’s why I’m tripping on a Friday morning like I was an undergraduate again and I think to myself I’m not sure I’m really experiencing anything here or if any of this is really real or if it’s all just make believe and I’m just fooling myself or maybe I’m being unfair again and there really is something more to Prague than fantasies dreams paranoia and in this way my thoughts wander I an American an insignificant mixture of flesh fluids and mixed up thoughts wonder on a Friday morning in the Year of Our Lord 1994 frying my brains in a Europe no longer divided in Prague in the Czech Republic formerly Czechoslovakia nearly half a century after the Allied Victory in a war I can’t get out of my head IT’S BART’S FAULT but neither can the Czechs for that matter the war in which my father was shot on German soilby Germans by SS goons the race from which my mother descends my brothers look so Aryan why don’t I JEW shot while carrying a white flag crawled to a foxhole nearly bled to death six hours at the same time I recovering from Stalingrad in a past life which I never lived though I feel as if I did why am I thinking about the war again it’s won it’s over besides history’s over the fucking postmodernists tell us what crap and what do you really know about the war SIX OF THEM you need a psychiatrist that’s what you need and to stay away from LSD besides you were thinking about Americans in Prague one of which you are ALL OF ‘EM GANGSTERS. The lady under the umbrella with the quick little steps disappears around the corner she to her life I to mine never know who she was THE WAR’S OVER FELLAS LET’S ALL GO HOME PICK UP THE PIECES all these voices in my head it’s Bart again at the tram stop my silence amidst the roar of passing trams I cross the street and walk to my door knowing I look like hell coughing up shit knowing I’m coming down with a cold nerves shot and I remember the speed in the acid realization that it’ll be a long time before I sleep like that Robert Frost poem I love so much “miles to go before I sleep’’ and “the woods are lovely, dark, and deep’’ and they really are like that in Klamovka and “I have promises to keep” and I do I really do I have promises to keep GANGSTERTALK and I’ll keep them I swear Just you wait but first I want to sleep a long time just sleep and when I wake then I’ll see I don’t know when I wake and this drug’s out of my blood MAKE WAR NOT LOVE BABBLING AGAIN SHUT UP and things have stopped melting we’ll talk about something else and we’ll see and we’ll figure out together if any of this at all ever happened in the first place. | 209 210 | Věra Chase Fluidly Along The Beach
A queen-size beauty dances in the aspic on the beach.
Her face, arms, just as her shoulders, are specked with freckles and the translucent jellyfish look like gelatine mud-pies; spat out of water, they swiftly rot.
| 211 Sunday Mail
From the very beginning that letter promised nothing good. It was delivered during the time of my Sunday siesta by a Sunday postman in his black- and-yellow uniform, the unmistakable outfit of the dangerous. Usually I do not answer the door at such times or places. But the key to the successful completion of this delivery was the powerful minutes-long pressure he applied to the bell, which took me for one terrifying moment back to my civil defence training. Such a rough awakening, which unfortunately coincided with an unfavourable point of my sleep sinusoid, caused a flood of sweat to cover my body, with two doubly unwelcome effects: exposed to the cold air, out of the protective capsule of a blanket, it chilled my whole body and moreover made dressing almost impossible. In addition, with every other breath I suspected I was suffering from cardiac arrhythmia. Even after I’d woken up and opened the front door, I still wasn’t sure what was what. Automatically, I grabbed the pen as soon as I saw it, ignoring the fact that the Sunday postman was using it, and in the next moment I signed 212 | the delivery document in a blank field adjacent to an unfamiliar name. Then, clutching the parcel, I immediately retreated into the safety of my house. Without delay I switched off the electricity in the house so I could avoid the danger of any further ringing doorbells. I suspected the worst: if it wasn’t literally a bomb, then it must be a bomb in the figurative sense. But the parcel contained only a cassette tape with no label, just an original pencil decoration sketched on it in an urban folk style. “So,” I thought, “the tape is infected and the virus will first spread to the tape player and then to all the remaining electrical appliances.” Both to be safe and also because I didn’t want to turn the electricity back on, I played the tape on a battery-powered player. It was worse than I could have imagined: the tape contained an emotional outpouring! An outpouring so intense and private that even my handy flashlight dimmed in response to it (the outpouring was especially surprising considering that I’d only ever seen the sender of the tape once, and that while waiting for liver-test results). The message not only informed me of the depth and state of this person’s emotions but, in addition, passed on to me the instructions which I was to follow from then on in order to eliminate the risk of her suicide. The list of tasks was clear and long, including such things as: move to the sender’s apartment; make sure your active vocabulary includes a minimum of one hundred romantic diminutives; and do not pass your new telephone number on to any female persons. The consequences, should I choose to ignore the advice, were made quite clear. Obviously, by signing the receipt I had unknowingly gotten myself entangled in a dense web of responsibilities and risks. “That black-and-yellow Sunday beast!” I swore out loud in the stress of this unwelcome situation. And then an idea occurred to me: What if my signature was invalid since I had placed it next to the wrong name? And before this small spark of hope could die out I found myself unlocking the fifth safety lock on the door and, clutching the explosive audio-letter, preparing to run out after the Sunday pyro-postman.
| 213 214 |
Photo: Audrey Chibbaro Julie Chibbaro Skin
There’s a skin over him and we want to take it off because you should take off the skin that forms, it’s the one that is too tender, too sensitive, that absorbs too much and gets infected too easily, but he doesn’t want us to take it off because it’s the second skin that’s grown on him, the thinner one, and that’s the one that hurts the most to remove. He says, “even the light is hurting me,” and he wants us to “please turn off the light.” He, this new fellow, name Steve Grantis, age 28, eyes blue, height approximately six feet, with a three-week dermal as well as hair manually removed from the roots (though there is still evidence of follicle, and thus | 215 regenerative hope), has uttered only worries. This is often the case with second skinners, they focus on their original skins and find it difficult to move into more pressing issues, such as their new removal experiences. He can hear the preparations in the next hall and beyond that, in the outer corridor, and probably beyond, in the domed room where we keep everyone when they come in as he did. The sounds of the preparations make them nervous, they seem sensitive to sound, like horses, all of our arrivals do. The scrapers make a terrible noise similar to the hay makers far afield grinding up all the overgrown yellow grass, although, we assure him, the sound is much worse than the procedure. He cries when we tell him this and we ask him to stop, the salt is no good for the skin, it being an irritant and not a tenderizer as he needs. You’re fighting against time, what happens to everyone, we patiently explain. We don’t know how far we can go with this one. He is at the point where we normally find it necessary to take them to the eleventh ward. Steve didn’t come to us for his first skin, which is the mistake often made, and so he doesn’t know procedure. We hesitate to move him to eleven because he’s a strong one, we can tell, and with the strong ones there is the possibility they will do damage to the others on eleven. Our choice is to move the gurney to twelve for the more serious cases, following the Jons Robin Gordy rule for strong, second skin cases. All of our arrivals tell us how it happened, if they can speak, which helps, it helps us to know how to remove or add the skins depending on the way the difficulty was encountered. We try to encourage this kind of first entry disclosure. It allows us to consider our array of tools and caring techniques and decide which is proper for each individual. Our facility is equipped to handle 149 skin types, and so far that has been adequate for each removal or addition that has come to us in our six years of service. The Jons Robin Gordy Skin Addition and Removal Center is where we work. Our job here is to point out the positive, to keep our people’s minds on what’s ahead and off the noise of the grinder or the light pains or the stretching tears of skin growth, which is where their minds tend to wander. We depend very much on this facility; it is home and safety and security and good smells and the past and the future. The white walls assure us that there is a consistency in the world, and that it exists here. We live on the grounds of the facility in bungalows off the main farmland where we raise sheep, cows, chickens, goats, rabbits and corn. All of these live elements have proven useful to our experiments at some time or another over these six years as we insist on doing all our testing on other living matter before reaching the human skin. We did have horses, two of them with muscular brown flanks, but we failed to preserve their live material, which is always a sad event around here. As often is the case, our new arrival begins his disclosure on the elevator 216 | between six and seven. He is strapped tightly to the gurney. “He was my best friend. I don’t know why I did it.” In soft tones, we reassure him. “Jim wouldn’t have done it to me. They were his.” The eyes water. We let him know that we are not interested in any further information. It is best at this level to show no interest, in standard reverse psychology fashion, because with these new ones, only the simplest, most basic operations function. His blue eyes examine us, warily we presume. They stop when they meet our unaffected gaze. “The design was his. The design was his and I said it was mine.” It is only through many years of practice that our auditory memory is perfect, and we can hear and store without any false recording devices. We often use our photographic memory for the same purpose. Steve admits that he studied the plans for his friend’s car. He was divided, he says, between being loyal to his best friend and to his company. He knew what the design could do to his status in the company; however, the ideas were Jim’s. The gap and its crossing were clear to him. “They weren’t mine.” We nod unassumingly and record. The twelfth floor door opens and we roll Steve off. He has begun to speak about Jim’s house, his wife and children, when the coughing starts, giving his underskin a purplish tinge that indicates danger. We start him on a drip in his arm. The skin is not thick enough for the drip, so we remove it and restart it in his thigh. There is a definite rapidity to the drip; most skins feel its effect within 20 seconds. It slurs Steve’s speech immediately. The many-step process of grinding and regrowth that Steve has to look forward to cannot be taken while he is anything but fully aware. He must be able to tell us when the pain is too great, for nerve endings are the indicators of wrongful movement along the body’s highways. At the Center, we believe pain is a useful weapon against other pain and we stand by using it wisely. We feel we have thoroughly studied the myriad levels of pain, both obvious and subtle, that the body and mind are capable of supporting. With full confidence in Steve’s recovery, we return to the main receiving area. Throughout the night, we tend to processes that benefit from our attention. Only one emergency occurs on ward three. Those on eight have lately begun to exhibit excessive, rather tumorous growths. Our hypothesis is the typical one bad apple, a Mr. Warren Freely, who’s been on eight for almost a month and has proved resistant to treatment. Our impulse is to farm him out, perhaps to four or twelve, floors for difficult cases. Yet, although his growths are numerous, they arenot caused by an innate drive, which stills our hand to move him, as these floors are for deliberate resistance and not natural adversity. Both his cysts and his tumors, similar in contagion to the lower form of wart-like growth, appear smooth, round, and ultimately pierceable. Isolation is our only choice with | 217 Mr. Warren Freely, that and the constant drain and release of his growths. Vigilance is key. When we start the grinder on Steve’s first morning, we tell him: You are a pioneer. We say to him, it is your job to tell us when we go awry and this is a challenging mission. The word ‘mission’ makes Steve’s blue eyes widen, and we see the perimeters of vulnerability and detection to which we are extremely sensitive: Steve has not passed the test. Perhaps it is the sound of the grinder that unnerves him. “What is your name?” he asks us, though our surname is written on our lapel. We remind him that he has voluntarily submitted to the grinding, that he wants to be healed. We have many booklets of speeches for such an occasion. Our name isn’t important; his removal is. “I want to know who I am dealing with. Yes, I came to you, but you can tell me, treat me as a person. My name is Steve. What is your name, your first name, what is your name, doctor?” Name disclosure is a number one contraindication of the treatment as it potentially opens an alter personalization in a grafting which only takes to the oneness of the being undergoing the procedure, and this is what we must explain to Steve. His protests form a barrier to incision, which is why he’s strapped on twelve. For removal to be successful, all barriers must be exterminated. “It’s just a simple question, doctor. I can’t understand why you won’t tell me your name.” We inform him politely but firmly that his case will be made to wait if he insists on learning data about his caretakers. “It’s such a simple question.” His rebuffs are partly a defense mechanism to the start of the procedure, and are not to be taken personally. We tell him that his mission requires him to spotlight on the self, and in so doing, all other elements will remain in shadow, where they need to be for the duration of his treatment. “But I know everybody’s name. It makes them somebody, and I think if I’m going to do this with you, you need to be somebody to me.” We signal once again the partial naming on our lapel and maintain he must be satisfied with that, that any further naming is virtually useless. Islands of his skin are becoming blotchy and patchy with the blood rush to his nerve ends. We navigate Steve’s barriers with 300 ccs of one of several choices of opiate bases, returning to him in infrequent intervals while he readies. It seems putting Mr. Warren Freely into isolation had the opposite effect intended, although it is not entirely evident to us how quarantine and the loss of speech are connected. Before his final quietude, Warren expulsed his sureness that he was placed in solitary as punishment. His inarticulateness cannot define what he thinks we might be penalizing him for; however, 218 | several times in the past he has expressed a certain extreme disgust in view of his growths. We surmise a projection of self-loathing onto us, an assumption derived from witnessing his frequent attempts to lacerate his own excrescences. Warren has decided to close all communication, leaving us no choice. After having probed every avenue of treatment open to Mr. Freely, we move him to five, to the terminal ward, where the spread of his growths will do little harm. We return to Steve’s drip response, monitored until we feel his priorities have changed. Steve’s pupils are tempered and dilated; we ask him to tell us more. Starting at low, we turn on the grinder, the alpha vibrations background to our suggestion. “She was my wife’s best friend in high school,” he says faintly, “Jim’s wife, Sandra. We all went to school together.” We ask if the wives are no longer friends, touching the grinder ever so lightly against the skin. “No, not after what happened,” he says, flinching and pulling back. We offer that we understand that Jim is still his friend, skirting the more direct question as we reapply the grinder. “In my own mind, yes,” he nods, “I made a choice that I didn’t think would affect anyone,” he stops, and we notice those few tears the grinder brings to the eyes, those rimming his, and we wipe them away for him as his arms are strapped comfortably to his sides. “No, no, it’s not true, I did know, but the mind is an awful place and it made decisions that some part of me said were right, or worse, said these decisions didn’t matter. Do you see?” We hold the grinder to one spot. Although it doesn’t appear to be, Steve’s second skin is tough with layered callouses and other dermal renderings nearly 4mm thick, and will take some patience to remove, to get through to the first, especially with the grinder on low. We ask what caused these decisions to be made, encountering and assuaging with smiles and nods the intermittent thresholds of his pain under the many tiny incisions. “They were made by someone else,” he cries out, “they were made by someone else inside me, someone who wasn’t thinking about friendships or consequences.” A small ejection of the salivary glands shows a slight loss of motor control in the lesser oral muscles. We slow the drip to 200ccs, meanwhile holding the grinder steady. We ask Steve if there is actually someone else inside him, appearing to take his claim seriously. He convulses perceptibly. “Of course not, not a real person, but it felt like that, like someone else was making these choices, don’t you see? I would never hurt my friends or my wife.” The tremors are a routine response to the grinder and are no indication of malfunction. Such malfunctions are rare at the Jons Robin Gordy Center: since its inception, the Center has experienced only twenty-seven deaths and four suicides, mostly accidental | 219 or of seriously abnormal skins, and of those deaths, we have incurred only fourteen wrongful suits, which our lawyers handled with grace and charm. We point out to Steve that he said he has adopted another person inside him, one who makes decisions without him, and we ask him to recognize that that is not normal, and that it is potentially harmful. “I think,” he says, “I think anyone who does anything wrong has to turn off some place in his mind and turn on another. I think it’s normal.” We ask what exactly he thinks he’s done wrong. “She helped me take his idea, she let me into his study. She let me.” We steady his shoulders for the duration of a large spasm. After it, he meets our eyes; his rims are clear of fluid. We check the tightness of the straps under him. “I hate it. I hate what I’ve done, but I can hardly claim responsibility because I feel it wasn’t me who did it.” That, we tell him, is a convenient trick of the mind. Who else, we ask, is responsible? The extra fellow inside him is still inside him, part of him, and so it is himself. Steve’s eyes once again, against recommendation, overload with tears. The salt causes a stinging pain that we recognize. We wipe and warn him. “I … I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do,” Steve stutters. The grinding is going slowly as all grindings with denial do. We tell him he hasn’t told us everything, and that disclosure aids in the removal process. “But I have told you everything,” he says. He’s kept us on a level, we tell him, that we don’t believe; unless, we say, he tells us everything and tells us truthfully, he will never recover, never ever, and his removal will be unsuccessful. He gasps and turns his head away. We return the drip to 300 and tend to more pressing business. Both growth and removal are long-term processes that require patience and steady minds and hands. Upon waking and before each meal, all cases are reminded of this. Our inspiring speech plays over loudspeakers imbedded in every room. Each day, it lets them know that bit by bit we can conquer a small part of our trying worlds, and we do not let minor incidentals like tumors or bald patches get us down.
220 | Fractal Swing
They swung. Her hair swished as she strode, his feet rocked out as he sauntered beside her. Her calves were Grecian vases, pushing against the tight black stockings she always wore. His pants were forever baggy, gathered around his ankles like elephant skin. They were a merry-go-round; their attached hands a swinging connector between them. I saw them sashaying together in an ethereal rhythm on unstraight streets that curved in cobbled waves, dank and small and old, warping up, folding down. They leaped ahead, in and out, sudden licks of red in an all-gray painting, surprising me as I made my way around town. I’d latch on to a loop, let it carry me along for awhile, step off at whatever door was mine. I didn’t know them; I wanted to. An opening came. In an ancient tea room before an enormous fireplace, I lunched, my face pressed into a new novel I was editing, my elbows resting on books I was intending to read. The yellow fire flickered dully on the page as I scribbled marginalia. I was between sleep and waking, tired from a nightmare about an old girlfriend. The novel was feeling pillowlike, the air too warm, the place too homey and personless for me to stay awake much | 221 longer when they swooped in. A draft flew in with them, bringing a crisp snap to the room that cleared my head of the webs that were forming. I was aware of them behind me, their banter. They sat at a table, weren’t satisfied, sat at another closer, parallel to mine. He ordered darjeeling, she Earl Grey. “My hands are freezing,” she said to him. I looked over, her lips were whiter than her dark skin. I had never really seen their faces before. They seemed wizened, older than I thought. He reached for her hands and rubbed them in his own. Blew his breath on them. The gesture was so tender, I turned away, played with my tea bag, tearing it apart as I listened to their conversation. “It won’t turn over,” he said. “I can’t get the tongues in the grooves with this one,” she said. “It’s the distributor,” he said. “I used the router, the hand saw, the plane, and still,” she said. “Though I replaced it, so maybe it’s not that,” he said. “Maybe I have to make the tongues smaller,” she said. “The transmission?” he asked. “Or the grooves bigger?” she asked. Their words swam by each other, tropical fish flashing in an undersea world only they understood. ‘Tongue and groove,’ I thought, wood held together, joints, what was she making? And he, the distributor? I had never seen them in a car. They were from somewhere else, had just planted a shoot of a business, they were still exploring the strange twisted streets and alleys. Those were the things they spoke about. I wanted to pipe in, make myself a part of them, ride the upswing of their sentences, but their exchange was seamless. Neither of their utterances entered the other’s, but wafted independently past, statement upon question, ducking under, slipping over like braided hair. I took breaths to interrupt, but felt that whatever I’d say would fall to the table before them, so I listened. “I called the man; he said ok,” she said. “They dropped the concrete off in the wrong place,” he said. “He said I didn’t need soundproofing,” she said. “It’s going to take days to lay the floor,” he said. “He said the neighbors don’t care … “ she said. “How am I going to do these two cars?” he asked. “… if there’s a crazy carpenter lady next door,” she said. “He called you crazy?” he asked. “You have to do two cars, I thought you only had one?” she asked. They faced each other. She scratched his chin reassuringly, he mussed her hair, they turned simultaneously back to the fire. “Two,” he said. 222 | They didn’t speak again; I struggled to find an opening that would fit in their silence, one that would make sense, make them like me and want to talk to me. I heard him say, “Oh, that’s that book,” and knew immediately, from the way his voice came to me, that he was talking about one of the books supporting me. I waited, hardly daring to think my opening would be so easy. She said, “Yes, that’s the one. I haven’t seen it anywhere.” Slowly, from my peripheral vision, I could sense them waiting for me to become aware. “Hmm?” I said, pretending I was emerging from a deep freeze of concentration. “That book, your book, where did you get it?” he asked. “We’ve been looking all around for it,” she said. “It just came out, right?” he asked. “We saw it once, but didn’t have any money,” she said. Opening my mouth several times to speak, I realized my timing was off with them, that I would have to find a decent diving board into their talk, or not say anything at all. It was worse than jump rope, it was mad double Dutch. I stomped on his next sentence awkwardly—“You, do you, you want to borrow it when I’m done?” and she cut right in, “Yeah, yes, yeah, definitely.” She looked at him, and I looked at them, and noticed they weren’t wizened, it was the firelight that had wrinkled them. With the same swing, they turned and smiled at me. Their faces were so beautifully curled and bright, I felt like kissing them. I smiled back, near to laughing. We took each other in for a long minute. Just as I wondered if they really had their attention on me, he asked, “Is this your town?” “My town?” I asked. “You from here originally?” he asked. “Well, why, yes, as a matter of fact,” I said. “The roofs are nice, that green,” he said. “I think it’s copper,” I said. “Horses, the stables in the North, are nice,” she said. “Or bronze,” I said. “It’s good to stay in the place you’re from,” he said. “They both turn green, I think,” I said. “I always loved horses, big ones, black, or brown,” she said. “It could be an illusion of green, that is possible,” I said. “Though it’s also good to move around, see new sights,” he said. “Just painted green, masquerading as metal,” I said. “I like the way horses’ nostrils flare,” she said. She nodded at me, flaring her nostrils, “you know?” “Nostrils, yes,” I said. “Camels’ lips flap when they run, did you know that?” he asked. I shook my head. “We just saw Lawrence of Arabia, opening scene, right there, camel lips flapping as they ran across the desert,” he said, making flaps with his hands | 223 together at his lips. She provided loud sound effects, “flap, flap.” It was striking to see a grown woman making flapping noises in the tea room. “Great movie,” he shouted. Their enthusiam was so unchecked, I looked around to see if we were disturbing anyone, but there was no one but us. “Oh, hey,” he said, “what time is it?” I showed him my watch. “We’ve got to go.” They stood together, gathered their things. “Nice meeting you,” she said. “Yes,” I said, wondering how to meet her, them again. “That book,” he said. “How can I get it to you?” I asked. “When you’re done, drop it by,” she said, rummaging through her oversized bag. She handed me a card; I’d lived on the street they lived on. “Will do,” I said, still examining the card, “Rosie and Derek,” I read aloud, “We Fix Your Cars and Make Your Furniture.” They smiled expectantly, “I’m Marty,” I said. “Ok,” they said. “See Lawrence,” she said over her shoulder. I nodded, watched them swing through the door, away. The tea room creaked and settled, the fire crackled. I gathered my books slowly, meandered home, taped the card to my mirror. The next morning, as I was walking to work, I saw them. They were not so much ahead that I couldn’t catch up, so I did. “Oh, hey,” they said. I fell into step with them, found myself swaying alongside down the road. “Going to church?” she asked. “Work,” I said. It was Sunday, and I was headed to the tea room for some editing. I was carrying the famous book with me, and saw her eyeing it. I offered it to her from the top of the pile. “Why don’t you take it, I’ve got enough to read,” I said. “Yeah?” she asked. “Sure,” I said. “Can I have it after?” he asked. “Sure,” I said. We split into different directions at the end of the street. The breath of them came into the tea room with me, stayed, kept me awake in my contemplative, grammatically correct hours. Dull days I looked for them; didn’t spy them anywhere. Their absence made me long for a glimpse of them. Finally, one cloudy morning, I saw them again, two drops of rich, velvety maroon in a darkening gray. They were too far for me to merge. I trudged behind their loops, noticed they were not holding hands, though their swing was intact. The separateness was strange, like a huge hole in the middle of someone. At the top of a slope, they waved a short hand raise, he careened away from her, and they began 224 | independent undulations in either direction. I had never seen them apart; singly, each seemed to gain a layer of their intense red. Hers became more brown, his a yellowed orange flaming off on its own. I went in the direction she went in, threaded the blocks she did, began to become aware of my feet, heel-ball, heel-ball. A rolling jaunt galloped from me to her, holding the distance between us like a tight wire until a corner light stopped her, loosening the wire, closing the distance. I slowed my roll, slid into place behind her. Looked at the sphere of her head while she looked at the light. She felt me, turned. “Marty,” she said. The fact of my name from her mouth gave me a chill. “Rosie,” I said. “I read that book, thanks,” she said. “Where are you going?” I asked. “Museum,” she said. I nodded. “Huh,” I said. “Where are you going?” she asked. ‘Nowhere,’ I thought, ‘following you,’ I thought. “Museum, too,” I lied. “Which are you going to?” I asked before she could ask me. She lifted and twisted her chin and head to somewhere down the road. The Museum of Developmental Science for the Society of Woodsmen was a few streets off. “Ah,” I said, “I am headed that way too. I’m working on a book for forest fire fighters. Need to do some research,” I again lied. “Writing?” she asked. “Editing,” I said, “and you?” “Checking out the wood,” she said. The light changed, we crossed together. I varied my gait to match hers. “Is that that thing you were doing?” she asked. “Wood for what?” I asked. “Cherry mahogany,” she said. “Yes, that book, which was why I didn’t have time for the other book,” I said. We marched lollingly. She didn’t say anything, I didn’t. She didn’t seem to mind me next to her. I felt like touching her hair, it looked so soft. “Could I join you?” I asked spontaneously. “Thought you were,” she said with such acceptance, my heart popped and thickened. I walked a fraction of an inch behind her so I could see her walk. Derek was a lucky man. “After, would you like to grab a lunch with me?” I asked her. “Grab a lunch,” she laughed, “sure, Marty, we can grab a lunch.” Her laughter came from a place inside her that was somewhere near her toes. It wasn’t at me, it was in delight of me. As she mulled through the woods, I watched her eyes change as they focused and concentrated. Toothed gears turned; she scratched measurements | 225 on a pad with little arrows and notes and pictures. I put my face in the space between her shoulder and neck to see what she was drawing. She laughed and tapped my nose away with her eraser. “It’s a secret,” she said, “no one can see. It’s for Derek.” “I won’t tell,” I said, “promise.” “No, because you’ll run into him, and he’ll know you have a secret,” she said, “he’s like that. Knows stuff.” “So how do you keep secrets from him?” I asked. “Not to say you have any, but if you did?” She looked behind herself at me, her imperfect eyes shining with question. My face was very near hers, so near, I could bite into her like a plum, one of those ripe, clear red, fresh, cold from the refrigerator plums. With juice coming out of the opened flesh of the fruit. “Ok, you won’t tell?” she asked, turning, opening the front of her to me. We were inches apart. I shook my head, held up my fingers in a Boy Scout’s salute. “It’s a dolly, special one for his back for when he rolls under cars to fix them.” She switched her notebook around to show me her drawings. The scratches outlined the width of Derek’s shoulders, tapered down to his waist. The dolly looked like a broad back with wheels on it. Rosie circled the penciled lines with her finger, “holds his spine just so, do you see?” she asked excitedly. “How will you get the wood to bend like that?” I asked. Her soapy smell floated to me, made me want to take a bath. “You wet it, press it, carve it,” she shouted, her voice filling the empty museum, notebook pages fluttering in the wind of her animated hand.I looked quickly around. Her breath smelled of cashew nuts. “Just need to find which wood,” she said, pulling her body back into itself and around, to the wood in front of her, and on, from exhibition to exhibition. I trailed her, bath scent still in my nose, an invisible hand pressed into my stomach. From the floor and walls of the museum, a shuddering, huge feeling of wanting swept up into me. I wanted to touch her, I wanted to express myself to her, I wanted to kiss her until she couldn’t breathe, I suddenly, overwhelmingly wanted her so badly, I could barely stand. I needed to part us, to put a barrier between us, to unpassion my burning heart, so I asked her to lunch. “Is it time?” I asked. “For?” she murmured into the wooden bust of a man. “To go, to lunch, a lunch, is it time?” I asked. She looked at me with mild eye, and I knew she didn’t feel what I was feeling. With a dash, she finished off her drawing. “Time,” she cried, and ‘time, time, time,’ whispered around the oddly- shaped woods. 226 | She skittered away from me, relieving my tension, and brandished her notebook, a prize on the end of her extended arm. “He’s going to love it, he’s going to love it, he’s going to love it,” she yelled wildly, giddy with her creation. I forgot where we were and laughed, then remembered and stopped, confused by my own self. Already she was down the hall, near the entrance, laughing to herself and hugging her notebook joyously. “Come on, Marty,” she called, and with her whole body, waved me towards her, “move your feet.” I wanted to run to her, but I just sped up. She made me want to sing, and that unnerved me. I didn’t meet many women who made me want to sing. “Let’s go get Derek, bring him with us to lunch,” she said when I aligned myself with her. We started walking. My heart dropped an inch. “We, you just left him,” I said. I shook my head at her surprised look. “I saw you,” I explained. “Oh,” she said, and faltered in her step. Groups of things to say moved in and out of my mind, but none came close to my mouth. “He’s got cars, two antique Royces,” she said, “I’ll show you.” Her voice was lower. “Rolls’s,” I said. “What?” she asked. “You mean he has two Rolls Royces,” I said. “That’s what I said,” she said. Like a paper airplane, she sent over a small, forgiving smile. I smiled back, a tiny one. She crossed her notebook over her chest, held it there. “I pledge allegiance … ,” she said. “To the flag,” I continued. “Of the Untied States,” she said. “United,” I said. “Untied Shoes,” she said. “United,” I insisted. “Untied tie-dyed shirts,” she screamed, laughing wildeyed. “United, United, United,” I repeated sanely. I wondered where she was taking me in the myriad of multiangular curvatures we were trundling. “Pah,” she said, “here,” she said, “sharp left.” I was on the left, in her way; she bumped into me to turn me, pulled the material of my coat to lead me into an alley between closely set buildings. An edge of a fantasy bloomed then dispersed when I saw the low, flat outline of an old Rolls through a door. “Derek,” she called as she passed the open frame. “Here,” he answered and appeared, wiping thick grease from his hands with a tattered rag. “Hey, sweetface. Oh, hey,” he said when he saw me. “Derek,” I said. “What are you guys up to?” he asked. “Saw Marty on the way over, told him about the Royces, he wanted to see,” she said. “I’m almost done with that book,” he said to me. | 227 “You almost done with the car?” she asked. “I guess I’ll have to read it next,” I said, shifting my eyes from him to her. “You have to see the Royces,” she said. “Rolls’s, honey, it’s Rolls’s,” he said. “One’s a convertible,” she said. “That’s what I told her,” I said to him. Man smiles passed over her between Derek and me. “Stuck on names,” she said, clucking her tongue, taking hold of my sleeve, tugging me carwards. I let myself be led over the ragged, torn up floor, heard Derek chuckling behind us. The sound reminded me that there was such a thing as friends. I plucked a glance at him from the air above Rosie’s head; he was wiping each finger clean distractedly, smile still on his face. The hood was open mouthed, marring the perfection of the car. Derek shut it so I could see its beauty. It was a sculpture, all straight lines interrupted only by rounded insides that were revealed when Derek put the top down. “Marty, you gotta see this,” he said. He clicked the ignition one notch, and pressed a button on the dash, which set off a series of events inside the car. A strip of interior lights went on, the seat bottoms motored forward, the backs relaxed back, and classical music started playing from invisible speakers. “Wonderful!” I cried. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she cried. “And look,” he said, lifting up the felt of the inner side panels. Speakers, the finest. “Ah,” I said. “Magic, it’s like magic,” she said. “A car miracle.” “A car miracle,” I repeated, “miracle.” I looked at them, and they looked at me. We beamed. Derek opened the driver’s side. “In,” he said. “Me?” I asked, frightened to muss its pristine condition. “You. Rosie, other side,” he said. “I, but you see, I …” I started. “Can you drive?” he asked. “Well, yes, but I …” I started. “In,” he said, crazy smile on his brown face. “Derek, it’s been …” I started. “Rosie, get him in, I’ll get the door,” he said to her, and disappeared down the length of the garage. “Ok, Marty,” she said, clapping her hands, “you heard the man, in.” Her smile was as crazy as his. For a moment, I felt I was watching the untamed flight of two loon birds, and feared I was about to soar with them. “What’s the problem?” she asked. 228 | “Oh, no problem,” I said, “it’s, I, no, no problem, Rosie,” I said as I got in and awkwardly adjusted my body to the too-relaxing seat, “see, here I go, ok?” “Good,” she said, patting me. “Vroom, vroom,” I heard from the front of the garage. Derek bounded over, vrooming as he came. Rosie began vrooming next to me. Derek got in the back. “You comfortable?” he asked. I shook my head. He pressed a button on the side of my seat and it motored up straight. “Better?” he asked. I nodded. “Check your mirrors, Captain,” he said. “All systems go,” she said. “Roger, roads clear,” he said. I still hadn’t put my hands to the steering wheel. Rosie lifted one up, shook it. It hung limply. “Let’s go,” she said. I didn’t move. “I think he’s scared,” she said. “You scared, Marty?” he asked. I nodded. “Out,” he said, “switch.” I got out, got in the back, he got in the front. I began to breathe again. “Test run,” he said, starting the engine. “Missed opportunity,” she said, looking over the seat at me. My mouth hung dumbly. “Flies’ll go in there if you keep that open,” she said, reaching over to touch my chin. Derek let go of the clutch, put the gears in reverse, held onto Rosie’s headrest to direct the car down the bumpy floor of the garage. “And away we ride,” she said, nestling forward. A gang of three, we whistled through the streets and out onto the highway’s maze, into tunnels, over bridges. We whipped by intersections as we skirted town. Secretly, I gratefully grasped the leather pads of the seat while Rosie and Derek yelled words I couldn’t hear to each other over the flurrying wind and whirring engine. Bugs and pebbles slapped and spattered the windshield. I kept picturing myself as one of them, and tightened my grip. Rosie put her arm out of the opened side window and let it be pushed by wind like a girl in a motorboat letting her hand be pushed by water. The air’s dynamics did funny things to her face, blew her lips around, flattened her cheeks. Made her hair dance, her eyes water. Derek rested his fingers on her thigh, lifting them only to shift, faster, slower. They seemed to forget me, forced to hold their heads forward by the car’s high speed. As I watched them, made so happy by the simple car ride, I began to let go into the low, strong hum of the engine and the chill wind about my head. I imagined myself in Derek’s seat, director of an adventure, found myself longing for some white wine, room temperature, and a good book in a lamplit room. We downshifted, slowed into the half circle of the garaged street, nibbed over bubbled tar into the cave where Derek worked on his fancy cars. The outside was dilapidated, the walls and floor becoming unstuck with age. Derek coasted the car to a stop. My head continued moving. I unfolded out, warmed the cold edges of my ears with my palms. Rosie shook and | 229 fixed herself like a cat, Derek opened his door and stretched his legs out, not leaving his seat. “How was that, Marty, how was that? Ride of a lifetime?” he asked. His voice roared, not yet adjusted to the fact that we were off the road. “Life ride, ride of a lifetime,” she said, echoing Derek’s roar. I unruffled my hair. “Nice, it was nice,” I said. I pictured an orange pekoe with lemon and honey by the hot fire of the tea room. Maybe a sandwich. “Italian, Indian, or we could go to that new place, Mexican,” she said. “I’ll follow you,” I said. “Mexican then,” she said. She crouched over the seat and kissed Derek’s cheek, crawled out of the car and unfurled herself. Slammed the door. Derek stood, fanned the top down, secured it. We took a short alley street to a long main street. Fanny’s Fajita’s was on the corner. Its doorways were beaded and walls tapestried, a man with a banjo played to the near empty space. A fat woman sat with a small child at the window table. Two lovers bent over fajita plates at the opposite end. The waitress showed us to a middle table for four. Rosie slipped into the booth against the wall; Derek and I faced her. A famous bandito photo hung above her head. “Pancho Villa, leader of the Mexican Revolution,” Derek said. “Saw that,” Rosie said. “A brave leader, wild man,” he said. “Saved many, killed many,” she said. “Fajitas and margaritas?” he asked. “For me,” she said. “Yes,” I said, worried about having a margarita in the middle of the day. Wine, maybe, tequila, dangerous. The flames of the tea room fire flickered in the back of my head. “Do you think seventeenth century man had fajitas?” she asked. “Maize, the food of the people. Indians made a lot with maize,” he said. “They probably had tortillas, but I don’t know if they had fajitas,” I said. “The women crushed tons of things and cooked them,” she said. “They even had a god of maize. Corn God, don’t know the Mexican name,” he said. “Wheat, corn, potatoes, nuts, seeds,” she said. “Quetzacoyatl, maybe, or Xolotl, I think,” he said. “They flattened stuff, fried and baked it,” she said. They went on, over and under each other, layers of history in their talk. I began to think of the book I was editing. There was a problem with it, but I hadn’t been able to see it exactly. It was in the order of the chapters, or the paragraphs, or the sentences, but I wasn’t sure which. “Chicken or beef?” she asked, and I realized the waitress was waiting for 230 | our order. I came back to the restaurant, to Rosie and Derek, shook my head a little bit, ordered chicken. “Peach margarita,” Rosie ordered. “Banana margarita,” Derek ordered. “Regular for me,” I said to the woman. “Oh, try something different,” Rosie said. I felt I had tried enough different for the day. “They have all kinds, even blue ones, though I don’t know what a blue margarita tastes like,” she said. “It tastes blue,” Derek said. “Regular’s fine for me, thanks,” I said. “Marty, Marty,” Rosie said, “what are we going to do with you?” “Do?” I asked. “Live a little,” Derek said. “I live,” I said. “He lived,” he said, pointing up at Pancho Villa, “that’s living.” “I’m not a bandito,” I said. “Marty the bandito,” she said. “Watch out for Marty,” he said, “he’ll shoot your hand off.” “You two are silly,” I said. “We’re silly,” Rosie said to Derek. “Did you know that?” “Silly as jelly,” he stated. “Silly Putty,” she said. “Did you ever play with Silly Putty when you were a kid?” she asked. “I used to eat it,” he said. “I liked the colors,” I discovered myself replying. “I made statues of my parents with it, gave Dad a big nose, Mom purple hair,” she said. They were gone on Silly Putty; I was back to teasing out the problems of my author. Food came; we unfolded napkins, clanged fork and knife. “You have a girlfriend?” Derek asked in the aftermath of a chew and swallow. “Did. She left because I didn’t have enough time to give her,” Isaid, surprised at the question. “You didn’t have enough time, or you didn’t want to give her enough time?” Rosie asked. It took me a second to figure out what she was asking. “Probably the latter,” I said. “But I did like her,” I added. She nodded, mouth full. “You’re a lone wolf, aren’t you, Marty?” Derek asked. “I suppose I am,” I said. I got lonely, but I liked to be alone. Alone was always stronger than lonely. Rosie began to howl. “Aaaooowww,” she howled. “We know some wolves,” he said. “We like wolves, they’re good,” she said. Our smiles and nods crossed | 231 the food filled table. I took a sip of margarita; it was tangy and loaded with tequila. I started to feel free, comfortable with Rosie and Derek in a way I hadn’t been before. We finished our meal and agreed to part. I watched them swing down the long road away from me, their hands knotted between them, holding them together. I turned and headed for the tea room.
First published in Optimism Monthly (1998). 232 |
Photo: Ahron Weiner Joshua Cohen Cafédämmerung (or Allen in Prague, King of May, 1965)
He’d been in Cuba sunning, fucking. But he’d only hugged and kissed Fidel. Reek of cigars! rum! In that embrace, two of the great beards of our time had grown into one another: Allen’s and Fidel’s, they became inseparable. Grew intertwined, then knotted. Uncomfortable for all involved. Finally Castro had to call his chief executioner, the executioner came with his chief machete but instead of cuttingoff Allen Ginsberg’s head a hipsterheaded angel of Yahweh arrived in sunglasses and porkpie hat to redirect the blade to only sunder their | 233 beards. Fidel put Allen on the first flight to Czechoslovakia. Allen brushed his smokestained suit before disembarking. He still had Fidel’s hairs on his lapels, that’s what he declared to Customs. Students of the Polytechnic School, even a few faculty members, remember: the first sign they had of Allen’s coming was the beard. It was edged out the window of the plane. Out the window of the taxi from Ruzyně (airport), as if a flag for a new order, his nový kingdom. But he was not yet King. It was still April. Allen’s beard was not a religious beard, yet neither was it a beard of dereliction, of dissolution, a lazy facial hirsuteness—the mark of a man who did not care about appearance. It fell under none of those categories, contra surveillance and Nomenklatura speculation. Truth is, Allen’s beard had always been there, and his face grew from it—Allen’s face, his head, that was the effort, that was the true growth, it was conscious, its expression beatifically made. The beard was of a million fingers of vermillion, ten tenthousand threads of rust and purple sunrays, flecks of recitative spittle and a dusting of light sporelife, the ermine fuzz that forms around immemorial potatoes. That expression: comic, fishily bulging lips and eyes, exophthalmic but glassesed, Jewish. He’d gotten chubby during his Havana sojourn. All those fried plantains and anus. Also, Allen was balding above. And he was ancient, he was forty. What comes between men is the beard. The beard is philosophy, hairs on the face are a politics, what keeps one brother from another. What hides, what obfuscates. The beard is that thick fat wilderness where miscommunication causes lives to come to their ends—the forbidding forest in which compatriots would be shot, had been shot, for example outside Moscow toward the east.
*
But this was Prague, Western enough to expect Allen’s Yiddish to be understood as inept German. Here he would be crowned King of May— “which is Kral Majales in the Czechoslovakian tongue,” he wrote in a poem about the experience because he wrote poems about all of his experiences (it wasn’t an experience until it was a poem). The poem was called Kral Majales, and it was called that because Allen could not be bothered with diacritical marks—it should be Král Majáles, with vowels long like pleasure—here are its essential lines:
For I was arrested thrice in Prague, once for singing drunk on Národní street, once knocked down on the midnight pavement by a mustached agent who 234 | screamed out BOUZERANT, once for losing my notebooks of unusual sex politics dream opinions, and I was sent from Havana by plane by detectives in green uniform, and I was sent from Prague by plane by detectives in Czechoslovakian business suits, Cardplayers out of Cézanne, the two strange dolls that entered Joseph K’s room at morn also entered mine, and ate at my table, and examined my scribbles, and followed me night and morn from the houses of lovers to the cafés of Centrum—
And I am the King of May, which is the power of sexual youth, and I am the King of May, which is industry in eloquence and action in amour and I am the King of May, which is long hair of Adam and the Beard of my own body
And and and and every culture besides America, which is not a culture but has cultures, has its own version of this, its own indigenous tradition: May the fertile month, May the month of fecundity, the First of May—before the communists usurped May Day for the sake of International Workers—the first day of an Eastertide celebration during which young studentgirls are whipped by young studentboys with limbs of birch. Eggs are served with young alcohol. A revel. Prechristian. Bacchic. Maenadic. Pagan. And presiding over the festivities: a King who’d emerge from the woodlands every year to lead local men to potency or, alternately, to inseminate their women Himself. In Prague, where this rural tradition acquires a metropolitan irony, the newest of folklorists—detectives, cardplaying dolls in green business suits— have been busy constructing a throne since Winter 1948, and their orders were always to construct this throne out of books that are banned. This stipulation is intended to serve two purposes—to be both a sign of great disrespect, as if to say observe how we abuse these books of ours that mean nothing to us, and, paradoxically, to be a sign of great respect, as if to say observe how we honor these books by fashioning them into a seat for our King. They are to serve as the seat of his fattish, often violated rectum. And the books being censored into his throne are: A Handbook of Practical Messianism (poems), Kaštany (a play in three acts), Hasidische Geschichte (two vols.), How to Build Bombs for Personal Use (w/ 10 full-color illustrations), The Kitchens of North America (ed. Čapka), A Guide to the Literary Cafés of the Kingdoms of Bohemia & Moravia (nonfiction), Famous Homosexual Salons of Middle Europe (fiction), How to Prevent Parasites in Horses (fiction)…. Allen’s | 235 feet are bare. Happy happy First of May!
*
The coronation banquet is to be held in the lobbycafé of the Hotel Ambassador, where the waiters attending used to be writers, novelists and storywriters and poets now prevented from publishing freely, demoted to servitude. Only the best of them—the best writers making the best waiters—receive permission to work in cafés in the city center. The cafés of Centrum, like the lobbycafé of the Ambassador, were allotted formerly to what might be called an intelligentsia, and still to this day retain a superior aura (and lionfooted cakestands, matching the verdant billiard tables). While the farther cafés, located toward the cemeteries, in outer districts called Žižkov, called Želivského, were once upon a time for the workingclass, the proletariat, and they are called pubs by some and by others bars, and a slot machine shalt in time be allotted to the lone bathroom of each but no toilet. Hurry hurry through the streets as you’d expect them: picturesque (a word found scrawled as signature on only the most subversive of postcards); antiquarianly narrow but empty. Now give each the throne of a chair and an unstable table—listing left to right, if you find yourself dizzy gaze toward the iron pillar below the marble top—now grant each a waiterwriter uniformed in a worn black tuxedo piped with white gold, cummerbunded with a used handkerchief, bowtied with a cummerbund, handkerchiefed with a bowtie unraveled, armbanded with napkins and the napkins are all soiled, then each street could be—in every hour of weather, we will survive—a café of sorts. This rush through the streets is a rush for good seats along the parade route. Hurry through this human accordion. It never rains on Coronation Day. Twilight of the cafés: Cafédämmerung. But we will not speak of the actual crowning, or of the processional per se. There are films to that account, the files of multiple intelligence services. Instead we will speak of the waiters. A class unto themselves, this species of priest clad in aprons. Their menus, umbrellas. Their umbrellas opened, stood on their ferrules, umbrellastands. They will perform attendance upon their King, and in this wise shall they divine his secret. Om Sri Maitreya. Om Sri Maitreya. Om Sri Maitreya. Om Sri Maitreya. Om Sri Maitreya. Om Sri Maitreya. Om Sri Maitreya. Om Sri Maitreya. Om Sri Writerwaiters’ clothes must be, like scandal, secondhand, but their hair should be suspiciously freshly cut (this being a provision of management), while their necks at their Adam’s apples are always, but this Management does not know, marked with gashes and incisions indicative of hasty morning shaving. The marks, there are three of them, are as follows: once down the center 236 | from just above the Adam’s apple to where the collar is buttoned for the bowtie; and then again down the neck’s two edges, from the dangling lobes of the ears (or, if the lobes are connected, from their connections), tapering to meet the central cut so as to form the shape of the Hebrew Shin, which is a name of God. Their socks and underwear and undershirts and shirts are boiled monthly in the kitchen, on last Sundays when the kitchen’s closed and all one can order is coffee. Only the apparent portion of the shirt, the diamond exposed through the jacket’s opening, is weekly ironed. The staff is short, also heavy and tall and light. They have been reeducated in unobtrusiveness, trained in stealth accented with a hint of derision (obtrusive). They’re quick with the jokes, have you heard, but only with the jokes supplied, we have heard. They’re quick with the orders, too, but are themselves constantly hungry. Always will rage their thirst. Their coffees are strictly five: espressi, cappuccini, Café Au Lait, Kaffee Wien, the coffee of the Turk (available sade, or çok şekerli). Service is roughly “cosmological.” On each table they place a saucer, on each saucer they place a cup (demitasse), next to each they put a shotglass of tepid water, a pitcher of cool cream. A napkin. On the napkin, a spoon. In the spoon, reflection of. Nothing more sexual than a spoon except, perhaps, fire. An ashtray like an ancient castle defense, like a ceramic turret with a cigarette, newly rolled and licked sealed, wedged into a crenature. A box of matches adjacent. (Waiterwriters should have been rolling cigarettes since morning.) This is turning into a poem, a listpoem, a list. Alcohol will be made available only after the festivities. Waiterwriters are informally required to be familiar with an array of trivia: Alcestis was a Grecian princess and a tragic play in Greek; Bucephalus was a horse while boustrophedon is the alteration of written lines in two different alphabets, one line—in this alphabet, the Roman—reading left to right, another line reading right to left in another alphabet, such as that of the Arabs or Jews. Rodin, a sculptor, employed Rilke, a poet. The decadent jazz “standard” September Song is most often performed in the key of C Major, which is without black notes and so is, like the majority of Slavonic jazz interpretations, all white. Blake. Portraiture the lowest form of flattery, viz. Picasso’s formalistically distorted Mme. Stein. Marijuana grows wildly in America, Mexico, Cuba, from where Allen’s flown on the wings of a beard that has nine wings like the leaves of a cannabis leaf. “O it’s a long long while from May to December / but the days grow short when you reach September.” Rilke was born in Prague but denied it. Near the Main Post Office. Jindřišská ul. AKA Heinrichsgasse. From which he mailed himself to Paris c/o Rodin, a sculptor. Kafka rarely escaped. Incidentally, what was the inspiration for Kafka’s giant bug? A local roach or desiccated scarab, displayed in a case at the Natural History Museum? | 237 No, your server will tell you. It was a coffeebean, imported from South America, future continent of émigrés and Mengele. A bean no more impressive than a prostitute’s gnawed thumbnail, bifurcated down the middle, segmented as if an insect. Dead. It is ground in a grinder, chewed by blades into a powder—a fine powder like ashes. Then, warm water is pressured through the powder set in a straining mechanism: some form of filtration, whether a paper pyramid or plastic colander cone. Thiswise the powder flavors the water—and so the water becomes coffee to drink. To keep you up at night, writing. The only time you have to write, all night. The cigarettes are rolled of cheap Cuban tobacco. Rilke rarely smoked, Kafka never did. Annotations for a translator: One drinks a coffee. One reads a poem. One writes one. However, kaddish must be howled. At noon tomorrow, the waiters who write who are the writers who wait will pause their preparations at the sound of a huge Slavic Om: the hum of the horny crowd from the Polytechnic massing in the squares—polytechnic means they can be taught anything: they can be taught engineering, mathematics; from which they might learn napping, dissent—awaiting a word from their King. They claw the cobbles, awaiting a word from Král Allen. Krallen (meaning, in German, “claws”). Kafka on Prague: “this old crone has claws” (Dieses Mütterchen hat Krallen). “Bouzerant” is misspelled Czech, should be buzerant: derogatory term for “homosexual” (in the sense of “buggerer”). Awaiting word from Allen: A howl, or kaddish in its memory—
*
Do not think this was his first kinging. Thirty years before Allen’s crazy mother brought him across the river parted with a bridge, they took the rotten yellow bus into the city of York and there walked south through its gross & inimitable streets: (list poem number one) and there on the streets were Whitman addicts and there were Latin men picking noses with knives (and which was a switch and which a butterflyknife?) 238 | and there on the street was a fish scaled like brassknuckles flopped its guts open on the sidewalk alongside crumbs of pumpernickel bread that are to the pigeons, loaves and there were Negroes as thinly wound and unreliable as the Gstring on a dreadnought guitar (experimental) wirehanger-mobilemaking milkmen whose righteous char- ity resembled that of Engels to Marx unfigureouttable Asian furnituremovers (repomen) of the Baltics or Balkans and through mixed marriages both Polack florists glassyeyed rheumatic glaziers a chimp with erotically long toes who’d done silent movies but now was retired living alone with a chandling harem of Swedish sisters and their midget Armenian pimp, this was just Union Square—not named as many think for labor unions like radical politics like why Allen and his mother were here but because this was where two major streets once came together, entered into Union: Broadway & the Bowery. Allen and Mother passed the Above on their way to an unlit storefront. They entered, stepping over the threshold—Ma lugging Allen over the threshold—that was only a drunk slumped who was also the meeting’s watchman and the, if also unremunerated until now, lookerupper of skirts. Allen’s mother’s vagina was violently dark and its lips clapped like erasers to flatulate chalky dust as she walked. She’d been a teacher in Joysey publicschools before she crazied enough to stop wearing panties—but in this meeting, because meeting it is, Allen will be teaching. He’s passed up to the front, a low stage. Hands hands all hands. He stands on a chair atop the stage facing his audience, he’s already the pro, his passion has been from the very Genesis beginning memorized, stagy. He has no text with him, nothing to read from on cards or to crib in ink from the palm, he makes his memory as he goes along, he improvises. Come what may to mind or tongue. Care not lest ye be cared about, in the wrong way. L’chaim and damn the thoughtcops (later his epithets would grow stronger)! He talks about socialism. He talks about (another poem) everyone being equal but he talks about (no but) the Worker the workers of the Spanish Civil War the purges the poyges! (what a family they were) the showtrials the executions of Zinoviev and Kamenev and ev ev ev Amen because Stalin has begun to sour around here, despite how he mentions the Eighth Congress Molotov the Nazis and Hitler and how Stalin though appreciated world Jewry at least Molotov did because Marx was Jewish and, Allen recites: “the Jewish people gave many heroes to the revolutionary struggle & continue to produce more fine & gifted organizers than any other,” etc. Nachas, nachas. Namaste. Irwin! Irwin! | 239 (Ginsberg’s given name, whose meaning is “boarfriend”—Ir “boar,” win “friend”—so you can understand why he went with Allen because what Jew befriends a boar?) And the audience loved it! They weren’t a movement so much as an audience who loved Irwin Allen and applauded Irwin Allen and hugged Irwin Allen and kissed Irwin Allen and everybody everybodied him, and this audiencelove told Allen that he needed to be loved and this need to be loved made Allen a poet but also the fact—the fact!—that he hated that he needed to be loved made him a good poet and he did become a good poet, as if against his will, as if against his nature (Europeans like the socialists applauding him had will, American hippies such as he would become had nature), but that night he was still an acersecomic toy boy reciting by rote the words of grownups. Ma was triumphant—walking him out of the meeting through Union Square toward the buses where rumbling home they’d plan amid the empty seats to plan his next address. Vendors swarmed the square but there was nothing to vend. A Muscovite roasting his own hairy nuts. A clutch of wilted daffodils, bouquets of weekold leek, parsley, parsnip, turnip, onion, garlic. Potato. Soup starters, starches. A Chinaman making shapes out of newspapers, he was folding the morning editions into odd origami if not to sell then just to pass the time not selling: foldbeaked birds perched to graze upon the backs of wild animals that grazed on ink, a crown. Two cents of a nickel, celebration! Ma bought Allen that crown made out of frontpage, a headline for banded jewels: Franco Refuses Immunity to Foreign Refugee Ships. She paid the man like all other men, then kinged her son, who ruled her world already. Allen kept his head down, had to hold his new crown down on his head as he walked toward the busstop, the other hand in his mother’s hand then in his mother’s pocket— “foreign refugee ships,” two sails stooped by the wind.
*
Allen was not allowed to leave Prague with the crown the students gave him. The police, the secret police if that is not a paradox to speak of them, confiscated the cardboard partyfavor before deporting him, just like Castro kicked him out of Cuba (just as Generalísimo Franco banished poetries in Basque, Catalan, Galician/Portuguese). For masturbating publicly, for stroking off on hotel balconies with a broomstick up his ass, biting a taperecorder to mute his pleasure: Allen, for that no glitter garland, for such no diadem. The crown endedup on a hatrack at the headquarters of the Czech Secret Police. If that is not a paradox to speak Czech of them. 240 | Street, Konviktská. Allen was in Prague for only a month. The following people were in Prague longer than Mr Ginsberg: Rilke, Kafka, Pan Novotný who drove a taxicab and was born in the town and died in town and was a plumber, too (unofficially, for friends and his wife’s extended family), and never deserved the poem that was written for him because he was unambitious, which is to say he was honest. Sources are not saying he slept with Allen but. He didn’t leave the room till morn. (And was the author of a novel on the subject “a marionette from Josefov,” who came alive at midnight to restore the interiors of neglected provincial churches, unpublished—unless you count three copies mimeographed by friendly brewery assistant Jiří.) A last word about your wraiters. During breaks or at night, they wrote their poems and stories with pen on the papers they used to roll cigarettes. They rolled cigarettes for Allen with these papers and he smoked them, unknowingly, perhaps, or perhaps this, too, like fluid exchange during sexual intercourse, was a form of smuggling, an alchemical samizdat—a way of internalizing their precious words for later disbursal as coughs, sneezes. Cancer, cancer, one for each lung. Allen took their words into his lungs. He filled his winebarrel chest with verse. His last Prague afternoon theKing already crowned—about to be dethroned through deportation, about to abdicate to London—sat in the Ambassador’s lobbycafé, uncomfortably. Agents surrounded. Critics (agents) hid behind walls. Their aperçus were wallpaper patterns. In the kitchen Allen’s wraiters spit more of their poems into his coffee, thick and heavy poemspit in his coffee they served him cold because they loved him—he was their King, and they wanted to make his own poetry even better by making the life that wrote it worse.
| 241 242 | Laura Conway
Psychopathology of Everyday Life
It was a dry state. It was a yellow house—the base all around of gray- and mustard-colored Arkansas stone overgrown by lilac bushes—you got drugged by the lilac—on summer nights snuck out and crouched—black as cast-iron—against those stones—waterstones—they sounded of a well—they sounded fulled of water—it rung down and down—the trickle belling
The yellow house was the last bit of green—and then the plains began—full open—flat and neat as a well-hung door—In this house you watched a man | 243 build a bookcase without any nails—framed—with three wide shelves— When you sat with him watching—and asked: why no nails he said: you don’t need nails—and asked: how did you get here he told you: Shoe Leather Express.
He’s probably dead now. He was old then. You don’t know how your mother made his acquaintance or why she asked him to—she was alone and made friends easy and often with odd fellows—she once invited a liquor salesman into the house because she was worried he’d get caught selling booze in a dry state—a photographer came once as well—and dressed you and your sisters up in white ruffled dresses and your brothers in littleman vests with clip-on ties—and stuck you five like dolls on a couch with your legs straight out and the soles of your shoes looming in the camera—
It was a rent house. The family didn’t live there long. Then the family moved and took the bookcase with them
Night arches—in this sky the mouth the sex the red thread and the pillar— perseverate the body. Night frames—in this sky a false light worlds—rectangular—illuminates and cicatrixes worlds. The first time you died you felt a warmth, a flood of goldenness—as if you were glass the sun struck The second time you died the glass got stuck in your throat
You moved around the corner. You moved to the white house with the blue porch. Your youngest brother was born there. Daddy was off selling toothbrushes and combs in Little Rock Memphis Oklahoma City. There was a pecan orchard in the backyard—beyond the pecans a bamboo patch— Down the block a vacant lot with a creek—you had two friends: a boy with a splayed inheritance of webbed fingers; a girl with a big, horribly swollen purple tongue from an illness no one ever explained—
The afternoons: when you went down to the creek and caught tadpoles and put them in a dish and hunched over watching and waiting for them to pull legs from their sides—when the kindergarten teacher’s teenage daughter would call you and your sister into her garage and thrill you with her being a teenager and the radio playing “Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini” and “Charlie Brown, what a clown…”—and pull down your pants and play with you and your sister’s private parts—when you and your sister went off to the rich part of town and industriously gathered armfuls 244 | of prize rose petals—enough to make an attar you had read could be made by squeezing the petals enough—when you and the big-tongued girl made tea parties with gumdrops and lukewarm water under the huge weeping willow on the front lawn—when your mother took you and the other four on long walks—to the Cowboy Museum and the reservations of the Five Tribes—as she was afraid and wouldn’t drive—and didn’t sleep very well when Daddy was away on road trips
The afternoons thatinformed you
The yellowjackets wove paper houses in the house joints. The wasps rose from the dry mud. The wind picked up of a sudden and scared people and they came out of the houses and stood on their lawns yelling back and forth to each other about the roof holding—
The red bird sang from the bamboo. The bees went crazy in the lilac blossoms. Upon the stone where sex writhes they smeared honey.
How the old man across the street called the bees, captured them. When you sat with him watching and asked how he said: It’s a trick made to look divine: shit on moss: the bees love it. How the old woman next door told you she ‘opened up’ the state of Oklahoma The porch of the new house was painted blue. When you scraped at the paint bubbles the heat made, they bled blue: it’s a good house, it survived the last big one. The blue got under your nails and you ate it. In the backyard were pecan trees—the four of you that could walk took bricks and smashed the nuts to get at the meat. Sometimes your older brother would get in a little fake car some relative must have given him—and pedal furiously up and down the driveway—but you can’t remember you or any of the others fighting with him for a turn.
Beyond the pecans was the windbreak of bamboo. You hid here. Here was the fierce wind and the Chinese maiden and your great-grandmother’s ghost. Here was the little girl in her red and green dress, before her murder years later by the dark man in the hansom cab on the Long Beach sandbar.
Their invisibility made them truer than real
I know the geography of that place has a great deal to do with who I am but I can’t tell you how or why
| 245 from The Cities of Madame Curie
But the blessed time is effaced. She must leave the land of Science To go out and struggle for her bread On the grey roads of life. Often and often then, her weary spirit Returns beneath the roofs To the corner ever dear to her heart Where silent labor dwelled And where a world of memory has rested. Marie Curie, ca. 1893-94
SAN FRANCISCO 1988
When I wake the cats are still on their backs arms in the air Red flags flutter from the greengold rooves of Chinatown 246 | Here on the Pacific Rim the City stutters Builds and falls The witch upends the globe Snow falling on the cable cars A field full of California poppies
I wake with a Headache and 17 cats
Last night I felt the earth shudder under the Sea of Japan This morning Alaska shifted under the weight of young men looking for summer work in the canneries. It’s a broken plate from another country the Family’s carried for years
I came out to its cracked edge nine years ago I was looking for Korea I was looking for something to be born into larger than four walls All around were the houses and the houses continued to be built and torn down and built again Hammers in the afternoon
78,965 miles
The car dies at the Boss’ door.
The woman gets out and walks the Marin Headlands A Golden eagle trapped in the air currents The Pacific chiseling the end of the earth below The woman walks 78,965 miles away from Sweet Sixteen She leaves the body in the | 247 bed where it sleeps: a child spelling loneliness among all the words
The lean black cat of Delano Street
Tiny tennis at the bottom of McLaren Park Summer drought stripping the bark from Eucalyptus trees
:This is no weather for hats! What are these------? Purple-----? I see them everywhere At Pier 23 on the backwater porch in deep 2 AM tar on the barge of Jazz prevalent and wild as onions and now Coming through the trolley tunnel Duboce to Cole —Purple! Purple! I would like to be its entire Tall and thin Gracious with her feet in fountains of green ribbons
Not Naked Lady swaying by the side of the road to Santa Cruz Not Oriental Poppy that breaks apart/its delicate parasol crumpling with one light touch What are these these Purple Dignified Common Everywhere doubling Quad rupling persistent and increasing Flowers 248 | I see going to coming back from the job each day?
At night she says we are
Dancing like lizards shedding our skins the raccoon’s mask Through the tunnel to Broadway Caterwauling at the Adler Museum I listen and Bark at the dangerous sounds A woman naked among blue flowers the murder and fruit of sleep : I was dreaming the Cities I’ve slept with The stones and glass in the black hole of the trumpet The fingers of Miles Davis luminous as Marie’s
In a dark room he gives off enough light to read by : I was dreaming the Sailors at the Lost & Found get crazy drunk during Fleet Week Move to old ironic rhythms Songs from the last war when they were five and making bunny ears with their shoelaces
I live with the others in the tail end of the city
Between The Rock and the hard place downtown The old man from Malta born at the turn of the century has no one to speak his dying language to Fog fills Visitacion Valley like a thousand white birds The City of Madame Curie is over there inside my blackblue house | 249 I gather up the Birds of Paradise We drive silently along Third Street to the channel The sax player, the poet, my friend Dead three years this winter from AIDS The current takes the flowers We search the black water for a bird to fly away Through the dense rain a lost seal barks rolled in its dark rug under Lefty O’Doul’s Bridge on pitchblende nights Numinous and salty We say Goodbye Year after year The earthquake comes These nights When the dream hasn’t a doorway to stand in At night the wind whips rough as horses through the Valley
I imagine we are approaching Patagonia that frigid windswept desert at the tail end of the world An old woman on this block was born there of a Welsh father and a Nambicuara mother from southern Mato Grosso : On his ninth voyage around the Cape, father found mother. She was thirteen and wretched and dancing for the sailors at Punta Arenas Her language is the oldest surviving tongue in the hemisphere Her profession when father met her Older than that. He said he saw her soul shining through Her name is unpronounceable : Tlingling? tling ling? He says it means Bell That is what everyone calls her 250 | I see movement in the hills and scrub of McLaren Park : Wind?
Wolves. In a winter so severe they descended on Paris. So wrote a writer who had spent some time on the Mississippi and wrote a book about a woman who
embodied the spirit of her times The Well of Night
Hearing the dark rut, the first stars forming, the wind from Jutland: a clean tongue of wind after rain.
The sudden light startles the mosquitoes. In the village it was like that. Air spawning water after the night rains. Thin lips intent on blood. And from the mouths of the girls, a warning song: “Don’t cut the white birch in the forest The white birch in the forest is my body”
A book of blood in my lap. Opening this, a colophon of red: what is inscribed in a body
This morning I missed the ravens. They’ve gone to Sweden. Their huge nests in the high thin trees empty.
Today Eli’s book came in the mail: old poem about love clinging to a cliff | 251 face new poem about love that left and took the dog with it: Eli’s dead four months now.
In this language August is a scythe.
Mosquitoes everywhere. They say between your legs the moon looks miraculously small. So black out there it could be Christmas. In this sky even Eli is still alive.
*
STALKS: The map is never not there. On the desk or thrown on the floor next to, underneath the threshing floor: What you’ve gleaned is No. No is a clear Thing to say. The body is taking it in, the body is writing it down WINNOW: What Updike was doing when he said “Handke is widely regarded as the best young writer, and by many as the best writer altogether, in his language”—: was masturbating; stroking his member inside the clean white box SIFT: The clean white box is what they professionally assemble when someone orders more than a few pastries downtown. Your box is red SHIFT: a world like Schrödinger’s cat. Tiny towns, black threads on a black river. Marked Tree: faces like that. You wrote of a three-legged dog. Yellow- eyed blues the day Elvis died. WEED OUT: Winter carving poems in stone: put lie to the young girl who cut off her breasts for the Lord. Delicate Self-Cutting as opposed to Coarse CUTTING: The sloe-eyed man came all the way from Guadalajara to bring you a hot house gardenia. You are the voice of the wife of you singing warning songs: each note a poppy seed THRASHING out some magnificent miniscule fugue: thunder eggs: some piece of the red planet: gleanings you gather in your skirt, steal away with, bring home to a woman said, “Call me Bitter.” Said, “Don’t tell. They will fashion it in such a fashion.” THRESH For ten years here: people currying. You move through that: shadow of the cherry tree on the thin linen curtain: a woman dancing as she is fucked. Poetry scalds. When it takes its hand away: bruises. Airfare, white boxes: to see herself as “object”: another story, another continent SEPARATE: distance embodied in walking away from one house and one state of mind to another house and another state of mind. There the red girl spoke of the blood house that made her a red woman. The red boy laughed easily, spoke of co-producers, promotion, careless murders— CUT BACK: Schroedinger’s cat appears dead. The white box strokes itself. You were never frightened in New York or Memphis or Mexico. There was 252 | always a sharp knife, some blood on it: you would find that person. You were a lucky woman back then. Watch them, watch how it PLOWS under: When the fever occurs the map unfolds on the passenger’s lap: she is the wife of you who drives and drives, the right side you never listen to: the smart move in the UNsafe haven: the one trying to find the exit you lost as they MOW down the body—and what it is—brain moving your hands—eyes, mouth mapping: let it not be some perverse strategy—these inscriptions in bone how you SCYTHE memory.
*
Today the boy crouching by the bus stop, a bikeless wheel. A rat running under the orange berries.
I am down by the Vltava when the wind comes up eerily violent: A woman and I back into it. Tornado! I yell. Jesus Mary Joseph! she yells. We spit dust from the construction site. The rook nests twist in the high branches, hold.
Note: Meet K in Moravia: the skull there, Upper Paleolithic: a prime example of artificial injury. All the flesh carefully scraped away. Flesh subject to obedience. Buried with a man carved in ivory. What is remembered is not always memory. Look at your shoes: leaking blood.
Sun wheeling across the sky. Bursts of wind. Through the wall the baby two floors below crying.
At times the force of the wind triggers Oklahoma.
Obedience of the corpse: such a long horrible word in German. Obedience of the nest: male and female, stick by stick.
In every blood there is a complement = that which acts against poisons.
*
How you got lost. You of the Bird House: fifty years: one long night: a single iron bed, face facing the wall: dark of the moon.
He had left his Hungarian village a teenager, a conscript for some Russian war. He was wounded. He told them who he was but no one understood his language. He was shunted to a field hospital, after some months toa | 253 camp. Eventually: when he continued to talk nonsense: he was sent to an insane asylum in the far reaches of Soviet Russia.
If I sing you an old song will the years return?— “O brother, what are they doing in this room? They are kneading the war bread They are rolling out the war bread…”
The iron bed of night, its utter silence:“Did no one—in all that time—?”
Doing this. Doing this, you worry you’ll lose something— How something as simple as terrain determines language, gods.
And then one day they found him. Curled in a bed towards the wall.
In the report, they called your fellow inmates your “neighbors”: “He keeps himself to himself,” says Ilya, who has slept in the “neighboring” bed for the past twelve years.
And no one to speak to—: what did you do in that room, needing this? You of the Bird House? Needing to speak: so as not to. All attempts to talk to you in German failed. Half a century. Your face to the wall. In the dark a bird flies into glass: “It’s been more than fifty-three years since he last had a proper conversation.”
First a POW camp in Siberia, then a psychiatric hospital deep in the endless rolling whiteness— Living here you often watched the empires replaying their tragedies. The glass dome of each Shattering.
Going home. But realistically there is probably no trace of you there.
“O brother, what are they doing in this room?”
A bird sings this. It can be traced to the Ukraine and begins with a bird bringing war tidings to a family. The youngest brother must go off to war… and after a time his horse comes galloping home alone and tells of the horrors of the battlefield.
How you got lost. Said wrong. Said nothing. One sentence after another. 254 | *
Through the black glass a slab of light from across the courtyard—suspended within you: illuminated—womb-like: what you make of that image- inverted, desperate: almost a god, almost a human
A gold-winged moth excites the cats. You pull nervously on your hair: no money for the magazine, no money for anything: classes cancelled, your one white shirt getting dingier with each washing in hard water.
What costs nothing: at M’s near Šeberov she greets you with excitement, leads you into the garden. By the tall old fir she puts finger to her lips, and points up: the yellow eyes of a young Velký Vyr [a great-horned owl], stare down at you. “In daylight,” you whisper. “In daylight,” M echoes, pleased.
The arrow of time: looking harder out there—you, the entire room—moving into the red shift. Out there the owl—wisdom—hunting—sustenance.
Radio loops: The movie star kidnapped by bandits, howling wind from a glacier that swallowed an RAF plane crash 50 years ago, swath of wild fire larger than the continent you now sit upon It blinked, shook. At your feet two soft tiger-colored feathers. You took them home, put the feathers under your pillow.
You certainly won’t qualify for the Jains. Your walls are a bloodbath of mosquitoes. You turn off the light. That owl left its heart on your breast while you were sleeping. Now you tell your secrets to everyone.
*
Peering out—the RED goodbyes—its weather and light—invisible in the blackness Listen you— What was going on in the 18th century that Herschel was able to see the RED beyond red—And perturbations of a body speaking of other bodies there? As you are grave-stepping with Death—and the smell of the blood and the rot makes you attractive to crows—nests you in your father’s death— where broken faith was never found Oh god, oh god you are tired. The house spins. Out front are the wolves. But not yet Dogs: There are no fearsome Dogs. The Dogs have yet to come. | 255 Do something sensible. Perhaps breakfast, a bath—
First you must wash the images of the gods from the gods: He was a father— and has made the wealth of dead evident. Say: This is enough. Say: For god sakes, the entire city is a threshold!
Peering out—a dark female has arrived—just outside you—Dress buttoned wrong—shoes leaking blood—a dark female taking up the blood, carrying the blood all the way back into the terrible hollow—Where you are singing My love and I see you there Red radiant in the black glass:
Listen—You don’t care what anyone tells you. You don’t die with the name of god on your lips.
Hush. Go to sleep. It’s late. The candles from Cincinnati have all burned down.
* A perfect sickle hidden in the moon’s bowl. To the West: fire. To the South: Black mountains, blue sea.
You’ve just reread a story by the late Yugoslavian writer, Danilo Kiš: A young girl holds a mirror in her palm. And she sees everything before it even happens.
B writes from the desert outside Las Vegas: “It’s 115 degrees…and I’m aching for love.” He sends you a poem about a little rhinoceros so happy he doesn’t need to call it that.
As a child your great-grandmother told you the story of Padre Pio: This was a lesson of sorts: “He can read what is in your heart before you even know…”
Walking to the tram this morning you saw an older woman in a shimmering sea green sequined prom dress—circa 1950s—and sparkling purple open- toed pumps, go into the lahůdky on the corner. You followed her. She stood on line, oblivious to the grim stares queuing behind her. She ordered 200 grams of potato salad and a small crescent roll, and took her plate over to the 256 | counter and began to eat ravenously.
You reread the story and thought This is the seventh dimension: this is revolving just out of sight of your skin.
Montenegro is gearing up for war. Analysis from the World Service: “If it comes it will be brother against brother. Civil and bloody.” A lesson of sorts.
The happy rhinoceros must be his son. As he isn’t exactly happy. He’s having a hard time of it: the miserable desert, the thought that perhaps he’ll not find love again.
She held the mirror in her own hands—as they cut each other down. And she was asked: Why not warn them, knowing this?
That the word civil is employed—
You said, “How can he know? How can he know what is in my heart?” “He has the god’s body,” she said. “At three in the afternoon his hands bleed.”
The white rhino is one of the rarest animals in the world—as they are coveted— for their horn, for the promise of virility: a condition often demanded of gods. There are, perhaps, only 40 of these magnificent beasts left, and most of those in captivity—where it might be safe to assume they aren’t exactly happy.
And as she gobbled up her potato salad you watched her—imagined she’d gone swimming eons ago, among the purple mussels of an ancient secret sea lying under this landlocked country, and had only now come up for air.
“Tell me about it.”
This is the month they reap the red wheat. This is the month they whet the stone, sharpen sickles. What will they do with that swimmer? Cut her down to size.
There’s a little white rhino running around Bohemia: they have more luck breeding these rare creatures here than anywhere else in the world.
The brotherless sister glances in the mirror. She is asked, “What have you seen there?” to which she replies, “A sliver of moon.” In that mirror—sickles, men of straw. In the heart—what is known before it is known.
She walked out of the lahůdky. When you went out after her, to look for | 257 her, she was gone. She rose from the sea where there was no sea but her: shimmering, sea green .
*
…the “city of the dead” is finally transformed from a metaphor into a literal reality… Gil Elliot, Lucifer (1978, Wildwood House)
This happened as July became August a year later during morning rush hour this happened just over the fence a week later downtown in the Family Camp as several cattle cars barreled through the Polish countryside this happened: He was thrown backwards, the entire window embedded in his back. One survivor testified—he had often looked over the fence into the Gypsy camp and felt jealous: they were all of them together: mothers, children, fathers, old people…
45 years removed: You and Yoko sit at the round table in her bedroom glued to episode 12 of The Reign of Sei i tai shogun, Ashikaga [a soap opera on SF’s Japanese TV channel]. A woman in white face, butterfly hair, kimono of iris: iris imprinted over pale green background: takes the note from the maid, reads it and shrieks, then assumes an extraordinary calm. The maid falls to her knees, breaks down in tears. The white-faced woman speaks [SUBTITLES]: “I am ready. Prepare me.”
This happened as July turned August before you were even born they were saying there could have been life there The legacy of a red planet: The Big Camp the Great eight-island nation
258 | Yoko gets up suddenly, rummages in a drawer, comes back. She places in your hands a black and white photo of a young Japanese woman in traditional dress. “This is my mother,” Yoko says. “O it is the same kimono,” you say, thinking that is the point. “No, everyday kimono,” Yoko says. You laugh. “What?” Yoko asks. “The way you said that—‘every day kimono.’”
The maid comes back in holding a silver salver. She bows and places the salver on the table before the white-faced woman. You ask Yoko: Kore wa desu ka? Sore wa desu ka? What is this? That? You can ask this now. You have practiced the letters: pictures you stare through to the actual thing: Abunai. Be careful. You can say this now. You watch and listen carefully
Hearing Of a morning A light even the blind saw
On that afternoon a lone aged Polish Rom Black suit, black hat walking across the fields towards Auschwitz. Everyday People going on about their business Those worked to death
Staring through the picture—for Yoko in her face, in the throat cut by the kimono’s severe lines—you say, “She’s beautiful, Yoko.” On the screen— on the silver salver there is a single item: a small stiletto. The white-faced woman stretches out her white hand and grasps it. It is this day, as the white- faced woman draws a firm clean red line across her throat, as you hold her mother in your hands: as this is going on, you learn Yoko is originally from Hiroshima.
And then there was the morning As July turned August he awoke and looked over the fence and they were gone, they had all disappeared. He dreamed “a great bare eyeball bigger than my life” He received a letter: an uncorroborated report from a survivor: that they were not gassed but burned alive in the crematoria
And told you women like her mother, women from there, pika women: were | 259 scrutinized by the families of prospective grooms: “They were looking for the spots—there was the pika, the light—then the kuroi ame … that black rain: bruises like splashes of sumi you couldn’t wash out…”
This Happened There— a year a day: two large scale summary executions on two continents. A program for each that succinctly explained the reasoning and necessity. For example: weather as good as it was going to get For example: room had to be made for the Jews of Łodz Ghetto.
Do not think such things couldn’t happen in the month that is: magnificent, venerable. Primary burns are injuries of a special nature and not ordinarily experienced in everyday life it is 8 AM Before him: “shimmering leaves”: the temperature 80 degrees the wind calm… Below him, the branches of the Ota River infiltrating the city appearing as an open, extended hand And behind: what is not seen Zigeunernacht: Night They Burned The Gypsies. happened horrific fire: happened Bones houses rivers of people afire
10 August It’s good he’s here. Good he’s come. After seven years living so far from voices you loved, reckless idiots you loved, he walks in the door with the souls of the dead and the resurrected: you break out the beer.
J R: finally, a job, a pretty good one: “He comes by the house one day in a 99 Ford something and we go driving. Then he stops. We get out. He goes to the 260 | back, opens the trunk and says, ‘This is it, T, this is the deal.’ It was ALL his writing. He’s got it IN the trunk, he DRIVES it around with him.” SLAM
A year ago his mother died. This is a hard thing. “You see early pictures of my Mom, she was gorgeous. Then a few years back, she got so big. Huge. She said: ‘It’s great, T. When you’re this big, nobody bothers you anymore.’ But right before she went, she lost it all, the cancer ate her, she went smaller and smaller…”
You put your arm out. You tell him the life of a star: “Just before a star dies, it grows enormous and reddest red. It becomes a Red Giant…”
“K L’s writing Ghazelles.” “Riding Gazelles?” “Wri—TING!” “Gazelles?” “They’re SLAM short bursts…”
You say my father died far away in a perpetual summer. You were here. You had no idea. You looked out the window. It was February, snowing. Crows from Sweden picking over dead leaves in the park below.
He goes out for beers. You slam your hand against the wall. Over and over. These mosquitoes you kill: one up on us, or so Arthur Koestler maintained. In his book, The Ghost in The Machine, Koestler, an ardent anti-behaviorist, argued that the mosquito “chose” to acquiesce to its physical reality. He thought them an excellent example of non-deviance.
Then this year her mother died. So they had to come back. To a village outside Budapest. Where as a favor to her family he begins to scrape a hundred years of paint off the family home: “Get the baby out of here. I guarantee you this shit is lead-based.”
“It has to do with what it makes of its life, with the heat and light inside it, growing all out of proportion…”
The mosquito’s stomach runs right through its brain. Eons ago, it came up against a sobering crux: if it went for intellectual growth, it would slowly starve to death. If it ate well, eventually it wouldn’t have a brain in its head.
You grab the old linguist’s dictionary: “Arabic. Ghazal…” “Which is?” “Solomon’s gazelle…”
“I’ve got the kid now,” he says. “Sometimes I think: I can’t afford her; how am I going to keep on…” | 261 But you knew. You looked out the window. The crow had a calling card in its beak like that magpie in Goya’s portrait of Manuel Osorio. It said, “Your father wears a red vest.” Suddenly the tether just snaps. You’ve got about one second to decide whether or not to hold on.
“She can pull herself up now. She’s nine months old. In Hungarian her name means Wisdom.”
“I tried to get my father to come. We’re from here. ‘To Hungary?’ he said. ‘No. Nono,’ he said. I heard this in his voice: a terrible hunger: he wanted to but he couldn’t.”
“It begins to consume itself. It begins to eat its own light, use itself up…”
The mosquito neatly solved this quandary of sustenance vs. intellectual development: enough to think of blood, go for blood.
“We took everything out of the bank to come here. We were painting the house. We put the baby in a tree, she was safe there. One night she tells me her mother’s sister was taken out—in ’56—They just put a gun to her head and blew her brains out. What is this? I finished painting. There was nothing to do but walk up this one street, sit in this one pub, and drink bottles of Slivovice with her brother. I looked around SLAM I said to her father, ‘Have you noticed? Everything’s falling down around us! We don’t have a cent— but we Hungarians SLAM keep the knives sharpened!?’ I finally told her: ‘I’ve gotta get out of here. I’m gonna’ go to Prague and buy a typewriter.’”
We, on the other hand, made deviant “choices” [i.e. lower AND upper brain], that led to contradictions with our physical reality. We, Koestler, claimed, are an aberration.
“I’ve done concrete. SLAM Walls. SLAM I’ve laid tiles. You can go out on a tile wall plumb centered. You can do a 3-4-5. The Mexicans are brilliant at it. The deal is you can take one look at a wall and read if it was laid out right.”
“Then there’s : Ghazi: n. Mohammedan anti-infidel fanatic—” “Jesus that’s a tad dated…” SLAM “From Arabic: Ghaza: to fight…” “Well, they do have a punch to them…”
“What was I going to say? ‘I am a magnificent ruin, I am falling down without falling.’ I wasn’t going to tell them that. I moved to a village east of Prague. 262 | Cirque Berousek lived there in off-season. There were camels. An elephant and a Grizzly. Hail all the time. Rabid foxes. Night after night I peeled off my face, my father’s face was there. I come from a bunch of pagan gun- runners with Byzantine underpinnings. They weren’t exactly run-of-the- mill. They ran speakeasys, or died young of shipyard asbestos. The women popping out kids in double-digits. They said the soul lives in the hair. They believed stones walk at midnight. They made sure the dead had a good pair of shoes…PAUSE …they said the heart knows…none of this may seem very practical…”
You suppose Koestler simply meant we cannot always be counted on to keep our brains and our guts in such sublime order. When did he write Ghost in The Machine? While he was slamming around those women? After he raped his friend’s wife?
“G’s still singing his life up and down the streets. A fuckin’ troubadour. One night he’s over, we’ve just had the kid, the whole thing’s starting to SLAM overwhelm me. He says to me: ‘T, just remember to sit upright and erect.’”
You said: “It could have something to do with SLAM Gaza…” “But which?” “Which what?” “A place for beautiful deer or a killing floor?” “It takes itself into itself. It swallows all the red. It grows smaller than we can ever imagine. And then smaller even than that…”
“…and just looked at this stupid Russian girl in the bar the other night, telling me, ‘No, you are NOT Hungarian. Americans are just Americans.’ And thought, ‘T, don’t SLAM ask her what she thinks those old Russian ladies on 6th and Balboa think they’re supposed to be. Don’t ask her if she knows what it’s like to grow up in post-war Detroit in a house speaking Hungarian, a house reeking of SLAM booze and that hunger.’”
He wants another beer. You give him the key. Make up the couch for him.
“One night I heard the well draw up—of its own. I got up and looked out the window. A huge shadow darker than dark was there. It dipped its head in the well and then turned and moved back across the field, up the ridge…” “What was it?” “It was the big menhir from the hilltop…” “You don’t believe that.” “It may not make sense but out there, over time I realized, neither does killing yourself over death…” | 263 His breath goes in and out like sheets on the line. On the floor one of your cats curls into the top of his typewriter case. 20 bucks at the Antikvariat. A Mercedes superba.
Wisdom overwhelms him.
“…grows denser, more radiant. Then it implodes. Sometimes if it’s close enough to another, it becomes the invisible companion.”
It follows, logically, that the well-balanced mosquitoes flitting about the room here survive by feeding on aberrations.
11 August [Wall of stone. High with regular open spaces in it. “How much are you asking for?” a honeyed voice inquires. You take from your little pockets. “Like this?” you say. Scoop it all out. Now it is a black briefcase. In the briefcase is all your money. You walk quickly towards the train station]
“The Bosnian women who brought the suit say they have no expectations of collecting. Earlier this year they told the War Crimes Tribunal harrowing accounts of brutal rape and gruesome torture…” [The dream shifts: you are having a casual conversation with E. E is telling you about her recent trip to Monte Carlo: “The place is swarming with people. The apartments are very small, one on top of the other. They don’t need so much room, only for tax purposes.”]
Throughout the ancient world honey like salt: preserved the bodies of kings
And queens in a safe place: an enclosure: spinning eggs and honey
Pressure is measured thus:
A thousand days they stood in the square in Belgrade, protesting. The Women in Black: all they had, gone to war
Hooke’s Law: In an elastic body the change of shape is proportional to the stress, the pressure within the limits…
“As a result many of the Bosnian women were utterly ostracized, many of the women killed their babies outright…”
264 | [Suddenly you sit bolt upright. You look around. No black briefcase. Your eyes fill with tears. “My god,” E says. “What’s wrong?”]
: an ancient promise: honey mixed with blood: a resurrection
unless it is pulled beyond its power of springing back
Interviewing Albanian women refugees fleeing Kosovo, the WHO and UNHCR were able to corroborate over 20,000 pregnancies among rape victims…
[You run all the way to the railway station, down the ramp. The briefcase is gone: your mouth fills with honey]
You think of J’s little book of poems: “My Body Is A War Toy.”
The six sides of everything; in and around us: the six sides of a noise
Swarming, particularly round prey or enemies
A honey jar: all that preserves the “cold rage of money,” pushes into a woman its fisted coins, sets the curve of the earth on fire: 24 hours:
Overnight, through Hungary
A high wall. Behind it the terrible contractions of war, the dulled eyes of young girls, abandoned wives. Behind it the matriarchs scooping clean the hollow below their breasts above their knees
What lit on the blossom, what invaded the dream
An odd root: bhi = quiver, fear
Many of the Albanian women have been utterly ostracized, many of the women killed their babies outright.
[ Far off a siren. You open your mouth—a tense hand straddles it, pushes the breath down in you…]
10 x 10,000 nights at least
Much the way some say you can learn a foreign language: at night you let | 265 the radio drone on, and in the morning, you are able to recite all the horrific things people have done to each other the night before—
“Her bright shining is never laid to sleep…”
[You shut off the alarm. Behind your eyes light fragments]
Behind your eyes, the bills: what comes due: what war has taken from these women: what people say via explanation: all this, all night, you dream inside the honey jar.
12 August In the dream you spoke another language, you wake yourself, write it down. There is a B, an R, a V; the rest a slew of geometrics: circles, trapezoids, triangles…
You may put The Book of Stones in the exhibition. Yes. And afterwards you may ask some of the people who come to destroy them. You are thinking what you thought earlier about Obedience. And the elements of Choice. You wonder would everyone comply? Of those who complied, what would they give as their reason? That you asked them to do it? Would the destruction bother anyone? Would they admit so? Would anyone refuse?
When the stylus pulled through the stone, the S wavered, the crossed T muddied: you were with they who engraved the shapes of sound:
In the dream the trapezoids and triangles were vowels. And nouns of a sort. This is the rough geometry you spoke
First the stones must be photographed. You can’t destroy them without having some record. (Well of course you can. This is a choice.) And translated—take the words from the stones and put them down on paper.
Simply to stack and heft the pages: you can’t shuffle stone. Placing each tablet on your lap: the weight of a leaf of stone, 23 pages of stone. Is this how George Smith felt transcribing The Twelve Tablets of Creation from Ashurbanipal’s great library in Nineveh? It took you all winter to carve these words into stone. And now on this hot summer day you are typing them—from stone— into a computer. Ludicrous (Choice). But the translation, K says—certainly that can’t be in stone!
266 | The clay books of Nineveh murmuring under the earth. The stories crack under the weight of machinery and salesmanship. The stories broken and stolen and burned and fitted together again and again.
You don’t really want to destroy them. You’ve seen enough of the obedience of ourselves. Bury them: with some teeth, some shards of pottery, the ashes of a fire. A hundred years from now someone you’ll never know might get a kick out of it. When you read from the first 9 stones at the reading last November P had to give you a ride. You wrapped them carefully in towels and still one broke in half. P said, How many stones is this book going to be? Because you’re going to need a forklift soon.
13 August Tonight’s news: Red Star supporters have been warned: at the upcoming match with Dynamo Kiev in Ukraine the chanting of political slogans such as “Slobodan Milosevic, Go Hang Yourself!” WILL NOT be tolerated.
Framed in the window: fragile night a Smith hammered:
Tomorrow you go to Vyšehrad: to the old stone altar. Bring salt to bless the stone. An adequate substitute for blood. Dream of an iron bowl slowly filling with water
Blue coming through black
A lake of clouds
14 August Sailors under the stars: so far under: metal-swallowed, listing: men growing quiet: speech needs air.
In the morning you go to the cliffs by the river: shimmering: hammered pyrite, the breastplate of a myth: men on horseback, going over.
In the old cemetery you put corn seeds in the laps of stone women. You pass Nezval’s grave, wave at his blue bust. But the useless grandeur, row upon row of gold leaf, polished black stones roofing the dead, leaves your mouth parched. One grave, mounded, fresh-grassed, revives you . | 267 Shallow breaths. A barren sea. Men closing their eyes. Through the walls a sound of water rushing through pipes. The cat shaking in its sleep. Under the Arctic Circle, a huge tree revolving, Hell’s cauldron full of men.
T says, “I can leave now, I’ve finishedThe Song of The World.” You crush beer cans. Say: “You are in trouble, you are drowning, you don’t have to.”
You climb over the iron railing, you work your way down to the 12th century, another level of river:
In Memphis years ago, the river swollen, moon cutting the black threads, the child swept away. A shattered breastplate. You stumbling down Beale Street: red dress, black heels.
On the radio, an old Russian woman cries, “We want to know how come it is taking so long to save our lives?”
Here is the ancient bridge. And below it the invisible river 800 years old. Here is the cliff where he went over. He and the horse. They entered the water and swam away. Here is the myth found everywhere: the myth of conquering death. The BBC loops. And loops: you learn that Russian sailors make 50 US dollars a month.
Here is the well. She dreamed once her face within: looking up.
Men at the bottom of the sea hear footsteps. On such a night Perseus stole the eye the three old wise women shared among themselves. The cats stretch out under the white plate of the moon. In the dark waters they drift into sleep. At one time we were fish. Our poems then sang of water, strong currents. Down there, pitchblack, you can’t see the fin in front of your face.
When you look up, the blue eye of the womb, wincing. You fear there won’t be rescue. The pride of men men die from. Under the stars: a dull knocking, men curled in the sails of their sheets.
15 August The umbraic moon: surrounded by thick blue: palm trees should be there: a Bethlehem blue from childhood bell of snow:
268 | It is possible to drown in air: he was doing that, you’ve done that
Now however you can only think of this horror under the sea. One of the men on board is named Dmitri. He’s young, you heard his mother’s voice on the radio tonight, pleading for help. And then you heard it again. And again.
The heat dumbs you. You sit on the tram dumbly staring down at the knees of car drivers.
You look out the window: not at anything in particular: the moon comes out suddenly: its waist wrapped in smoke: bright as a gong: and a bird begins to sing, and you think: all day the city hunkered miserable in its heat and now the night’s reprieve: thin song of water pouring out, awakening.
Bread (15KC). Milk (16KC). You stare at the change. It’s enough.
You sit dumbly as the young bank executive you teach English says America is responsible for the plight of the Russian sailors. How so? you say dumbly. An American submarine crashed into the Russian submarine, sent it to the bottom. Your eyebrow goes up: Where did you get that? You rouse yourself: “There were about 200 Russian vessels in that area going through their war exercises; how did a US submarine slip by them, crash into the sub and get out undetected?” “They’re hushing it up.” “The Russians wouldn’t hush that up, it’s got too much propaganda value…”
The whole goddam place is a mess. It is a bowl of soured blood. When you pick up the newspaper, the newspaper seeps blood.
Okay. It isn’t enough.
It is 34 degrees C and you have to vacuum.
“It was in the paper…” “What paper?” “Pravo.” “Rude Pravo—that old communist newspaper? You work for Citibank and you’re quoting Rude Pravo?”
Cat food, kitty litter, toilet paper: 26 Kč + 56Kč + 24Kč = 106Kč. Tomorrow. You stare out the window. You must
Vacuum. | 269 Two weeks til the end of the month, rent, the dark of the moon.
What would you do down there? Knowing what they must know: no one is coming. Everything hushed. Break glass, swim your way out. But the pressure on the body. There’s no telling.
16 August What is that—? It might be a nightingale. A fierce darkness wrapped in a powerful wind.
You look at your words: There are only two stories: Niobe, turned to stone while weeping for the slain children. Naomi, returning from the red land after seven years of famine.
A fierce wind wrapped in a powerful darkness.
You look up: Blowing over Norway: a galen: mad, furious Blots out the shower of gold notice: Nothing you resolved to do was done That, really, there is no story
The drag of dog days: in the laps of stone women seeds of corn; water night leaves behind
17 August Piano drills. Recorders. All afternoon your lovely musical neighbors. You need to read the last letter again. Subtle: is he saying he might come? Good god.
Slyness in the Queen Mother’s warm smile:
These lovely hats on my century old head were bought with the sweat of 1/3 of the world, duckies
Silence. Seaweed Night. This afternoon a white shirt on the line A person soon walking down the street clean and presentable 270 | Some guy telescoping Galileo: Why don’t you take the soul and we’ll take the universe?
A violin preluding Bach under a humpbacked moon There will be an excuse a Plea regarding the Exorbitant interest (the usury to be met with usury) Between jobs you will do the chores You are the white shirt It will occur. Once he told you Todo por servir se acaba Get ready
18 August From the railway station, through the dark fields
Paint the raven missing from this picture Use his nicotine-stained gold
Don’t let’s talk Dutch about masters The smudge oppressive as Original sin An intricate courtship Burned bone
She wore a man’s wristwatch He was disciplined
Never snow. He was sure she was lacking Applause
The heat of the plaza
The gestures of whores
He said, You must dream in the other language before you can speak it Gray walls. Green baseboards.
They lived together for several years, deeply attached
19 August | 271 Can’t cant—About to turn the lights off when B writes from Vegas with blind faith in the muck no patience even for that [you wonder has he gone Buddhist?—maybe sunstroke] the cats crazed by moths over goes the phone pick it up right it it rings:
A: I am going to run a warm bath and slit my wrists
O wonderful [it may be the kid he’s dead serious in that department] everything from the eyes down tired weeks of poets sleeping in the other room [in the states at least you had a car]
Purposefully: Don’t. Forget that forget the
Rest Take a bath leave the wrists intact Okay?
20 August An oddly Osiris-Odin connection: hanging upside down days in a deep blue: a blindness, a darkness. The keening of the women. The women knew full well. They would be cut off. Sacrificed. Still they indulged in the ritual, they spoke of rescue: To revive the member—revive the virility: Take the sickle, wait for that Dog in the sky: And shut your ears to the gods we’ve made.
There was the smell of earth salt blood wafting up, stars to go by: Where?—down there—those songs they sing sound like howling—
24 August He writes again and you think, No I don’t understand it. Must I?
Tell me about her, you write. Tia died, he writes. Tia died. I got through it by saying she is still here in my heart. No—her, you write. I got tired of making buildings, he writes. I waited. I thought you went to New York. She’s an old friend. We’ve both failed. It’s less expensive this way. Why did you go there?
I just did, you write. The blue bowl broke. Then I came here. I dreamed of you. I heard it snowed in Guadalajara for the first time in a hundred years. In all that time together we never saw snow.
That they made significant gestures of limb and body. You are alluding to 272 | that, yes? Cats have this talent as well.
The child withered. After that you began to wander. He went away on business. You brought home chairs you found on the street. He didn’t like that. It’s a Queen Anne’s chair, you said. It’s junk, he said. You brought home a French boy from The Plough & Stars. He didn’t know that.
No. It isn’t finished, he writes. We left ourselves there unfinished. Today, you write, I was staring out the tram. Far off on the Letná Plain I could see a man in a bathing suit. He stood quite still, propelling his arms through the air. As if swimming, furiously, vertically in place. I watched him as long as I could. Something about it disturbed me. I thought of you then.
You woke up crying. He put his hand through the wall. You know all the words, he said. Get out, you said.
Maybe she’s good for you, you write. It’s lunacy, he writes. I have stripped everything down. It’s not love, it’s convenience. I’m incapable, you write. You never got that, you never understood. I’m sorry about the blue bowl, he writes. Do you still have the lace—the lace from Spain? Do you go back ? you write. I got tired of the corruption there, I became a citizen—Oh you write, and then: Well you were always more capable than I, you write. You walk the esplanade here. You stand with two very drunk men, drinking a shot of green rum in the rain, and stare at the necklace of swans strung out behind you. Every six months. Try again. Dinner. You would dress. You would tell yourself you don’t have to understand it. You don’t have to think about it. Stop asking yourself are you good for him?
Yes. And the lace from Ireland. And the wedding dress from Mexico.
You write, I thought something terrible had happened to you. I woke up and my heart was hammering and I thought how can I know that? It was snowing and the room was like ice. I tried to find you, he writes. I called R in New Mexico. I went to the Café, the Beach. I went anywhere I thought you would be. It is lunacy, you write, it’s berserk; today, I had an overwhelming desire to throw myself into the arms of the man holding onto the tram pole next to me.
You walk the iron bridge here. Hold tight to the railing. Feed the swans the ends of the bread.
You write, I thought there must be something terribly wrong. I thought: I’ll put an ad in the newspaper in Guadalajara. My father had died. Perhaps | 273 that was why. It was very early. I don’t sleep well here. I think it is the color of the sky. Why did you, he writes. Why there? He comes to me in dreams sometimes, you write. I can understand, he writes. I loved her terribly. Just tell yourself: he is still here in my heart.
30 August She wrote yesterday: Aunt M. passed away . She said she didn’t know her own children at the end.
She’s the one in the belly in the story. There were twelve years between Grandma and her. They had the bottom floor of the house. They had a Baltimore heater. It was right across the street from the speak. By then we were very crowded
Grandma told you: Boss Carney had gotten an extra shipment in. There was no room at the speak. Put it in my basement, Great Grandpa said.
She was 5 months pregnant with the 11th child. They came knocking. Not on your life she said. Listen to him she said. Him with his delusions of grandeur. She marched across the street to the speak. He sang there. He had a beautiful high clear tenor. He sang for the judges come down from Court Street. She chased him home. Grandma came home from Coney Island with the youngest three. All the way down the block they could see the crowd in front of the house.
She did love him. He had terrible problems with the breathing. She put Caruso on the wind-up. Rolled up strontium leaves for him to smoke. It eased the asthma.
They were in the front window. Shade up. He had on his white shirt, red suspenders. She was 5 months along with M then. Big as a house. She held the butcher knife high. He had her by the wrist. Go on he said. Go on, Mae.
Grandma moved through the crowd. Pretended she didn’t live there. Well I don’t know who I thought I was fooling. He held her wrist with the butcher knife high and said, Go on, Go on Mae, do it. He could antagonize her.
She went berserk, Grandma said. Lots of women went berserk. You don’t know how it is. They don’t tell you nothing but it’s a blessing. He’d been 274 | blackballed for starting up about asbestos in the shipyard. They didn’t know scientifically what it was but they were all getting sick. Then he fell in with Carney. That was the wrong crowd. Mama said our side always had a screw loose for the pretty boys. He had delusions of grandeur, he had big plans. She’d tell us Don’t tell me, blame the tripe in white sauce on his new occupation. She could cut him down quick.
You’re laughing but I could’ve gone right through the pavement. I never even told M that story until I was over 50 years old and drunk one night on Bloody Marys. It’s strange how you can remember a day. How you can be standing in your body and make yourself not be there.
31 August Of his arms Which have gone with the crows
A year then a year then a year
Of his blue tattoos speaking, Night cells stuffed with ink:
“Is that a language there?” “You can make it make sense”
Advice from the recently dead is something you fail to Appreciate right now
You may never sleep again.
It will probably not be that simple.
| 275 276 |
Photo: Alan Pogue Christopher Cook The Cyclops
High above the zócalo, an eagle ravaged a serpent. The raptor clutched the snake with beak and talon, tore at the writhing flesh. The rattlesnake bared its fangs, striking back—two predators imprisoned in death’s embrace, ancient glyph of a nation. The battle waged, then for a moment hung motionless as the wind dropped. The Cyclops watched from his balcony, sixth floor of the Hotel Majestic, as the soldiers lowered the flag. Ceremonial trumpets on the plaza pierced the grinding noise of evening rush hour below. The summer air, acrid with fumes, hung exhausted over the city. In the yellow haze to the east, a Boeing 757 angled its bullet nose downward toward the airport. | 277 A crowd had gathered to watch the soldiers lower and fold the enormous tricolor—red, green and white. The uniformed men fell into formation, marched the flag across the gray expanse of the zócalo toward the Palacio Nacional. The colonial building’s ornate façade stretched along the far side of the wide plaza, stone blackened by pollution. Place where the president worked. The Cyclops tried to remember the guy’s name, couldn’t. It didn’t matter, he was a rich bastard, like the rest, with a gachuzo name and white skin and soft hands. He looked down at his own. Brown as coffee, scarred and calloused, huge. Working hands, the tools of his trade. He returned his solitary gaze to the plaza. Once, when the Colonel was busy, the Cyclops had taken a tour of the buildings facing it. The Palacio Nacional, the guide said, sat on the very spot where the Aztec Moctezuma’s palace once stood. The city back then called Tenochtitlan, one of the great wonders of pre-Columbian America. Cortes ripped the palace down, built his own. The Great Temple, center of the Aztec sacred precinct, had sat just to the north. A pyramid to the sky where they’d sacrificed thousands, cutting out hearts with stone knives, devouring the hot trembling meat to ensure the sunrise. Cortes demolished it, too, put up a Christian cathedral. Using the same stones, and Indian slave labor. There it sat now, the Metropolitan Cathedral, slowly sinking into the ground, leaning to one side, its tower clock frozen with grief. The tour had blown the Cyclops’ mind. Fucking Spaniards. Where he came from, down in the Chiapas highlands, they had the right idea. Throw the bastards out, the aristocratic landowners and oligarchs with their European blood, the mestizo politicians and priests kissing their prissy white asses, all of them conspiring to steal Indian land, wipe out the languages, annihilate the customs, reduce the indigenous peoples to citizens of a nation they didn’t even believe in. The Zapatista rebels, those guys were onto something, alright. Sometimes the Cyclops even thought he should go down and join them. He thought about it most at times like this, when he was about to finish another shit job for the Colonel. He stood on the balcony, a dark eye peering from the broad flat face, massive head crowned by a thick shock of straight black hair. He reached up and tugged at the leather patch over his left eye. The hollow dead space beneath it sweating again, a constant irritant. He heard the room door open behind him. “Cyclops, I’m ready for you.” He turned to see the Colonel standing outside the door, waiting. He was a short man, slender, wearing a sleek blue Italian suit with a metallic sheen, the one he’d bought at Neiman-Marcus in Dallas. “You should see this fucking store,” he’d told the Cyclops. “Fuck that, you should see this fucking city. Nothing but highways and glass. More shopping malls than any other place on the planet, Cyclops. Christ, you wouldn’t believe it. Someday I’ll 278 | take you there, buy you a decent suit. That piece of shit you’re wearing, it’s embarrassing.” The Cyclops hadn’t said anything. He rarely spoke. He’d discovered long ago, as a boy, that talking accomplished nothing. Talkers talked. When they wanted something done, they ran their mouth. If they had money, then they hired someone. This was the basis of his and the Colonel’s relationship, why it worked. The Colonel talked. The Cyclops did things. The Colonel paid him some money, enough. He’d had worse jobs. The worst thing about this one was the suit. The trousers were short in the crotch, the jacket tight across his shoulders. He’d always had trouble finding regular clothes. He was too tall, his chest too deep, gut too big, shoulders too broad. You never saw guys his size in Mexico, not wearing suits. But the man had insisted, saying it was important, had bought the damned thing off the rack, telling him to wear it. At least it was black. “Let’s go,” the Colonel said, glancing at his watch. “I have a dinner date.” The Cyclops pulled on his suit jacket, went out the door, shutting it behind, and followed the Colonel past a jungle of lush potted plants to the room next door. Wrought iron grillwork to one side opened the walkway to the central atrium and its arched glass ceiling. The hotel always caught him by surprise. An intricate design of enclosed space and lavish colors, of inlaid blue and white Talavera tiles, elaborate woodwork and iron and mirrors. Extravagant place, a long way from a cinder block hut in Chiapas. Expensive, too, but the Colonel paid the bills. The Cyclops felt awkward in the Majestic though he’d never said so. When in Mexico City the man stayed only here. And he always stayed near the man. The Colonel opened his door and went in, the Cyclops followed. The room just like his own in mirrored reverse except for a room service table sitting by the small sofa. On it a bottle of Scotch whiskey, an ice bucket and several glasses, one half full, beaded with sweat. Another of the man’s acquired traits he didn’t share. The Cyclops did not drink. He stood at the end of the bed, waiting. The Colonel sat on velvet cushioned chair next to the room service table and opened a packet of Dunhills, lit a cigarette. He leaned forward, straightened his tie. The tie, too, imported, a silk Gucci. He picked up his drink, swirled it, took a sip, gave a sigh. “I’m afraid that our business relationship has reached its end,” he said. “It’s something I deeply regret.” He sighed again, sadly. The Cyclops listened, reading the Colonel’s mood. He stared directly ahead at the hazy sunlight drifting through the curtains shrouding the tall windows of the French doors. The man always liked to make a little speech on such an occasion. There was the disappointment, the remorse, the feigned melancholy. All essential to the moment. It seemed silly to the Cyclops but the Colonel enjoyed it. | 279 No one else did, certainly not the guy in the corner. The Colonel finished his whiskey, glanced again at his watch. Some Swiss job called Jaeger-LeCoultre. “Well, I’m afraid I have an appointment soon,” the Colonel said, his voice seeped with apology. “Let’s get it over with.” Only then did the Cyclops remove his jacket and turn toward the man seated in a straight-backed chair in the corner. The chair was placed on a clear plastic tarp spread over the carpet. The man was tied with nylon rope, head slumped forward, his arms pulled behind him, hands cuffed. His legs were tied to the crosspiece between the chair legs. A white Hotel Majestic washrag was stuffed into his mouth, one corner hanging between blue lips. The man’s shirt was soaked in blood. It was a long-sleeved yellow shirt with an open collar. Some kind of soft synthetic, rayon or nylon, hanging in pieces. The ivory handle of a large skinning knife protruded from just below the man’s left collarbone. An ice pick lay at his feet. His pants were rolled to the knees, his shins dotted with small black holes where the point had gone in. The plastic tarp was speckled red. So the Colonel had done some bone- tickling. The Cyclops thought the man was unconscious. But he abruptly thrust his head upward and strained against the rope, writhing on the chair. His eyes rolled toward the ceiling. His face was bruised and swollen, blood trickling from the corner of one eye. Both nostrils had been sliced. Dark clots of dried blood clung to them. After a moment he gave up and slumped forward again. He was a tall man, not muscular but big-boned. The Cyclops wondered if that was where his name came from. Señor Redbone, from New Orleans. He had strange hair. Almost African but not kinky. His skin, too, seemed odd, the reddish-orange color of fired clay, with dark freckles on his face. His eyes were light green. Altogether a strange man. He spoke English with an accent, talked about eating shrimp and crawfish and a dark soup with rice called gumbo. He wasn’t a white man but he wasn’t a nigger, either. The Cyclops wondered what race he really was. Some kind of mestizo they had up there. Still a gringo. Once he removed his jacket and rolled the shirt cuffs above his wrists, the Cyclops moved quickly. The man lifted his head, green eyes flitting left and right, but the Cyclops was behind now, gently cupping the man’s chin with one huge hand, pressing the other against the back of his head. “Wait,” the Colonel said quietly. The Cyclops paused, hands in place, unsurprised. This, too, part of the Colonel’s ritual. This, too, the indulgence of an incurable talker. The Cyclops didn’t like it. When it was time to do, others should keep quiet, let the doer do his work. But he waited. The Colonel put out his cigarette, poured two fingers of Scotch, lifted the glass in the air. He smiled forlornly at the man in the chair, as if composing a poignant farewell to an old and very dear friend. “In one hour, Señor Redbone, in your honor, I will enjoy a broiled shrimp 280 | dinner with a young lady at the Perro Andaluz. A very nice restaurant, as you know. Afterward, I plan to fuck her eyeballs out.” He sipped the whiskey. “I regret that you cannot join me. But I know you have other plans.” It wasn’t a great line. The Cyclops was sure he’d heard it on some TV show, probably more than one. But the Colonel seemed pleased. He smiled broadly, his lips twitched as if holding back laughter. Then he lifted his gaze to the Cyclops and nodded. With one sharp motion, the Cyclops broke the man’s neck. He heard the dull crunching sound, calmly laid the head down, chin to chest. “Well, that’s too bad,” the Colonel said. He slapped his thighs and stood up. “He was a good client. Then he got greedy.” He raised his arms, palms open, gave the Cyclops a bewildered expression. “So you help some guy out, he’s making a ton of money, then what? He wants more. He wants it all. So predictable these days. Why do they do that, Cyclops? Tell me.” The Cyclops shrugged. “Well, what the hell, that’s business. We’ll have to find someone else in New Orleans. But this fucking guy, he was really tough. Jesus. He never told me a fucking thing, even with all that encouragement.” The Colonel shook his head, amazed. He patted his pockets, put the packet of Dunhills in his suit jacket, looked around the room. “You finish up here, Cyclops, then eat in the hotel café. I’ll take a taxi to the restaurant. We’ll swing by Pozos on the way to Nuevo Laredo tomorrow, drop the body down a mine shaft. The suitcase is under the bed.” He paused, turned and went into the bathroom. The Cyclops heard the man in there taking a piss, humming to himself. Jorge Negrete’s “Mexico Lindo,” sounded like. The Cyclops stripped to the waist and began untying the body. He wrinkled his nose. Señor Redbone smelled bad. He supposed his bowels had loosened at the end. At least there was less blood than with the last guy. That time the Colonel had wanted a Colombian necktie—slit the throat, reach in, pull the tongue out through the hole, messy work. Drop the body in the street to be found, sending a warning. But Señor Redbone would simply disappear. The Colonel reappeared, zipping his trousers. “I wasn’t lying, Cyclops, this young lady is a real babe. A fucking TV reporter, thinks she’s an intellectual. But when the stallion puts it in, she whinnies like a mare.” The Cyclops didn’t reply. He lifted Señor Redbone with one arm, moved the chair to one side with the other, lowered the body onto the tarp. He glanced over, saw the Colonel standing by the door holding a pair of aviator shades, his other hand on the doorknob. He was staring at the larger man’s bare torso, marveling. “Christ, you should have been a professional wrestler. And in this fucking corner, the Cyclops!” The Colonel grinned. “So don’t wait up. I plan to be late.” He winked and went out whistling. The Cyclops felt his stomach rumble, considered going to dinner | 281 before finishing the job. He was hungry, and sometimes lost his appetite afterward. The hotel café was pretty good. They served spicy meat dishes, generous side orders. Thick buttered bread, fresh tortillas if you wanted. His stomach growled again. No, he would wait. He was not one to leave work unfinished. First, though, he had to get out of these fucking suit pants. They were pinching his cojones like a pair of goddamn pliers. Stripped to his underwear and shoes, he rolled the body in the tarp and carried it into the bathroom, unrolled it into the tub. In the bedroom he reached under the bed and retrieved the suitcase, a cheap vinyl-covered thing, but big. He took it into the bathroom and opened it, removed the short, heavy- bladed saw. A butcher’s saw. He stood over the gleaming ceramic bathtub, the saw dangling from his right hand, stared at Señor Redbone. For a while, he did not move. He watched, thinking about his work. Thinking, Sweet Virgin of Guadalupe, wearing that ridiculous suit was bad but it wasn’t the worst part. He’d wear that suit in his sleep if he didn’t have to do this other thing. It wasn’t the killing. That wasn’t so bad. He was good at that, clean and swift. It was what came after that sickened him. The Cyclops fingered his eye patch, wondered what the Zapatistas did with those they vanquished. He contemplated what the Aztecs had done. No doubt the Toltecs, too, and the Olmecs before. And as he kneeled on the tiles at the edge of the tub and began to saw into a kneebone, fighting back the spasms in his belly, he wondered if he really had any Indian blood at all. And then he wondered if the café still served cabrito. 282 |
Photo: Helena Fehrerová Christopher Crawford A Whistling Sound
From the North Sea oil fields comes a song of fern holes of the sea and the hole‘s voices singing and what would you have them sing oh you wouldn‘t have them sing
you wouldn‘t remember when you or perhaps it was I or all of us sang in the halls of the great schools that sank sang in the smallest voices we had | 283 it was you and I and all of us jumped before we knew we had and sang as we fell of the great schools of the sea
of the deep blue fern of holes and of a whistling sound we could take for a voice if we wanted head holiday
Deciding to stay on at the petrol station coincided with the diesel blossoms exploding overhead. The forecourt reeked with the mingle —cherry trees as beautiful machines—a dab of fuel behind each ear.
The vulgar excitement of benzine up his snout seemed to be what he was after
so Italy was cancelled, tents set on the cracked tarmac, eggs fried each morning among the tourists 284 | filling their cars, no chance of coming to hate their faces since they left so soon.
He worked up a tan, ate stale baguettes from the truckstop cafe, sniffed the clear foul air, spilt himself by the highway sunslicks, purely happy and readied himself to clinch the new steel contract or whatever nine sharp Monday morning. Men at Sea
The sombre toll of the sea and its endless distant rhythms. Such music yet to be made and miles of it stretching ahead like a long black muscle unspooling itself.
Men are driven mad anyway, out there among the other men and turn inward, dying of thirst like the salt-eaters, like those born sentient and suddenly who understand at once:
How it is to feel yourself beyond the curve of the earth. To know the home of the dark waves and to go there. | 285
Divorcee Disco Music
…like a man who has cut himself off from the soil and his roots among the people… F. Dostoevsky, Notes from the Underground
An eye, an eye at the end of a tunnel, a green eye with popped pupil the black yolk leaks an inky thread through the iris. A flawed eye, a freckled eye, a sick eye that guesses.
An eye that chooses but always chooses wrong.
On the edge of town 286 | a flap of skin and a polyethylene bag have a fistfight, whirling and punching their way to hang exhausted from a barbed wire fence.
A red-haired ear weeps in the dirt. Oily cinders make a soft place for it by the roadside
while off the coast on a luxury liner a pig‘s ear sits down to eat bacon at the breakfast buffet
and in the suburbs a rigid arm goes out for cigarettes, walking on its fingers, and never comes back, and is sighted for months after in Melbourne, Guyana and Istanbul while the real arm lies at the bottom of the ocean.
Now the elbow softly bends with the sway of the kelp.
A blind nostril stuffed with earwax listens by a hole, a mine in the earth: an old gramophone record or thunder or something that sounds like a woman’s laugh lives down there.
First published in OVS Magazine (2010).
| 287 One Two Three
He leaves her his last two cigarettes. You’re a good person, she says. Yes, he thinks, I’m a good person but I do bad things, though that would make me evil. From the nineteenth floor he watches a woman in the car park rub her man’s back, detail so small she might be stabbing him very slowly. Here above the building sites, over the master- builders, girders, the cranes, a childs playpark is nothing but a fenced-in patch of dirt. A bright field of rape floats on the city’s vanishing point; A fire-green tree eats children on bicycles, there they go: one two three 288 | Letter to Self from Deathbed
Saline infusion to left side: straight drop to hanging arm which takes each slow drip evenly.
A sea swells somewhere beyond your white room. A blood-orange sun burns low on the water and sears the circling gulls who cut the air.
Yet this sun is on you too. Past the skin.
The sharp, ridiculous pain of needles: far away, quiet. A deep slow pain turns you in its hands like Mother with infant. | 289 Close by, the sea shifts again, the sun melts and the gulls skim so low they seem as one with the indigo-black of the water.
Only Mothers remain. The Mother of Night comes.
It’s night. People catch aeroplanes, a man buys a postcard somewhere.
First published in the Cortland Review (2010). O’Hara at the Beach
at Fire Island, the sun already long gone down, perhaps he heard the low murmur of lovers laughing beyond the dunes, the sand muffling the sounds they made, perhaps he lay down a moment, exhausted suddenly or exhilarated for some reason, the sky for example, and scratched his head and found his fingernails full of smashed and powdered sea shells from his scalp and laughed one last soft laugh, he was playing hide and seek with himself among the tall cliffs of the beach and imagined New orkY skyscrapers and the boys back there in the bars still sinking sundowners at 3 in the morning and him out here, the sea out there breathing in and out behind the darkness like a jazz singer, her lips on the mic , the sea out there like something being torn in half and the sand 290 | muffling what he couldn’t see coming through the rippling boulevards of the beach at night on Fire Island where the sun had long gone down and the fire just out of sight, coming toward.
First published in Evergreen Review (2010). Cellar
Dad comes down. He has the fresh milk for us. An old curtain sewn from my childhood dresses hangs lopsided from a railing and cuts off my bit of the basement from the bare bulb-light. He pulls it across when he wants to play the happy game. He still calls it that. We play. Like always, my head rolls sideways so I can see the sunflower dress, the loveliest, the colour now fading. Dad finishes. He won he always wins. I hear our children beyond the curtain, rattling like seeds in a dark hand; like little bone dice.
| 291 The Tablecloth Trick
Have you ever seen someone do that trick with the tablecloth where they whip it from the table quickly and the bits and pieces laid out are expected to stay where they are?
Only it goes wrong, things fly and it seems as though the room itself was whipped
away, so suddenly you see that bare table for the first time, the deep wound scored 292 | through the nut heart of the old wood.
That it sits shackled and caged into form, the legs hacked from the body then screwed or nailed back on.
Gangs of stupid fat-eared wingnuts that couldn’t come ankle-high to a dandelion must have lived the high life long under the cloth that hid them.
This wood was years under the cosh:
The world filtered through polyester roses. The utter distance from sunlight. The folding away of oneself without a sound. Jammed and shattered joints shaken and stretched. The choking varnish.
That it‘s come to this from a place of quiet dignity or a time spent breathing sunlight by a stream.
That it kneels now amid the laughter, like an old woman, naked, surrounded by the broken pieces of all it tried to lift.
| 293 294 |
Photo: George Lewton Lewis Crofts And so they came
And so they came. They would always come, mother said. Sometimes with cloth and salted meats. Sometimes with pepper. And sometimes they came with amber and copper, those muddy handfuls of shining. They always came with swords. I wasn’t even born when they came to our village for the first time. I’ve asked around but no one will say how many summers of “visits” passed before they made me and Hilde. Mother brushes me off but still I ask her for the story: the story of my father. “Fathers,” she says. One of several. But she can’t remember which one. Or at least she says she can’t be sure. “Why?” I ask. She doesn’t answer. But when the wind blows in my hair and it is | 295 matt-tangled from the sea, she says she can see an echo of their features. The baymen. They are features which, some days, I know she sees in other girls. Like Hilde. Like Liff. Mother stops and looks at other women’s girls, crouching to stroke cheeks and hair. “An echo,” she says. Hilde and I both make the same face when we sneeze. And so they came. The baymen clambered out of their longboats and strode up the gully. The water only came up to their knees. Young Baed ran forward and took their blades, collapsing on the shore, a speckled and spattered body. He flapped like a fish and then stopped. “A hero,” say some. “A fool,” says Aethel. Young Baed sucked up their swords leaving nothing but punches for the older men like Aethel. He says their swords were taller than the men. “Glinting slices of iron,” he calls them in his craggy voice, his toothless mouth. Mother says that every year Aethel just goes to his hut and closes the door when they come. That’s why he’s still here, living on the edge of the village, the only man of his age. No one brings him wood or food, though. Not now. No one shares their furs. Even the baymen no longer seek him out when they come in the summer. There’s nothing in his little hut apart from the heap of stones and shells he gathers from the beach when the storms die down. He has nothing the baymen want. Instead, they move through the village to where there are younger men who want a fight. Their doors never recover from the baymen’s heels. Nor do their women’s backs. And after the baymen have stolen whatever they can find they fold the mothers over the tables. Then they push their dresses up, Aethel says. Sometimes they rip them straight off. Then what? I ask. Aethel doesn’t say. Hilde just frowns. We have the same frown. Mother says he comes back though, the one she thinks is my father. He comes back every summer with his band of baymen. And every summer the same dress needs to be patched up. The same door needs fresh boards. But mother has given up. There are no men left to repair it. And, anyway, the baymen’s heels will always be stronger. When they came last summer I hid in the log pile by the door. I was small enough to back into the hole, squeezed against the moss and woodlice. “Not a word,” said mother. “When can I come out?” She shook her head and passed a hand over my brow. “They know no ages, darling. They know no ages. Stay here till I come for you.” She straightened her dress. The stitching was jagged across her lap like the scars on her back. We wait all winter. And I grow more rounded, like Hilde. In the spring mother calls Aethel as usual and he nails slats across the door. But he is even older now and she takes the heavy axe from him and must split the wood herself. She takes the longest shards and pins them to the door. Like all the years before, she won’t defend herself when they come but she must at least look like she is trying. She does it for me, I think. Her hand raises high and 296 | she strikes the nails into the door. A sweat-tear hangs on her cheek. I am taller now. I stretch up and wipe it from her face. I can help her. This year, we don’t see their longboats. It is the smoke in the far village that we see first. We see it before the wind carries the screams of women and the crackle of flames. The same wind blows the mat-tangled hair across my face. Mother pulls it back from my eyes. “Go hide, my love. Don’t come out until I say so.” I back into the hole and she packs the logs up until my face is covered. It is a tighter fit this year. I have to hold my breath. She places the woodaxe in between the logs. She knows I won’t be able to lift it but its handle points towards me. I peer out of a gap and watch her walk back to the hut. She looks over her shoulder at the log pile and then goes inside. I hear slats drop behind the closed door and hold my breath. And so they come. They speak in harsh sounds. Grunts and gruffs and growls. The words are familiar yet different to our tongue. House. Field. Sword. Fire. Cow. Sword. Wife. Scraps of sense between the grunts and laughs. They walk past Aethel’s hut. Two of them carry rocks on their shoulders and drop them outside his door, rolling them tight against the wood. They toss a flaming torch onto the roof and then walk away. The logs are tight against me now and I can’t turn my head to follow them from hut to hut. I can only hear the screams. Then I hear the chapel’s heavy door crack. There is a whistle and others arrive from the longboat, striding against the water in the gully. They rush towards the chapel with their heavy swords held high. Moments later they return with the cross and the candlesticks, passing them from hand to hand, their faces lit up by the reflecting metal. Only one of them has blood on his sword. They toss a torch inside. They move on to our hut and shed their furs at our door. The vast hides drop in soft lumps on the mud. They talk among themselves and agree on an order before kicking the door down in a shower of splinters. I hear mother scream. Then there is the sound of ripping cloth. And then just laughter, jeers, grunting. First one man comes out and then another and then another, tugging at their calf skins, refastening their swords. They pick up their furs and splash their faces from the trough outside. Then they move on to the next hut and the next woman. I can hear my mother crying. I can hear others start to scream. I want to shout for Hilde but I bite my hand instead. As the baymen walk away, slowly, I push the logs out one by one until I can squeeze from my hole. I pick up the axe with both hands and creep to our door, dragging it at my side. I turn to see Aethel’s hut already in flames. I see mother’s ankles first. Then I see the smeared legs and the streaks leading up her thighs. The dress is up over her head but I still know it is her. I know my mother. I recognise her sobs. A man stands above her, pushing flesh back into his trousers. He looks at me and lets it swing free again. I stare at it. He laughs and steps towards me. Mother’s legs twitch and I watch the muscles tense in the backs of her | 297 thighs. She stands up as the bayman tries to corner me. I see the torn dress fall from mother’s body. She is flecked in blue and red. The bayman pushes the long blond hair away from his face as he spreads his arms and shepherds me towards the straw, all the time smiling. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and I can hear it scrape across the bristles in his beard. There is something familiar in his eyes. He talks to me but I do not recognise the words. I walk backwards, holding the axe in front of me, its head dragging along the ground. He laughs and reaches forward but I jump back against the wall. I feel the cold stone against my neck. I can feel the straw bedding under my feet. He reaches for my throat and I try to lift the axe. But I can’t. He bends me back onto the bedding. His thick fingers clasp around the back of my neck and the straw scratches against my face. I feel the cold on my back as he rips away my dress. My mother screams and out the corner of my eye I see her make for the hearth. She hurls one of the bowls and his thick forearm bats it away. Pepper sprays over his furs. He shakes his head and sneezes and sneezes and sneezes. As his eyes close against the spice-burn, he drops to his knees. Next to the bedding is the axe, its handle pointed towards me. It feels lighter in my hands. I am taller now. I can help. 298 |
Photo: Pierre Daguin Pierre Daguin Three Poems
73 Quit the land of animals legs curve around flabby arses and the sex comes and goes between lips worn by humidity. Hobbled I go on under a leaden sun. Here and there, a few decrepit palm trees shed their bark. Your body, suspended | 299 in the coolness, shudders against the piping. “Tepid and dank” The state of mind, instant in the blitzkrieg is a ticket for Mars and ethical dilemmas linked to caffeine inflation. A hail of laughter makes furrows under your make-up. Your pitted skin brought a smile to my face.
94 Through the window A mongoloid bellows your name suspended from a branch. (MA - GNO - LIA! - MA - GNO - LIA!) And you—you bite the coffee table. 100 A White Wig Adorns my Jacket
Chewed mince on the chopping block You salivate from the corners of your lips Deportation of the missile stuck in your arse. Liquid Vaseline. I found the lost poems written in their thousands on scraps of paper in my straitjacket between the highway, motor-cross, expressway. In Nice. Ballads in the plastic car at 2 km an hour Pair of Ray Bans ... and: “let the girl speak” ... She had hazel eyes and long blond eyelashes “Can I interfere in the discourse?” 300 | plum mouth and trickle of water.
Translated by Louis Armand. First published in the PLR 1.2 (2003). | 301 302 |
Photo: Michal Mecner Stephan Delbos
Honeymoon
All she left when she left: a chest X-ray from Arles, where she died, green-tongued, lungs gurgling, for two getaway days. I smoked at the window, boiled | 303 tea she couldn’t swallow. Outside, shouting men and bulls rumbled like a river flooding streets to the rubble stadium of matadors; sword- blades in the unconsidered sun or lamplight I see through her bones. Tiny Miracles
Tonight I watched the tiny miracle of street lamps waking—false stars strung where sunlight failed as I leaned on a phone booth by a boulevard thick with numb machines. Tungsten teaches us darkness falls but rise and burn, yes nevertheless. Stumbling home on a decade-old dawn, I saw stoplights blink like beating hearts, but the bloodshot stare of a high school drop out all-night gas station cashier shone lonelier. In youth I did not know the body is a hollow place we hold a spark. O matchstick life please keep me lit.
304 | The Rusted Door
Castaway at a laughter party, I climbed the fire escape to the glittering hull of night sky docked on city rooftops.
Sunlight seeped the seam of air and earth.
A rusted door on the neighbor roof disrupted dawn.
Perhaps I was some cheap champagne Prometheus that unhinged hour, | 305 but the rusted door called out like fire.
Spidering across the steep roof, I reached the guttered edge.
Paused at the long drop off to concrete.
.
What malicious, blessed dreamer pries us from our common sleep to see the secret radiance of the ordinary, and sets us groping again among rough stones?
. I turned back saying it’s a rusted door.
Shuffled to the dying party.
.
Every morning, if I wake in time to watch the ancient sun flood night’s floating city,
I feel that door’s dull burn bolted like a secret in my brain.
306 | Advent
Oxidized, autumn slows to stop.
The great freight trains : trees unload black air. A cavity gnaws our ears.
To what do we listen? The wheeling of seasons.
Riddled with hope, we pitch makeshift stations in the grifted, intermittent awareness we live | 307 to death under a canopy of nothing. This Lighter,
wrapped in plastic decal: a woman in the forest, breasts peeking through birch branches, purchased for kicks at the Indian market one block from Gallery Manes the night I got livid vodka drunk with Ukranians in my building and came to Globe to meet you an hour late, blushing, brash until we walked riverside under a sober moon where I cut my finger on a champagne bottle dropped then blood-stained your pillow before next morning, my way home by the brewery, passing a car horseshoed on a lamp post, just 308 | burned out. Verdant; A Word
I’ve heard or understand: two cigarettes smoked shirtless, open window, drifting curtains, late April, Montpelier, junipers, soft towers, her womb bedroom. Dusk. | 309 What the Poet Told Me
He’s tired of talk about poetry’s power of redemption. Thinks of Rimbaud pissing on Paris café tables then leaving a tip. Or Hart Crane folding his overcoat and hurtling into shark-slit wake. Even Shelley, gentle soul, stole two sisters and fled England. Flames devoured him in Italy. He’s tired of redemption. Poetry is nothing but a graceful way to fall.
310 | Chris Crawford, Ken Nash & Stephan Delbos in the bar under Nosticovo Divadlo after a reading at the Anglo- American University, May 2009. Photo: Natalya Dotsenko.
| 311
Lea Hamrlíková, Michael Brennan & Keith Jones, at Galerie ArtNatur, October 1999. Photo: Clare Wallace. 312 |
Photo: Cory Permack Danika Dinsmore a girl in prague is a temporary thing (14.7.00)
the boy next to me doesn’t speak english and I speak not enough czech I offer him apple gum which he declines he gives up his window seat for me a bird hovers over corn fields grey clouds loosen rain | 313 there is energy in decision and direction that lets me get comfortable in my aloneness is it that all poets are lonely or that loneliness is poetic? I go there it’s different each time I eat a plum stop in the street to rub ashes from my eyes I buy a bus ticket 26.7.00
Toyen liked to paint eyes, sad and large and seashells in cloaks, owls, felines desire in darks sex in cartoon humor in every photograph the intensity of loneliness makes me kin as tourists glance and move some simply here to get out of the rain
Bernadette says I should be thankful the way was paved and now it’s easier to be a woman and an artist in this world but I ask her what there’s left to do how 314 | to say anything to dent perception it’s so noisy out there
so automatic
what has become of surprise
I write to say I am coming home even my spontaneous constructions fall predictable to friends these days even I love you stands in for something else 28.7.00
i’ve attached myself to things again attracted to the way space opens up one flame that carries me away to burn in a new direction for a while last night we cooked fancy meals for ourselves veggie burgers rice wine greek salad ice cream with blueberries strong coffee in the morning omelettes with creamed spinach and for late lunch blueberry pancakes in that space of determination bought bus tickets for Split craving at least one day of sun and beach for all the dark rainy days suddenly i’m on vacation or pre-writing as Bernadette calls it | 315 which is anything you do when you’re not writing it’s all about mortality or why we need to love i’ve become afraid of flying been smoking cigarettes instead there is so much smoking time here it passes the meantimes between more rational fears Mostar, Bosnia (6.8.00)
Mother misses her sons the after-tragedies of war people afraid to come home as what has home done for them? Father says How can I explain this, I don’t understand it myself bank 2 blocks away completely shelled and gutted. I look from the balcony notice random shots fired from what striking off the cement? today in the heat of sea-side who can imagine such terror? everything eases into infiniteness of water. but back home history lingers.
316 | Mostar is still divided. Muslim on one side, Croat on the other. this apartment stands on the former front line. the young recover. find love. 4 marriages this weekend. at 4 AM I wake to hear singing echoing through the city, the dawn Muslim service signalling it’s time to put the fires out. 13.8.00
almost full moon over Croatia you are looking out onto an orange ocean there are loved ones in disguise of seahorses they blink in dreams and bring you fresh cabbages they storm several castles and call it a day you are writing a letter to your mother who lives in a pigeon hole you may feed her nibbles of corn in the courtyard on a good day you have forgotten that your life is a handful of moments that one day you will join your family tree in the great rotation | 317 you look this up in a dictionary and it says: begin here you order a plate of buttons and sew them to your sleeve the one made from a flag that waved from the chimney signaling your birth you are dreaming again you wake to find all your comforts stolen you start over under an alias and ask to be relocated to the seaside you pick mushrooms and basil you write a book you staple all your spare minutes inside. Dol, Croatia (11.8.00)
I am so full and so missing
orange stars crickets a town like from Italian dreams no cars no voices bats circling under the one street light tobacco smoke Cassiopeia a sick friend still air donkey shifting in stall Adriatic Sea over the hill one week in Bosnia war stories an owl? ancient stone church steeple forever sad strong eastern European mothers comfortable medieval towns castles pizza with shellfish olive trees vineyards a bottle of the neighbor’s red wine crickets skinny cats 318 | soldiers with missing limbs Croatian cigarettes wolves howling? cities under siege sun burned arms diving into stepping of off something climbing a tree scratches last nights buses buses buses stone paths sleepy days lovers on opposite sides of the world dreams of lovers on opposite sides of the world rocky beaches temptations food with the heads still attached whistlesdobra dans doviđenjas missing teeth topless bathers Italian tourists in love friends in train stations friends writing at 3:15 everything to do nothing to do all the you’s in me all the me’s in you. War Story (10.8.00)
Not able to bury the dead through sniper fire on the plaza Muslim bodies pile up a scavenging dog runs through the streets carrying a human head.
| 319 320 | David Doubek Artistic exercises
I used to go to the Café Seaside, which was immediately opposite the theater. Often I would see actors sitting there after a performance or a rehearsal and would secretly admire them. They would all come in together, wearing black suits like they wear in films about paratroopers, and quietly sit down at their tables. There were so many of them that they would occupy half the room, but they never made a racket. In fact, they were very much on the quiet side, as though they were communicating by way of grimaces. They were perfectly professional and always looked frightened, their bristly beards outstretched like open arms—not to mention the rather helpless and bashful motions of their hands and eyes as they drank their coffee. They would arrive | 321 from the theater all smokey and scorched, sometimes even still smoldering. The director of the company forced them to jump through burning hoops, as many as five in a row. In a play about an airport, they set fire to one of the actor’s sleeves with which he then gave signals to the pilot. The actor’s flaming hands symbolized the semaphore flags. In a different playfour actors, pretending to be sailing on a pirate’s ship, drank burning gin from an iron cup. “Artists,” the director would say to everybody before each performance, gesturing broadly, “must burn on the stage!” And the actors, frightened, would nod their heads, and many would reflexively tug on the straps of their black dungarees and then let go. “Like a torch!” the director would proclaim before nodding at the pyrotechnicians. The stage would be lit up and the actors would race forward. The director would grasp the balustrade, puff out his chest and from behind half-closed eyes observe the dance of fire on the hoops. “Fine bonfires, aren’t they?” he would then say quietly to the empty backstage.
Translated by G.S. Evans. Then good fortune was unexpectedly worked in
Kulhanek was hiking through the mountains. A condor’s cry echoed through the stone cliffs of a canyon that lay below. In one stretch the trail went along a narrow rock ledge above the canyon. But Kulhanek was fearless by nature, and so he continued along it without a second thought. But just as he was crossing the ledge something in the mass of rocks moved, the ledge gave way and with a terrible rumbling it brought Kulhanek down with it into the thousand-meter deep chasm. At first Kulhanek fell silently. “Ahhhh,” he cried suddenly when he realized what had happened. “Ahhhhhh- hhhhhhhhhhhhAhhhhhhhhhhh,” he continued as he fell with terrible speed into the hole and it appeared to him that his fate was sealed. Then good fortune was unexpectedly worked in. From somewhere came a wind which carried Kulhanek along for a thousand kilometers until he finally landed on a haystack. And all this without any injury, besides one small scrape. Strange, that. By total chance he was borne along by a stout 322 | wind for some thousand kilometers, and then his fall to the ground was cushioned by something so nice and soft that he wasn’t smashed to pieces. Kulhanek walked away from the haystack, pulling pieces of hay from his hair and pants. He reflexively pulled his rucksack up to his shoulder and furtively looked all around, even up to the sky, but didn’t see a living soul. He felt more confused than he had ever felt before.
Translated by G.S. Evans. Alexandra Büchler, Louis Armand, Jeffrey Young, Natasza Goerke, Gail Jones, at Svět Knihy, 2002. Photo: Hana Vojáčková. | 323 At the old Globe bookstore, Štěpánka and Brad DeLange. Photo: Gregory Linington. 324 |
Young woman at the Marquis de Sade. Photo: John Bruce Shoemaker Daniela DraZanová Ezra’s Bar
When I was six, I thought that we had travelled to America on a spaceship, docked on the shores of Lake Erie, and descended into the mighty city of Cleveland. How the others made their pilgrimage, I wasn’t sure, but their entrance had to be at least as dramatic as ours. Like us, these fellow aliens had touched down in middle-class, steel-working, blue-collar Cleveland to begin a new life. “Seven dollars and you,” my mother would say, “that was all we had.” Many of the aliens colonized the area near a restaurant-bar every-one called Ezra’s, although the neon sign on the pole above the window read: | 325 “A Bit of Bohemia.” Our first apartment was three bus stops on the local line from Ezra’s. My mother worked as a cook there. If one of her new friends, Slávka or Eva, couldn’t sit with me, she made me change into a “nice” dress and took me with her. Proudly I carried my bookbag full of crayons, puzzles, books, and Barbie dolls onto the bus. At Ezra’s I sat in the back room, intended for dinners but rarely used, opened the bag and stacked all my cargo on the table. Occasionally I coloured, but most of the time I would skip into the kitchen to watch my mother knead the dough for rolls of knedlíky or stir big pots of sauce and soup. Just before closing time, my father would have a beer at the bar with Ezra and then drive us home in our first car, a Ford Grand Torino which I christened the “Yellow Monster.” When I was ten we moved, and like many other Czech families, settled deep in the suburbs: it took two buses and an hour’s worth of time to travel to Ezra’s. Our new Plymouth made the trip in forty minutes. Much of the community had dispersed, attempting to blend in with the native inhabitants, but my father returned to Ezra’s at least once a week. “Just to have a beer among friends,” he would say, but my mother was worried. The summer I was fifteen, plump and wearing thick glasses that I thought hid everything from everybody, my best and only friend Emily moved to Pittsburgh, leaving me endless sunny and humid days to fill. Vlasta and Iveta, the only other Czech kids I knew, had both worked at Ezra’s before they left for college: cleaning tables, washing greasy pots, and breading butterfly slabs of pork for the cook. That summer, Mom was sorting ball bearings at the Bearman factory and my father was a foreman at the steel factory downtown until they laid off six hundred workers. By the time we drove to the local stadium to see the fireworks on the Fourth of July, he had been home five weeks. I was stretched out on the couch staring into a book when I heard an explosion of rapid- fire Czech corning from the kitchen, aimed at my mother. “What do you care about what people say?” my father shouted. My mother replied in a soft, unassuming murmur. “I just go to drink. What’s the matter with you!” His voice boomed. I put the book aside, sat up on the couch and leaned forward. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. All I want to do is sit with my friends and have a beer,” he said. The pitch of her voice rose and fell evenly, yet there was something odd in its tone: plaintive, pleading. “That’s complete nonsense and you know it,” he said. I stood up and crept toward the kitchen. “All right, I won’t go there anymore.” There was a pause. I stood still, listening. I thought I heard my father breathing. Big deep breaths ending in a slight wheeze, caused by the thick 326 | steam and smoke rising from the cauldrons of molten steel from the factory. “Kateřina wants to work at Ezra’s,” my mother said into the silence between them. “What, that no good place? The men will tell her pathetic stories that they think are funny.” “Vlado, she wants a job.” “She doesn’t need a job. She’s too young.” Leaning against the doorway, I peeked in. My father’s work shirt hung limply from his broad shoulders. His reddish blond hair curled around the slack collar. My mother stood to the right of him, her long, straight blonde hair let loose from its usual ribbon. She twisted and untwisted the gold chain she wore around her neck. “It’ll be really good for me, you’ll see. You’re the one that said I shouldn’t flop around the house reading all the time,” I said louder than I intended as I stepped into the kitchen. My father turned around. His lips were pressed tightly together so that the lines that ran from his nose to the edge of his mouth like parentheses deepened. “She’ll earn her own money,” my mother said. “It’ll help us this year.” “Shut up, Alena. You’re always talking about money,” he said. “I don’t want her working there.” “I practically grew up there, come on. It’s either Ezra’s or McDonald’s.” “She’ll know what it means to work.” My mother moved closer to him. “Not there, not with those people.” She reached over and rested her hand lightly on his upper arm. “They’re your friends, aren’t they?” He shrugged her hand away, exchanging glances with us. “A man loses his job and women think they can comer him like an animal. If I’m not there to watch over her, she doesn’t go.” “Vlado, please.” “No.” And we stood there, like we always did: my mother with the strands of her hair partially covering the curve of her mouth and her reproachful brown eyes; a face he ignored, but which I thought beautiful, and I, pushing my glasses up my nose, looking at her thinking about him. At some point, I stared into a boiling pot of soup on the stove, filled with a beef bone and a large bobbing onion, conscious that my mother’s eyes were locked on the same spot. She stretched out her hand to turn down the flame as my father strode out of the kitchen, manoeuvring his large body so that it would not touch either of us. The following Saturday, alone in the doorway of Ezra’s, the nervous twitch of my stomach rose up through my whole body. I waited there for a long time, matching what I saw with my memories, letting my eyes adjust to the tobacco-brown light of the room. The room smelled of cigarettes. A thin | 327 cloud of smoke hovered near the low ceiling. Above the long wooden bar hung a picture of Švejk, a rotund soldier with a button nose, holding a beer mug topped with swirling foam. The print behind the glass had wrinkled, the glass had yellowed from smoke. Staring at the back counter stocked with bottles of whiskey, cognac, vodka, and schnapps, I wondered how many of them my father had sampled. Behind the bar , Ezra was washing beer mugs and singing to himself. During my visits to the bar with my mother, when I wasn’t colouring in the back room or getting in the way in the kitchen, I often crawled up onto the bar stool and ordered a beer from Ezra, taking care to imitate the solemn, business-like tone of my father. Ezra always laughed at this. “ A beer for the little one,” he’d say and fill a mug with pop. For good measure he’d add a coloured straw and a plastic stirrer with an animal head or a funny shape on its end which I’d run and show my mother as if it were a prize I had won. On rare occasions, my father, carrying a mug of pop for me and his own beer, joined me at my table in the back room. He’d sit down, set the mug in front of me, and press his finger to his lips: “This is secret, don’t tell your mother.” He’d tell me how he got the big scar on his knee trying to jump on a moving train, how his maminka had always beat him when he returned late from school, and how he was almost struck by lightning on the day he first met my mother. Ezra was still singing when I walked over to the bar to ask about a job. At first I spoke in English, and it wasn’t until I grabbed his soapy arm and used my hesitant, barely grammatical Czech, that he even stopped to look at me. “Ezra, it’s me, Kateřina. Vladimír and Alena Doležal’s daughter. Don’t you remember?” I loosened my grip and stepped back. “I was a lot shorter then, and skinnier.” Ezra looked like he was about to shake his head, when he suddenly leaned forward. “You don’t look like either one of them.” I laughed. “They used to argue over whose side of the family I took after.” Ezra picked up a glass and ran it under the faucet. “I don’t know if we need…” “There’s been a lot of layoffs this summer, at the factory. I could use a job,” I said, lowering my voice, making it tremble a little. “Come by tomorrow and talk to Katja. She’s the one that runs this place,” he said, turning around and placing the mug on the drying rack behind him. On the bus the next morning, I rehearsed what I’d say to Katja. I had never met her. She had married Ezra the year we moved to the suburbs, but I knew about her. On nights that my father worked the late shift, my mother’s friend Slávka would come and visit. My mother would make gin and tonics 328 | for both of them, mixing the drinks with one of the coloured stirrers that I had been awarded by Ezra. I usually sat in the kitchen, my textbooks and papers spread before me, studying, but I was distracted by the clinking of the stirrers against the thin Bohemian glass and by the secretive timbre of their voices. Ezra’s new wife had disembarked in Cleveland as a divorcee from Germany. Within six months she had delivered the mild, unassuming Ezra from bachelorhood and seized control of the bar: drinks were watered down, and sauces were skimped on. She wore tight white blouses and high heels. Hairspray stiffened her frizzy curls into place and accentuated the blonde glints in her hair. “I’m sure Jindra is sleeping with that bitch,” Slávka said. “Did you see the way he was falling all over her at the party last week?” My mother said, “He was just a little drunk, that’s all.” “You’re altogether too nice,” Slávka said. “It’ll get you into trouble one day.” Ezra stood behind the bar, and Katja was handing him a stack of drink trays when I tugged on the brass handle and walked in. “So you’re the one Ezra told me about,” Katja said, leading me by the elbow to a table where we pulled out chairs and sat down. “And you’re Vladimir Doležal’s daughter?” “Yes, but “ During the pause, we looked at each other. She took in my thin blonde hair and my thick glasses. I tried to appear confident. From the way she held my gaze with her own, I knew Katja was afraid of nothing: guns, dogs, border guards, even any stray communists, I imagined, who might have gotten in her way. “But he can’t know that I’m working here,” I finally said. “What?” “I want a job, please.” I tried to copy her expression, look at her directly, but all I really did was thrust out my chin and cross my arms. Katja, leaning back into her chair, said nothing. “He says I’m too young, but I want to work. Here. For the summer.” “What am I supposed to do if he sees you?” “He won’t.” “Do you think we’re going to hide you in the attic?” Katja smiled. The smile lifted the corners of her mouth and pushed her cheeks into small, round, rouge-covered apples. Her hazel eyes glowed an approachable amber in the dim light. I uncrossed my arms and rested them on the table. “He told my mother he wouldn’t come here anymore. It’ll be all right.” Katja sat up straighter. “I’ll work very hard, Katja, you’ll see—really will.” “I don’t know.” She was going to refuse. I saw it in her face when she stood up, pulling down the black skirt which clung to her thighs. “My mother says okay for me. Really.” I also stood up. She took a few | 329 steps toward the bar. I grabbed her wrist and whispered fiercely, “He’s not coming anymore. She thinks he drinks too much. Do you?” I looked into her eyes, feeling a warm film slip down over my own.
She paused for a moment, then stretched out her hand. “You’re going to have to pull this back into a ponytail. We can’t have it falling into the food,” she said, stroking my hair. Katja walked me to the door. “One more thing, Kateřina,” she said as I blinked in the white light of afternoon. “Don’t tell anyone whose daughter you are.” My scalp tingled from the light brush of her nails. On Saturdays, I would weave in between the tables in the front and back rooms, gathering up plates with the silverware crossed European-style. I mastered the art of carrying six beer mugs at a time and developed the ability to balance a tower of empty bread baskets in the crook of my arm. I wore the purchases I had made at the local mall with the first envelope of cash I received: a black skirt that hugged my hips and a blouse that I couldn’t fill the same way Katja filled hers. “That’s not the way you do it,” Katja said one Saturday. “Take the cloth and wipe it around the pan evenly.” She didn’t take the pan into her own hands, but stood over me, occasionally patting her frizzy curls back into position. “I thought I told you not to talk to Mr Hrbol,” she said, frowning as I tried to wipe the cloth the right way. “He called me over and said he had something important to say.” “That man has nothing to say after his first three beers, believe me.” “He said he had a really good story. One that every Czech girl should know.” “Let me tell you, I’ve heard them all. There’s nothing you need to know from him or anybody.” She stared at one of her lethal-looking fingernails. Mr Hrbol, who confessed to forty-eight but must have been closer to sixty, always sat on the far left stool at the bar, nursing his nightly beer. Wearing the same brown pants and faded blue sweater he wore every day, he leaned his elbows against the counter and occasionally sat up to comb his hair, tossing his few remaining strands over his shining scalp. The more he drank, the farther down his hair slipped back to its natural position on the right side of his head.
When Katja wasn’t looking, Mr Hrbol waved his hand at me. He sat next to Jirka who was a tall and lanky man with thick, slightly greasy strips of brown hair Calling over his forehead and large nose. Beer affected his sinuses, and you could hear him sniff and snortle throughout the bar. I walked over to Mr Hrbol who casually put his arm around my shoulder 330 | and began: “In a bar in Prague, on ... oh, I forget the street now. It’s not important. It was the best little bar I ever graced the tables of. The beer was cheap, the company was good. And there, I met ...” he paused for dramatic effect, took a sip of beer “... the most beautiful girl in the world. Her name was Dana.” “No, no, he has it all wrong,” Jirka said. “Alička was the most beautiful. She worked behind the counter in a vegetable store in Cheb. I fell in love with her when I was thirteen.” “Dana was tiny, with small white hands and thick black hair,” Mr Hrbol said. “Alička was big-boned and blonde with deep blue eyes.” I peered into Jirka’s face. I had taken to forgetting my glasses at home so that his smile blurred into a partially wistful, partially ironic arc. My father sometimes had that same look when he talked about being able to go home to Cheb one day to see his mother, to visit the friends he left behind. I pictured him tucking his feet, clad in a pair of large tennis shoes from Sears, around the metal legs of the bar, the way Jirka was doing now. I saw the square knuckles of his hand curving around the handle of his beer mug. “How come you remember them as the most beautiful?” I asked, because it suddenly became important to know. “Dana was special because …” “The way her voice sang when she talked to you. The way she moved like she was part of the earth. The way her smile made you feel like you were the only one in her universe,” finished Jirka. “But you didn’t marry them? They’re not with you now?” “That’s why they’re the most beautiful,” Mr Hrbol said, patting his, hair into place. “Because you leave them behind.” On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I would help Herbert the cook in the kitchen, mostly stacking trays of pre-cooked food into the large chrome refrigerator. I’d also stir the goulash soup for him, staring down into the mini-vortex I was creating, seeing my mother standing above the same pot, gripping the wooden spoon, her face flushed paprika rose, the steam dampening the edges of the scarf that tied back her hair. Afterwards, the image vivid in my mind, I’d walk to the kitchen door, staring out the porthole at the crowd in the front room. Several times, I thought I saw the reddish halo of my father’s hair on a man sitting at the bar, lifting a glass for a refill. It wasn’t ever him, but I ducked beneath the window anyway, my heart thumping beneath the small lumps of my new breasts until Herbert called me back. My mother never visited Ezra’s while I was there, but she kept our secret. She would tell my father I was at the library, the movies, or at a friend’s house, and he never questioned either of us. I think she might have even told him I was dating. I asked my mother why she was helping me, and she said, “Because your father isn’t always right,” with a sharpness I’d never heard before. I thought it was because he haunted the house, a silent, morose figure | 331 hiding behind his newspaper, circling the want ads. No one was hiring, even if he did have his green card. Only once when I came home late from Ezra’s, having forgotten to change out of my black skirt, did he seem to acknowledge my presence. “You’re keeping very busy this summer, Kateřina, no?” he said. I looked at the floor and at the blobs of colour on the TV screen. “I’ve made lots of new friends,” I said. “And these new friends, are they good to you?” He held a beer can in his hand. My stomach rumbled and rolled. “They’re interesting, my friends. I’m learning a lot.” I didn’t dare glance at his face. I felt if I looked into his eyes, like I had into Katja’s, I would tell him everything. “You be careful. You may not always like the things you learn,” he said and turned back to the TV.
He was absorbed in some sit-com when I emerged from my room wearing my glasses, dressed in cutoffs and one of his old work shirts. The canned laughter was the only sound in the house, and he seemed to have sunken deep into the cushions of his chair. In early August my father signed up for a night course in computer programming, and my parents fought over the added expense. He went anyway, dressed in crisp, clean shirts and slamming the door after him for the first few weeks. My mother worked overtime, picking up extra shifts whenever she could. At night, I massaged her neck and shoulders and shared Katja’s gossip. “I heard Eva is having an affair with Venca Hudák,” I said. “It can’t be him. He’s living with Milena. And besides, he’s not her type- too short.” My mother shook her head. “Miloš found out and smashed all the windows of Venca’s car.” “Slávka thinks it’s Jirka she’s having an affair with. She told me Miloš stole all of Jirka’s hubcaps. Can you imagine what your father would do?” “No, I can’t.” For a moment each of us tried to picture my father arriving to find his newly-waxed Plymouth even slightly dented. We laughed, and my mother reached behind her to pat my arm. “Katja says Eva also went to Milan Klička’s apartment.” The muscles in her neck tightened. “What’s the matter?” “Oh, it’s nothing.” I kept my hands still on her neck, waiting. She sighed. “I knew a boy named Milan once. He loved me very much.” “But you chose tata. Because you loved him more?” “I thought so at the time.” She leaned her head forward, and I kneaded the 332 | muscles gently; the bones beneath her hands suddenly seemed very frail. Saturday nights were the busiest time for Ezra’s. Katja, Herbert the cook, Elena the waitress and I scurried here and there, washing, cleaning, serving, and smiling. Those nights were my favourite, not only because they hid the monotony of the week, but because I could just tilt my head and people’s lives would fill my ears. And when I had finished walking between the tables and clearing most of the plates and when all the patrons finally left, that’s when the real nights began. Mr Hrbol and I, Jirka with his battered guitar and Katja sat at a small blue table near the bar. Empty beer mugs stood at the centre of the table as well as a tray I hadn’t gotten to, filled with half-eaten salami sandwiches and dirty plates covered with cigarette ashes and butts. I glanced at the mess and thought about the extra cost of my father’s classes. Jirka was tapping on his guitar and humming to himself. “Wouldn’t you like it if I came in tomorrow to help clean up?” I asked Katja who had just lifted her legs up on to a chair and was rubbing her kneecaps. “I’ll take care of it,” she said. “What about Monday?” Jirka stopped humming. Both he and Mr Hrbol stared at Katja. “Don’t worry. We can manage just fine without you,” she said, her fuchsia fingernails continuing their concentric circles on her kneecaps. Mr Hrbol adjusted his falling hair and cleared his throat. “Did I ever tell you how I came to America?” I shook my head. “My brother Viktor and I. We took a bus to Vienna. A tour, you see, something I had always wanted to do, but all along we intended to escape.” “I don’t want to listen to this again,” Katja said, suddenly looking up at him. “Would it be better if I came on Tuesday?” I asked. Jirka began to tune his guitar, strumming the strings, bending down to listen to the sound. “No, I don’t think so,” Katja said. “Kateřina wants to hear the story.” Mr Hrbol winked at me. “You old fart, she’s only doing it to be nice,” Ezra yelled from behind the bar. “She must have heard it fifty times already.” “Wednesday?” “What do you think? Do you think I shit money?” Katja said, dropping her legs from the chair, the heels of her shoes scraping against the floor. I looked into her face, but she shifted her eyes away from mine. For a long moment, the only sound in the room came from the discordant notes of Jirka’s guitar. I watched him twist the pegs, thinking I could actually see the strings tightening. We wouldn’t be able to sing if one of them snapped. Mr Hrbol cleared his throat again. “I was young then, a couple years older than you, I guess, but not much. I didn’t know what I’d get when I got to America.” | 333 “A beat-up Chevrolet, dirty streets, Nixon, and a steel factory,” Jirka said. “None of us knew,” said Mr Hrbol. Ezra walked over with his hands full of beers. I took one. He sat down next to Katja, crossing his large arms and resting them on his belly. “When I was on that bus, I thought I was going to the land of freedom.” “Yeah, freedom to be poor, the immense freedom of having no one care about you,” Jirka said. “There are good things here, too.” I felt as if I were the only defender of my country. Mr Hrbol leaned back in his chair. Ezra looked at me. So did Katja. My face felt warm, and I leaned over to swallow some beer. “My brother Viktor had this way. I don’t know if it was his smile or his voice,” Mr Hrbol continued. “Whatever it was, he could charm oranges from a storekeeper that swore he didn’t have any. Strangers gave him chocolate when he was just a child.” “He was good-looking, I bet,” Jirka said. “He was, but that wasn’t it either. Women loved him, but men did too. They helped him fix his motorcycle, brought him spare parts from West Germany, even offered him fish they had caught at the local reservoir.” “So what happened already ,” Ezra wiped beer from his moustache. Katja sighed and lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke into Mr Hrbol’s face. “Viktor charmed the tour guide into giving us our passports. One minute I was on a bus filled with tourists singing to pass the time away. The next minute the bus is in line to pass through border control, and Viktor asks to be let outside to take a leak. The bus driver opens the door. Just opens the door for him, and Viktor grabs me.” “So you ran,” I said, smiling at him. “We dodged between cars until we came to a field.” Mr Hrbol’s voice broke. I knew the story. I imagined this youth, Viktor, this golden boy, racing across an open field filled with wild flowers, pine- covered, snow-capped mountains rising majestically in front of him like in The Sound of Music. I could feel his breath coming out in short, sharp gasps. And then the shot and the soldiers, and a young Mr Hrbol and Viktor trying to run faster than ever before. Mr Hrbol ran through the field until it seemed to him that his heart would tear into two. His brother Viktor died on the field that day, and Mr Hrbol had never forgiven himself. And just as the moistness appeared in the furrows surrounding Mr Hrbol’s eyes, Jirka’s strumming became something else. Music poured forth until even Mr Hrbol tried to sing, his voice hoarse with emotion while we drank and sang his pain into the dull ache it always was. Somehow in those brief moments, his pain and their longing became mine too; I was Czech, and I belonged there in Ezra’s bar, among them. I didn’t know the words to a lot of the songs we sang. Jirka liked tramp 334 | songs, the kind that, he told me, burst into being on open roads or late at night by the campfire. I mouthed the words, trying to keep the unfamiliar syllables in my brain long enough to remember them. Katja did not sing, instead her eyes roamed over and onto every one of us until they finally came to rest on me. I sipped my beer and felt slightly queasy. “I’m sick and tired of you telling lies to this child,” Katja said, standing up from her chair. Jirka placed his hand flat against the strings. “Přemysl Hrbol, your brother Viktor lives like a prince in Prague and complains that you don’t send him enough money.” I felt Mr Hrbol turn to me as I stared into the fading foam of my beer. “That’s not true,” he said. “Stop it. Look at her, can’t you see that she believes every word you say?” “Well, Katja, we know how much you have her best interests at heart,” Mr Hrbol said, slamming his glass onto the table. I lifted my face slowly, looking at him first, then at Katja. She was suddenly quiet, gazing at Mr Hrbol as if she might murder him in his sleep. Ezra headed back to the bar. “You’re a stupid old fool,” Katja said to Mr Hrbol. And then I was part of nothing. Their faces were swollen, their eyes glassy from too much beer. I heard a dull, hollow thud as Jirka set his guitar down on the next table. Katja reached over to stroke my hair, but I pulled away. Mr Hrbol would not look at me. “Is it true about your brother?” “Kateřina, you are such a beautiful young girl,” Mr Hrbol said. “Is it true?” “Well, a part of it is a little of how it happened.” “That’s not the same and you know it.” “It was such a wonderful story.” “I believed it. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” “That’s what made it so wonderful.” Mr Hrbol shrugged his shoulders and took a great swallow of beer. I wanted to run from the table like Mr Hrbol’s imaginary Viktor, run into a wide open field to ease the sudden pang in my chest and the fear in my stomach. I looked over at the bar and even Švejk seemed to be laughing at me. “It’s nothing but stories you’ve invented, that’s all.” I shrugged my shoulders. “I’ve got to go, or I’ll miss the bus.” When Katja walked me to the door, I heard Jirka playing his guitar. A soft, slow ballad. She offered to drive me home, but I just shook my head. “Didn’t I tell you not to talk to them? You can’t go around believing everything you hear,” she said, closing the door behind me. The next morning, while my father was still sleeping and my mother was buttering a slice of toast and waiting for the kettle to boil, I told her I wasn’t working at Ezra’s anymore. | 335 “What happened? Tell me the truth. Did you see your father?” she asked, lowering her voice. A great clump of hateful words rose in my throat, but I did not speak them. Instead, I moved mechanically past her to open the cupboard. The kettle began to whistle as I poured grounds of instant coffee into the mug I had found. “He doesn’t belong there with those people. And neither do I.” I lifted the kettle off the stove and made my first cup of coffee thick and black, stirring it calmly as she hovered around me. “What happened? Tell me.” I felt her hand brush my shoulder, but I shrugged it away. “How am I going to make any new friends if I’m working at Ezra’s all the time?” “I’m sorry,” she said as I left the kitchen with the mug, careful to manoeuvre around her, avoiding any contact with her robe-clad body. She looked tired; there were blue circles under her eyes. Her voice never rose above a whisper. I carried the coffee into my room and slumped down onto the yellow patchwork quilt my grandmother had sewn, sitting cross-legged, sipping the bitter liquid, staring at my painted yellow walls. I hated my mother; I hated the people at Ezra’s; I hated my father for being right. As I sat there, the sun blazed in through the window, casting the room in an agonizing golden glow. When I made myself swallow the last mouthful of coffee, I realized that I had to return to Ezra’s to pick up my money for the week. I imagined them laughing at me, knowing I had believed their romantic, fabricated tales. The room was so bright it hurt my eyes, and I closed them to confront my shame in the darkness. That Monday night I took the bus to Ezra’s for the last time. My mother, looking worried, offered to drive me, but my father had taken the Plymouth to his computer class. When she suggested she should go with me, I refused. I watched rivers of rain stream down the windows and traced their journey on the glass with my finger and listened to the rhythmic movement of the windshield wipers. And then I was standing in the stairwell, water running through my hair , streaking my glasses, running over my face. The rain had stained the wood of the building a deep brown-red, and the “A Bit of Bohemia” sign creaked in the wind as it swung back and forth on its metal pole. I pulled open the handle and stood in the doorway, breathing heavily. I think I expected to see Ezra’s differently, but everything was the same. Miloš and Venca played cards at a table in the front room with Milena leaning on Venca’s shoulder, looking at his hand. Mr Hrbol sat on his usual stool talking to Jirka, their voices merging into the general murmur of conversing people. Ezra stood behind the tap. I heard a few shouts from the back room. 336 | Eva was flirting with some young man. Franta held Jirka’s guitar in his lap. No one glanced in my direction. And then, in the far corner, I saw him. He wasn’t drinking; he wasn’t holding a beer in his hand. Instead he had both arms wrapped around Katja’s waist. His face was bent low to hers, and he was whispering something in her ear. She was smiling. I slumped against the doorjamb and closed my eyes. When I opened them again, he was gone, lost in the murmur of Czech voices soaked with mugs of beer and glasses of whiskey and vodka. But then I heard the boom of my father’s voice asking Ezra for a beer. “Did I ever tell you about the most beautiful girl in the world?” Mr Hrbol said to him. Someone was laughing as I ran out into the rain. Eva
Miloš is a big man, his belly slung low on his hips from too much beer but I liked when it slapped into mine. Big loud slaps that shook the bed and made the neighbours in our first apartment pound on the wall. In the beginning, he only hit me when he came back from Ezra’s bar, when he tripped on the steps and couldn’t find the doorknob, when the apartment was strange and he couldn’t remember where we put the furniture. Miloš was a boxer before he went into the Army. Every time we rented another apartment, the first thing we did was hang up the picture of him in black shorts with the gloves tied tightly around his wrists, taken at his first fight. When he came home from Ezra’s and found me sitting on the couch waiting for him, he’d circle me, shifting his weight back and forth from one leg to another, waiting for me to open my mouth. His face resembled the one captured by the photograph: his eyes half-closed and puffy, his lips stretched tightly across his teeth. “I heard Pavel say you were a slut. Are you a slut Eva? Why is the apartment a mess? The dog’s hungry. Where’s my dinner?” And no matter what I said or how still I sat, his arms would curl up in front of his chest, and | 337 his fists would tighten and I’d close my eyes and let him win. When I opened my eyes again, he’d still be standing there, his arms swinging loose at his sides. I’d lead him to our small bedroom and unbuckle the belt, unbutton the shirt, unzip the jeans. In the bed, he’d curve his heavy body towards me beneath the blanket, reaching for my breast with a tentative hand. He wanted so much for us. He would buy me a house, he said, a big house like his parents had. I deserved it. It only happened once a month or so. It wasn’t that bad. The women who stood beside me on the assembly line, their fingers pinched red from packing fish hooks into boxes, thought it was bad. They’d never tell me to my face, but I know they talked about the bruise on my cheek at lunchtime or when they huddled in the smoking room lighting each other’s cigarettes. “What a husband she has. What does she do to make him hit her?” I didn’t wash the curtains. Mounds of cigarettes filled the ashtrays. The dog needed a bath. The dishes sat in the sink for a week so that when I lifted a plate, a roach scampered out and disappeared behind a canister of flour. Things would change, Miloš said. We saved our money. He bought us a house. It was a small house with a bricked-in front and aluminium siding along the sides and back. Miloš picked it out himself and didn’t tell me about it. It had an apple orchard, twenty-five trees. I let the apples fall to the ground and rot. But when we first moved in, I bought brand new furniture: abeige upholstered couch and a glass-topped coffee table for the living room, a brass bed and a princess vanity for the bedroom. I covered the bed with a white comforter, pink pillows, and a flounce of white lace which just brushed the shag carpet. And when the house was finished, when there were new copper pots in the kitchen, and fluffy pink towels with matching carpets in the bathroom, I thought that maybe we could be the people we wanted to be when we first saw the tip of the Terminal Tower through the clouds. The first time we made love on top of the new white comforter; my head sank into pink pillows that still smelled of plastic wrap and the store I bought them in. Miloš kissed me between my legs; a kiss so deep and so final that I thought he really meant it. I thought that everything would be easier; that he would know what I meant when I said I was lonely, that the women at work would talk to me about something other than the weather, that I would speak English and the lady behind the counter in the grocery store would understand, and that the wives of the men who drank at Ezra’s with Miloš would stop accusing me of sleeping with their husbands. The next morning, I woke up with Miloš’s head resting on my chest. I moved his head onto the pillow and stood naked before the window. Miloš 338 | slid out of bed and stood behind me, pushing my body against the glass until my nipples pressed into it. I watched the dog darting between the apple trees, his tail waving behind him like a feathered fan. The grass needed to be cut. I would dig a plot for a garden like my mother’s behind the house, tomorrow. Then Miloš decided we would throw a party. He didn’t even hit me when I said I didn’t want to. We had held parties before, in the second apartment off Prospect Avenue, the street with the whores, and the movie marquee with SEX spelled out in red neon. There was a group of us Czechs who all arrived in Cleveland about the same time. We’d buy beer and someone would bring whiskey. I’d make pots of potato salad that I’d spread on slices of French bread and decorate with salami and ham slices. Jirka would bring his guitar and we’d sing tramp songs until we were drunk with homesickness. And while Miloš sat on the couch with his arms around someone’s wife, I’d stumble into the bathroom with another man, and he’d lean me up against the sink and fuck me, watching his own face twist and his eyes grow bigger in the mirror above my head. The day of the party, I greeted everyone at the door. I was wearing a new dress and had washed my hair. The husbands kissed me and their wives tugged on their arms, pulling them in toward the table Miloš had set up as a bar. Jaromil the doctor was there with his wife Marketa, so was Jan, the owner of the Prague Castle restaurant and Olina, Ladislav and Alena, Slávka and Jindra, Venca and Milena. About 30 people crowded into the living room, listening to the latest Supraphon record my mother sent me. Later, the women stood together in the kitchen, nibbling at sandwiches and sipping their drinks. I knew that tomorrow they would call each other on the phone and tear our new house apart just like Honza tore the fabric of the couch with the keys he chained to his back pocket, and ruin us the way Karel did when he threw up on the bed and left a stain I couldn’t wash out. They would sit on their couches drinking weak coffee and say here was a man that America couldn’t help. I heard he beats her. Did you see how the dog was afraid of him? How about those Happy Hooker books on the shelf in their bedroom? I woke up after the party with a film of whiskey on my tongue and teeth. There were bottles all over the kitchen and plates piled up on the table in the living room. Franta, who had just been deposited in Cleveland the week before, lay crumpled up on the couch. Miloš was the first to make friends with the dps. He’d invite them to the house, hand them a beer and wrapping this thick, strong arm around their shoulders, tell them all his stories: how he used to win all his fights, how he was almost promoted to sergeant in the army, how he told the boss a thing or to at his construction job, and how he had always known he was destined for great things. I told them which factories were hiring, who to go to for their green | 339 card, and where they could find English classes at the local high school. Sometimes, if they drank with him long enough, they’d follow me into the kitchen to make a pass and when I wouldn’t respond to their grinding hips, they’d talk about me with the other men at Ezra’s, listen to the stories, and believe them. But I wasn’t such a bad wife. There were times when I took Miloš’s fat dick into my mouth when I really didn’t want to. And when we first bought the house, we sat together at the kitchen table and talked about the toaster and the Mr Coffee we would buy, and the tomatoes we would plant in the garden. Or we would read Xavier Hollander out loud to each other and laugh until Miloš pushed his chair back from the table, and came over to me, lifting me up into his strong arms to carry me into the bedroom. There I would close my eyes and remember how he looked when I first met him. He was a truck driver, steering the giant camions that carried wine across Czechoslovakia. He and his partner would pull up in the truck in front of my house so that Miloš could kiss me in the doorway before they left on a run. He dressed in blue cotton overalls then, and covered his head with a brown cap that plastered his blond hair into his eyes. On nights that he’d take me to dances in the factory in our village, he wore a brown jacket and tie, and asked me to unbutton the top button of his shirt after our fifth dance. I remember feeling his warm breath on my forehead and the blood pumping through the veins on his neck. It felt good on the bed, with my eyes closed, his belly slapping into mine, and I could love him then and be everything that a wife should. He rested his weight on top of me when he was done. I couldn’t breathe but I’d just run my hands through his sweaty hair, and try to believe that I could really be close to someone. After a few moments, he’d get up, pull on his jeans, and drive the Ford over to Ezra’s. I think I got pregnant the week of that party. I wasn’t being careful and I kept forgetting to take my pill. I didn’t want kids. The dog was enough. I used to take him for walks, but he’d pull on the leash and drag me behind him and I felt like people were watching me behind the lamps in their picture windows, so I let him out into the orchard and waited until some angry neighbour brought him back to me. Miloš usually left him alone but one time, I was in the kitchen washing the dishes, and the dog snuffed under my skirt, and Miloš kicked him in the ribs with his boot and then leaned me over the kitchen table and said that the dog didn’t want me as much as he did. The next morning, the dog rested his head on Miloš’s knee, leaving a trail of saliva that stayed until I wiped it off with a towel. Miloš seemed happy about the baby and it’s not that I wasn’t. I was just tired all the time: I didn’t make the beds, or sweep the kitchen floor. I rubbed the ashes of my cigarette into the carpet and didn’t vacuum. In the bedroom, 340 | the sun peeked in through venetian blinds covered with dust. When I stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom, my hair was stringy, and I could feel folds of fat growing beneath my chin. The baby felt like the bags of welfare groceries I used to carry home every night from the supermarket, but now I couldn’t put the weight down. I was 32 years old. I wrote my mother once a year. When she had me, her mother lived upstairs and rushed down the stairs at midnight to show my mother how to rub my chest with lard and cover it with towels for the fever. But one night before Miloš took the Ford to Ezra’s, he sat down at the kitchen table with me, took my hands and clasped them between his. “Son or daughter, it don’t matter. As long as it’s born healthy.” I looked down at the hands that held mine, they were rough from working at his construction job: the fingers callused, an arc of dirt under each fingernail. “You don’t ever have to worry. I’ll take care of him as well as I do you. He’ll be an American, you know. We can give him a better life.” His eyes were wide open: the pupils large and black, the iris’ soft, pale blue, the whites clear. He wouldn’t let go of my hands until I nodded. I even smiled a little. “I love you,” he said as he turned to leave. I wiped my hands on my duster and thought maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Miloš boasted about the baby at Ezra’s. When he came home and found me sitting on the couch reading a baby care book my mother sent, he just stared at me with his puffy, half-closed eyes and tight-lipped smile. I knew he didn’t see me, he saw his son curled up in the basketball that was my stomach. I rested my book there, knowing I was like a bottle that he couldn’t break, because the liquor would spill onto the carpet and drain away. The women at the fishhook factory were waiting for me to pop like champagne on New Year’s Eve. They began to talk to me, asking when it was due, what I was going to name it, and what colour scheme had I chosen for its room. They surprised me with a shower. I oohed and aahed, and said “It is wonderful,” and “thank you” in my bad accent for the pink crocheted booties, the Donald Duck bibs, and sterile baby bottles. I tried to make my face as happy as those people on thePrice is Right when they win the big prize, but I couldn’t help wondering how soon they would change into the women whose murmuring turned into silence when I walked into the smoking lounge. In the middle of the shower I went to the ladies room, catching myself in the mirror. There was a big yellow bow teetering on my head, and I had bags under my eyes. I felt like an old dress that my mother didn’t wear anymore. She would wrap it in bright new paper, write my name on the box, and stick it under the Christmas tree. Miloš brought a pair of bright red boxing gloves, Adidas, and a black felt cowboy hat to the hospital. He frowned at the nurses that brushed past him, and scowled at the doctor who turned to me when he spoke. He looked | 341 very small in that white room and he kept looking out of the window at the parking lot, rubbing the chrome bars at the side of my bed. I named the baby Josef after Miloš’s father. He liked that. He held Josef in his arms like something that might escape from him. “He will be tall and strong, Eva. Like me.” Miloš waited three weeks after I brought Josef home before he gripped my arm and pulled me into the bedroom. When Miloš was on top of me, I asked him to stop, to let me heal, but he kept going until I saw the doctors in their masks floating above my face. There was one with blue eyes that held my hand the whole time even when I screamed all the swear words that Petr Kozak taught me in the hayloft in the back of our house. Miloš stroked my face. There was blood on the bed. I waited for him to leave and then went to check on Josef. I saw that doctor with the blue eyes again when I took Josef in for his appointment. He looked at the bruise on my face, but he didn’t say anything. Soon, Miloš decided to have another party. I wanted to say no, I really did, but Miloš strutted around the kitchen, writing short lists of things we needed to buy on the scraps of paper by the phone, and I knew if I opened my mouth, his hand would come flying out and my knees would shake because I wasn’t strong enough since the baby came. I was worried that I would cry. “I’m going to call Venca and Milena,” he told me holding the phone to his ear, “maybe that’ll wake you up.” I sat in the chair in Josef’s room and held him to my breast, listening to him suckle, feeling the weight of his small head in my hand. Venca and Milena had come to our house about a month before the last party. Miloš had taken Milena into our bedroom, and Venca and I took the guest room. I let it happen because I thought that Miloš would finally know how good he had it with me. Venca had a ring of flesh above his hips and a widening bald spot in his curly hair, but I pretended he was one of many boys I used to walk home with after dances and made love to on a raincoat in the woods. Venca heard Milena moaning, and he stood naked above me, his dick hanging there like an old purse on a doorknob so I took him in my mouth until he stiffened, and pulled him down beside me on the bed. I knew he couldn’t touch me, the same way those boys never could, no matter how deep they thrust. They thought they were strong, and powerful, and they had me, but I really had them. They would buy me dinner, take me dancing, or show up in the doorway with shaven faces and faded flowers, and sometimes hey even listened when I talked to them. So I got up on top of Venca, and ground my hips into his belly, watching his face, and I knew I had him, the same way I had those boys, the same way I had Miloš. Afterwards we sat on the living room, listening to a Karel Gott record 342 | I had placed on the phonograph, all our smells mingling with that of the open bottle of Czech rum on the table. Milena sat on one end of the couch, smoothing her rumpled skirt, her face flushed red. She cleared her throat and then told me I had a nice house. Miloš tried to speak to Venca, “It’s an adventure. Just like in Xavier Hollander,” he said, but none of us said anything. Miloš rolled the ice around in his glass and stared when Venca draped his arm casually over my shoulder. Gott sang a ballad about love and Milena ran to the bathroom. I found her splashing cold water on her face. She looked up at me, the hair around her face flattened against her cheeks and forehead, and whispered, “I did it for him. He wanted to try it. He did.” I tried to pat her on the arm, but she jerked away from me. I went into the kitchen to fix more drinks and I heard her shout, “Venco, we’re going home.” In the doorway Venca leaned over and kissed me full on the mouth and I smiled at him. Miloš stood beside me, still holding his drink. I saw his hand tighten around his glass. The ice shook. “How could you act like that in front of me.” Miloš punched me in the jaw as soon as their car pulled out of the driveway. So the same people that came to inspect our new house would come to look at Josef like he was a new piece of furniture. It’s not that I didn’t like them. Perhaps they’d all stared at the same map in the refugee camp in Austria, trying Cleveland out on their tongues and liking the way it sounded. It was safer than New York, had lots of factories, and their children could swim in the big Lake Erie right beside it. Since their arrival many of them did really well: Jan had the restaurant, Ezra his bar, Jaromil his practice, his office, his condo. I think Miloš envied them. But he has the house now, and he threw great parties—everyone came. “They’re my friends,” Miloš would say, “and you have none.” He was right, so I bought the French bread and made potato salad, and hoped it would be over soon. Miloš invited a band from Plzen who had stopped in Cleveland as part of a tour of America to play for the party. They slept in the spare bedroom, on the couches, and on the floor for a week. They drank with Miloš every night and in the mornings I tried to clear away the empty beer cans, overflowing ashtrays, underwear, and socks that littered the house. I made eggs, salad, and pots of goulash. Miloš came to bed at 2:OO AM drunk and didn’t wake up to shove me out of the bed when Josef cried. They poured tons of ketchup on their eggs in the morning, fed the dog beer, and tickled the bottoms of Josef’s feet when I brought him into the living room. The day of the party, Miloš and the band members set up tables in the backyard while I sat in Josef’s room and watched him play with his blocks. I liked the way he decided to pick up the red block and not the yellow one. His fingers barely curled over the edges. I took one of his hands in mine and saw how small they were and I wondered if they would ever fit into the boxing gloves that dangled over his crib. | 343 I stayed all day in Josef’s room. Miloš didn’t come to see me until I started dressing for the party. I sat in front of the vanity in the bedroom, carefully putting on makeup. Miloš came up from behind me and unsnapped my bra. In the mirror, I saw the jagged scar on his left breast, and the few stray hairs that curled around his nipples. I couldn’t see his face. His hands gripped my shoulder and he pressed his body into mine as my breasts tumbled forward out of the bra. He knelt down and twisted my nipples with his fingers and I sat there and let him, listening to the chords of music drifting in from the living room. The dog scratched on the door. Josef started to cry. I tried to stand, but Miloš wouldn’t let me, his fingers kept twisting. The harder Josef cried, the harder he squeezed my nipples in between his fingers. I couldn’t leave because Miloš’s hands held me there, his body held me. Josef kept screaming. Miloš carried me to the bed and I closed my eyes, then opened them again. With the new house, with Josef, he was supposed to be different and I was supposed to be different. But the hand that stroked my hair was suddenly pulling it until I felt the back of my head snap back toward my neck. “Shut that screaming kid up.” He pushed me from the bed. I stood up and tried to pull the dress I was going to wear that night, black sequins and lace, a May Company sale, over my head when I heard the door slam and his footsteps heading for Josef’s room. I felt like I would suffocate beneath the heavy blackness of the dress. I couldn’t find the sleeves, or the hole for my head. I threw the dress on the vanity and ran down the hall to Josef’s bedroom. Josef was crying so hard he started to hiccup. I saw Miloš gripping the sides of the crib; his eyes narrowed, his knuckles white. I knew he wouldn’t hit him. But he took a step toward me and I grabbed the first thing my hand touched, a Mickey Mouse lamp, and swung it at his head. The lamp struck his left temple. He staggered back and then fell to the floor. I stepped over him, wrapped Josef in a blanket and ran into the living room. The band was playing, “My Beautiful Gypsy,” my mother’s favourite song. I hugged Josef to my breasts. One of the band members wandered in, chewing on a piece of bread. He stared at me while I stood there, singing to Josef, rocking my son to the music.
*
The floors in my new apartment in the Sunshine Hills apartment complex are wooden slats. If I swept the floor the slats would shine and I’d like to do that soon because when I picked Josef up, dust balls clung to the knees of his sleep suit. I shake out a blanket and spread it on the floor for him. Josef crawls right off it, looking for a toy. I don’t get up from the couch, because I 344 | don’t have to. It will take time for Miloš to find me here and even if he does, I’m not afraid. Josef grabs a square block with the letter A carved into its sides. He has my dark hair and grey eyes. He smiles at the block and puts it into his mouth. For a moment I believe it is me that he is smiling at, that the small dimple in his left cheek marks his approval.
First published in Yazzyk 4 (1995). At the Marquis de Sade, Templová 8. Photo: John Bruce Shoemaker.
| 345
The Globe opening party, July 1993. Jenny Becker, Holly Kennedy Price & John Bruce Shoemaker. Photo: Mark Baker. 346 |
Photo: Martin Štoll Vít Erban A Small, Cold Sun
In the City The temple? It doesn’t seem that I’m standing in it. (Low, very low ceiling and no windows anywhere. Everything here is white. White ceiling and white walls and from the white floor to the highest vaulted arch is a mass of forms, decorations and ornaments, a fragile white matter, indifferent and as endless as a coral city). But in spite of that, yes, in spite of that I ask: “Where are the pews where I could sit down, and where are the aisles through which I can pass? Where is the altar to which I should turn?”
| 347 The Hunt The teeth aren’t that sharp. For the time being there’s no pain. At first it appeared to me that the strange, divided animal (half horse and half pig) was quite incapable of escaping and that I would be able to keep it in our garden. But suddenly it clamped down on my hand and all at once everything was different. So here I stand with hand in snout, standing and thinking, while that pug-nosed grip slowly tightens. If I don’t want to lose the hand, I will have to snatch it away.
Dance I don’t know. I don’t know her and I have never seen her before. But she came and so now we’re rolling on the floor, gliding along the wall, crashing into the furniture, climbing to the ceiling and then coming down, across the breadth of my room, slowly and softly like a large, inflatable ball.
Avalanche And then it will happen. All at once the hall is full of white globules (just a bit smaller than ping-pong balls) bumping into the dancers, restricting their motion and throwing off their steps. The dance continues but after a while we are swimming in that white mess as one would swim in the midst of an avalanche, gasping for breath and blindly stepping forward. Valiantly we swing the chairs. Valiantly we crouch under the tables and press our faces to the parquet floor. The globules squeeze their way into our eyes, noses, and mouths; the dancers cough, choke and suffocate.
At the Fair I hear all of your words, questions as well as answers, I hear the crackling of the air rifles and the cackle of children’s voices and the blast of the fair whistle. Yet I see so little of you, so terribly little—only a shifting spot far below me—and soon enough not even that. (Yes, I admit that I was afraid. I was afraid that the centrifugal force would lead me away and that I would always be clinging to the passenger next to me. But now I can already see that it was worth that little bit of spare change.) And so we twisted round and round as we climbed ever higher—it seemed as if we would go on like this forever. I felt that what I’d left behind of myself down there was stupid, useless and cruel and that I’m now pure in a way that I’ve never been before. I don’t think I’ll go back.
348 | The Journey My face is raised to the sky and my legs blindly stumble through the high grass. “I mustn’t trip! It mustn’t disappear behind the trees!” But even as I approach the woods, that small, cold sun keeps sinking lower and lower. And then (when it is barely above the tops of the trees) a small black spot appears in the sun’s middle (as if somebody had touched it there with a small paintbrush dipped in india ink) and the spot grows, spreading out until finally it devours the sun and I can no longer continue. Then the sky goes out.
Translated by G.S. Evans. First published in Café Irreal 3 (2000). The Belly of the Centipede
The Crab He really doesn’t see me? Maybe he doesn’t even know I’m here. Or if he does, it doesn’t mean anything to him. He’s content to just charge ahead with his clumsy regularity (never backwards!), and neither space, time, nor my feet are of any interest to him. He must be old, very old. Maybe older than the world itself. I want to call out, I want to proclaim: “A blue crab! A blue crab from the Tertiary is here!” but somehow this doesn’t seem appropriate. So I stand here watching him, and I say to myself: “Where is he going and when will he get there? And what about me? With my hands behind my back and my head tilted to the side—am I truly here?” I can’t answer these questions, but it seems to me that even to swallow here would be impolite.
The Dog My dog has run off somewhere, and now I can hear him whimpering. This leaves me with little choice but to try and find him, as I’m worried that he | 349 crawled or fell into someplace that he can’t get out of. And so I race through the building and look into all the little nooks and crannies, even opening all the squeaky wardrobe cabinets and fumbling through musty coats. Finally I go down to the cellar where, in the darkness, in amongst the old lumber, I suddenly spot an animal. But it isn’t my dog. It’s a strange little creature, larger than a weasel but smaller than a rat. We stare at each other, both of us turning rigid with fright. I can sense fear taking control of me, my heart pounding and my breathing growing quicker, while my face stretches into a menacing grimace. My lips turn up so I can bare my teeth while a malevolent growl emerges from the deeper depths of my being. The hair on the back of my neck is standing up. My body is tensed, ready to leap. But at that moment the animal twitches and disappears so fast that it’s as if he was never there. I hurry upstairs, glad to get out of the basement, and feel like I’ve just woken up. And then I hear my dog whimpering again, as if he were somewhere quite close. But where, by god, where…?
The Sea Worm Right away it looked strange to me. Right away I thought it was only pretending to be dead, like a spanworm that immobilizes itself before somebody spots it. And this thing resembled a spanworm—also looking like a branch, or a wooden stick. I no longer know who it was that fished it out of the sea and brought it to shore, but he’d scarcely raised it above his head when the branch suddenly began to move around in his hand, wiggling and squirming. Surprised, we jumped away from it; repulsed, we also averted our eyes. It was only after a few moments that we dared to venture back and take a look. There was no doubt about it. It was some kind of an ancient evolutionary link on the road to the animal kingdom (it still didn’t have eyes, nor any other openings, and didn’t have any limbs, though one end of it was a little wider than the other and thickened a bit at the very tip, which represented a distant forerunner of the head); such a venerable lineage, combined with absolute powerlessness, evoked a certain unease in us. So, as though I’m drunk, I lean over the water, hand on my stomach (while the guy that pulled it out of the water strokes the creature along its belly, which is as white as the abdomen of a centipede and segmented like a ladder, to convince us that the animal doesn’t sting, burn, or bite, and that we don’t need to loathe him) and wish I were somewhere else, somewhere away from here. Where I could have hard earth under my feet. But before me and under me is only the sea. Nothing but the sea.
The Cat It’s a summer holiday, fine as once upon a time, and we play Indians and 350 | shoot at each other with toy rifles. We penetrate, at the same time, deeper into the woods, which grow thicker, darker and wilder with every step. I make my way through carefully, my eyes scanning the undergrowth, rifle at the ready, when all at once, maybe ten meters in front of me, I spot an animal. I stiffen. It isn’t aware of my presence. I sneak in a little closer, and now I can see—it’s a cat. A huge, wild cat, almost as large as a dog. (A wild cat! I’m hunting a wild cat!) But it still isn’t aware of me. So I go closer until I’m almost right next to it, and then I clear my throat, intentionally step on a dry branch and finally, impertinently, aim my wooden rifle at it. But it does nothing. This stops me in my tracks. I feel confused. What does the tracker do when the animal that he’s been tracking doesn’t hide? What should the hunter do when the animal that he is hunting won’t flee?
The Horse We’re not running, but flying! I look in front and I look down, but I still don’t know where we’re coming from, where we’re going, or why—but I hold on tight and I sense the pleasure, the wildness, the frenzy, the craziness. That horse knows, he really knows, the way by heart! And we keep going like this for some time, but—what’s this?—the pleasure trivializes it for me and I start having doubts: “Are we going in the right direction? Have we lost the way?” And these doubts change to certainty, and we lose speed, starting on a downward trajectory until we fall directly into the middle of a pond. So I stand, water up to my knees, and the horse begins to disappear right before my eyes, until only a reflection of him remains and, finally, not even that. (“That wasn’t a true horse. They gave you a bad horse,” somebody will say to me, and I will say, in defense: “How do you know that? You can’t have any idea what that horse meant to me!” “It was a false horse,” he will say to me, and I will wake up.)
Translated by G.S. Evans. First published in Café Irreal 6 (2001).
| 351 352 | G.S. Evans from Bohemia
“How could I have made such a mess of things?” F. wondered as he walked through the streets of Old Town. He had just pawned the last of his valuables—the watch his beloved mother had given him for his eighteenth birthday—so he could afford to eat something for dinner. Somehow, he’d always imagined that if he ever got his hands on a large sum of money he would be prudent with it, using it carefully for the furtherance of some deep and profound goal; he’d certainly never imagined that he would squander it on some fast living. But when he’d received the check for the article in The Bohemian Philosophical Journal he started spending the money on anything and everything and kept spending it until it was all | 353 gone. And it may well have been because of that sudden and unexpected windfall that he’d made such a mess of things. F. had known for a fact that in America—the so-called “land of plenty”—articles in philosophical journals paid little or nothing and so had expected the same here. But he’d forgotten that this was a country where they placed a much higher value on culture; the payment, in fact, had been quite extraordinary. Too extraordinary, perhaps. Which is to say: since he’d never expected such a large sum of money for his article, he’d treated it like it was bonus money that he could spend as he pleased and, worse, as though it would never run out. F. plowed on through the myriad lanes and squares of Old Town without even bothering to look up; past the businesses and workshops where so many of his supposed friends worked; past the pubs where he used to buy one round of drinks after another for those friends; and past his favorite brothel, whose residents, also knowing of his money troubles, no longer bothered to use their charms to lure him into their rooms. Things were so bad that he was beginning to think that he might have to go back to his uncle and ask for forgiveness. “Or maybe,” he said to himself, nearly in tears, “I should just go back to America and give up on everything!” He was just beginning to immerse himself in thoughts of the humiliation that this would bring when he entered a crowded square and heard a voice greeting him by name from up above—a woman’s voice, in fact. Assuming he was being addressed from the balcony of one of the buildings, he was surprised when he looked up and saw Doris, the pretty waitress from the “Iron Horse,” standing tall on two stilts and smiling down on him. “Hi Doris,” F. replied, “what are you doing up there?” “It’s my new job,” she explained, “I’m working as an English teacher.” “That’s great, “ F. said, “but isn’t it a little difficult to give lessons from up there?” “Not the way we do it,” she answered. “You see, it’s not a typical language school. Our methods are actually very progressive.” “I’m sure they are,” F. said, more than willing to indulge a girl as pretty as Doris, “but I still don’t know what walking around on stilts or...” and here F. noticed for the first time, so surprised had he been by the stilts, that Doris was also dressed in a costume, “...dressing in the costume of a sea serpent has to do with teaching English.” “Oh, but it’s really very simple,” she replied. “Me and my fellow teachers walk through the streets of Prague and present a carefully programmed course of language instruction.” As she was speaking she’d gestured to an area behind F., and when he turned around to look he was surprised to see a large gathering of people standing on stilts and dressed in strange costumes. It made for a very festive 354 | atmosphere, for in addition to Doris’s fellow teachers and their colorful costumes there were balloons, pennants and a large banner that proclaimed: WELCOME TO THE NEW TERM OF THE NATURAL ENGLISH SCHOOL OF PRAGUE. “So what have you been doing with yourself lately?” Doris asked, politely not referring to the recent incident when F. had been unable to pay his bill and had been, rather ingloriously, thrown out of the “Iron Horse.” “Oh, nothing special,” he replied. “Right now I’m trying to find a job.” Doris’ face brightened up. “Why don’t you apply for a job with us! They’re always looking for English teachers!” “You really think they’d hire me?” he asked, hopefully. “Well, you’re a native speaker, and that’s a real plus,” she said. “Why don’t you go ask? They’re taking applications right over there.” She pointed to a table on the other side of the square. “Maybe I will,” he replied, thanking Doris. He crossed the square and approached the table; the man who was sitting behind it was wearing a cap and gown, and the badge on his chest identified him as the schoolmaster. F. asked him about a job and the schoolmaster gave him a book with some short phrases printed in it—such as you could find in any tourist phrase book—and instructed F. to say them out loud. F., in his clearest and best- spoken English, did just that. “The job is yours!” the schoolmaster proclaimed as soon as F. had finished. “You start right away!” He then gestured to his right and said, “You will find your stilts over there.” F. hesitated, and felt compelled to explain that he’d never walked on stilts before. He naturally feared that the job offer would be immediately revoked. The schoolmaster, though, seemed unconcerned, and assured F. that he would be given full, step-by-step training on how to use stilts; he then handed F. a slip of paper and led his new employee around the corner, to what he called the staging area. Here F. was introduced to the vice-principal—a large, gruff-voiced man, wearing a suit two-sizes too small—who looked F. up and down doubtfully. “So you’ve found another one?” he asked the schoolmaster. “Yeah,” the schoolmaster scowled, his whole demeanor suddenly different. With a dismissive nod in F.’s direction, he added: “And make it snappy, we don’t have much time,” before turning abruptly on his heels and walking away. “Oh, he’ll be ready, don’t you worry none about that!” the vice-principal shouted to the departing schoolmaster. Without saying another word he placed a hat on F.’s head and then handed him a jacket, which F. dutifully put on. Then he grabbed F. by the arms and with a single, effortless motion raised him up to the fourth step of a stepladder. “Now stay put!” he barked, raising a stilt to each of F.’s legs and strapping him to them. As all this was going on F. became increasingly concerned that, given the man’s perfunctory manner, | 355 he might not get the step-by-step training course he’d been promised. This fear soon became reality as the vice-principal, with a hearty laugh, suddenly pulled the stepladder away. F., suddenly cast adrift, tottered around wildly on the stilts as he tried to keep his balance. “That’s the way, boy, that’s the way!” the vice-principal cried, bellowing with laughter. Indeed, to such a cold-hearted observer this scene could certainly appear comical. From F.’s point-of-view, however, it was anything but: he spent some number of minutes tottering around dangerously, once nearly getting beheaded by a clothes line stretched between two tenement buildings and another time nearly running himself through a sword being wielded by a statue of King Wenceslaus, before he finally gained enough control to make his way over to the schoolmaster. “Is he ready yet?” the schoolmaster shouted over to his vice-principal. “As ready as he’ll ever be, I reckon,” came back the gruff-voiced answer. The schoolmaster however didn’t seem impressed. Instead he looked up at F. and shouted, “So what are you doing here? Get over there with the rest of the teachers: we’re almost ready, by god!” F. had wanted to say something about the lack of training he’d been promised and about how little he’d been told about the school’s curriculum; he’d then wanted to point out the adverse effect this would have on his ability to prepare lesson plans and homework assignments for his students. But he figured that the weekly (he assumed they would be weekly) teacher’s staff meetings would be a more appropriate venue to raise such issues. So he tottered over to his colleagues and looked around for Doris. It took him some number of minutes to find her—so great was the number of teachers—and when he did so he told her that he’d been hired. “Why that’s wonderful!” she exclaimed. Then she winked at him, leaned forward and, after licking her lips salaciously, whispered in his ear, “You know, that means we’re colleagues.” This behavior surprised him. It’s true that Doris had been friendly enough with him when she’d worked at the restaurant, but she’d never been friendly in that kind of way before. It immediately occurred to F. that being a professional might bring more benefits than he he’d anticipated. Still, for the time being he didn’t pursue the matter: having never worked in a professional position before he couldn’t be certain that, unlikely though it seemed, this wasn’t the way professionals normally talked among themselves. A sudden blast of trumpets interrupted his thoughts; they were playing a fanfare and the great crowd of people that had gathered around the assembled teachers started buzzing with anticipation; it was clear that something momentous was about to happen. The schoolmaster, now standing on the balcony of one of the buildings overlooking the square, waited until the crowd had quieted down; then he made certain that he had all of his subordinates’ 356 | attention. A long moment of silence followed, full of anticipation; finally, when he’d judged that all was in good order, the schoolmaster, solemnly and with great dignity, raised a whistle to his lips and blew loudly on it. Then, and only then, did the English teachers start moving forward, slowly but surely, in a great procession. “Oh look,” Doris cried, “we’re starting! Isn’t it exciting!” F., who could barely hear her over the cheers of the crowd, shouted back his agreement. Indeed, it was difficult for him to imagine how anyone could think otherwise…
From Tajný (český) deník Fredericka Barona a jiné texty (Praha: Aequitas, 2007). | 357 358 | Robert Eversz from Gypsy Hearts
Richard Milhouse Miller, fondly nick-named Nix by his devoutly Republican father, is a young trust-fund wastrel from Southern California and a heartless romantic. After defrauding a group of Orange County dentists with a film project titled, “The Cavity of Dr Caligari,” Nix flees to Prague in hopes of redeeming himself by writing the Great American Screenplay. Instead, he cons women into sleeping with him and drinks so much he’s convinced his perpetual hangover is a brain tumor. One night he meets a woman named Monika, who claims to be of mixed Danish, Czech, and Romany blood. He falls in love.
| 359 I packed for Český Krumlov late that night. According to plan, I was to leave the next morning. Monika would take an afternoon train to prevent her brother Sven from nosing out the true purpose of her trip. We were to be gone three days. First thing, I counted out a dozen lubricated super- sensitive condoms from my drawer and tossed them into a suitcase. Call me an optimist. Then casual clothing, a book for skimming on the train, and lastly, a Hasselblad camera perfect for romantic snapshots. Just past eleven a persistent finger on the buzzer forced my eye to the peephole, where on the other side of the fish-eye lens stood Monika in a fetching black mini-dress. The prospect of early consummation trilled through my groin. “Put on your coat,” she ordered when I swung open the door. “Are we going somewhere?” “To a night club.” “But isn’t it late?” I tried to catch her in a casual embrace and maneuver both of us onto the bed, but she adroitly slipped into the entry hall. “If you don’t want to go with me, that’s okay,” she said, clearly meaning that if I didn’t go with her, I might not see her the next day in Český Krumlov. I grabbed my coat and met her outside. A taxi waited for us by the curb. I reconciled myself to the probability that I would not sleep more than a couple of hours that night. The taxi careened through streets designed for peasant carts and the occasional horseman, streets no longer than one-hundred meters laid out at oblique angles, like sticks bunched together and dropped. When the taxi sped around a corner, I took advantage of centrifugal force and leaned into her. She pushed me away but fell into my arms on the next curve. As we kissed, her hand slid up my thigh. When we kissed again lights flashed behind my closed eyes: her face an image pulled down, registered, and shot through with light twenty four times a second. Everything I knew about love came from Hollywood, as I was unable to love anyone, except vicariously, through the performance of actors on screen. Celluloid moved me in a way that flesh and blood could not. That night in the taxi I sat in the dark of my eyelids and watched a movie of myself kissing Monika. I became not only the audience, but the actor performing the scene, and the man on whom the actor based his performance—I even felt in some vague way I directed the scene. Though I’d watched myself perform before, I’d never felt the performance connect to the man, and this merging of theatrical and human identities fulfilled me in a way that I had never before experienced, not even in the sanctity of a cinema. There was something naturally theatrical about Monika, and when I contemplate why she alone has been able to awaken human feeling in me, I’m always drawn to the similarity between her and certain Nordic actresses, particularly Garbo and Bergman, who could convey with a gesture, glance 360 | or single spoken word the existence of a rich and tragic past. I envied Monika the Old World charm of having a past. I had a Los Angeles past: bulldozed, paved over, re-zoned and rebuilt to gleaming modern standards, a past pounded to dust by skyscrapers and ribboned in freeway. Every now and then when something troubled me and I didn’t quite know why, I hired an analyst to pull from my tarry depths an old bone. We cleaned it off and admired it together and guessed its meaning: the thighbone of an uncaring father, or the vertebrae of a distant mother? The truth of the archeology didn’t matter. Invent a history to give it reason. But of the immediate past, the remembered past, the un-invented past, I had none. The future continually re-invented me. When I opened my eyes again the road had widened and the taxi hurtled at great speed through a canyon of stacked concrete blocks. A light rain drew slashes across the passenger window. Squares of light gleamed in monotonous pattern beyond the glass. Squinting through the rain, I caught the blurred suggestion of laundry hanging from a balcony. “Panelaky,” Monika said. “Socialist housing for the masses.” The driver executed a dizzying combination of turns on streets identical one to the next and pulled in front of a concrete apartment building claimed to be our destination. I stepped into a landscape of tramped mud, asphalt, bits of toilet paper, broken glass and the smell of spilled beer. Rows of identical apartment blocks crumbled into the mud. Modern ruins. Monika led me to the nearest ruin and through a set of glass doors to a sepia-skinned man—I took him to be Indian or Pakistani at first glance—who demanded a hundred Czech crowns before allowing us to pass. The floor trembled with a retrogressive disco beat. “You’ve discovered an underground music club,” I guessed. “This is the culture house for Romanies,” she said. My step faltered. Concerned by my sudden sweat and paling skin, Monika asked, “Are you all right?” No. She did not say that. In my imagination she said that. She noticed nothing. I needed an excuse to stop, turn around, go back. She pulled me down a hallway lit with a single sputtering incandescent. At the end of the hall spilled a rough stream of brown skin and black hair. My glance darted from one half-obscured face to the next, searching for a familiar hook of nose or twisting brow, any prominent feature to aid recognition of the Gypsies with whom I exchanged my counterfeit bills. How was it possible that Monika, who seemed to know everything, did not notice that I was turning to stone? She led me into an auditorium muddied by cigarette smoke. A hundred men and perhaps fifty women sat at cheap cafeteria-style tables or danced at the opposite end. The moment I entered the room the men began to whisper mouth to ear and the women to stare in my direction. Monika claimed two chairs at the back wall, asked what I wanted to drink, and when I stuttered | 361 out my answer merged into the crowd at the bar. As the only non-Gypsy in the room, I was watched by everyone; those few not looking directly at me watched in the expressions of those who were. I resisted the urge to glance wildly about, looking for the face that would recognize me, shout an accusation in a language I had no hope of understanding, and in that crowded room begin my dismemberment. I took slow deep breaths of second-hand smoke. No-one could possibly recognize me. I took precautions when changing bills. Baseball cap, jeans, tennis shoes, map in hand and camera strapped around my neck; a perfect caricature of the American tourist. Dressed that night in Armani herringbone sport-coat and black slacks, I bore no resemblance to that other creature. It occurred to me I was staring too long at my hands, clenched together on the table. I glanced around. Naturally everyone noticed and immediately looked away, so that it appeared no-one was watching me. A good front was all. I must pretend confidence. I smiled. The man next to me huddled over a mug of beer. His teeth looked like a line of infantry decimated by machine-gun fire. He looked my way. I held onto my smile. He measured me in sections, like a butcher might a cut of meat, and sunk his ruined teeth into the head of his beer. I shouldn’t smile, I decided. Monika set my drink on the table, a double- Scotch on the rocks, and said she wanted to dance. “Here?” “If you don’t want to, I can dance by myself.” Monika alone on the dance floor would be dangerous provocation. The DJ played a song by Queen, the most popular group in Prague that year, though most of the natives were happily ignorant of the slang meaning of the group’s name. Where were the fiddles, the slashing dancers in peasant skirts or shiny chinos, the raging fire, the bottles of wine; in short, where were the Gypsy Kings? The young men affected the Western look of jeans and button down shirts, the young women mini-skirts, dark hose and floral print blouses, and together they danced the same amorphous disco found all over the world. Their sartorial style varied little from one individual to the next, as if a group decision had been made to adopt that particular veneer of Western culture, with variations unacceptable. I shuffled my feet and bobbed my head and tried to keep close to Monika, who could not sway her hips in any way not charged with sexual invitation. The men watched her like hungry prisoners smelling meat beyond the bars. The women looked like they wanted to poison her. I was mostly ignored. “You’ve been here before?” I shouted above the music. “Several times.” We returned to the table, where I bolted my Scotch. Monika said, “The men here are different from the Czechs. They’re violent, and violence interests me.” 362 | “Why?” “Because death interests me.” I normally considered death obsessions evidence of an arrested adolescence. My normal perceptions never applied to Monika. Just as her every gesture held profound meaning, her brooding over death seemed instead proof of a tragic nature. “I don’t think I’ll live to be thirty,” she said. “Nonsense. You’ll live to seventy.” “But I don’t want to live to seventy. I don’t want to be old. I don’t want plans. I don’t want a job, family, pension. In my family, the past is death. The future is death. That leaves only the moment.” Monika took my face in her hands and kissed me. I could taste the melancholy on her lips and traced along the dolphin surfaces of her tongue a delight in personal tragedy. Monika seemed as much in love with her history as bound to it. I closed my eyes and drank as much of her as I could. “Burroughs said kissing someone is like sucking on a thirty foot tube at the end of which is a sack of shit.” The comment snapped our lips apart. Her brother smiled down at us as though his comment had been a joke, but I sensed nothing well-meaning in his display of teeth. He set two glasses of amber fluid onto the table and sat across from me. “You drink Scotch?” I looked at the glass, not knowing if I should accept. “Monika knows I hate this club. That’s how I knew you’d be here tonight. Monika has these people in her blood, from her mother. Me, I’m one-hundred percent Danish. You ever read Burroughs?” “You mean the guy who wrote Naked Lunch? Saw the movie.” “What about Bukowski?” “Sure. Mickey Rourke in Barfly. I didn’t think you were the type to read.” “Sven writes. Poetry,” Monika explained. I couldn’t have been more surprised had I learned an ape could dance a polonaise. It appeared Sven was a brute with a sensitive soul. I asked, “Publish anything?” “That’s what I like about you. Straight to the point. Am I successful. Do I make money. Not as much as screenwriters, I can tell you that much. All the poetry in Europe combined doesn’t pay as well as one Hollywood screenplay. Come on, drink up. I’ll make a toast.” I picked up the glass, expecting a cruel joke or insult. “To my sister.” Innocent enough. I drank. The Scotch tasted rough and bitter. Some swill of a bar brand, distilled anywhere but Scotland. Sven drained his to the clear bottom of his glass and asked, “Have you fucked her yet?” Monika said, “Don’t do this to me, Sven.” | 363 “He should know. That’s his right. He should know the risk he’s taking.” I downed the last of the Scotch, fought the urge to bolt from the table, smiled at Sven as though sincerity could win him over. I said, “The way Monika and I feel about each other, it isn’t just sex.” “You’re not going away together.” “We’re leaving tomorrow,” Monika said. “You know what happens to the men you go away with.” “Nothing happens. Nothing at all.” Sven stuck a cigarette between his lips and struck a match. The light seared into my cerebrum. I rubbed my eyes, fighting a precipitous and inappropriate fatigue. Sven smiled at me, pleased about something. “She told you about her family, I’m sure. That romantic story of everyone dying young and tragic. It’s all true. Everybody around Monika comes to a bad end, except me.” “You shouldn’t listen to him,” she warned. “He gets like this whenever someone is interested in me. He just wants to scare you.” “Did she tell you about the terrible luck of her boyfriends? They always seem to meet with accidents. They fall off things. Get hit by cars or trains or buses. Cops find them in alleyways, robbed and beaten, sometimes stabbed.” “Every time I meet someone, you come out with these crazy stories.” “He needs to know the truth. It’s only fair he should know the risk he’s taking.” “You’re being a bore.” “I’m sure she told you she has death in her past, and death in her future. It’s my feeling she overplays that part. Too melodramatic, even for Hollywood.” “You’re not supposed to say that.” “You started to care for this one a little more than the last ones.” Monika rose from the table and nearly pulled Sven off his chair. “I need to talk to you, alone. Now.” Lethargy seeped like anesthesia into the nerves lacing my brain. My vision began to blur. I said, “Monika.” She turned to me and when I looked at her it was like looking at glass. “I’ll be back in five minutes,” she said. Monika’s black mini-dress vanished in the crowd. I thought about getting up to follow, but I couldn’t convince my legs to support the weight. It seemed that I was suddenly and horribly drunk. I cradled my head in my hands to keep it from dissolving. In the distance, I saw myself sitting alone at a table surrounded by Gypsies, and the figure that was me kept getting smaller, as did the Gypsies, until I could no longer distinguish myself from 364 | the others. We were all diminishing together, a dot surrounded by darkness that promptly extinguished to darkness itself.
Some time later, the brutality of individual consciousness returned. I blinked the grit from my eyes to a diffuse, gray light. A few minutes before dawn. My face lay flattened against a pebbly surface, the rest of my body twisting behind in the unnatural angles of a bomb-blast victim. A sour-smell of puddle at my lips connected to a memory of vomiting. I rolled onto my back. The movement unloosed nausea and pain. I crouched on hands and knees and retched a spidery gruel. When breath returned I stood on trembling legs and attempted to hang memory to the hook on which I had awakened. I had spent the night amid a cluster of garbage cans. My Armani coat was gone, and with it my wallet. I felt pockets. My keys were missing. A circle and band of bare skin chilled my wrist where a watch had been. I had been stripped like a corpse of my shoes. I dimly recalled the previous night’s altercation with Sven, and the horror of being too drunk to remain conscious. I walked cautiously to the nearest street. The ground was intolerably hard and cold and studded with broken glass. I had no idea where I was. Some housing estate on the outer circle of the city. The communist architects had cleverly flanked the neighborhood with facing mirrors, which reflected ad infinitum the same littered pavement and block of concrete buildings. I tried to read a street sign, and could make no more sense of it than a bowl of alphabet soup from which all the vowels had been eaten. I saw neither dog, taxi nor human being. Nothing moved on the streets at that hour except stray bits of wind-blown paper. I walked on, certain by the dreary sameness I walked circles. Eventually, I crossed parallel grooves cut down the length of a street. I followed the grooves to a sign-post, and soon after that the first tram of the morning rattled to a stop at my feet. I crawled into the seat at the rear of the car and fixed my gaze out the window to avoid the stares of those boarding at subsequent stops. I did not think about what happened to me. I let my mind go willfully blank.
From Gypsy Hearts (New York: Grove Press, 1997).
| 365 366 |
Vincent Farnsworth & Gwendolyn Albert. Tábor, 1994. Vincent Farnsworth dalek bird poem
an orange hummingbird landed on the hand of an orangutang and became an opposable thumb canadian geese fly at ten thousand feet this is appreciated and they get sucked into jet engines the turbines rarely cough meanwhile back on land lies | 367 a wing with the bones sticking out but the city hasn’t killed all the good birds even the sparrows will have an interesting stripe if you hold very still in the garden one might get close enough to see what it’s really like when you hold still the ancient stone stairs are worn concave which shows every step and beating of a wing or heart or gums makes a difference as if we have a choice pigeons shit all over everything people curse in many languages yell guano bravo author the world becomes coated and hidden with words the terrible mistake of language the only thing worse is fluency it is not song singing is light of illumination of light is singing of a world existing with a different consistency
the bird without the wing singing all the way down singing all the way down in one fell swoop I fell I am falling I have good balance but I have fallen I am going to fall again I was about to fall when I will fall I was going to fall I have good balance though long ago I made an appointment to fall someday 368 |
First published in RealPoetik (1995). not long (after Creeley)
the palms were slaughtered everyone turned into animals and jumped overboard washed up and dug holes in the sand that continue to fill with water and we bailed buckets of fish schematics and globs of loaves, descended the here of the hole filling with the there of the sea as found in the oxford english dictionary some old norse link but nothing more than the meaning which is elementary pothead revelation everywhere you go there you are yet even if you’re not going anywhere and the bud’s worn off | 369 the oscillation continues as more pothead everywhere in the emptying distance everyone jumped, washed that bailed fish scrubbed vanishing points better left unpainted distance comparison turned overboard their going off continues disoriented in the orient dude in a jeep there’s no front there and what am I doing here behind enemy lines I should be home filling my quota of shitty things the ones we all got to do before coming off old and nice not driving burning tires the smell obscuring our vision sweat of my palms on the wheel our entire crew is slaughtered and we continue on to the next island
First published in Exquisite Corpse: Cyber Corpse 4 (2000). They Have Arrived
the microscopic orbiter he injected to fix his consciousness with a little psycho-surgery went bad, started strafing vehicles on neural highways and he had to poke into that blue vein something even smaller that will also have its own plan
370 | amerika’s top forty
rubber frying; on the stove, emotions stretch between two people like a taffy pull or a murder (plot.) lies allowed; in love and war, and unreasonable demands in fact if you pursue love you might get war, or if the fascists shoot tear gas we will cry (softly) anyways. how many doors are there to heaven? (360) three hundred and sixty heavens and would you know my name if I saw you in heaven 3-5-2 from 1-9-8 with a | 371 rubber airplane frying; on the stove? your lips are a spark and I have a mouth full of ashy gunpowaer: (underwater) you are a walking charge card and I am drunken bought and soiled underwear you are trying to return for a cash refund. guarantee; whatever I said I regret it. looking at the lipsticky wineglass— I probably did; do something wrong. we’ll put on your music next time (that crap). babyface (getting) old: you made me make myself all made up. if in your goulash you come across some menudo; intestine, just chew and chew like I do a rubberband man frying on the stove. Out Dying on the Vine
out dying on the vine my soul fell off from another cluster a grape not wanting to be wine I watched as bemused as a Venezuelan president couldn’t help choking up the fresh pita thumbs up on a luckless hitchhike gathered a storm of information but it just drizzled my spirit merged with the mist where past and future laugh I knew I was through and said so everyone was relieved 372 | said Funny how I keep existing everyone agreed
First published in Exquisite Corpse: Cyber Corpse 13 (Winter 2003). she disappeared during a trip
she disappeared during a trip, they stayed together, I understood the language, we decided the boat went to the semiwatery horizon and ripples like in shiny clay swirled and the boat seemed to go down into the absurd funnel, the inside was or wasn’t beautiful for the witnesses are missing and silent she undisappeared but one half of her people never knew because they died, they stayed not together and unrelated people knew, | 373 I understood a different language and a continent imperceptibly changed, we thought we decided but minds don’t grasp like hands, in fact: I made up my mind but from the outside no one could tell
First published in RealPoetik (1995). Spring
sun essence hangs in sheets shredding through my mental dumpling slicer into makeshift bandages on mortality tourniquet me baby see the red soak headlong we go many a man in no-man’s land many a widow on widow’s peak with loose lips, rose hips and acres of corn harvested by thought and miles of limes subsumed by minds and square kilometers of round watermelons devastated by a child’s question sunlight the tablecloth on blackhole table saying a message for the differently-abled a communication between strawberry and mold from the front lines of the revolving door 374 | of a cycle that must sigh and kill sprung forward like jack out of idiot box 1 2 3 war is a crime so I only bleed for peace
First published in Big Bridge 14 (2008/9). twenty years of No Future
I’ve seen Lux Interior come out in gold with a bottle down the front of his lamé and yanking the almost-empty accidentally pry out his dick saying Love Me, Love Me
What else Jello Biafra, a nylon stocking stretched over his face bleating about the toast of Reaganism buttered with | 375 dead rock stars and the legendary stench of their bipartisan recording studios before a riot at the Democratic convention in San Francisco set off by the very plainclothes police he had just identified by their tie dye this is even to Gary Numan being the real cripple creaking inside his car, not fake twanging but in an epoch marksalot message of pearls before teenyboppers for Last Will of KAL-X in Berkeley slathering the ruptures in his part of america with the sanity of unpredictable music, and to all of KFJC in Los Altos Hills playing Louie sixty hours of Louie
to Mudhoney to Mudhoney the Cramps that saved my life the Fall that still and stills the piles of the Butthole Surfers the Thinking Fellers Union Local 282 slicing horns of plenty amperage into hors d’oeuvre-ish ectoplasmic chunks sprinkling Alien Sex Fiend and Alice Donut rubbing together in the vibrating bootleg record bins of El Cajon, California 376 | Big Stick carried me through the Grenadan invasion Einsturzende Neubauten vomiting up the deutsche id like so many Bollock Brothers tinkering with the Sex Pistols
this is to Johnny Rotten’s canceled San Diego radio interview because he wouldn’t sign a promise not to speak his own language
crawling from the Rorshach mess of Flipper to Will Shatter choosing death over posing and the Fastbacks’ slam mandala descending in the whirlpool of subconscious history to Pixies’ screaming reminder of caribou and suburban body counts while Kim Deal smirked and planned and Poison Ivy eyed the hole in her fishnets while channeling Link Ray through high input A
Dave Thomas of Père Ubu his the sounds a housewife makes when she’s alone or the last thoughts of a sentimental rummy watching his legs swell
Gang Of Four knowing they were alone | 377 Exene deciding it’s not worth it all the unheard music, electrified snails in a salt of corporate control and hippie nostalgia and the one and the same this is stains seeping into shapes someone mistakes for their messiah the blessed mother statue crying tears just spat over a pew, from the pit for stains seeping Psychic TV, the kindness and logic of utter alteration
refusing to mourn or scoff at Kurt Cobain finally doing it
this is to no one but Lydia Lunch inventing possessing and destroying fucking until a radiance glows out of her skin and her dancing hands return to us the language of the saints this is the present of Lydia Lunch
this is light rays, rage against the t-shirt machine, a chuckle at the poison— 378 | corporate, governmental voluntary, human natural church sponsored, music videoed computer enhanced alternative for sale for free force-fed unavoidable moving to cover the globe:
there is something molten under fearsome over this is to the mixture of human spirit and electromagnetism occasionally sparking fingers of electricity crawling along a floor reaching nothing but glimpsed kept transferred home taping samizdat tamizdat finally these are just smudges on the wall from ashes stolen off the cremation smears spelling No Future twenty years of No Future and counting
First published in Exquisite Corpse: Cyber Corpse 4 (2000).
| 379 Years of Reprieve
I kept my dog in the dogfight even after all his skin was torn off. He looked like a raw neck of a shrink-wrapped supermarket chicken, the neck with legs. The sound he made was like there’s screaming in the next room, someone getting raped by a half dozen soldiers and you can’t do anything about it. It goes on for hours. Maybe if you make a sound they will discover you and you’ll be part of it too, you’ll get raped and tortured too or if you’re a man you’ll have to rape someone’s bloodied screaming mother. The sound my dog made seemed like that, to be everywhere. On the long tram ride into town every day I read smatterings of great literature and over the years it had made me hypersensitive. Prague is in teetering balance between the kind and the cruel, the absurd and the mundane, the ugly and the gorgeous, and so the worst place to be that way. Seeing the kid smoking on the stoop holding back tears, passed by countless blithe dachshunds and their owners, would hurt my stomach. The tourists asking for directions would become my personal responsibility until they ditched me as a some sort of con artist. All the deliriously numbed faces 380 | on the metro orchestrated together into a symphony of hopelessness, an unheard explosion of cause every moment. The literature thing led to poetry readings and little magazines and booksignings. At one an old poet, a crone from Colorado, read something that conveyed a different angle of the world, one I thought I recognized. So I talked to her afterwards and we went walking, ambled through the streets and ended up in a huge park with ponds, Stromovka, in the middle of the night. We couldn’t see anything, there was fog and darkness and no lights and just these frogs croaking all around us and the sound of a distant wedding and she told me to do this, put my own dog in the dogfights and I’d be cured. There’s really no story. Everyone knows someone who does things semi- illegal, residence permits or drugs, and that person buys them from someone, and that person knows men who run the whorehouses and they know where the dogfights are. These men crowded around me with my dog in my arms and laughed and spoke Czech, Russian and German. They were not literary. It was in a building by the racetrack. Before that I couldn’t accept it, couldn’t live day to day in the truth that this world, all over, can be without a moment’s notice ruthless, violent and unjust, and you have to protect yourself to the utmost. Depending where you live you can have years of reprieve but that’s all it is. One of their friends took me on as his project, showed me things, told me how it was going to go. He was half Indian and half Lebanese and had only been in the country for three months. He seemed satisfied in not being the newcomer, for once to instruct and tell instead of being instructed and told. Or maybe he wanted something. A really nice guy who really wants to pick your pocket. The dog I’d had for three years. From a puppy. It would sit by the table when I ate and stare and thump his tail on the ground. His fur was white with tan patches and was very soft. He was a dog. There’s really no story. When we wrestled on the ground he’d act like a maniac attack dog but without really biting. When left alone he’d lie on his back and act like maniac attack dog to his tail, twisting around in funny ways with funny sounds. I didn’t really see what happened. I was talking to my special friend and everyone surged forward and when I got to the pit my dog was looking like that. Maybe they skinned it before they threw it in. He said “Do you want to stop it?” with a funny look that might’ve been glee. When I walked home some of the streets were wet like the water trucks had come by and hosed everything down. I misjudged a wall and brushed hard against a crumbling brick corner, and though my jacket wasn’t damaged my arm was bleeding underneath it. A smashed bird was on the ground. I carried my jacket and started approaching people on the streets, showing them my scraped arm, asking them what it meant. You can’t really stare at yourself, even in the mirror. You always see something else. If you have a nightmare and think of the things in it, mull | 381 it over and over, that’s like staring at yourself without seeing yourself. Then you can stare into your fridge and see yourself. I knew someone once who had a nightmare that he’d lost his hands, they’d been cut off, and he was walking and holding his own hands in his hands. He knew this was impossible so he would look down and see his bloody stumps. But then as he kept walking he’d feel his hands holding this missing hands. When he woke up he kept looking at his hands. For a couple hours he acted freaked, huddling around wherever we went with his arms crossed in the Summer sun. He didn’t act like he normally did, like most guys I know act. They get it from acting like rap stars or famous athletes, or something in between. He acted kind of disturbed but also just quiet, thinking. I think he was acting like himself. He was looking at the roofs of everything, the tiles, the steeples, he sat in the Kampa Park on the wall by the river, where the water flows loudly over the weirs. He asked me what’s my favorite word. I said “hostile.” He laughed and couldn’t stop laughing. He didn’t seemed disturbed anymore. I didn’t see him for a month and he hardly remembered the dream when I brought it up. I had to remind him. “Oh yeah, that’s right.” He was being jocular again. We walked along and a drunk woman came by us and silently pretended to punch me, her mouth twisted. Someone else was holding onto a pole but standing away from it, with her head tilted at an angle like she was reading a poster glued up sideways, and then she tilted it a little more and her body shook like a strong wind was blowing and she fell over onto the sidewalk. One of the numerous vomit splats was in our way so we turned around. A huge pile of brand new cobblestones was there near the Lennon wall and I wanted to build something, set them up into a pyramid, but I was afraid of being arrested. I told him how I planned from now on to carry a knife, in a sheath on my belt always ready. We were back in Kampa Park, open again because there were no more demonstrations. He had a look on his face like he was going to say “Why?” but then some kittens ran by. You never see cats in Prague. He said “C’mon!” and chased after them. When I caught up he had cornered one in a nook between the Jim Morrison and Kurt Cobain walls. I said “you better look out those things are totally wild.” He said he wasn’t going to hurt it. He grabbed it and the thing made a noise that was not cat- or animal-like at all. It was more like a buzz saw and looked like one too, just a blur. He yelled “Ow!” and the cat ran up his shoulder and jumped off, up to the top of the wall and sped along it. A bunch of ravens attacked it and it jumped down the other side. He had fang marks in his hand and scratches on his neck. The punctures didn’t bleed much at all which I thought was a bad sign. My vision was crystal clear like it always is when I drink and I could see two giant eyeballs 382 | on top of the National Theater, looking to and fro, watching nothing. The fang bite holes were turning purple. I told him if I had the knife we could slice it and suck the poison out. I saw he liked the word suck. He was getting ready to say something. I decided to take my drunken nighttime walks by myself from now on. This boy was like unbaked dough getting stale. I didn’t want to wait for the mold. My dog would’ve liked this knife, the shiny spot of reflection on the wall it makes, would’ve chased it around and jumped. A silver UFO or the flying pig for a Czech Christmas. But my friend didn’t want it near her baby. They were opposites, the giant knife with it’s serrated edge and the baby, soft spot on its head. During the birth the opposites met, it was a Cesarean. Opposites met to make the baby too, during the sex. Opposites constantly meet, slam into each other. Matter hits antimatter when I close my eyes. I’d always wanted a baby but now I was choosing this knife. In that way they were the same, they were potential. I don’t even know if the knife’s legal. It’s almost impossible to tell what’s legal in Prague. Could those brass knuckles in the display case really be legal? The streetwalkers in front of the police station on Uhelník? The managers of collapsing banks who retire millionaires? Nobody knows. People shrug. At first I kept the knife in its sheath on my belt right where I could grab it. I’d practice drawing it out quickly, carving the air, slashing the tree in my walled minigarden in the courtyard. I fought off attackers in my mind, repelled invasions of my minigarden. When I heard any noise on the other side of the wall, or some pigeon flew into the courtyard, I would pretend to yell “This is my land!” and whip out my knife. Then I just wore it on my side, sometimes it was covered by my sweater, then when I didn’t use a belt I just put it in my bag. It was in the bottom of my bag and when I switched bags I forgot about it. My friend asked me to watch her baby for just an hour and a half so she could go to her winter sauna. Now that it was a bit older. It was nicer than when it was newborn. It just slept in its babyclothes in the toasty new apartment by the radiator under the windows. I stood and watched its little closed eyes, tiny nails on its little hands. The tin roof on a shed out the window looked like my old knife. The baby looked smaller. The tin roof was just like the metal from my knife and the infant was getting smaller like I could hold it in one hand. If I reached out the other hand and held it in front of the shed’s roof it looked like I had a knife in my hand and when I held my other hand towards the baby it was like the baby was in my hand, stockinged head poking up. I stood there between the two with my arms out, looking back and forth, between the impossible innocent softness of the baby and the knife roof world, and realized I was in perfect balance. I was the meeting of perfect opposites. I could just stay this way.
| 383 First published in the PLR 1.2 (July, 2003). 384 |
Photo: Karel Cudlin Sylva Fischerová
Mothers
Mothers are always true— beside their dogs, their lamps and scissors where fate’s carpet lies and adult children like paintings on large plates. Mother has one eye like a cyclops and the world’s full of dangers, ants crawling all over. | 385 Mummy, there was no Troy, but many of us didn’t return.
Inside the Description
Safety-lamp Genius small tomatoes in the garden all those little observations: while the bus stopped for red lights five leaves fell from a tree. Inside the description there’s a void nobody’s territory waiting for the army marching from Vienna: Napoleon Wellington Suvorov how they drink from their flasks!
Behind them, on the air, 386 | Columbus’s ships afloat the admiral writes to the king: Everything there was extremely beautiful, grass as in Andalusia in April, and birds so numerous and so gorgeous it is impossible to say, however I hurried along to look for gold for your Majesties...
Here it is: gold, silver, diamond “Night Star” all this living in the moment that we step around like a dead cat servants in cowls living at the foot of the castle pecking at corn, gourmets safety-lamp Genius blinking, signaling Come in The Language of the Fountains
I was holding a mirror in my hands for you, and the ends of your shaved beard floated in the soapy water, little, everyday deaths. The epochs stuck together like veneer to wood, tight and precise, with a breath between by which a monster changes into a genius, and the cafeteria’s windows into mirrors, in front of which the dumb goblins learn to speak, to score a defeat. A defeat of a nation. And of all dead languages. The era of quotation marks has begun: a double mockery at the ideas inflated inside them. But the salt statues still stand by the Dead Sea, | 387 there’s still Jerusalem, Athens, Rome, still someone lives in Prague speaking Yiddish— and memory, sister to self, sister of sin, and guide to the saved leads us back to our own destruction. Here the cafeteria’s a church for smokers! Defeat’s a beer. Cowardice a bridge into time, and whoever knows a thing about time will tell of even a God— will answer God, that hole inside him the coloured nooses of history fall from. And the rich and powerful fit nice and tight… Who will tell of the dead children on the trembling sands of history? Who will see—will hear the language of the fountains, sweet, predictable as a throw of dice? Who will speak of all the dead children on the trembling sands of history… This Century Blossoms Black and Green
We’re all just an image of an era, solution to its equation. And in the era’s frame, again that masquerade of death, that doll with wooden legs who blindly, smoothly like a dancer, leads us towards a place where leaves don’t fall, there’s no spring, summer, autumn or winter— as in this province of the world, history, spirit, where the equation isn’t solved, but everything’s its solution, ready in advance, because arithmetic’s been invented by someone, who wanted to chase after false results! And you, you thought that memory’s the tree of life, you scrambled against time, wanted to break through, where presence 388 | grows like a graft from eternity. You wanted to see the right hawthorn. This century blossoms black and green. In the evening the dark mists of technology and alcohol, of Treblinka and pollen from rustic apple trees, rise from it… Hope like a billiard ball wobbles in the air. And parents have sent their boy over the hill to see a prophet on the white throne, who won’t tell him why he was born. He’ll say he doesn’t know… Dear mourners will eat the stag with cranberries, their mouths greasy, missing the letters on their foreheads like the Prague Golem, God took them away, because He got angry with them. Who Makes History
Who has grief and who has sorrow? Who has a thousand years of woe?
—Impossible to sleep with the roaring crowds of the elected They pound on the gate The glass of air shatters Seconds pour out and History phosphoresces in the flash of battles when time’s just stuffing for the funeral guilds How eagerly the brothers drink from their immense steins! And heads empty, a gutted field of lost battles
History phosphoresces, through the loopholes | 389 you can see statues of mustard, statues of tears pounding on the gate, crying: History’s made by evil people! crunching their lunch Fate’s a lunch a brunch Fate’s overcrunched!
Who makes history? Human inconsistency makes history Time makes history see how it spits its time-killing liquors into throats knotted in the clouds of self like footnotes notes under the foot of the universe, and of free will, meaning guilt, mine as well as yours! Road to Nowhere
We were silent in the trams passing by yards fenced in grooved metal our heads a seething pharmacy of bad intentions and good ideas on the road to nowhere. There was the Temple of Technology made of newspapers, its windows millboard, the tower of matches, and an altar of Industry all alcohols poured down from— The Angels of Odd floated in the air, drinking vodka, biting into the incense of revolution. 390 | It smelled like the end of the holiday. Is this a man? Is this a God?
But still, poetry lived there, shedding from the pale intestines of the city. We ran after her, a pack of desperates and expectants—
scraping through the ravine of an umbel time,— behind the words, where you’re burned out, bathed, forever branded, and from the brand all questions rise! The Blind
There’s nothing for Lie to gain but itself how you walk among its houses in ruins its forests of words and pauses
Lie floats on trembling sands like a snake eating its own tail till it finds itself back at the beginning
There’s a chessboard with the pieces refigured: the king’s a bishop, the queen a rook, the knight’s on foot So Lie reaches under the table pulls out a Man, a Woman, | 391 and puts them before the Father of Lie on a high throne Behind him stands Treachery: a new piece with a red jaw The throne’s built of the eyes of those he deluded and blind men and women walk the world one from another, to another, the chessboard’s interwoven with fine threads of cries the blind hold onto so they can move on Draft in the Head, Draft in the World
And still, trying to find a changeable synthesis in a world built of scraps, discrete, separated images of a filmstrip. Oh, those enterprising carcasses in machina mundi! Oh, that smoke, from the factory of dark pap! Deep craters of crying!
There’s a draft in the head, draft in the world. “How can you speak of liberty if you have any memory?” the man said heading to the pub, “At the Pork Rib,” to balance humility and self-love, let the sands quietly, intangibly move the dunes in his heart— there was silence inside, 392 | silence.
There’s a draft in the head, in the world in a mixed day, confused cocktail of smells, gestures, words— “We seek the unconditional and always find just conditions.” Compound the puzzle, catch sight of uncreated light, through a window of an icon, a window of the other, catch sight of Jesus.
There’s a draft in the head, in the world, twisted like a question mark from mash for the masses— And you said in the morning, at the kitchen table: “If I were a protozoon I could stand it soon.” Merciful Madonna, one distinct line on her face spread her smile out at the world— at me: “So let you go, let you go.”
Translated by the author and Stuart Friebert. From The Swing in the Middle of Chaos (Newcastle upon Tyne: Bloodaxe Books, 2010).
| 393 394 | David Freeling Eulogy
Dearly beloved this here is the thing here it is in a nutshell the thing grew out of an old sandbox. It was born and lived in Prague. It fed on cheese, pie and ripped jeans. The thing got big.
The thing found you sleeping on subways, or eating salad out of plastic bags and tweaked your ears. The thing caught you in crumpled late night corners | 395 and got you off your ass. It made you dance.
You couldn’t photograph the thing if you tried. They tried.
The thing recognized its constituents and you were it. It devoured people and incorporated. But it also shunned. It was selective. The thing multiplied.
The thing was a friend to the friendless an enigma to mystery seekers and a bane to those who scorned it.
Spectators misguessed the thing. They called it an automobile or gravy train. Finally they accused it of stealing from children and donning hats from the grave. The thing floated outside bedroom windows, gray figure with a black cloak. It had lots of good drugs. It hung out in cheap bars it stayed out late and was rarely seen in the morning. Sometimes the thing lurked over your back 6 days a week. Sometimes it had nothing to do. It sat fat in the comfy chair and twiddled its ugly thumbs driving people to lassitude.
They don’t know how the thing escaped.
Hungry poets gave chase took flashlights to the mist and leapt about for its coattails.
The thing was the great unirivited guest. It showed up where there was somewhere to show. It was vain. The thing crashed parties at the castle. 396 | It slipped past bouncers.
When doctors were sent in they prodded the thing with 10 foot poles scratched their chins and pronounced heart failure but could do little more.
This confounded the experts and baffled rookies.
Last came the pundits. And while the thing slipped off to make its own verdicts, they said the verdict was in.
Well, ladies and gentlemen I know only one thing and there it is.
First published in Optimism Monthly 7 (December/Janurary 1995-6). Last Words, Café Colubris, Prague, November 4, 1996
When I arrived, The old bridge was scaffolded traffic detoured mail rerouted.
I needed to cross that bridge. I needed a thousand beginnings I couldn’t bear.
*
This sweet and sour, loveless summer that never came the Yankees were gonna win the pennant in six time zones and me and T | 397 were reminiscing anything but sports and history anything but waiting in the church beneath the pub.
*
Three hours till departure a man smokes his last, suits up, keeps scores, saves some, ships some, buries some…
Once when time was less, (incidents more) people dotted the land, postmen delivered hard cash, and knowing a person who’s traveled can rest anywhere, I peed atop the Winged Victory Statue, picked the Buddha’s nose, tweaked the turban of Emperor Osman, kicked pebbles into Athena’s excavation all the while digging home…
*
T asks, What are you giving away? Where are those ideas I lent you?
*
The boat is a me-shaped log hollowed like my head broken with wine. I disseminate photocopies of my ticket wondering, Is each a poem?
T presses the stress in my spine 398 | and labels it all misplaced. The body grinds bone into bone. If I’m not gonna have a life, I say, I at least want my own space not to live it in.
*
When I arrived, a government toppled, a town was shaken by its roots a bridge observed how cities took shape, going up ten percent a year. A bridge may withhold depending how much ground you need it to cover.
First published in Optimism Monthly 20 (June 1997). Back, left to right: Julie Ashley, Alan Ward, Nicole Achs, Shannon McCormick, David Freeling, Lacy (Eckl) McCormick. Front: Tim Simmons, Kate Fitzpatric. Photo from Julie Ashley’s camera. | 399 Book launch for Lukáš Tomin’s Kye at the Globe, 1997. Louis Armand, Drew Duckworth, Marek Tomin, Ewald Murrer, Kryštof Zeman. Photo: Kevin Blahut. 400 |
Photo: Jim Ziegler Jim Freeman Thinking Me
Did you think me into wakefulness from there? While I was here in the midst of dreams? Time zones playing games against our psychic energy
A thought ran through your day to intervene in my night The rain has stopped | 401 its end the noisiness of sudden silence and it brings me full awake
Was it raining where you are and did it stop? Muddy Water
I dreamed I was floating in a tank of literary agents Murky shadows darting under me Surfacing from time to time for air and money And giving me the old fish eye
402 | Setting Fire to my Life
Setting fire to my life, the spark of discontent flares a tinder of broken promises and dreams A roaring blaze, consuming yesterday throws all too little heat and not much light Flames lick, shadows dance against the wall
It needed to burn out and settle down, this fire Needed to fall in upon itself in showers of sparks turning much that’s gone to powdered ash floating up, to drift away in spirals on the breeze Leaving just a hidden core of warm red coals
The embers will last, maybe until morning when new breath blows them softly into life feeding smaller twigs to a more modest blaze Lower flames, more capable of heat and light Enough, at least, to make the morning coffee | 403
It’s come to that, the things I need to know Strong coffee and the squint of morning sun An honest taste and promise of another day Reflections from inside myself and all outdoors Learning who I am, how to love myself again
It’s taken far too long and too much pain shared by those who cared for me and lost their friend and lover to a mindless pile of things and stuff and heaps of promises Now burned and blown away, well gone
There’s something here worthwhile to know Reason to blow those embers into life again Who can tell, when second chances come if it’s really worth the cost of all the burning But the gamble’s taken, setting fire to my life Just Another Kid
He was born part of a profit structure Breast fed, when she remembered Her milk laced with heroin he cried away his hunger and habit
Solitary by the age of five, learning the cunning of hunted animals, the art of not being seen, untrusting any touch Eyes withheld from everything that hurts
A shadow life at ten, mixing darker shades that slip down stairwells, dank with piss Running with survivors, edging away bold, when boldness is the only hope
Dealing, stealing, reeling at fifteen, his shoes 404 | a badge of honor in a dishonored life Father to his own son, born of a nameless girl Continuing the heritage of no heritage
Dead at sixteen, no major news event Uncomprehending the history he’s left at the bottom of a stairwell, blood and broken glass Just another kid and life and death move on Big Boats
Big boats and big horses alike The same feel between the legs of rising power, eagerness Galloping across watery fields this animate thing held in the hands rolls and plunges under me, alive
A forty footer, close hauled and flying Rail down in green water, she hisses and wind hisses back from the shrouds Shoulders braced against her wheel leg out, to ride the thrust of sloping deck so like a shying thoroughbred
The wind is unpredictable, untame It lies peaceful and grazing, head down then pricks its ears, neck swinging up | 405 to snort, reminding who has power who merely holds the reins, sits deep in its roiling watery saddle, waiting
Then we’re off and hunting horns sound sliding into blue green troughs and rearing A bridle full of halyards, lines snapped taut she’s breathing hard, this bloodline carries years of careful breeding She knows her way to the finish, running free
Wanting only a quiet word, a restraining hand stretched along her neck, trimming sheets to show respect for all these animated forces No patience now for faulty horsemanship Bring her close to the wind and heel her over Big boats need their head to bring you home 406 |
Photo: Lucia Nimcová Róbert Gál from Agnomia
Three young female artists present their projects. One of them, a famous photographer of the rediscovered theme of female bodies comes with a collection of paper boxes in which some idea is always intricately glued, as if it were a jack-in-the-box or cuckoo clock. I sit at a table with this photographer in the sort of timeless space a café describes and I let her spill her waves of acute anxiety on me—this anxiety owing to the fact that one of her colleagues is nearly her identical twin. She describes her, detail-by-detail, with utmost concerned. “Young, beautiful, passionate. A tough one in pursuing her goals.” “Just like you,” I say. “Yes, you’re right,” she answers and breaths out slightly. I head off to the old dingy building of a former train station. I enter | 407 a pub, it’s a complete dive, at the bottom of the price category. Right at the entry there are a few steps down, which must be taken ritually—every newcomer is thoroughly and silently measured by watchful pairs of eyes. The tension between the regulars and me is nearly unbearable and yet I continue straight to the bar. I ask for a beer and sit down at a little table set strategically right beside the bar, shielded from possible attacks of invisible regulars. They are slowly becoming visible. They are heavy-faced people with the deep eyes of old men. The first one my gaze fixes on looks like the double of Samuel Beckett in his old age. Quiet and photogenic, withan elegant worker’s leader cap on his head. I see the other guests as well—each is like a living monument, sitting at his own massive table—they all have the exact same caps on their heads. One of them opens a newspaper in front of him and looks at it, focused. I find myself in this place in the midst ofa discussion. The patrons are trying to convince the pub owner about the necessity of some measure or other, but the man behind the beer-tap looks bulletproof. Instead of an answer to a direct question from one of his guests, who is pointing a finger at him as the only suitable addressee, the barman suddenly picks up a newspaper from a table, opens it and hides his entire face. The pages of the newspaper are black as soot. Even that must have a reason. I read that the first Russian President, Boris Yeltsin, is dead. And then I dreamt that I was passing through the reception of a dormitory, posing as a woman. One of the girls had gone to see her parents and so she let me take her bed. In the morning, I got up quietly and informed the two young men blissfully chatting on the other beds my name—this time it’s my actual name. Then I ask them whether I can stay there for a week, as this was the deal I’d made with the girl. They say it’s OK. We’re outside on a lawn and heaven’s birds twitter nicely. I say to these fellows: “Look, I have an absolute bomb here! Perhaps we could organize a show.” I pull from my bag the precious contraband, in the form of a musical composition: Six Litanies for Heliogabalus. I put it on. The music starts, ritualistically, from the first beat, at full throttle. I realize that by the time the thundering of drums sets in (fired up by the shrieks of the singer), there is already a merry dancing on the meadow. A surrealistic painter watching it and keeping his distance writes in his diary: “This goddamned vermin is spinning since the morning.” A smaller group of dancers is like a squirming caterpillar moving across the hill. That’s where the real authentic “voodoo part” of the composition comes in. And there is some sort of totem being prepared. Won’t they chop someone in quarters alive? Voices from the plenum can be heard. To come with objectiveness, waves, in which objectiveness comes. Objectiveness is never objective. On the account of one of Hegel’s books, Kierkegaard stated that, if the author noted in the preface that his book is a mere thought experiment, it would be an interesting piece of work. But Hegel did not make such a note and thus his thoughts are 408 | ridiculous. This reminded me of a scene from my relationship with L. One time, before leaving for someplace, I pulled a condom out of my bag in her presence, so that I could put it into a secret jacket pocket. And she immediately started complaining, not understanding, why I need a condom in a secret pocket when I’m with her. I didn’t know what to tell her. That the condom is something of a good luck charm, the one that continually fortifies me with the hope for something better? Yesterday I met Ben after two years ata literary soirée. I asked him whether he’d come back to Prague or whether he was here only for a visit and intended to return to Japan. He said living in Japan was impossible. Two years ago, he said the same thing about Prague. “Tell me something about Berlin,” he said. “My wife just applied to a school there.” To date, I still don’t know his wife’s name, because every time Ben talks about his wife, he uses the expression “my wife.” In my interpretation this means some sort of balance between the two words, which are equally serious. First of all, to point out the fact of ownership and secondly to point out the fact of the object of the ownership, which is, conventionally, specifically, designated as a wife. He spoke of her psychological anomaly, which he’d discovered only recently after their relationship had already lasted many years. I told him that when I first met his wife, she seemed to me … hypersensitive. I called it that for lack of a better word and perhaps out of a certain tact. The soirée continued with a reading (in English), which flooded the entire inside of the somewhat humanized industrial metal organism of the pub. I asked a friend of mine, a Slovak sitting next to me, whether he understood any of it. He answered that he understood nothing but it was obvious nevertheless that he was having a good time. He said that it reminded him of the sermon at Sunday mass, where his grandmother took him at the age of six or seven. The rest of the evening was ruled by magical Markéta, who, after a dose of pot and plum brandy, got into such a weird spiritual state that she needed to gesture with her body like an ancient Sun goddess in the full fury of worship. Her hands were held up like the bowls of weighing scales and her stare—like fiery magnetic rays shooting into the darkness of the pub—was what these bowls were weighing. Recalling this, I perceive her gesture now as some necessary tugging at the powers of stares. At the time I felt somehow able to absorb whatever she was beaming—as if it were some form of unusual nourishment. And this filled me with an outright sense of victory. In the last stage of this game, during which Markéta was staring at the quartered image of an emblematically multiplied vagina (a design by a Slovak photographer, Miro S., printed in bright green on the front of my black tee-shirt), she vomits into the ether some sort of curse which has to do with a spider. She can’t figure out what’s on my tee-shirt, but I can’t tell her either, because to do so would break the ice that holds things together and expose the basic excess that truth entails. Because every reality is missing something, in order to be generalized. “So, what’s up, little one?” L. asks, now again two heads taller than me. As a child, I wondered what a doll | 409 would do if it suddenly came alive. But what does it mean to be someone’s doll from the perspective of God’s providence? Isn’t God just a clumsy horrible child playing, watching from above, to see what all his toys are doing down here all the time? Let’s presume evil as an alternative option to good, good altered by evil. As is the evil of the choice of evil, when even the good we’re committed to is understood by us as evil. For a person has the need to say something, but the words prevent him. I cannot forget little N. with her head held high and yet strangely set forward on a tiny stretched neck, as if it kept there only by force and wishing to be independent of it, so as sooner to be shown as a litmus of its morality, as with Medusa’s head, whose remote functional application occurs only once it’s torn from itself in the hands of someone else. Always that automatic nodding of the head, that Yes of hers in the ever faster tempo of a marionette play. Always that sharply focused stare of the eyes which only see what they themselves project, because the power of this projection gives them certainty in existence. A man who is, at a given moment, certain of his Yes, simply doesn’t think. He’s nothing but a prosthesis of his own need to have order in things and that’s entirely enough for him. But things don’t need order in things, because order doesn’t belong to things. Order isn’t a matter of things, but of matter-of-factness and that’s where preciseness leads us. All this it was possible to intuit from N’s gestural shortcuts, of whose uncompromising urgency she was most likely unaware. The preciseness of her relationship to things—and the entire seriousness of it—she no doubt perceived as a priori valid and which, therefore, was not open to discussion. As if a goat pisses on a sheet of metal: a free description of her stroboscopic laughter. “Actually, it was a sneer over his death,” she replies, as if the reasons for it were planned. And could reasons in case of suicide forcibly disrupt some plan? And then there are these delayers of suicides, masters of the art of suffering, whose faces are mimetically silent for years. And from the depths of their innocence, of truths spilled out as lies. Because at every moment of a thought, to have a feeling of objectiveness is precisely subjective, but thoughts don’t occur any other way. A thought doesn’t think about what it thinks when it’s not yet a thought—a thought doesn’t think at all. A thought in its embryo is always necessarily impulsive and, as it broadens, it weakens. Prickly touches of fingers. You hurt me invisibly, she says. As if I intended her pain? And above this, that exceptionally developed sensitivity to falls and fractures. (“Do not touch drunks, even those fallen on the ground,” was never valid for her.) My defence against her feelings thus couldn’t be aroused, but there was no sadism in it.
Translated from the Slovak by Michaela Freeman. First published in 3:AM Magazine (2009). 410 | | 411 412 |
Photo: Marc Brown Thor Garcia Dagger
1. The sun fell down on California. Inside a large beach villa, lights flared. The place belonged to Pete Dagger, all-star American writer. Dagger was among the biggest of the writers, perhaps the largest of the era. He was a top multi-millionaire popular artist who was loved by the critics. He was huge with the academics, who sucked from his marrow, and with the underground, which was hot and bothered by his slashing, ripping style and bottomless defiance. Like many of the greats, Dagger was no genius-come-lately. He had been recognized only after years and years of surviving on ketchup soup | 413 and kool-aid, after years and years of struggle up mountains of scorn and indifference. He had survived the painful years of short-story writing; the dabbling in “journalism”; the job stints as dishwasher, data-input man, and motel clerk. He had overcome the harrowing years of hostility and suspicion from friends, colleagues and family. He had prevailed despite his stabbing bouts of doubt; his frightening drunk sprees; a general case of self-loathing. Few critics had initially discerned Dagger’s particular epochalness. His first book, Copper’s Gold, had received vague, if somewhat polite, notices in the small number of journals that chose to review it (many a career was in fact badly tarnished by the early failure of critics and editors to identify the breadth of Dagger and his achievement). The public response to this sterling volume was similarly rather sluggish, and initial hardback sales of Copper’s Gold petered out at about 910,000 copies. However, Dagger’s second book, the cutting, bittersweet masterpiece The Sun, Hey, Strawberries, was an instant global paperback best-seller, prompting a renewed wave of interest in Copper’s Gold. The first book had mounted a keen comeback, soon overtaking the second on the sales charts—and to the amazement of Dagger and many others, Pete Dagger had become all the proverbial worldwide rage. With critics from Maine to Madagascar suddenly struggling to say enough good things about these two textual jewels, Dagger was inexorably propelled to the summit of literary regard, a position he maintained to the present day. In the years since its publication, Copper’s Gold had lost none of its legendary luster, remaining among the most pre-eminent of Dagger’s classic texts. The 329-page standard American paperback version was now in its twenty-eighth printing. At last count, it had been translated into 71 languages (in editions of varying page-lengths). It was taught in all but the very most pious high school districts of the U.S.A., as well as in most of the modern- leaning universities of Europe, Canada, Asia and the former Soviet Union. And it had made Dagger millions and millions of dollars, with no sign of slowing down. Dagger’s latest, the glam-stained sci-fi satire Is He In Pain, Queenie?, was his ninth book. The most recent figures, fresh from the conglomerate head- office, showed it had sold 41 million copies so far worldwide. And it was still on the upcline. The rights had been sold in Malaysia, and a publisher in Santiago, Chile had just put in what was believed to be a record bid for Latin America. The book, indeed, was quite universally loved, and had added another coating of shine to Dagger’s literary reputation (which was already glisteningly formidable, save for his mostly forgotten fourth book, the semi- autobiographical Dromedary, which had initially been published in a limited, premium-priced first edition of seven damask-covered octavo volumes) as the most ruthlessly brilliant author of his generation. Indeed, the consensus 414 | was starting to move beyond even that: Dagger’s name had started to crop up now and then among the ranks of some of the more major Russian, French and Portuguese giants. History, of course, would be the ultimate judge. Yet there could be no denying that Pete Dagger had the essential vitals—the question was simply no longer open to dispute by serious people. Because Pete Dagger was the actual thing itself—the real, the pure, the absolute, no-bars item. He was a visionary, a shaman, a revolutionary, a humanist, a misanthrope, a true pro, and pretty tough stuff. He just had it. He God to earnest had it. His books were treasures, straight and unbidden. There was, of course, next to no competition. Dagger had seen to that. His singing, stamping excavations, his drench-filled revelations, his crushingly excellent stories, death-defying prose gambits, witheringly incisive dissection of the political situation—his lightness, his darkness—his faith, humor and melancholy—hope, despair, joy—dread and wit—the scathing opprobrium— his allusions to the Biblical Christ, his enraged assault on the organized Church—his meditations re: man v. machine—that little bit of unnamable insatiable—had basically killed off and rendered unusable all challengers. By that we refer to: The pallid sardonics waving their flags; the clever card- sellers; the panting word-women; the thriller tripemeisters and the horror turds; the university-learned phlegmatists; the technophile doughboys; the cruddy computer crumbs; zhivagoing doctors; panoramic pie-pushers; moody revanchists; dullardly ethnicians; foolish and mistaken A-students; pea-brained peace prize candidates; gin-slapped country-club stemwinders; bungling zeitgeist-sniffers; the hordes of goshing girls; provincial dreck- kings; sports dopes; media-mooing mindtwerps; science-loving schlong- necks; Godly gabbling goonies; flatulizing financial finnanegans; ironicizing trash-truckers; crime-crazed schtickmen; screenplay-flogging schlock-jacks; plastic-fingered sex-phonies; the corporate-vetted dingbat dimwits; the shoddily fallaciously shabbily drearily—Dagger had shot and smashed them all down, to the cheers of a delighted, word-wary world. As night fell down on California in early spring, Pete Dagger sat before his electric typewriter and crafted, with his bare hands, another masterpiece. He looked like a normal man of fifty-seven, about six feet tall, 195 pounds, except for his face, which was creased like a De Kooning, and his eyes, which looked like a pair of little blue fish freshly plucked from the Pacific. As Dagger typed, passages of stunning luminosity took shape. It was as though his fingers themselves were wired to the hot, burbling, frothing cone of humanity—or anti-humanity, as the case would have it. The words spilled forth, providing another piercing, rending glimpse at the secret whispered soul of existence. The new book had the working title, Too Many Vikings. Well, perhaps the title would need a little work, come to think of it. Dagger’s beachside villa was a conventional-enough looking place, as such places go. Of multiple split-level design, it featured a pool-jacuzzi- | 415 sauna complex, with direct beach access and special foglights; an expansive French-Italian kitchen; a collection of functional Finnish-Dutch furniture, representative of several design moments; five bedrooms, six bathrooms, two studies, three dinettes, and one library; artworks, among them several pieces by Chinese, Arabian and Salvadoran dissidents; a combined billiards room/satellite theatre/bar-disco/championship-regulation Scrabble sanctum; a six-car garage, filled with six cars, two bicycles and three motorcycles; and detached servant’s hut (unoccupied for several years now). Dagger didn’t care so much for all the stuff, but it had just piled up over the years. After all, one had to do something with one’s money; one couldn’t just let it sit there. Perhaps Dagger’s only “unusual” possession was a handmade stone pornographic chess set, which occupied a place of prominence in the main sitting room. This had been sent to him by a fan from Scotland. The phone rang. Dagger’s hand snapped at the black receiver, seizing it in mid-jangle. “Hello?…Well hello, Jack,” Dagger said with a thin chuckle. “Hello to you, too…well of course, of course…absolutely…send her right over…Oh, fine…Yep, another one, you got it…Two hundred thou or so? Sure, shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll have it sent over first thing…You betcha, buddy…Okay, be seeing you…You bet, we certainly, certainly should…Toodle-oo to you too.” Dagger hung up. He sat there, calmly, and stroked his brief beard. Then Pete Dagger began to softly cry. His heart almost seemed to crack open. Yes, it was that time again. Another girl was coming. It was as basic as that, yet also more. So, so much, much more. It was the most beautiful thing he could think of, in fact. A pretty girl. Well, now—a pretty young woman. A pretty woman-girl. Dagger shut off his typewriter and sat in his chair, drowning inside.
2. Dagger never knew where, exactly, the girls came from nor, exactly, why. He only knew his friend Jack would send them, by car or by bus, and they would stay until they left. It might be a few hours, a day, a week, but rarely much longer than a month. Dagger gathered that the girls were employees of Jack’s—or if not outright employees, most certainly “associates” of some kind. Something. It was all very unclear to Dagger. Yet he never inquired of the details. It seemed he never quite wanted to know all that much. Well, Dagger knew Jack was involved in what loosely could be called “entertainment”—principally films and modeling and so forth, and also the dancing industry perhaps, and perhaps also what might be called the courier business. Dagger had gathered that—indeed, he was well aware of it. He had, after all, bankrolled a goodly number of Jack’s projects over the years. These had been far from profitable, at least financially, at least from Dagger’s perspective—Dagger had never seen a single return off any of his 416 | investments. But as I say, Dagger never properly inquired. He never missed the money, and he just never inquired. Dagger didn’t mind. Hardly. Pete Dagger had more money than he rightly knew what to do with. Indeed, small armies of men and women toiled around the globe to ensure that his money was being constantly turned into more. Because the system worked to Pete Dagger’s benefit now. He had crossed a certain fiduciary threshold, and there would be no turning back. There could not be any turning back—not the way the system worked today, so long as you had crossed the threshold. And Dagger had crossed that threshold— lord, but he had. He therefore donated to Jack whatever the other man requested, and whenever he requested it. Gladly. In fact, joyously. It was the least Dagger could do. He liked to think of it as his little unique role in the necessary redistribution of wealth. Because Dagger was of the belief that the money he gave Jack eventually, somehow, wound up in the hands of people who could really use it—working people, struggling people. An utterly indistinct conclave of poor souls, doomed dreamers and generally irresponsible laggards—in any case, people to whom it might somehow make a difference. Well, maybe it wasn’t exactly like that, all things considered—perhaps it was a bit more complicated. Perhaps indeed. But Dagger chose not to dwell on it, at least not for very long. One couldn’t worry about everything, after all. One couldn’t avoid one’s responsibility, certainly, but one couldn’t worry about everything—though one did, of course, have to draw a line somewhere. Yes—at about murder and torture and nuclear war, Dagger supposed. Terrorism, too. Pete Dagger had met Jack several years ago—around the time of Dagger’s now legendary Hollywood spree that had followed the premiere of Sasquatch Plutarch, his seventh book for which he had written the screenplay in four days. The country music had been playing rather loudly the one night, and Jack had rather astutely meshed himself into Dagger’s circle of a groggy midnight, weaving in with deep pockets of good cheer, jokes—and, as it happened, a sultry passel of airy young beauties. Now, years later, the beauties had not stopped coming—the cavalcade had not ceased. Certainly not. Dagger trembled, just thinking about it. Gosh, it was horrible—yet he could think of nothing better. These girls—what in silky blue heaven were they doing? Well, okay— they were modeling and dancing and starring in film projects—this Dagger had gathered. And he had gathered the films and other projects were not being produced by the major Hollywood studios—at least not the ones that churned out the movies and television programs based on his books. But that was about all Dagger knew. Well, Dagger knew—he was almost positively certain—that other men, | 417 perhaps many other men, were involved. On some level, Dagger knew they most certainly were. He cringed and trembled anew at the notion, at the idea of what might be happening. Gosh, these were girls gone bad! Bad, bad, filthy little cheapies! But so wonderful, too. Wonderful! So young and good smelling. So pretty. So delightful. So quivering with life. So to be cherished. But so bad! Bad! So very bad! The doorbell rang. Dagger shuddered. She was there, she had come. Dagger’s heart swished like an eyeball in solution. Thank God he had already gotten everything ready. Her room was prepared, he’d double-checked it just seconds ago. The kitchen was fully stocked, he’d checked. The bathrooms were spotless. The boy had come earlier that afternoon to clean the pools. Dagger jogged to the entryway and put his hand on the console. Would he use the surveillance video monitor? No. Dear no! The first look-see was always best in the flesh. Dagger bent himself and peered through the front door fisheye. There she was! Standing under the bright and glimmery porch bulbs. Ah, and pretty as could be. Blue backpack over a shoulder. Auburn-colored hair, rolled up in front, wavy on the sides. Snapping gum. Hooped earrings, the size of half- dollars. A cute little—what was that?—yes, a little glittery stud, stuck there in the nose, above the right nostril. The eyes—approximately turquoise, it appeared. And those full lips, he was looking at them now—so hideously full! Well, she may have been a bit on the short side, legwise, considered Dagger—oh, but it didn’t matter, not that much. Dagger’s heart raced and flipped. It somersaulted, darted, backstroked, butterflied and chicken-winged. He drew open the door, a curious, expectant beam across his bearded visage. “Well hello there,” he said in a fell swoop. “Hi.” Her head cocked to a side. A hand raised itself in a tentative signal of greeting. “Yes,” said Dagger, “Jack said you would be here, and here you are.” He laughed lightly. “It’s Sandra, isn’t it, yes? Sandra?” She smiled. “That’s me.” “Well come in, come in,” Dagger said, showing her the way. After Dagger had hung her coat, he disappeared into the kitchen. He called out, “May I get you something? A ginger ale, perhaps?” “Okay.” “With ice?” “Okay.” Dagger’s shaking hands fumbled. A block of ice pitched to the imported pink stones of the kitchen floor, shattering in a crack of sliding crystal. “Just another minute,” he called out. “I’m afraid I’ve spilled.” 418 | Dagger at last returned to the sitting room. On his right palm he balanced a chrome tray with two small bottles of ginger ale, glass tumblers, one bowl of broken ice and another of macadamia nuts. Sandra was seated on the white velvet couch, her legs crossed. “That’s a interesting chess set,” she said, pointing. “Never seen one like that before.” Dagger’s knees buckled. Ice clinked. He set the tray on the coffee table and slumped next to her, heart beating, air fluttering about his nostrils. “Yes,” he said weakly, “I suppose it is rather somewhat rare.” “Can I smoke in here?” she said, leaning forward suddenly. “Do you mind?” “Oh, please do,” Dagger said. “I’ll run and get you an ashtray.” He sprang up and walked briskly to the hallway closet. “Wow, Time magazine,” he heard Sandra say. She rose from the couch to inspect the framed object on the wall. It was a layout of Dagger from several years ago. He was on his strip of beach, hair whipping in the breeze, staring straight into the camera. He was wearing a black and red silk samurai costume. In his hands he held a huge, decorative, curving sword, of the kind one might possibly find in a movie about pirates. “He Writes The Books,” text said in large yellow type. Below that, in somewhat smaller type, it said: “Pete Dagger Cuts to the Bone.” “Wow, that’s you on the cover of Time!” Dagger was returning with the ashtray. “Yes,” he said, grinning and setting down the ashtray. There was a soft clunking noise.
3. It was morning, a little before five a.m. Pete Dagger rose in his bed chamber, electrically awake. He went to the toilet, had a rub of his beard and a drink of water from the sink. He walked blinkingly down the hall to his study, hesitated a moment in the doorway, and finally set the lights a-burning. He sat before his computer/typewriter and inhaled. He flipped on the machine and began to labor once more upon the latest masterpiece. Pete Dagger trained his concentration and worked. A diamond of a word was quickly followed by a sapphire. Next came a ruby of a verb, a platinum participle, a perfect pearl of punctuation. The resulting combination was pure Peter K. Dagger—pure radiance. And so the day began. The clock was a strike or two past eight when Dagger paused. Was that a noise? Indeed, it appeared to have been. Dagger froze, poised over his keyboard. Now another noise. Noises. A door opening. A toilet’s muffled groan. And now the muted spraying splay of shower jets. Fingers stuttering, Dagger shut down his machine. Knees jerking, the | 419 back of his neck squirming, he scuttled past the bathroom in question and descended the stairs to the kitchen. When Sandra at last appeared, Dagger had the table miraculously set. It contained a small silver decanter of steaming coffee; tea in a sturdy porcelain crock; a pitcher of chilled grapefruit juice; lightly toasted bagels, still warm; cream cheese, lox, margarine and apricot jam; muesli, in tandem with fresh goat’s milk; ham slices and honey; and basketed fruit, still water-splendored from Dagger’s focused rinsing the moment before. Sandra damply crossed the ingress of the breakfast dinette, a candy- striped towel about her head. “Well good morning, Sandra,” Dagger said. “Hello.” The young woman was barefoot. In addition to the towel, she wore a large mint-green T-shirt, torn in one spot at the collar, with the large inscription VISUALIZE WHIRLED PEAS emblazoned in blue on the front. Sandra glanced at Dagger, smiled from one side of her mouth, and sat down at the table. Dagger heard the tweet of birds, flutting and scruffing in the trees beyond the window. Golden sunshine poured between the venetian window slats. Dagger observed that Sandra did not appear to be wearing anything beneath her T-shirt. “Wow, thank you for breakfast,” she said. “You didn’t have to, you know.” “Oh, come now,” said Dagger. “It’s my pleasure. Sleep well, did you?” “Yes, very well,” she said, offering a smile. “Really, thanks a lot for letting me stay here.” “Oh, no problem. Quite seriously, it’s not a problem at all. That’s a funny T-shirt, by the way.” Dagger grinned. “Yeah,” Sandra said. A glint of blue-gold jumped from her nose bauble, surprising Dagger as it veered. “It’s a joke on world peace. Get it? Whirled peas?” “I do, I do.” Sandra lifted a toasted bagel-half to her plate and picked up a knife. With her other hand she lifted the pot of honey. Dagger poured himself a steaming black dash of coffee. He gazed at Sandra and felt his blood racing. His heart galloped, churned, leaped, and broke into thousands and thousands of individually bruised and crumpled pieces. In his ears, an inconcise roaring mixed with bird tweets. “So you’re a writer, huh?” Sandra said. “Mmm, this is good honey.” “Thank you,” Dagger said. “Yes, that’s quite right, I do write. Or type, rather. It’s just a lot of typing, to be honest.” He shrugged, smiled and brought a hand to his beard. “It’s a job, I guess. And I’m lucky to have it.” He shrugged again. “Anyway. The honey’s from Oregon, if you’re wondering. A friend sent it.” 420 | Sandra ingested another bite and swallowed. “Did you ever write anything for Jack? I mean, for the things he does?” “Ho, dear no,” said Dagger, tacking on a light laugh. “But maybe that’s not a bad idea, though, now that you mention it.” He chuckled, smiled, then swept his hand once more to his chin. He plunged into a swirl of brief thoughtfulness. Sandra grinned. “I didn’t think so. I mean, because you’re kind of famous, right? Cover of Time magazine, right? I think I remember them talking about you once in school. I don’t remember what they said, but—well, they were talking about you.” She smiled for a moment before biting her lower lip. “I’m sorry. I guess I should have paid more attention.” She hunched her shoulders and shrugged. “Oh, no,” said Dagger, “dear no. It’s quite all right, Sandra. I don’t know what they say myself, and would probably frankly rather not hear it, to be honest. Some fool foolishness, I would imagine, neither quite here nor there, as they say. Most likely. Where did you go to school, by the way?” “Well, I went to high school in Tucson.” Her face and neck pinkening, Sandra’s eyes darted to a colorful, prison-flavored Salvadoran wall print. “I haven’t started college yet, if that’s what you mean. But I want to. As soon as I’m ready—I mean, when I have my money saved and stuff.” “Tucson,” said Dagger, “in Arizona?” “Yes.” “That’s a pretty place, isn’t it? Deserts and everything. All those empty skies. Cacti.” “Are you kidding?” said Sandra, her eyes widening. “It’s super-shitty to the max. Excuse my French, but it is. Jesus Christ. Why do you think I came all the way out here?” “Okay, okay, point taken,” said Dagger, raising his hands in an “I surrender” posture. “I was just there once. It did seem very pleasant, I must say—but you’re far more of an expert than I could ever be. More tea?” “Yes, please.” The both of them ate their fill, or close to it. At which point Sandra announced Jack was sending a car to pick her up in the early afternoon. Pete Dagger and Sandra together cleared the dishes to the kitchen and set them inside the dishwasher. Dagger suggested a swim on the beach. “Oh, really?” said Sandra. “Let me just run up and get my swimsuit.” Dagger, sitting down, brought up his beard hand. “Well,” he said, gazing up at her, “only if you want to, Sandra. It’s a private beach access, you know. You can do whatever you want down there. No one’s going to be spying or anything.” “Oh.” Sandra lowered her eyes. Her nose and lips tremored infinitesimally. “Okay, I guess.” | 421 “Fine, then,” said Dagger, gesturing at the sliding glass which led to the beach. “By all means, do as you please. Feel free, as they say.” Sandra quickly turned. As she did, Dagger caught a glimpse of a tattoo on the outer flank of her right thigh. What the—was that a flower? motorcycle? Sheesh. Some kind of death’s head? Dagger wasn’t sure. Darn it, so many of these girls had tattoos. Between seventy and eighty percent, at least, all with at least one tattoo, somewhere. All kinds of tattoos. Navel rings, too. Nipple rings. Dagger and Sandra strode over the warm expanse of redwood planking that led to the ocean. Hot sunlight dabbled upon their heads, the heat however made deceptive by the cool sea winds which ruffled the adjoining arrangement of palm trees and bougainvillea Birds tweeted. Surf could be heard, pounding muffledly. Sandra suddenly said, “You’re probably going to want me to suck you off, yeah?” Dagger gulped. His breath caught. His heart skipped, tripped, shattered, came together, fell and splintered once more. He lowered his head and walked, one step after the other. He looked up and sniffed the breeze. “No, actually,” he said, looking at her and scowling somewhat. “It hadn’t crossed my mind. What makes you say that? Jack didn’t say anything, did he? God, I hope not. He better not have. What a terrible thing to say to a woman.” Dagger cast a grim, beardful look at Sandra. He lowered his head and shook it. “No, he didn’t,” Sandra said. “But I just figured. A girl learns a few things pretty quick out here in California.” Dagger walked. His bare toes pushed the sand. He was hearing her voice, but the words were disappearing, disappearing in the thickening salt-haze. Dagger’s toes twinged against the scalding sand, the sun pestered his long, lightly-haired brown arms. The air throbbed with the ancient incense of rotting seaweed, tar and foaming froth. These girls. Oh, these girls! Nothing but little casseroles of sugar and water, dirt and mucous, proteins and pulpy things. Little squiggly things. Pete Dagger walked, but slowly now, vaguely, drowsy from the heat. He stood and stared at the sun-struck waves, at the geyser of brilliant white on the horizon. Sandra had flipped off her sleeper and was jogging with dancing steps toward the ocean.
4. Well, Pete Dagger thought, things were pretty much squared away. The New York trip was all arranged. There would be the awards ceremony and poultry-fish banquet, followed by any number of parties. The usual routine. It wouldn’t be so bad. New York was still a hell of a town, after all, plenty 422 | of people were still promoting it. And Dagger guessed he had to see those people, sooner or later. Business was business, after all. The system was still intact. Yep—the same old unjust system, corrupt to the core, rigged to help “the rich” and enslave the rest, or a lot of them. Yes, and it probably wouldn’t be changing any time soon. Well—and so what was to be done? The answer, reflected Dagger, was not much. Unless, you mean, maybe blow it up? Burn it down? How about a new revolution of some sort? Or—perhaps a quantity of strategic tinkering, and a tiny spot of heavy lifting, to make things, uh, a little more humane and equitable, locally and globally? Dagger chuckled. Bring it on, baby, yeah yeah, mix it up if you’ve got the juice. Two steps forward and one step back, and vice versa, and so on, depending of course on which side ended up with more key ideological booty after what war, and how disruptive were the technologies during which political hegemonic blah-blah, and whose scales of economy were more terrific at what big moment of convergence. And importantly, who did the analysis at which particular time, after everyone was dead and no longer bothered…let the historians sort it out later. Fine, just fine. Because about the only thing Pete Dagger was certain of was that some people kept dirty asses, while others worked to stay clean. And quite a large number, in fact the majority, tended to fluctuate. And therefore, i.e., human beings were born to suffer, and art was the only thing one could or should have any confidence in, tee-hee… Dagger did not necessarily believe in “throwing away” one’s money, as such. But one was, after all, obligated to do something with one’s funds. It was a basic obligation, in Dagger’s view—or did you have something else in mind? Dagger chuckled. It was good, for example, to be able to hand out checks, such as the one he had given Sandra when she finally left—for $50,000. If it didn’t buy her all the way into college, thought Dagger, well, maybe it would keep her in cigarettes and pantyhose and bus tickets for a few months. Lord—well, and he had taken her at her word about that crystal meth problem that had revealed itself. But what else could he have done? He wasn’t about to have another woman around the house full-time. Dear no—how could he ever get to work with something like that going on? Well, Dagger didn’t care too much—but he did, he did. He actually did care. He sincerely loved to write those checks. And he’d keep writing them until—well, he supposed, until, for whatever reason, he no longer could. Dagger was in the kitchen preparing a tray of drinks and nuts when the phone rang. He snapped the hand-held unit out of its cradle on the wall. “Hello?” Silence. “Hello?” Dagger said again. Nothing. “I said, Hello? Who is this?…Hello? Is anybody there?…I said, Hello?” Silence. Perhaps a slight hissing. | 423 “Well,” he said, “if that’s the way you feel, fine.” His face drew itself into a tight grin. “Hello-hello, hoo-hoo…Okay, whatever…Nice talking to you, whoop-de-whoo. No, serious, really nice, heck of a darn time. Oh yeah, sure, sure, pleasure’s mine, all mine, forget it…” Dagger suddenly grew angry. “I hope this isn’t some damn game.” He slammed down the receiver. He exhaled, blinked, and turned to face his drinks. The phone rang. He whisked the receiver off its hook. “Hello?” Silence. Then a voice, grainy, but unmistakable: “Hello? Hello? I said, Hello? Who is this? …” Dagger’s neck went erect. His eyelids flapped. The hand holding the phone lost some of its power. “…serious, really nice, heck of a darn time…Oh yeah, sure, sure, pleasure’s mine, all mine forget it…I hope this isn’t some damn game.” The line clicked. Dagger stood there. The phone was beeping. Well, he thought. He returned the receiver to its hook. Well, so they were after him. They were coming for him. It was pretty clear now. If it wasn’t clear before, it was now. Okay, so—they were coming. What did they want? What did they already have? What did they know? What was their program? Well, Dagger thought, he didn’t care. Let them come. If that was the way they wanted it, let them come. Let them take him down. Whatever the hell they pleased. If it was going to happen, then let it. Just let it. The hell with it. Let them come. Whatever they wanted. Let them take it. Let them have it, if they wanted it so bad. What did he have to hide? Nothing. Just nothing. Everything was in the open. It was there for the taking. Let them have it if they wanted it so bad. Let them. They couldn’t take anything from Pete Dagger. He was giving it to them for free. They couldn’t take what he was already giving them, could they? So let them come. All of them, each and every one. Damn it, let them come. Come! Dagger inhaled purposely and clapped himself on the chest. He positioned his lips in a composed posture. He walked into the sitting room. He placed the chrome tray on the coffee table and sat himself on the couch. “That’s some chess set,” said his guest. Dagger grinned. “Why thank you, Robyn, thank you very much. Yes, you’re quite right about that, it is a bit unique. You’re not going to find something like that down at the mall, I suppose. Certainly not every day you won’t.”
5. New York lazed across the horizon like a dominoes game gone berserk. 424 | On the 25th floor penthouse of a West 53rd Street high-rise, Pete Dagger laughed. It was the evening post-awards party, one of several. The room shined goldenly, smelling of professionally aged cheese, toothpicks and leather. It tinkled with the sound of jazz piano and softly clashing crystal. Pete Dagger’s face was dark, a touch swollen. A woman in her latterly thirties joined the circle, grabbing for Dagger’s hand. Dagger gave it over. She spoke in a rush for perhaps 30 seconds, introducing herself and so on. She was a literary editor, as it turned out, employed by the conglomerate that ultimately owned Dagger’s works, but at a slightly different imprint. Shortly it was discovered she was in possession of a question she had always wanted to ask Pete Dagger. It concerned a character in one of his early mid-period books, the buoyant, effervescent, yet oddly elusive Picabo Street, which had sold 39 million at latest count. “I’m really frankly much more interested in what you think,” Dagger told the woman. “That’s really what counts, you know. I just wrote the darn thing. The damn thing, excuse me.” The woman laughed, taking Dagger’s remark as an invitation to elucidate her position. “Yes, yes, perhaps so,” Dagger said, nodding his head. He hoisted his wine bottle and ingested a swallow. “Yes,” he went on, “now I seewhat you’re getting at. I’d never thought about it quite that way, to be honest, but I can see you do have a point. Quite a point, actually.” Dagger rocked his head vigorously, taking in more of the wine, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. The woman nodded, smiled, retreated a step, and studied her toes on the carpet of creamed corn. Dagger gazed about, lazily. Quite a crowd of luminaries had shown up for the reception, he’d shaken most of their hands: Tina O’Weishaupt and L.M. Narda, Sandy Chuck and her husband Rolf, Clarence Dumanouga, Jean-Pierre Pochon, Kris Scarver, and Feuilleton Hospoda, Bennett Mor- Morgentaler and Jasmine Hovnová. Not far away stood Koch Sauerlander, Edie Guillermostein, Mondrian Finefrock, Tacoma Hopps-DeGoey and Youssef Prout. Aha, and yes, there: Robert Benko, Paula Wild, Abdelaziz Herrera, Geoff Raynoch; and Peter Fnolegh, Uragan C. Smerch, Anna Blantag, Dieter Johns, Alice Sheets Boyne, Jane Hutfless, Lester Tunbs, Claude-Ellen Robbins and her notable son, Niall. Oh yes, and to the left: Padraig Solana, Tim Tuttle, Thom Twyford, Ashtone Steavens, Vivian Rottnier, Lars Halford, certainly. And over there, oh yes, in a row—Danny O. Hulka, Pietrefesa Tillinghast, Laurence Bonaqua, Megan Pinckney-Gund, Nicola Shandybin, Tuck and Randall Potes. And Porzo Vlak, James Shamkhani, Plaxico Sachs, Appolonia Freund, Jean-Francois Silliere, Edgar Rabbani, Carlos Hongwu. Ah, lord— the redoubtable Goerner Majlis himself, chatting with none the other than | 425 Wellmax Kinpers. Dagger, gently rubbing his wine bottle, took a long look at Giga Meist, whose red and white dress tonight was quite remarkable, as many had remarked. And indeed, yes—Otak Omarska, Bryan Bergfriedhof, Joe Bocker, Theresa Maria Aasenlich, Shigeru G. Schliem, Yoshi “Jay” Graham, T.P. Ajax, Alec Scandalios, Richard Lee Ben Jackson Burton, Maxine Hurtado y Baker, Danielle Piraino, Kirby Shelby, Bruno Hamenyakataa, Egon Lansky, Scott Rondale, Vladimir Gonzalez, Andi Pugach… To say nothing of the assembled assorted etcetera who always attended, the faceless clutches of tenured professors, apprentice critics, Oxford- educated athletes, actors, hosts, models, promoters of Internet sites, the industry operators and the other various other lit-liking people, so many of whom had been so kind to Dagger over the years, though not always, and certainly not always on time, and with little risk to their career or whatever damn fool thing… Dagger swiveled his head, drank from his wine. They were all periodically glancing at him, weren’t they—their lips crumbly from crackers and dried fish—glasses refilling, nostrils flaring, lips writhing, fingers twisting. Lord, Dagger thought—and so many of them, from Harvard or Yale, Princeton and what have you. Quite a number of them, here in this room—gone on from Yale and Brown and Princeton and so on, to make quite an impact on the world—just as the universities themselves had advertised they would. Dagger chuckled, suckling from his wine. He was removing the bottle from his mouth when he observed his agent, Frick, darting into the hallway that he understood to contain the bathroom. Well, he considered—now was a good time. Dagger set down the bottle of wine. It was almost finished anyway. “You’ll have to excuse me, folks,” Dagger announced, none too loudly. He shrugged, grinned, and began walking. He strode purposefully past the host and hostess, waving jovially. He breached the double door of the suite, ambled down to the elevator and hit the button. The lift doors swept open at street level. He exited and maneuvered through the revolving building entrance. He was on the street, the lights of the New York night whirling and whipping past him. Streetlamps and neon, traffic signals and headlights, satellites and star glow bathed Dagger, disclosing and re-cosseting him in multifarious shades of darkness. He stood there, inhaling mightily.
6. Dagger wandered, roughly in the direction of Wall Street. He loosened his tie and began unbuttoning his shirt. Whew, holy. It was time to relax. He had almost completed the unbuttoning job, and was at the midway point of jaywalking across a boulevard, when he saw a woman—a woman 426 | who appeared to be his ex-wife. She was walking arm in arm with a tall, black-haired, thick and rather Mediterranean-seeming man. Was it his wife? Dagger couldn’t precisely say. It was quite possible she would be in New York, perhaps vacationing, perhaps even living here now. Why not? Dagger had made certain she had received a generous settlement— 51 percent of everything. He had demanded it of his attorneys—insisted. Gosh but Pete Dagger hoped it was her. He watched the couple, shuffling up the street, pausing to inspect the wares in a window. God, did he hope it was Maggie. Indeed—and he hoped her date was a Greek or a Turk. Why not? A strapping Greek or Turk, even an Italian, who was kind and told funny stories and happened to know a great deal about cheese-making and wine and gardening and so on, who knew about stained glass and Buddhism and great places to go in Canada. A fellow like that. Why not? God to hell— Dagger hoped it was. She deserved it. Damn it, but she did. Dagger swooned, watching them amble down the sidewalk. He had made it to the other side of the street but found it difficult to stand suddenly. His eyes scanned for a bench or something, somewhere to sit, but none appeared. He cringed all over. His heart gurgled and writhed and choked and squirmed. What he had done to the poor woman—what he had made her do. Pete Dagger stood there, crying. Things had just happened. Everything had been so confusing, so difficult, and then it had happened. He didn’t know, he still couldn’t explain—it wasn’t what he had meant, what he meant to do. No, he hadn’t understood properly what it was really all about. He had been so wrapped up in his “plan”— believing there were such things as plans and that his was good. And it had happened. He had done it, it had happened, it couldn’t be reversed. He and his wife had gone on, they’d had children. But it had happened. He watched the woman and her companion go, disappearing down the avenue. No, he supposed. It wasn’t her after all. He sighed. Dagger continued in the direction of Wall Street. He finished unbuttoning his shirt, then took off his black tux jacket and set it atop an overflowing wire metal trashcan. A pair of nearby bums noticed, but did not immediately rush over, being otherwise occupied. It was just so horrible. Dagger was going to rot in hell for what happened. And he deserved to. His wife didn’t share in the blame—he had made it happen. Him alone. He had been the bully, anyone would say so. Lord, it was true. God, it was so long ago, but as near to him as last minute. And he would burn for it. There was no justice in this world or universe, not a chance of it, but if there ever were, Pete Dagger would fry forever, deep in the bowels of the nethermost craters of hell. It was that simple—it was not at all complex. The rest of it be damned. The hell with all of it. All fucking all of it. Dagger was not far from Wall Street now. It was still humid out, but the warm breeze was soothing against his chest. He felt his sparse nest of chest | 427 hairs, the sensation of some of the hairs wiggling individually. Things were very bad. The breeze could not make up for the fact that things were not right. Dagger couldn’t walk any longer. He came to a small public park. It was dark there, many lamps broken, one slowly blinking. He sat hunched on a bench and sobbed, wiping the tears from his cheeks and eyes with the back of a hand. Some time passed. Dagger got up and began to walk once more. He didn’t have an idea where he was going, what time it was… He came to an underground subway entrance and stood, gazing at the dim yellow light seeping out.
7. The doorbell sounded. Pete Dagger was in his massive California villa. Not Nearly Enough Vikings was complete. He had shipped it off to the publisher two days ago. The advance “buzz” was already starting to hit the newspapers and the chat shows, while the internet nuts had been foaming with speculation and anticipation for months. The movie-people were howling at his agent’s door; Frick had been stoking the price for nearly a year, dangling a carrot here and there in the snouts of the top two or three music video directors. Several so-called “A-list” actresses were said to be spitefully cat-fighting it out for the lead and supporting roles—to say nothing of the scads of script bumblers scrambling for a shot at the scripture. Over at the conglomerate, meanwhile, design and marketing plans had been launched for The Alligator Chalice and Other Typings, a five-volume compilation of Dagger’s early stories, novellas, poetry, college and community newspaper articles, as well as a recently discovered cache of hundreds of guest registration carbons he had personally filled out during the motel clerk days. But now night had come again, and the front doorbell was ringing. Dagger closed down his computer, shut off the light in his office and sprinted down the stairs. He poked into the eye-peep. He nodded and grinned. There they were, as promised. “Well hello, Jack,” Dagger said warmly, throwing open the door. “Shakespeare!” said the other man. Jack, bare chest framed in a blue jean vest, strode in. He wore a blond straw cowboy hat with a rainbow band, swimming shorts and tan cowboy boots. No less than five chirping, clean-looking girl-women were trailing him. “So happy you all could come,” Dagger said, stepping back to avoid Jack’s oncoming cowboy brim. “Everything’s all ready, I hope.” And somewhere a baseball whizzed. A monkey jumped. A Japanese ate, a wounded teen sat alone. A bunny rabbit sneezed. A tyrant traduced and a document yellowed. A presentiment was occluded. Waves lapped 428 | at Antarctica. Someone appreciated another’s concern. There was a no- show at the landslide. Pollution rights were traded, missile launchers were lubricated, the sounds of seals were sequenced. The pontiff expressed shame, a porcupine screamed, Van Gogh was exonerated. A manual was consulted, an elbow lay on a tabletop. Cobblestones frothed in the rain. Extremists rallied, a paperclip dropped— The moon seemed to cover everything with its bright breath. Pete Dagger sat in the warm, track-lit woodenness of one of the jacuzzis out back. The enclosure flexed and shimmied, reflecting the innumerable refracting illuminations of pool splash. The chamber echoed with laughter, girlish laughter and the heartiness of men. Dagger brought a bottle to his lips and listened to the other man. It was hot in there, getting hotter now. Sweat slid from Pete Dagger, all-star writer, mixing with the chemicals and water and bodies. He sucked from the bottle, excess dribbling down his beard. “It’s bean curd, Shakes, that’s all,” said Jack. “You and I both know it is. It’s nice and all, we can enjoy it, but we got to call it what it is. Bean curd. Maybe somebody thinks it’s special. No, I don’t think you do. You know it’s just bean curd, right Pete?” Dagger nodded. “Yeah,” Jack went on. “Beans. Beans and curd. Think about it. So why not, you know? If it ain’t you, Shakespeare, it’s me—right? Or some other guy. And vice versa—some other time, some other place, depending. Know what I’m saying? You don’t think so?” Dagger looked up at the man in the cowboy hat. “Yes, I do. I do, Jack.” Jack laughed. “Of course you do, Shakes, of course you do. See, it’s hard, but at the same time, it’s easy. It’s like, it’s only hard if you let it be like that— if you think too much, which I can see you doing, no offense intended. It’s easier just to think of it as bean curd. You see something—bean curd. You hear something—bean curd. You hear something else—another stripe of bean curd. Know what I mean? Don’t mean nothing. Just what it is. Got to keep it simple. Don’t get carried away. Keep all your furniture in all the right rooms. No mix-ups. Don’t let yourself get confused. Hear me, Pete?” “Yes. Of course.” “Good.” Jack nodded. “All right then. Fine. That’s what I like about you, Shakespeare. You can dig it, you can relate. You’re a natural, you got the natural-built star power. It’ll look like you, it’ll seem like you, but no one will ever believe it. Never in a million, billion years. Not you, Shakespeare. That’s the fun, see? Everyone’ll think it’s a joke, special effects, digital hooey-gooey and whatever. Except it won’t be. Me and her and her and her and her, and her, we’ll know. And you’ll know, of course. Hell, you’ll never forget it the rest of your life. And if you do forget, we can just show you the tape.” Jack roared out a laugh, from deep in his belly, ending in a cough. “Yes,” said Dagger. “Oh, jeez,” said Jack, holding his side. “Oh, jeez. Okay, we’re ready then, | 429 I guess. Ready. Aim. Action.” The blue-green waters churned. Slippery legs and arms entwined. There was laughter, moaning, a grunt, a giggle. “Can I do the dog now, Uncle Jack?” said Dagger. His voice was husky, somewhat breathless. “I don’t care a damn what you do,” said the other man. “God damn it, I don’t care.” He trained the camera at Dagger’s face. Dagger’s eyes were wide and unblinking, his mouth wet, slightly open.
From Tund (Prague: Adam Moss, 2001). 430 |
Photo: Jason Little Myla Goldberg from Cirkus
Cirkus is a novel that spans the final five days of Cirkus Kludský before the traveling show is broken up by the onset of World War II. The novel is divided into three parts: The Book of Dalibor, in which the circus’s last days are told from the perspective of Dalibor Radosty; The Book of Days, in which those same days are told in third- person narration; and The Book of Cirkus, in which Cirkus Kludský’s history—from its birth over a century before to its mid-twentieth century demise—is recounted in the voices of the various members of the extended Cirkus Kludský family. This excerpt comes from The Book of Cirkus.
Igor Kludský | 431 How long. How long, you ask? Centuries! To make a circus of flesh and blood, a circus breathing air. Father to son, generation to generation. A tremendous accomplishment! Stop. Think back to the posters. The ones when your father led you by the hand. Where are the Johenssons, the Emberts, the Heraldos? Gone, gone! Yesterday’s bread. One name, one name remains. What is it? Kludský. It carries, that name. Church bells on a breezy Sunday. Kludský. Why? Blood of a hero. Running through our veins. The blood of my great great grandfather’s great great grandfather, Jan Sobieski. A name you know. No? Think! Before the Great War, when you were a child. In school. Perhaps your father told you. Jan Sobieski, the savior of Vienna. Ah, now you remember! It is 1683. The Turks are at the empire’s door. Heathens with curved blades! The blood of Christians stains the ground! The mighty Hapsburgs! A scourge from the east! The Turks, their talons reach out. Their shadow falls upon Vienna. Vienna, the feather in Austria’s hat! One man. One man rose to stop them. You know his name. Which is why, to this day, we do not play Istanbul. Blood of this kind is a treasure. A treasure we share with you today! What, you think it happened overnight? Think of a baobab tree. At first? A seed. A traveling puppet show. Rade Sobieski, the father of my grandfather’s father. The youngest son of Jan’s great grandson. The year is 1815. It is all we know. History casts a strong shadow, you see. Darker than a moonless night. But, we have proof. An announcement, yellow from its journey to our hands. The paper is over 120 years old! Trumpeting Jan’s son’s arrival, his puppets seen by all. Come to my trailer and take a look! A personal tour, only a little extra. A special ticket. The paper is framed in mother-of-pearl above the family headboard. Above the bed from which Kludskies have entered the world for generations. Mother-of-pearl. A powerful thing. Why it is called mother? More reasons than one. Knock the family headboard. Once for a boy, twice for a girl, then reach up and kiss the mother-of-pearl. Nine months later, see what you get. My father made a family of seven. His father’s father made a family of seventeen! The circus was young then. It needed extra hands. Come! I will tell you a story. Once upon a time, the circus was just beginning. Let me hear you say its name. Good! A circus in its first years. The hardest years. We had no teachers. We had to learn for ourselves. What to feed the animals? How to make them jump through their hoops? These were the things Jiří Kludský asked. Jiří Kludský. My great grandfather. There were losses. A long time for Circus Kludský to stand on its feet. Our alligator died of malnutrition. What’s one alligator, you say? A friend! A brother! You have to be circus to understand. There were losses. Jiří’s second son, Pavel, mauled by the puma. They shot the puma dead, not for revenge, 432 | but because it’s true what they say. An animal that tastes human blood is never the same. The year is 1848, our first winter. The cold killed our exotic birds. So, we started to think smaller. Bears, horses, dogs, animals of Bohemia. Know your home before you leave her. But even home was a stranger. When Mojmir, Jiří’s oldest, was killed by his most trusted bear, it was too much. Jiří Kludský went into his trailer and wouldn’t come out. Food by his door, left untouched. Mladá, my great grandmother. Sleeping in her daughters’ trailer. Jiří was not coming out. He let nobody in. Mladá wore the same dress as the day of the accident for two weeks. For two weeks, the circus held its breath. This was before my grandfather was born. Hánek, the last of seventeen children. But then, the two weeks pass. Jiří steps out and his eyes are strange. My grandfather’s father walks straight out of the trailer and out of the compound. He looks at no one, not even his wife. Mladá, whom he had just slept apart from for the longest time in twenty years. “He can’t look at us because he’s decided to saw the branch we’re sitting on.” This from Mladá. She knew. When Jiří went walking he was ready to sell it all. Animals, wagons, and tent poles. Mojmir was one loss too many. The circus would go. Any buyer, any offer. But we are still here, you say. How can that be, you say? Come here. I will tell you. There are some trees which refuse to be cut. Mojmir is dead, the alligator is dead, the birds are dead, a son has been mauled and a puma shot. All this in less than a year. Jiří Kludský goes walking in the space between two fields. It is the harvest. A small girl collects the wheat left behind. She is in rags. Her hair is wild. The grains of wheat are tangled in her hair. “Jiří Kludský,” she cries. Only then does he see her. “Jiří Kludský,” she cries. She is blocking his path. She is young but her eyes are old. Older than the eyes of birds. “Jirsky.” She calls him by his boyhood name. “I know the seed sown two weeks ago and the fruit it has borne. I’ve come to tell you, you harvest too soon.” The girl with wild hair and ancient eyes holds out her hand. Her palm is smooth as still water. Jiří holds it to his heart. “Tell me,” he says. His beard is choked with tears. “Do not let your grief cloud your sight. The problem does not lie in the circus. If you sell it, you will sell your soul.” Jiří trembled. The truth made Jiří tremble. “You must see inside an animal to know whether it will allow itself to be yours.” This from a girl with an angel’s eyes. “Only the animal can tell you.” And that is when she handed Jiří the mirror. “An animal presented with itself can tell you what you need to know,” she said. “If it holds its gaze, there is no room in its heart for another. An | 433 animal to be trusted does not stare. It looks away from its reflection. This is the animal with room inside itself.” What I tell you is true. The girl returned to the field. Jiří walked back to the camp. In his hand, the mirror we have to this day. For a little extra, you can see it. A special ticket.
Irena Kludský I call it circus glue. I don’t know from words, I know from life and that is what it is called. Break the skin of anyone who is real circus and you will find it there. My father, the Great Kopet, told me this when he put me for the first time on the high wire. “Irena,” he said, his voice like a cannon, “the wire is a slippery snake, but you are made of circus glue. When you feel the snake slipping from you, use your circus glue to stay on.” And there I was, a little girl in a red leotard with gold sequins my mother sewed on one by one in the shape of a sun. The net was under me in case I should fall, but I was not going to fall. I was the daughter of Kopet, circus in my bones, and if my father said there was glue in my feet, then so it was, and I walked straight across the rope. The look on my father’s face, I can not say it was surprise because he knew already with me that to put my mind to a thing was to make it so, but such pride! What else to expect? My mother a wire-walker and my father a Flying Kopet, it was a wonder I was not born with wings! Let me tell you circus glue. It is a powerful thing. The Kopets were always circus, but from the inside. Never a circus of their own. It was a good name for a circus to have, but not in the biggest letters, the ones a person could see on a poster across the street. We were not like the Wallendas with their chairs and poles, on the high wire like cats they walked. No. Kopet was good circus, solid circus, but no surprises. For me, I wanted something bigger. I was twelve and just a woman when my family came to Circus Kludský. Igor was fifteen and already he had the voice of a ringmaster. He was not the oldest son, there were three brothers before him, but he would be the one to take the place of the father Oldřich. Already he had girls to him like leaves on a tree, but this did not stop me. After I heard the story of 1905, nothing could get in my way. In 1905, I was just seven years old. The biggest thing in my head was do I wear the blue costume or the green. We were with a circus that is gone now, Circus Janko. Already, I knew the name Kludský, but of course I did not know Igor, who was ten then. While Circus Janko was playing Warsaw, Circus Kludský was in St. Petersburg. There, in St. Petersberg, Igor was already thinking like a man. 434 | Circus Kludský was in Russia when Russia loved Revolution. Of course they should think the circus loved it too. No one on the Outside understands a circus heart. The only history we make is our own and it is the only history we tell. It was in St. Petersburg the police took the Kludský tent. There is nothing worse to be done. It is an insult to the pride and to the family name. It is like ripping off the clothes of the mother of your grandmother while she is standing in the town square. The Russian police came with five men, they started pulling at the tent ropes like it was a flag they could tear down. Oldřich came at them like a tigress and so, of course, they arrested him. Circus Kludský they called a political breeding ground. Now Oldřich was growling. He growled at them the only thing the circus breeds is more circus. So now Igor and his mother had a troupe, no ring, and winter on their fingers. The circus could not perform, there was no money to go somewhere else, and besides, Oldřich was in the St. Petersburg jail. There were the older brothers, but their hearts were not as strong and they turned to Igor like he was maybe seven years past his real age. But what to do? Performers went their ways, saying they will come back when Oldřich is released. They put their costumes inside their moving trunks, beneath towels and sheets and underwear. They pretended they were not circus. They hid their sequins and sashes so the Revolution would not arrest them too. But a lion can not dress like a peasant and go back to Łodz. Maybe the performers left, but the animals stayed behind. Where else for them to go? There were many tears. Igor and his mother were left with three bears, two horses, a llama, and the elephants. Crazy Libor wouldn’t leave Kenye and Zaira, so while the others went away, he stayed in St. Petersberg. The winter was hard. Do not ask me how two elephants got along in the Russian cold, but they did. When I tell this story to other circuses, always they think I am lying. It is impossible, they say, for elephants to survive in that kind of winter. But in 1905, Libor and his elephants had already been with Kludský seven years. The performers who were not crazy like Libor had left for other places, but they knew where to find their hearts. The rubles always came. It could be a letter delivered by hand, but sometimes it was a mystery. A babushka, maybe, would bump into Igor to almost knock him down. When he walked away, he would find new rubles in his coat pocket. It was a difficult time. It was three months with Igor and his mother and his brothers before Oldřich came back. He arrived looking very bad. The animals were not doing so well, but Oldřich was looking worse than even the llama. Then, the llama died. For a time, they also worried for Oldřich. My Igor says it was not the prison to almost kill his father, but the worry that Circus Kludský might miss a season after so many years. Time had been lost. Word was sent to everyone to come back to St. Petersburg. There was happiness for Oldřich’s return, but the death of the | 435 llama was a big sadness. The body of the llama was packed in snow to await Moshe’s arrival. There were railroad and telegraph strikes as often as there were clouds in the sky, so it took a month for him to come back from the time the letter was sent. In this, maybe, it was lucky it was so cold. The body of the llama stayed preserved in all the ice and snow. Moshe arrived in black clothes that were torn and ash on his face, as this was the custom of his people. He growled at Oldřich for not burying the llama in three days as it is written in the Old Book, but the circus knew he was secretly glad. Moshe sat shiva for the llama for a week. Not enough men had come back to make minyan and on top of everything they were not even Jews, but Moshe said that the spirit of his law was being kept and Kaddish could be chanted. Even though he was only ten years old, my Igor stood with Moshe. This was the first time for him to hear Hebrew. He tells me that it was beautiful. Soon after Moshe finished with his llama, the rest of the circus came back. Circus Kludský crossed the border quickly and has not looked back since.
Marek Radosty It hasn’t been the same since the Hard Time, which came when my father was a boy. The happy stories are shared over and again. This story has one telling. The year we played Budapest was the time the tale was given to me. I had thirteen years in my pocket. My father took me to the baths and that is where he told me. There, I had my first glimpse of what it means to be an old man. All those sags and bags in the baths. Men looking more like elephants than they ever should. At the baths, I could see the beginnings of it in my father. A scary moment when a boy sees his father starting to turn elephant. Before that, time had only meant birthday parties. He told me as we sat in the heat room. The steam breathed pictures to his words. Deep inside, I already knew the story he was telling. That is the way when you have circus in your blood. I am fourth generation. My father’s great great grandfather was the first to join Kludský’s puppet show. When the only animals in the troupe were the horses who pulled the wagons. He was a tightrope walker and I have his double-jointed toes. When he fell, he decided that horses were good for more than wagon-pulling and that perhaps tightropes were not. It was a good thing for me because higher up than horseback, my head feels attached to my neck by a string. Still. I have dreams where I am dancing above a village and the sun is close enough to spit in. That’s the circus in me. Some stories you are born with as much as your name. Kludský had come a long way by the time my father was a boy. 436 | There were monkeys and a puma and a water buffalo. Circus Kludský was the biggest menagerie east of the Paris zoo. Trunks, claws, and tails, all sizes and colors, fur spotted, striped and dappled. My grandfather’s horses were the talk of Vienna. Those were the days of Chieftain. A horse you could look in the mouth. The smartest thing on hooves. They say when he waltzed, people forgot he walked on four legs and not two. My grandfather received more than a few perfumed letters. Ladies wanting time with Chieftain. Alone. To groom him and ride him, they said, but why then the false names at the bottom? Madame X. Duchess B. The strangest folk are outside the circus, not in. My father told me on my thirteenth year because he was thirteen when it happened. Like most worst things, it started small. Prince, the newest chimpanzee, fell ill. It happens sometimes when an animal comes to a new place. But then Momo also fell ill and there was talk. The monkeys were put in a cage toward the outside, away from the other animals. Polský sat with the two all night to feed them a tea he brewed from herbs and roots. It was what he drank when he took ill, so for sure it would work with his chimps. But Momo and Prince only grew worse and soon the puma was showing signs. A listlessness and a snuffling, a dullness to the eyes. Fur not as shiny as should be. And now Momo and Prince were losing fur and could not use their hands so well as before. The circus grew afraid. If the puma had caught the monkey sickness, then who else? Within a week, other animals showed the same signs. Polský gave up on his tea. It is hard to find a doctor who knows pumas, but someone was called to give the monkeys a look. A doctor man enough to know there was small difference between chimps and his usual patients. He wore a mask and gloves. Hard to tell, he said, what it was. He guessed Prince had brought it with him from Africa. Highly contagious, he said. Not much to be done. Prince and Momo were not well. Their eyes were shut with muck. They had a hard time getting to food. The doctor said no change and the only thing was to remove them from their misery. He dug deeper and said any animal showing signs should be shot. To stop the spread. An easy thing when an animal to you is just that. A different matter when an animal is family. Prince died days later. Polský’s violin played minor keys from sundown to sun up. Polský’s violin was still when Momo followed Prince. The Hard Time is also called the Silent Time. From the puma, it was hard to trace the path. Soon, it was faster to name the healthy ones. Shows stopped and word spread Outside that Circus Kludský had fallen to a sickness. Strangers appeared at the gate at odd hours, offering money to see the disease. They were sent away with a boot to their backs, but the truth was Kludský needed money. The sickness had come at the beginning of things. The start of any season is the most dangerous time. | 437 You live from one show to the next and the money does not wait long before it meets a grocer’s or a farmer’s hand. It is difficult to be practical when grief weighs you down like a cannonball, but Kludský had to think of these things. He knew now that any animal showing signs would not make it through. The puma was dead, along with the water buffalo. At least one animal in each act was sick. It was wondered if animals were not the only ones. Polský took to flu after Prince died. It is said something made its way around camp, but it was never as bad as for the animals. The nights were filled with animals crying and coughing. Nothing made a difference. I will never forget the look on my father’s face when he talked about those nights. He said he would not wish it on anyone. The hardest for him was Chieftain. Chieftain was his brother, as much a brother as four legs can be for two. Everyone knew they had to take the animals away from pain before it grew worse. Not a soul felt they could. When Kludský called the camp together, everyone knew part of what he would tell. A quarter of the animals were dead. Half the living were sick. Someone would have to be called from Outside. Someone who understood the kindness of a shot to the head without feeling like it was family they were killing. For a while there were only sobs. Then silence as Kludský went on. There was no money, he said. The season was stillborn. There were people, he said. People who would pay to see what none of them could imagine. A circus had to eat, he said. A circus needed new animals to carry on. That was how the killing shows started. They were short, twenty minutes each. A few domestic and one exotic animal. Kludský collected the money, an amount ten times normal admission, then locked himself in his trailer until it was done. My father said he could hear the shots even as he hummed with cotton in his ears. He said the sound still echoed in his dreams and, sometimes, when he was awake. After the first days, some trainers left and never came back. Money to make a clean start with new animals was not enough. Some did not come near another animal again. Evsen Strauss was the last of the Strauss family elephant trainers. The morning the elephant Winzig was put to sleep was the end of five generations of circus Strausses. Evsen boarded a train for Austria that day paler than a shroud. The day Chieftain went into the ring for the last time, my father could not keep food down. A blinding headache kept him in bed soon after the show started and for a few days after. He said the pain froze him more solid than the North Pole, a sharp burst and then a pulse over and over again at the base of his skull. There was one healthy horse, a mare, but she stopped eating and died weeks later. 438 | Only the old circus blood stayed. It was slow starting over—just basics: more horses, more bears, some dogs. Exotics were too expensive, too risky. Domestic animals would not carry strange diseases. I think the Great War took us less by surprise because the Hard Time was already inside us.
Karel Sukno Stand an old man next to Kenye and Zaira and he is a boy. I asked my father once how old they were. He said, “Kareliček, to Kenye and Zaira one year is a small red apple.” Every bushel of apples he brought for their dinner, the meaning of his words grew new branches. Life was good with my father. Like me, he was small but not little. The circus treated my father like a little man. It did not stop him from loving the circus back. When I was a boy, it did not bother me that our trailer had the least space in it and was closer to the cages than the others, because my father was so big. He made me feel that to live as circus was the greatest gift life could give. I have met elephant trainers who were different—men ashamed of parts of their job. My father took pride in every part of elephants, even in cleaning out their insides so no show would be stopped by their digestion. If you ask me, I say what comes out of an elephant is a fine end for a circus. “This arm has come as close to nature as any part of man can,” my father would say, and hold up his right arm like a holy thing. It was the same hand he ate with, because to him it was no shame. He was bigger than anyone knew. I do not measure up. To me, there is no worse than an arm up an elephant’s ass, no matter how great the elephant. I had expected something grand. When on my thirteenth birthday my father said to me, “Karel, it is time you became full circus,” my face lit up like a radio tube because I knew what it meant I would be allowed to do. I don’t know how I thought it would be. Love is like that. If my father had told me to walk barefoot on a bed of thorns, I would have taken off my shoes fast as a newlywed. When it was smelly and sticky and too warm, it was very hard to act that I’d been given the greatest present. My father, Libor Sukno, was born the oldest son of a cloth merchant in a village called Drogobych. It is now in Poland, but Russia has swallowed it and spit it back before. For centuries, Drogobych has stood in the shadow of a castle, owned by a family whose name was said to be cursed. What kind of curse? I don’t know and my father never said, but theirs was a name you only whispered and even then only in the light of day. For generations, the castle stood empty. The whole town thought the family was dead. Then, when my father turned seven, a light was seen in the castle window. In Drogobych it was said that the last living heir to the family name had | 439 returned. Soon, strange wagons arrived with shrouded cages of different shapes and sizes. It was said in the village that the man was building a zoo. After the wagons had stopped being seen, the man rode into the village on a horse. No two people saw the same thing. Some said he was young, others said he was old. A few said he was a woman dressed in men’s clothes. People only agreed on what they had heard. This person announced that every Saturday, anyone was welcome to visit the animals. My father went that first Saturday with everyone who wasn’t too frightened to set foot on the grounds. They found the gates open, but the mysterious zookeeper nowhere to be seen. “The strangest live animal I’d seen until then was a pregnant bitch,” my father told me, “and the strangest dead one was a calf with a fifth leg.” There, he said, he saw birds the color of dreams and a monkey who could dance. But nothing matched the elephants. He said they turned his insides warm and made his cheeks pink like a virgin’s first shot of slivovice. The first time he saw them, he knew. People are made of different things. Libor was made from wood. I do not know how a wooden child was born to a family of cloth, but there it was. No matter how you plant a tree, it reaches toward the sun. Libor Sukno had always known he did not want to work for his father in the textile shop. Once he saw the elephants, he knew why. On days that were not Saturdays, Libor went through the woods to come to the zoo from the back. He passed the lizards, the birds, and the monkey without a second glance. He told no one where he went. In town it was said he had a secret love. No one guessed this love had four legs and a trunk. As soon as he could, my father started taking odd jobs. The extra money he kept in a small pine box so when the time came for him to grow in a different direction, he could make his way in the world. “Kareliček,” he told me again and again, “my father was a man who knew textiles. He knew loose and tight weaves and cotton and wool. An elephant had no place in his world, except as tusks to be used for fancy buttons. There was no way I could have told him.” As my father grew taller, his time grew shorter. By the time hairs appeared on his chin, he just visited the elephants at the end of each month. But he said his feelings for them only grew stronger. As my father neared eighteen, strange stories were heard about the castle zookeeper. A rotting disease, it was said, had started with his nose and was working its way down. How anyone knew was a mystery. No one had been seen entering or leaving the castle in ten years. On his eighteenth birthday, Libor put down a cord of blue linen and left the shop to walk up the hill, a small pine box in his coat pocket. For the first time, he walked past the gates of the menagerie to knock on the door of the 440 | castle. When the door was opened by a hunched, limping man draped in bandage, it took Libor a moment to step inside. The man who opened the door had once rode into the village on a horse. “I’m glad you’ve come,” he told Libor as they made their way to a room with a fire. Even the scent of burning pine could not hide the smell of decay. In a chair opposite a rotting man, my father made an offer. The wooden box lay open on his lap. “I do not have much,” he told the man, “but what I have is yours and I will do my best to give them a good life. We were meant to leave this town together.” “You are a strong young man,” Libor was told. “Your money is not what is important.” The man left the room and when he returned, he held a torn page in his hand. At the bottom of that page, the top of which had old writing, he made a bill of sale for the sum of one zloty. That evening my father took the north road out of town, a suitcase in one hand and a thick rope tied to two elephants in the other, a childhood of zlotys in his pocket. It was hard for my father, knowing what he’d lost for the life he chose. Sometimes I wondered if he had regrets. I would watch him eye the cloth of my coat as if he was going to say something with weight to it. Instead, he would pat the top of my head and the moment would pass. Libor did not receive word from his family. He would write every week, giving the name of the next town where he could be reached. Before the circus moved on, he would visit the post office, freshly shaved and in his best jacket. Even after he had stopped checking, he still would write—long letters filled with me and him and the elephants. A small forest of paper was sent to that cloth family. I had dreams of a grandmother and grandfather, aunts and uncles. When I was ten years old, I wrote my first and last letter. I thought they only needed a signal from me, who they could love because I had never gone against them. I bought linen stationery with two months’ savings. I made sure to give the post office of the city we would be visiting in six month’s time, just to be sure. I heard nothing. I think it was because my mother was made of cloth that my father fell in love. She took the best of the world—the smell of cinnamon, the color yellow, and ripples in water—and draped herself around them. From these things came the shape of her words, the form of her thoughts. I think I was born cloth, but raising me, my father gave me his strength and I grew roots. At first I think she was happy. I remember a time when there was laughter. But it was in my mother’s nature to want to rest, just as it was in my father’s nature to spread and grow. This comes from a lifetime of thought. At the time, I only felt something broken. The day I told my mother I wanted to stay circus, I was seven. I had not known it was coming. My father never hit my mother like I had seen others do. I thought they were happy. | 441 “Karel, I have had enough of elephants,” she said to me one spring evening after the last show, “and I don’t think traveling is any way to raise a small boy. Kludský and his circus move out tomorrow morning.” That was all she said. It sounds like so little, but her every word unfolded and what had once been a small thing could be draped across my shoulders. I knew that by morning, she would expect me to choose. I went to Kenye and Zaira to find my father. He sat with them on a stool in the dark and though it was quiet, I saw his lips moving. When he saw me, his lips smiled the saddest smile of his life. “I’m telling Zaira and Kenye that they won’t see any more of your mother. I don’t think they’re taking it well.” I know now that I saw something in my father’s eyes to make me stay. My father had already been left by one family for the life he had chosen. I knew he couldn’t survive being left by another. Just as it was clear that he could never leave the animals he had chosen to take his first family’s place. The words for this did not come until much later. At the time, there was only the feeling, strong as hunger, of what I had to do. I am sure my mother thought it was her I was refusing when the next morning I said I would stay, but I would have done the same for her. If it had been a matter of her life or death and not my father’s. But my mother had a special strength all her own. Cloth can be dropped from great heights and still land safely on the ground. 442 |
Photo: Andrea Butman Elizabeth Gross Lines from National Geographic
In spring, when cherry trees were tossing a heavy wake. In some cases it will destroy the music and how long I will remain a part of it? To have been on the moon. It was beyond the night outside before dying. To me of my anatomy most unerringly myself. How to malfunction. And their lack of adequate sirens keening, lights fading into a total and intimate a form as the | 443 Ocean licks at a black beach. At the wheel is the Japanese code name for this exchange, silk thread and pieces of flesh. Somewhere in the murk nearby lie the marble, caught my eye. I realized it was a note when struck. Such a flaw will ruin every passage where that key is played.
Lines from National Geographic (2)
to begin in a room within a room shaped like a twisted staircase—the famous thread tying this one life to all life that has found the secret of life. On a rainy October what can happen to a piano concerto if there are leaks?
she became ill, she welcomed the hard work of our alphabet into meaningful worlds, the past in different places. In most populations, identity was safely silenced.
Icelanders have always had a passion for glass smaller than a postage stamp, planted at any of these 1,500 spots. But there may be, feet below an angry dark tongue of the Arctic 444 | within another room. Before passing over to a chair by the fire. the edge of the world in a red toy— because it is my own. Liar to Gardener (I)
Listen, there is a scarcity of light in this town, and at night the people burn anything that burns. That is to say, yes, I received your letter, and it burned.
Some words curled out from the flames, and you’ll be pleased by their selection: garden, repair, love, perhaps the weather.
How is your garden? Has the ear returned to the bear with spring growth? Has the swan recovered her head? My friend, you have the patience of a rocking chair.
Here, it is so cold that everything is the same color. If the weather ever returns, I would like a cutting.
| 445 From perhaps the weather, a correspondence (a series of letters between a topiary gardener and a pathological liar). Liar to Gardener (II)
Have you ever been across the badlands? There is a town where everything is up on piers except for the livestock, and the air is dead for 14 feet above the ground. When the wind comes strong the system jerks and sways, and at night the yelling whips from house to house and every one can hear it so well that no one knows who is fighting or what the dispute is about. But the yelling at night across the badlands cannot be ignored and so the people all sit in their separate kitchens and mouth words to each other that they know are not their own—but without a little quiet who can think of anything else to say?
446 | From perhaps the weather, a correspondence. First published in Versal 7 (2009). Liar to Gardener (IV)
My father’s going blind and taking up painting. He says he wants to document what he describes as his conversion to abstraction, but he paints strict realism. The exactness of shadows split where floorboards meet the wall is remarkable. What’s changed the most as his sight declines is his choice of subject matter—he paints portraits of parrots in rooms that are nearly empty, excepting a single, simple chair. Every canvas in the series, he paints the parrot larger in the room, and it’s true, eventually he will have no choice but to depict pure color if the bird should continue to expand.
From perhaps the weather, a correspondence. First published in Versal 7 (2009). | 447 Leaving Vyšehrad
There is no such place as place. But I have loved the lie of it—
the castle sitting still and high on the horizon like a promise,
and the bells that call me back.
448 | Lines from National Geographic (June 1975)
You will learn about pulsars, neutron stars, silver, cast church bells, engraved political matter so heavy that a single teaspoonful rises in the west and sets in the east, although even stronger is our innate urge to create.
Mars inward suffered heavy bombardment, Venus turns lazily—and in the opposite oceans, which Venus seems to lack, our materials take form, gain beauty, become matter and light. And you will appreciate, as the late British scientist J.B.S. Haldane once remarked, that “...the universe is not only queerer than we suppose, but queerer | 449 than we can suppose.” Questioning room, post-Fall
No, we aren’t what we appear. The dangling light bulb yellows us, fixes our shadows to the floor. Let our shadows be forgiven for what we cut out of the light. What other part of a living person goes without a pulse? We’ll stand here, yes, naked, even, as if that could help. You promised power over language and animals but every word calls out your distance, you, who formed us in the image of a question, but, no, never promised to answer.
450 | Lines from National Geographic (date unknown)
The principal paradox in this land would not be poisoned by religion. “Will we be able to recognize the first tornado in Iowa?” He was serious: He argued eruptions in his tree-ring sequences—years melt on the ice-covered Deception Island, off the Antarctic—“like a great beating heart,” he added, as if in answer to a question.
| 451 Lines from National Geographic (3)
to begin in a room within a room shaped like a twisted staircase—the famous thread tying this one life to all life that has found the secret of life. On a rainy October what can happen to a piano concerto if there are leaks?
she became ill, she welcomed the hard work of our alphabet into meaningful worlds, the past in different places. In most populations, identity was safely silenced.
Icelanders have always had a passion for glass smaller than a postage stamp, planted at any of these 1,500 spots. But there may be, feet below an angry dark tongue of the Arctic 452 | within another room. Before passing over to a chair by the fire. the edge of the world in a red toy— because it is my own. Elizabeth Gross, Christopher Crawford & Stephan Delbos, 2008. | 453
Richard Toth & Gregory Linington, 1995. 454 |
Photo: Bonnie A. Kane Stuart Horwitz Waiter Poem
you remember Steve he came in for lunch when I mentioned your demise by implied overdose polite powers stopped the room dead someone spilled their wine in a perfect circle but the busboy caught the glass that’s a miracle in itself isn’t it | 455 it is extremely poor service to make people afraid of death everyone started drinking sparkling water your coffin came down like a chandelier above our makeshift ceremony as the hostess dragged over extra chairs apologizing for all the dirt have you come to answer our burning questions like why is it so difficult to love in the restaurant business or how hypercritical can the chef get before someone smacks him or could drugs take you if you refused to go what am I supposed to do with a full station and the knowledge no one really owns this place how can I get anybody’s order right wondering which door you came in by and who I will leave behind
First published in Optimism Monthly 11 (May 1996). Numbers
one 1 doesn’t use any big words 1 says let everything work itself out
one-2 is an echo one-2 is a rival one-2 is a crutch one-2 is sanity
3 is the beginnings of a world 3is an airmail letter 3 is community and an ongoing code of secrets
3 stands up 456 | while 4 is stable 3 is an airmail letter lying on 4, which is the table
4 is royal one-2-three-4 is balanced one-two-three-4 is sure 4 is a room where you can stay for only so long
5 is alive 5 is where the winners win and the losers go home 5 is the first ending an innocence fit for the theater
6 6 6 one-two-three- four -five-6 running one-two-three-four-five-6 on 6 is out of breath 6 shows no sign of stopping 6 never rests on her laurels 7 is a foreign country 7 is a find if 5 is the mine and 6 is the shaft 7 is the silver or the gold you don’t work your way up to 7 7 is a torn crease at the edges of good news
9 is 8 turned on its side 8 is direction 9 is dimension 8 is everywhere 9 is elsewhere 9 is divine one-two-three-breath-four-five-six-seven-breath 8 is the saints and 9 is the rain that falls from heaven
0 means we’re all losers | 457 0 means go back to where you don’t even know and start to stop in most versions Hercules had 8 labors but in some he had only 2 and one says it was 3 plus 5 meaning he didn’t know any better than we did
Caesar wanted the number of months to be 10 but there wasn’t anything anyone could do about that
12 is a realization that has changed into your blood
40 days is long enough to know if a relationship is worth it you take a round number like 82.00 and multiply it by the even more easygoing 8.25% and you get the very martial 6.76 which just goes to show it takes all kinds to make a world 458 |
Photo: Ekaterina Fedotova Howard Hunt The Ministry of Strange Affairs
The girl’s father was a surgeon, a good man, worked in one of the regional hospitals, made do under difficult circumstances, got the job done, his particular job being to sew up the old and frightful former communists from the agricultural sector who had mishaps on their tractors; the old guys were always getting drunk and falling off their tractors, or rolling around under and coming into contact with the sharp parts of combine harvesters and threshing machines, basically tilling the soil with mad abandon, losing body parts left, right and center, and the girl’s father’s job was to sew the old guys back together with whatever surgical material was on hand at the time. Which was not a lot of surgical material. Because there was no money in the | 459 public sector. All the money was in private. The government had privatized everything. The way it worked with health care was that you were required by law to sign up for private health insurance; you had a choice of many competing companies and it was your legal duty to pick one and sign up for the full comprehensive. But no one did. Because no one had any money. And there was also that thing where no one trusted the insurance companies, especially not the doctors, so the health care system had slumped back into the old way, which was the bartering system. The country was dotted with plum trees, plums were free, if you had plums you could make alcohol, so the engine of the regional economy was rattling away on homemade booze. Which was why the old guys kept on falling off their tractors, and why the girl’s father, the surgeon, had botched the operation on the taxi driver’s knee. He’d been drinking on the job. Shot for shot with the driver. The two men had been friends, or were from the same village, or had worked as assets for the same intelligence guy; they had a history, they had lived through hard times, so when the driver totaled his cab and came staggering into the OR, it was booze economy all the way. Two bottles of distilled plum liquor and forget the anesthetic. Except the operation was botched and the driver’s knee didn’t take. His clutch knee. The guy was in an immense amount of pain, something wrong with the nerves, the kind of thing you needed microsurgery to fix, and the girl’s dad was no microsurgeon. Worse, he couldn’t refer the driver to a city hospital because the way it worked with the insurance companies was that the second you were up on their radar, they hit you up for back fees, sent the debt collectors your way, went after your assets with the full approval of the government, so a signature on a hospital contract was instant death. The girl’s father knew this. The taxi driver knew this. So the surgeon’s advice to the driver was grin and bear it. Nothing he could do. He threw up his hands and walked back into his office, and the relationship between the two men turned lethal overnight. The girl was working in the city at one of the big call centers. Masters degree in economics, no work, so running a team of phone operators selling cheap long distance phone packages to people from prosperous countries who had no name recognition of or geographical idea about the girl’s own country, yet immediately distrusted the accents of her operators. The accents were wrong. Something sleazy about the accents. So after months of low turnover, one of the foreign partners had flown in and called the girl into his office and told her that the call center would be doing phone sex from now on. If the operators couldn’t sell phone packages, they could sell phone sex instead. Which had troubled the girl no end, but her job was on the line, so she had gone out onto the floor and fired all the guys and given the women an hour off to discuss whether or not they would like to move into phone 460 | sex, and the women had come back after twenty minutes and said, sure, no problem. So the girl was running a highly lucrative phone sex operation out of the call center, and the women’s accents were perfect. The whole thing was so dirty and yet nobody cared. The call center was on the river and the river had flooded. The river was always flooding. But a seal had escaped from the riverside zoo and there was excitement in the tabloids. The zoo was underwater, the animals were being evacuated, but a seal had made a break and the public were loving it. The seal was getting out. It was in the river, swimming to freedom, a cause celeb for the tabloid reading public, everyone speculating on the fate of the seal. The president was quoted. Top government officials, the men who had ignored the scientific call for better waterways, were very interested in the seal. The girl’s boyfriend, highly placed in the publishing company responsible for the tabloids, was tracking the seal with the latest technology. His men were out in the rain, screaming into handsets. Or in boats, sluicing through the flood zone. The dockyards were submerged, the riverfront had collapsed, the subway was one long tunnel of water, and families were up on their rooftops, cheering the seal along. Clearly it was time to leave the city. Fighting had broken out between the skinheads and the gypsies, nothing new there, except they were attacking each other in boats in torrential downpour. The gypsies had been flooded out of their riverside squat, and were on the move with the skinheads dogging them. Big fat kids, the skinheads. Perpetually drunk, but with the excellent boating skills they had learned in the scouts. The girl’s boyfriend was watching from his office and could see the whole thing. The heavy rain, the flooded street, the boats. The gypsies had knives, the skinheads had baseball bats, they were like pirates on the high seas. He was on the phone, describing the play by play to the girl at the call center, her staff moaning in the background, trying to make her laugh because she was worried about her dad. There had been an incident with the driver. The guy was making threats and was pain crazed enough to see them through, so it wasn’t safe in the country either. The booze-economy had made the place volatile. The riverside squat where the gypsies lived took up an entire city block in the historic old town. A handsome row of art nouveau buildings that had been thoroughly wrecked by the last flood. Prime real estate for development, but no developer would go near them until the government knuckled down and fixed the waterways. Canals needed to be dug, the river dredged, the bank walls reinforced. Engineers had worked it out on paper two floods ago. A tremendous financial commitment for the government, so the government had thrown up its hands and tendered the whole thing out to foreign investment; basically said fix the waterways and you can have the gypsy block for free. But that was never going to happen because it was contentious as to whether the government had the right to sell the gypsy block. The deed of title was held by an angry baron from a bordering | 461 country who was suing the country in a court of appeal. The block had been crumbling on the riverbank for decades, so the gypsies had taken it over and turned it into a fortress. An unbelievable number of people lived there, including a smoky-voiced old timer from the call center, who had been a resounding failure in discount phone package sales, but was really hitting the mark in phone sex. The smoky-voiced old timer was not a gypsy at all, but she came from the region and had the look, and was openly disparaged by the other phone operators, who were cavalier and pragmatic about their own line of work, but unpleasant and critical about the smoky-voiced old timer’s. Like she was this ghastly old witch who really enjoyed talking dirty on the phone. Everyone with a job was camping out at the office. A flood alert had been raised, but the work situation was tenuous and people had stayed at their desks in spite of the rain. Now it was impossible to leave. Since the privatization, big business was in the hands of foreign corporations; heavily capitalized outfits that had sailed into town and bought up stock in former communist industry, stripping the assets and downsizing the staff and sweeping the detritus under the carpet of their strong foreign brands, to the point where local industry had been pretty much wiped out. Middle management reported to foreign bosses who reported to foreign head offices where the paychecks were cut, but for some reason the paychecks had stopped coming. The paychecks were late, so the usual rumors of widespread bankruptcy had started, resulting in a mass refusal to evacuate the city. All the big office blocks near the river were crowded with people who wanted to get paid, and if the girl’s boyfriend wasn’t up to his neck in seal, he might have sent a man to check it out. But the seal was causing problems. It was somewhere near the border, refusing to be caught, the human interest angle of the story being the seal’s successful capture and tickertape homecoming. The intrepid seal returns. The girl’s boyfriend had the funds and resources to recover the seal if it stayed inside the country, but he was competing against foreign networks that would clean up on the seal if the seal went international, and he had received word that his opposite number in tabloid TV was looking to scoop him on the seal. The girl’s boyfriend and his opposite number were fierce rivals who worked for the number one tabloid and tabloid TV station respectively. Both men loved their jobs, loved the challenge of chronicling the day to day humanity of a poor and struggling nation that somehow took comfort from the exploits of the super rich, while at the same time being fully aware that the super rich had grown rich at their expense; the fascinating paradox of the tabloid-ingesting public being that it wasn’t stupid at all. The plight of the seal was a case in point. Everyone knew that the government had facilitated the widescale theft of everything, that ministers from the incumbent and former 462 | parties had cut deals with charismatic foreign businessmen who had jetted in and asset-stripped state industry; everyone knew that the ministers had banked the kickbacks they had received in offshore accounts and acquired foreign passports and in many cases left the country as hastily as the foreign businessmen; the tabloid reading public knew this. But getting angry and complaining was considered naïve. Complaining was for amateurs. The serious citizen quietly bided his time and got in on the stealing when the opportunity allowed. It was a revenge mentality, but completely undirected. Everyone had been screwed, so everyone was looking to square the ledger, it didn’t matter on who, it was like being in a war where you were given a gun and told to git some. The opportunity was there. But thinking about it drove you crazy. There you were, up on your roof, your house completely flooded, calculating in your head exactly what you had lost and what you needed to steal to make up for it, but having no idea who you would steal from or how long you would have to wait until the stealing could commence, and the thing was, if you were the slightest bit intense about squaring the ledger, you’d just go nuts. So the trick was to relax and read the tabloids. To take an interest in the seal. To sit in a dark room with a bottle of plum liquor and watch Pop Idol and Funniest Home Videos. Which was more or less what the girl’s father was doing. The taxi driver was outside, parked in his car, obviously up to no good, so the girl’s dad had closed the hospital and was tucked away in the OR with the service revolver he had kept since the army. A tough old army doctor turned regional surgeon, watching Funniest Home Videos with one eye on the door. The funny videos weren’t funny, and seemed for the most part to consist of horrific accidents involving children. The girl’s father winced often. Maybe selling the video helped cover the health care. He had no idea. The country had changed dramatically since the state had gone private. There seemed to be a lot of young, vibrant people in the city, making vast amounts of money in really silly ways, while the sensible professions were taking a hammering. His daughter, a trained economist, was working at a call center where the women who answered the phones sounded like prostitutes. But obviously doing well, having bought herself a flat on the hill above the city. The girl and her father were close. Since the problem with the driver, she had been urging her dad to come and stay at the flat. The flat was gated and safe, and her dad was barely scraping by at the regional hospital. Perhaps it was time he considered the future. The future was definitely behind a big gate, and all he had to do was say the word and the girl’s boyfriend would have a tabloid man drive out and relocate him. This was the year little flags bearing the president’s name started appearing in all the dog turds. In the months before the flood, the streets were littered with dog turds, and someone had been sticking a flag in each turd. The president was not popular. He was the man who had single-handedly overseen the privatization, facilitating some quite stunning theft in the early | 463 years of non-communism. An outspoken advocate of free enterprise, he had given his former comrades from the ousted Ministry of Finance the ways and means to put communism behind them, which they had done in a big way, jetting off to distant islands and surrounding themselves with bodyguards and threatening to kill anyone who came sniffing around. But the president had stayed. He was in it for the history. He had written books about the privatization, arguing that his economic principles were sound. In theory, the sale of the state should have worked. The president really believed this. He was either a savant or a very clever man. So his super rich ex-colleagues made some behind-the-scenes calls and swung the old boy the presidential election, communism being like this prestigious men’s club in which if you were a member, you really knew who you were, and now the president was in the driver’s seat, showing all the signs of taking the job very seriously. The guy really wanted to be on the right side of history, which was fine by the ex-colleagues, as they had helped him hide a lot of money on their islands. Protective measures were built into the arrangement. No one was talking, the paper trail had been erased, the past was the past and the future was beckoning. It was an exciting time for everyone. Except for this perplexing business with the turds. In every corner of the city, every turd had a flag. The cheekiness of it. There were literally thousands and thousands of turds, so a large group of people had mobilized to make it happen. It was a bizarrely effective form of dissent. Until the flags popped up, the president’s historical legitimacy had largely gone unquestioned, in no small way due to the fact that the publishing director of the leading newspaper chain and the editorial director of the leading TV station—the girl’s boyfriend and opposite number’s bosses respectively— served as media advisors to the presidential office. It was their job to determine who was laughing at whom, and no one laughed at the president as he was a serious intellectual with many books on the shelves. A much touted fact in the print and broadcast media. No one was messing with the president. So the flood was actually quite timely as it had washed away the turds and flags, and the president was out there among his people, handling the crisis very well, standing in mud and looking distant and theoretical, the issue of the flooded waterways a lot easier to address than the issue of why members of his constituency were flagging turds with his name, the turds themselves having lain in the streets for months on end as a result of the sanitation cuts the government had implemented. Public sanitation was a disaster. But on the plus side, a small and efficient private firm with a cheap regional labor force was ably demonstrating the effectiveness of the private sanitation model up on the hill behind the gates, and the president could vouch for the model’s effectiveness personally, as he lived there and the place was very clean. Up in the call center, the smoky-voiced old timer was sleeping under 464 | her desk. The riverside squat was completely flooded, so she was forced to camp out with the rest of the girls. Contrary to what the girls were saying, the smoky-voiced old timer didn’t remotely enjoy talking dirty on the phone. It was humiliating and tiring work. The girls wore headsets and sat at terminals and had no control over the incoming calls, which were sent in rapid sequence from the foreign head office and consisted of rich men shouting the most terrible things. The men on the line sounded unbelievably angry. They were busy and powerful and needed to get off fast. Conversation was discouraged. The guys were shouting when they got on and shouting when they got off, and it was all you could do to keep up with them. The smoky-voiced old timer had been at the center for a year. Prior to that, she had worked as a contract cleaner for the private sanitation firm on the hill. The call center paid better and it was a relief to sit down, but the thing that really disturbed her, far more than the relentless stream of abuse from the phones, was the look of corruption that gradually firmed up on the faces of the girls around her. The girls were in their early twenties and were casual and offhand about the nature of the work. It was no big deal. In fact the guys were kind of funny. The girls felt sorry for the guys, which made dealing with them easier, and there was always a couple of months of eye rolling and suppressed laughter from each new girl who came to work at the center. The pay was good, so there was no shortage of girls. Every time a girl burned out, another girl would take her place, and after a two-day training seminar in which phone sex would be presented as a bright and vibrant career opportunity, the switch would be thrown and the girl would be fielding eight hours of fury thundering down the line from the big foreign cities. The smoky-voiced old timer had done twelve months of this, and her face in the mirror was unrecognizable. But she was old and had lived through hard times. The call center girls had their whole lives ahead of them, but were ageing rapidly week by week, taking on the haunted look of people under siege, the voices on the phones no laughing matter, listening to and saying the most atrocious things imaginable and not meaning it and yet somehow meaning every word, eight hours a day, five days a week with a morale- boosting staff party every Friday, the accumulated horribleness of each word firming up on each girl’s face in a visible timelapse, these really pretty girls who kept on coming and coming. The girl who ran the center was aware of this as well, and took it upon herself to make the morale-boosting parties as much fun as possible, setting up the bar and mixing the mojitos herself and getting the girls drunk and dancing on the tables. A well known DJ would spin some discs, and there would be sushi and a cheese plate. Everyone would be in a profound state of shock, but the parties were legendary, spilling out from the center to the inner-city discos, where the girl’s boyfriend would turn up with a posse of photographers and have the most requested phone sex girls photographed with stars. More often than not, the most requested girl was the smoky-voiced | 465 old timer, whose smoky voice and no-nonsense phone manner had created a word-of-mouth cult following in the big foreign cities, but the smoky-voiced old timer never went to the discos. If there was sushi, she would wrap some in a napkin and take it back to the squat, but that was as much of the game as she was willing to play. She had the measure of the girl who ran the call center, having cleaned the toilets and bathrooms of women just like her. All those women on the hill, locked behind those huge gates. Very friendly, very rich, but scared to death half the time, and the thing the smoky-voiced old timer couldn’t help wondering was whether the thing that frightened them most was themselves. Before her country struck oil and became a threat to democracy, the smoky- voiced old timer had been a society columnist. She had written about society for her big city paper without having any real idea of what society was. Society was hats and dresses and amusing politicians, then hardline religious fervor and rioting in the streets. Her city bombed to its foundations, an exodus of raven-haired, dark-skinned, cheap foreign labor, racial profiling, bribery and corruption, but still not getting society, not understanding it at all. Her brother had managed to bribe a border official, enabling the smoky-voiced old timer to be issued an under-the-table visa that got her across the border after a harrowing interview, and after a year of hardship, she had fallen in with a group of fellow refugees who were not gypsies, but who were subject to the same hostility as gypsies, their raven hair and dark skin immediately marking them as cheap foreign labor or violin-playing criminals. In the country’s ancient language, the same word was used for “foreigner” and “stranger,” foreigners and strangers being more or less the same thing back in the Middle Ages when people lived in walled cities and were defended by private armies, but in modern times, the two meanings of the word had drifted apart. Foreigners were charismatic businessmen who jetted into town with interesting news about offshore banking, while strangers cleaned toilets and lived in riverside squats. In the city, the smoky-voiced old timer was definitely a stranger. She would get on a tram and people would pat their pockets to make sure their wallets were still there, and on the crowded subway platforms, the police would immediately zero in on her and demand to see her papers. She’d been locked up for no reason, routinely insulted, and was living in a room without water or electricity. This was society, she reasoned. The best of times, the worst of times. But she was wrong. Her papers were invalid, the cops were shaking her down, so she was forced to seek help from a fellow refugee, a kindly old ex-judge who had a vital connection at the country’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs. The ex-judge lived in the riverside squat. His chambers were on the top floor, and after close scrutiny by actual gypsies, the smoky-voiced old timer was taken to meet him. Up in his chambers, the ex-judge lit a fire and 466 | made instant coffee and spoke at length about racism, explaining that as far as the country was concerned, the locals looked up to foreigners while looking down at strangers. Strangers were considered untrustworthy, even though they stole a fraction of what the foreigners were shipping out each day. Foreigners were respectable. Strangers were not. It was as simple as that. History had conspired to make an underclass of strangers, and it was their lot to be mistrusted and reviled. The best the strangers could do under the circumstances was stick together as a community and help each other like he was helping her now. The ex-judge patted the smoky-voiced old timer’s hand. Through his vital connection, he would see to it that her passport was stamped with the appropriate visa every six months. It pained him to charge her a fee for the service, but his relationship with the Ministry required constant grift. Out in the region, the girl’s father had long ceased to be amused by Funniest Home Videos. He had drunk all the plum liquor and was wandering around the OR with the gun in his hand. The driver was still outside. The surgeon couldn’t believe the conflict had escalated to this level. The knee and pain were understandable, but the surgeon knew the driver well enough to know that the problem was compounded not so much by the man’s thwarted ambitions, but by the man’s notion that his ambitions had been deliberately thwarted by malevolent forces beyond his control. In this, the driver was a typical representative of the tabloid-reading, revenge mentality public. The driver was neither bright, nor ambitious, but fiercely believed that had communism not come along, he would have been clever and successful. Instead of sitting in the pub and drinking beer for forty years, he would have been a charismatic businessman jetting around the globe at the helm of huge corporation. This was the pub lunch dream of every man in the country who had ever slumped into the lethargy of communism. And with this dream came an immense amount of anger. Especially now that communism was gone. The surgeon was sorry about the driver’s knee, but anger and booze and undirected revenge had taken the guy to a place where he was dangerous. He had been sitting outside in his car for two days, probably knocking back the exact same plum liquor the girl’s dad had knocked back, and it was the surgeon’s turn to get self-righteously angry. Revenge was not the way. With revenge came the suspicion and envy that had created a nation of informers and denouncers in the past. Everyone had been screwed because everyone was screwing. Even now in a society that was crying out for trust. The phone rang and the girl’s boyfriend picked it up. It was his opposite number at tabloid TV. The word was in: the seal was out. It had crossed the border, foreign affiliates had been briefed, however the news from the foreign newsrooms was that the seal was perceived only as a mildly amusing human interest story, way down the line on the list of priorities, so the mobilization of resources was disappointingly modest. If the seal was caught, the tabloid men could have it, but there was no guarantee that the seal would be caught. | 467 Which posed a serious problem as the seal was breaking news. Failure to deliver the seal would be taken very badly. The public needed a victory. The president had expressed confidence in the state’s ability to recover the seal, so political credibility was at stake. People would be fired if the seal remained at bay, so the girl’s boyfriend and his opposite number were thinking outside the square, strategizing cooperative initiatives while privately pulling their researchers off flood coverage and having them phone the foreign zoos to see if a substitute seal could be quietly acquired. It didn’t even matter if the seals looked alike. The public distrusted everything. An obviously switched seal would provoke debate. But the important thing now was the speed of delivery. The girl’s boyfriend was in the publisher’s office, discussing how much money could be thrown at the problem, and a lot of money was the answer. As much money as it took. A bogus seal would be delivered by whatever means necessary; the project had the publisher and president’s full backing. The girl’s boyfriend shook hands with the publisher and punched air like a schoolboy all the way to his office. Outside the building, rain whipped through the streets. With the ex-judge’s help, the smoky-voiced old timer was able to work legitimately for a couple of years, long enough to put the money together to return to her own country, which was under foreign occupation and on the brink of civil war. There were no big city papers to write for, none of the politicians were amusing, hats and fashion were a thing of the past, but the smoky-voiced old timer was optimistic. She had lived. She had seen things. She was on the bus to the border, watching the countryside roll by, an older and wiser person who understood society, frightened by the occupation but ultimately believing that her people would prevail, and then she was off the bus and detained in a small room while the border officials examined her papers, and the next thing she knew she was in the cage of a police van because the stamps in her passport were clever forgeries. The ex-judge had screwed her. Her papers were false, but their falsification had been made outside the usual channels. The wrong people had been paid, which was a serious offence. The smoky-voiced old timer sat trembling in the cage and realized with horror just how serious it was. The police were underpaid and needed bribes to get by, so screwing the cops on fake papers was like stealing from the mafia. Retribution was due, and of course her pleas of innocence only made the cops more angry. The ex-judge was untouchable. He never left his chambers in the riverside squat and the cops weren’t paid enough to go up and get him, so the smoky-voiced old timer was going down alone. All the money she had saved went out in low-level bribes, and by the time her case was finally thrown out of court, she had spent the best part of a year behind bars. The surgeon picked up his keys and prepared to drive to his daughter’s 468 | flat on the hill. The revenge mentality infuriated him. The driver had been sitting outside all weekend, in full view of the hospital, not leaving his car for two days and two nights. Maybe his daughter had the right idea. Maybe the wall and the gate were the way to go. According to his daughter, the gate wasn’t protecting the rich from the poor, it was really protecting the smart from the stupid. Stupid people were everywhere. You couldn’t help them. She wasn’t forcing anyone to work in cheap long distance phone package sales. All her staff had a choice, and if their choice was to sell cheap long distance phone packages for an above-average salary with a really excellent party thrown in every Friday, well that was their problem. She wasn’t forcing anyone. The surgeon sighed as he unlocked the front door. His daughter had been tense and emotional the moment she had bought the big flat on the hill. She seemed to want reassurance. But reassurance from what? She and her boyfriend were part of the new elite. They were the future. The country’s fate rested squarely on their shoulders. Perhaps it really was time to stand back and let the kids get on with it. After her case had been thrown out of court, the smoky-voiced old timer returned to the squat to demand an audience with the kindly old ex-judge. The months she had spent behind bars had been terrible. She had aged, gone gray, her health had deteriorated. This wasn’t something you could easily forgive. In the cells, she had tried to understand why the ex-judge had screwed her. He had invoked a sense of community, then needlessly betrayed it, categorizing society in terms of foreigners and strangers, and then behaving like a stranger to one of his own. The smoky-voiced old timer was granted entrance to the squat and taken upstairs to the ex-judge’s chambers. There, she sat in the corridor and waited. She had waited for this moment for almost a year. Had she been a stereotypical gypsy, she would have brought a knife with her and buried the thing in the ex-judge’s heart, but retribution was not what she had come for. She lacked the temperament for it. After the anger had burned away, rationality had taken over, and the thing she really needed was to understand why. Why had the ex-judge betrayed her? If he had told her that her visa stamps were forgeries, she would have paid him the same money and probably extra to make the appropriate arrangements for her to cross the border safely. Screwing her was needless. And, in light of the long speech on racism, hypocritical and evil. Yet the kindly old ex- judge was an intelligent man. The smoky-voiced old timer sat in the hall and waited for the ex-judge to open his chambers. She had plenty of time. There was nowhere else to go. The surgeon opened the hospital gate and hurried back to his car. The rain was sleeting heavily, hitting the windscreen with force. Steam rose from every surface. The unsealed street had turned to mud, and the gutters were clogged solid by a year of roadside trash. Outside the gate, the driver’s car squatted ominously in the rain. An old Mercedes with yellowing panelwork, blurred abstractly through the surgeon’s fogged-up windows. | 469 The girl’s father drove slowly past the driver’s car and meandered onto the road through the hills. The service revolver was on his lap. The valley was flooded. From the hills, it looked like an enormous lake. The road to the city was slippery and dangerous, forcing the surgeon to drive with extra caution. The driver followed at a distance, his headlights visible through the sleet, the rain coming down in such incredible volume that it was impossible to see the road ahead. Both men drove at an absurdly slow speed, weaving their way through the hilltop forests, an actual car chase through fabulous scenery, but frustratingly slow and uneventful, exiting the forest and entering the grayness of the industrial zone, crawling up past the cement works and the smoke belching factories, then spiraling out onto the hill above the city. His daughter’s wall was immediately visible. The surgeon followed the wall all the way to the gate. The wall and gate were enormous. Cameras swept back and forth on their motorized perches, and two men in peaked hats were standing by in their raincoats. It was the third time the surgeon had been to the complex. He had found the place oppressive when the weather was nice, but in the rain, it was like a massive correctional facility. But safe. The world had become dangerous and people with money were investing in safety. Safety was a commodity now. The government couldn’t guarantee it, so private enterprise was meeting the demand. The old ex-judge never left the ruined squat. He had enemies inthe city; refugees and needy people who had come to him for help and who he had tricked and betrayed through various scams. His vital contact at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs did exist however. Through an intermediary, it was possible to shuttle paperwork back and forth and have appropriate visas stamped correctly in passports. But the simple truth was, forging documents was easier. The ex-judge’s people were crafty and enjoyed the challenge of counterfeiting papers. And needy people infuriated him. He had no sympathy for the weak. His racism speech, honed to perfection after hundreds of meetings with desperate strangers, touched on a concept he believed with frightening certainly. Strangers, himself included, were perceived to have low character. But who was to say what character was? Who wrote the rulebook on character? Certainly not a stranger. So adhering to the societal norms of a country that discriminated against you automatically was just preposterous. Deceit and artifice were as much a part of human nature as honesty and virtue. It just depended on which rulebook you chose. The old ex-judge was a shrewd judge of character. He knew, for example, that the smoky-voiced old timer was sitting in the hallway, and he was quite sure that she posed him no physical threat. Humming quietly to himself, he lit some kindling and boiled water for coffee, setting two cups on the carpet in the middle of the room. The surgeon pulled over in front of the gate and watched the driver park 470 | behind him. The chase had ended. The tension he had felt throughout the drive was replaced by a fatigue as distant and familiar as the rain and the fear and the pebbly grip of the service revolver he had worn but not shot. The surgeon recalled his time in the war with sadness. His country was surrounded by other countries that had fought, and their national character had been built on resistance. They said no and meant no, whereas his own country had said yes and meant no until the naysayers were winning. Then it had said no. It was the smart versus stupid argument all over again. The neighboring countries held the moral high ground, but their tourist potential was laughably scant as their historic old towns had been bombed flat. Saying no had cost them dearly. Whereas untrustworthy compliance had saved the surgeon’s country from a similar fate. Tourism was thriving, foreign businessmen were jetting in and out, so in the final analysis, his country had been smart. The surgeon climbed out of his car and walked back through the rain to the driver’s Mercedes. Cameras and guards were watching from the gate, so he felt quite safe as he approached the driver’s car. The surgeon and the driver had an unspoken history that went far beyond the issue of the driver’s wrecked knee. After the war, both men had worked as assets, then agents of the secret police. This was not something the girl’s father was proud of, but neither was the untrustworthy compliance of saying yes and meaning no. Resistance was stupid, but as he walked to the driver’s car, he couldn’t help thinking that the ease with which his country had slumped into lethargy of communism was caused by a quiet disgust at having said yes in the first place. For all his anger, surely the driver understood this. Blaming the communists was silly because both men were the communists. They had helped supply the fear that had driven the system, aiding and abetting just like everyone else. The surgeon tapped his pistol on the driver’s window. He felt no anger, just a profound, exhausting sadness. He knew exactly what it was to be a secret policeman, to befriend and betray, to seek out and compromise, the whole thing the most pedestrian form of evil. He carried the knowledge with him every day in the OR, sewing up the same people he had helped compile files on. He had never been caught, had never been held accountable, and the men he had worked for were now running the country. It was hard to not feel doomed. The chamber door opened. The ex-judge looked out at the smoky-voiced old timer. Their eyes met, and the smoky-voiced old timer saw what she had expected to see, which was the self-serving logic of the criminal mind. This has been your education, the ex-judge’s eyes told her. You took me for a friend, but we were strangers all along. Never trust anyone. Not even your own people. This knowledge will make you stronger. And he was right. It was a lesson. An education. Society was cruel. Society was the cynical manipulation of the stupid by the smart. Society had created an underclass and kept it under via the imposition of laws, norms and standards so prejudicial to strangers that | 471 strangers would have had to be crazy to follow them. Strength was what counted, not character or ethics. The strength to strike first. The strength to take the fight upstairs. The fight was perpetual; a never-ending battle between the strong and the weak, and the ex-judge wanted his people to be strong. This was his Ministry. This was his gift to everyone he did business with. The battle was raging and no one was exempt—except the smoky-voiced old timer wasn’t buying it for a second. In prison, she had suffered for being a stranger. She had been judged. The worst had been expected of her, and instead of making her stronger, all it had done was force her to conform to the negative stereotype. To survive in the cells, she had been forced to lie and cheat and steal and betray. And the revelation that she could do this, that she had it within her to do whatever it took to not get beaten-up or raped was not the slightest bit liberating. It was weakness, not strength. Strength was character. Strength was taking the beating. Strength was not looking away when some other girl got it, and the smoky-voiced old timer had looked away too many times. Standing in front of the ex-judge, frail and in poor health, but with the furnace doors of Hades thrown open behind her, the smoky-voiced old timer addressed the old man as an equal. No recriminations. No anger. She had seen in his eyes what she expected to see and had accepted his gift in the spirit it was given. And now she was putting that gift to good use. Find me a room in this building, she had told him. The ex-judge had smiled. Of course, he had replied. The surgeon tapped the driver’s window again, and the window rolled down slowly. The two ex-agents faced each other, fifteen years since they had filed their last reports, the surgeon leaning against the car, his pistol resting on the jam between the door and the roof, the driver cradling a shotgun in his lap. Both men looked terrible. No one spoke. There was nothing to say. Private health care had screwed them. The driver shivered with pain as he braced for the recoil. He was grimly drunk as well. The surgeon had botched the operation; as far as the driver was concerned, it was a deliberate attack. The driver couldn’t believe his secret policework had gone unpunished. The regime had changed without him, he was vulnerable and afraid, fifteen years of fear had made him paranoid. In the old days, the preferred betrayal method of the secret police was to ensure that your betrayal was engineered by someone you knew. A familiar face. The driver looked at the surgeon, met the guy’s eyes, saw the same weary torment, the same lethargy and disgust, the same internal whitewashing that had gone on just to enable the guy to get out of bed every morning, the whole thing etched and creased across his face in the familiar geography of an entire generation, the face of the president himself. Contrary to everything they had been brought up to believe, the bad guys had won. And they were the bad guys. No one was coming after them. There would be no retribution. History had moved on. The driver looked 472 | at the girl’s father and saw a familiar face from the other side of the pub table, resigned, fatalistic, untrustworthily compliant, a face glimpsed from the cage of the police van, not quite meeting your eyes but not shrinking from them either, the expression perfectly blank; the guy at the pub who engineered your betrayal. The driver saw this, because he was that guy. And it didn’t matter. No one cared. All that betrayal for nothing. He looked at the girl’s father and realized they had won. Then he raised the shotgun and gave the surgeon both barrels. The boyfriend snapped his phone closed and looked out across the city. The skinheads and gypsies had gone. Only the tops of SUVs were visible in the street. Shopfront windows had imploded and shops had been looted. Rats clung to every available surface, squeaking miserably, coated in the toxic river mud that covered everything. A tide of litter sloshed back and forth. Electricity was fizzling and the landlines were down. Not the best circumstances in which to negotiate the under-the-table purchase of a foreign seal, but the tabloid’s research team was on the case. The girl’s boyfriend held a master’s degree in journalism from a prestigious foreign university, and often joked that his job at the tabloid was like dating a beautiful and wealthy socialite who was easily bored. The pressure to entertain was tremendous. The girl’s boyfriend was a skilled entertainer, but his specialty was bad news. Bad news was everywhere. Bad news was incessant. It was morbidly comical how much bad news there was, to the point where coverage was arbitrary. You merely tapped the bad news pipeline and published what came out. Unlike good news, which required rationale and planning, bad news sold itself. But it was mercurial, like lightning. You never could tell where and when it would strike next. A crowd of security guards had gathered in the control booth and were replaying the tapes of what had happened outside the gate. Three cameras had caught the shotgun murder of the surgeon, and the guards were slowing each tape down to watch the footage more graphically. In slo-mo, the execution of the girl’s father had the same unsettling yet compelling quality of the clips of war carnage the guards had seen on the internet, prompting quiet discussion on the logistics of copying the tape and uploading it later. Local police had been summoned and an ambulance was standing by. Two young cops were overseeing the crime scene, a source of derisive amusement to the guards as both cops had applied to work at the complex. They were on the waiting list and making a show of being busy, sneaking occasional glances at the cameras on the wall. The dead man had been identified and police were running the driver’s plates. The link between the surgeon and his daughter had been established, in-house insurance was checking the paperwork, and the way it looked at this stage was not good. The dead man was technically a resident and had technically been killed on residence grounds, and the security guards had failed to intervene in spite of the dead man’s pistol being clearly visible on all the tapes. A public relations disaster was the last thing | 473 the body corporate needed, as the AGM was approaching and three high- placed trustees had been caught skimming from security and maintenance. Security was the thing that kept the status quo in place, and the dead man’s death could be spun either way. The smoky-voiced old timer lay under her desk and watched the girl on the phone in her glass-walled office. The girl was crying hysterically. Something terrible had happened, something requiring urgent attention and presence, but the girl was trapped by the flood and going nowhere. The food had run out, the staff were sleeping on the floor, the girls were watching their boss with a kind of grim satisfaction. Chickens had come home to roost. The motivational parties hadn’t fooled anyone. The girls were working in phone sex not because it was a bright and vibrant career opportunity, but because it was the only work a girl could get if she came from an industrial town that had been asset-stripped and carpet-swept by foreign commerce. Smart versus stupid had nothing to do with it. Regional industry had been gutted, factories dismantled, old but good technology unbolted and boxed up and shipped overseas with no government plan for alternative work, resulting in a big city exodus by every moderately attractive girl over the age of seventeen. Most of the girls who had burnt-out from the call center wound up dancing or stripping in the big city clubs, and from there, it was only a matter of time before the brothels claimed them. A big part of why foreign tourism was thriving was because the city was teeming with desperate women. A buyer’s market, the city. Astonishing statistics. The historic old town a crumbling architectural marvel by day, a pulsing red light district by night, the law of supply and demand creating the kind of no-holds-barred, cowboy outpost environment favored by gangsters and villains worldwide. The old and the poor lived in fear, the rich had relocated to the modern equivalent of medieval walled cities, charismatic foreign businessmen were jetting in and out, and the girl who ran the call center was crying in her office. None of the staff went in to comfort her. Compassion, like work, was in short supply. The two young cops were back in their cruiser, strategizing ways to turn the crime scene around. When they had first arrived at the complex, they had viewed the murder footage in the control booth, but hadn’t mustered the courage to confiscate the tapes. Which was definitely a mistake. If they were serious about upgrading to private security, what they needed to do was walk back in there, impound the tapes and use them as leverage to force the community’s stone cold, police-hating Human Resources Director to fast- track their applications. On the hill, a gig at the complex was unquestionably the best security job on offer, paying three times the salary the cops were making now. The cops had streaked hair and thick silver jewelry, and looked like celebrity sportsmen run to fat. They had seriously blown it by not asking for the tapes. If they walked back in now, there would be conflict with the 474 | guards, and the place was crawling with suits and lawyers. City Homicide had been alerted, detectives had been assigned, but they were trapped in the flood zone and having trouble getting out, and the window of opportunity to capitalize on the tapes was growing smaller by the minute. The cops sat in their car and stared at the gate. This was their crime scene. They had the authority. All they had to do was get out of the cruiser. Get out and walk over. They were policemen after all. When the girl called in full-blown hysterics about her father, the boyfriend had been forced to put her on hold. A replacement seal had been located, but the unscrupulous foreign keeper with access to the seal had been contacted by the boyfriend’s rival at tabloid TV, and was auctioning the seal off to the highest bidder. The timing couldn’t have been worse. If a deal could be struck immediately, the boyfriend would be able to fake the seal’s capture in time for the evening print deadline, however failure to close within the next sixty minutes would ensure his opposite number’s victory. The next hour was crucial. A vast amount of money hung in the balance. The boyfriend was up in the publisher’s office, ignoring the phone vibrating in his pocket, watching the clock and begging for more money as each minute ticked by. The driver was back in his village, armed and dangerous, probably sitting in a pub, but no one knew which pub he was in. Hillside cops weren’t welcome in the region and tentative inquiries had been met with hostility. Clearly a job for City Homicide. The stationhouse cops who had run the driver’s plates were overworked men and women in their twenties and thirties who still lived at home with their parents in their parents houses, moonlighting as bouncers and security guards when the opportunities arose. A policeman’s salary was nothing to shout about. There had been cutbacks, restaffing hadn’t happened, calling in sick was an everyday occurrence, and this in the city’s most exclusive of neighborhoods. At the community’s request, one of the cops had made some calls about the driver, determining from a number of sources that the driver and the surgeon had been secret policemen back in the day, and the general consensus from the region was that the two old duffers should have killed each other years ago. Which settled the matter as far as the stationhouse was concerned. Apprehending the driver wasn’t their problem. The guy was armed and had secret police training. They weren’t paid enough to risk being shot by some angry old duffer. City homicide was on an enviably larger pay scale, and a few of the detectives were actual go-getters. They could have this one. All they had to do was drive up from the city. The stationhouse cops checked their messages and waited. They had alerted City Homicide hours ago, but no go-getting detectives had appeared because of the flood. Definitely the worst of times. The police at the crime scene had clocked off early, the dead man’s body was lying headless in the drive, it was Sunday night, one of the cops had a gig at a disco, and the dead guy’s daughter kept calling and calling. But the seal had been caught! It was on the evening news, a tabloid TV | 475 exclusive, footage of the seal in the arms of zoo staff. The seal had been captured by state workers inside the country’s border, the intrepid creature having led the recovery team on a merry old chase for several days. A map of the seal’s escape route was shown, and the segment producer had cheekily used a well-known spy theme as a musical backdrop to the story. The seal would be returned to the zoo shortly, although the future of the zoo was far from certain. The enclosures were wrecked, foreign investment was required, but asset-stripping a zoo was not an exciting proposition. There were far more interesting ways to make money, and opportunities were opening up in cities further to the east. The driver sat in the pub and watched the seal on TV. Shotgun on his knees, drinking beer after beer, waiting for the cops to come and get him. The pub was the driver’s local. He knew everyone in the village, had drunk with them for years, and felt exactly the same way the surgeon had felt whenever they staggered into the OR after a booze-related accident. Which was guilty and then furious. The driver knew the villagers knew that he had helped compile files on them; files which in some cases resulted in midnight visits by trenchcoat-wearing spooks who had hauled them out of bed and sent them away for reeducation, in many cases never to return. Lives had been wrecked, families had been destroyed, the driver knew that the village pubgoers knew this. Yet no one had said a word. It was intolerable. During the regime, he had pretended not to care, but after the fall it was worse than frightening. Not a word. For fifteen years. The driver’s power base was gone, he was alone and afraid, a group of pubgoers could have come with spades and pitchforks, chopped him into pieces and buried him in the forest, and no one would have bothered looking up from their beer. But no one had come. After the regime had collapsed, everyone had woken up as though from a deep sleep and gone straight to the pub just like the old days. And in the end, the driver had joined them. Had sat at the same tables, year in, year out, drinking himself to oblivion as the guilt and fury built. The entire village had known what he had done, and yet no one had come for him. Well, they would be coming for him now. The boyfriend was in his office, trying to get the girl on the phone, but the girl wasn’t answering. Had she really said that her father had been shot? The boyfriend took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He was unbelievably tired. His team had been working on the seal for twelve hours straight, but had been scooped by tabloid TV at the very last minute because the station had more money to throw at the seal. It was as simple as that. The station had the money, so the station got the seal. And now the girl wasn’t answering his calls. The boyfriend picked up his phone and dialed again. Minutes after the deal had closed, one of the foreign newsrooms had called with the surreal and hilarious news that the actual seal, the one the fuss had been all about, 476 | had been caught by a foreign environmental group several hours before the fake seal had gone up on auction, but instead of alerting the media as was their responsibility, the idiots who had caught it had taken it to the very same zoo the unscrupulous keeper worked for, furnishing the zoo with a free replacement seal to the one the unscrupulous keeper had sold for an absurd amount of money. The unscrupulous keeper had screwed the tabloid media, and of course there was not a thing anyone could do about it, as the missing seal had been officially recovered. There it was, on the evening news, smaller and runtier than the seal in previous news footage, but nonetheless clapping its flippers and honking intrepidly in the arms of a rescue worker the station must have bribed. The country needed a hero, and here it was. A circus seal by the look of things. Clapping it’s flippers and going arf arf arf, the distinctive brass of a famous spy theme in the background. The smoky voiced old timer huddled under her desk. The girl was crying in her office, emitting loud, indulgent sobs that would have provoked a remorseless prison beating. The smoky-voiced old timer hadn’t cried once in prison. She had survived, endured, done whatever it took, and couldn’t help regarding the girl with contempt. Whatever awful thing had happened was probably not on the same scale of awfulness as the lifestyle choices and employment opportunities awaiting the girls who burnt-out from the call center. Character did matter, but it was like expensive taste. Sometimes you couldn’t afford it. Sometimes they bombed your city or shipped your factory overseas. The ex-judge had made an ideology out of this, but where was he now? Certainly not in his chambers. The building was flooded, he was out on the street, in desperate need of trust and compassion, and this was the problem with his Ministry. It only worked if you were strong. The ex-judge was old and his health was failing. He had betrayed his community and had lost the protection of the riverside squat, and was now one more old gypsy seeking refuge from the flood. Rescue services had been selectively deployed, hospitals had been abandoned, police stations closed, the only mobilized people in the city were skinheads. The smoky-voiced old timer recalled the ex-judge’s eyes when she had gone back to confront him. The total absence of guilt or fear. She had come to him in weakness and he had given her strength, and she couldn’t help wondering whether someone in the flood zone was returning the favor. She hoped so. No recriminations, no anger, but yes, she really did. The girl’s phone was still engaged. The boyfriend lit a cigarette and stared at his office door. In a few minutes, his secretary would come in with the bad news that the publisher had requested a private meeting upstairs. The publisher was an avuncular fat man with a nasty line of rhetoric. His consultancy to the president depended on the speedy delivery of solutions and results, and the girl’s boyfriend had failed too many times. It was not about the seal. It was about commitment and professionalism. The president had expressed confidence in the apparatus of the state, and the paper had | 477 failed to meet his expectations. Once again, the tabloid station had triumphed, and as long as the station kept triumphing, was there really any need to pay the boyfriend’s huge salary? Not for the first time, the boyfriend wondered this himself. There were too many hungry people in the city; desperate, resourceful, clever people like himself who would kill for a job and a flat behind a gate, and all the publisher needed to do was say the word and the downstairs lobby would be swimming—literally—with familiar faces looking to bump the boyfriend off. This was the way it worked, the way the game was played, not just in the east, but in the west also, and the thing the boyfriend wondered as he stared at the door was who was ahead of the game, and who was behind it. Was it really the east catching up to the west, or was it the other way around? 478 |
Photo: Sue de Beer Travis Jeppesen from The Suiciders
13. Matthew, or The Margins Matthew’s friends ran away from him. They didn’t want to accept him in this life as a savior no more. The truth is always marginal. I have teeth, too, I called out. In a way, the only thing significant about that room was its blackness. A geriatric child was mining dots. Can you put that last goal on speaker phone? I shouted out at the shitter, get me new turnips. No one else alive to listen. Me and Matthew interviewing the same mechanic, he’s always gasping. A seagull servant shouts out at my friend. Is now the time to bathe myself of all | 479 imperfections. The goat named silence as a role model. Matthew drove a jeep over his friend Zach’s new hairstyle. Droopy verbs came out of the wind. I can’t believe the level of recklessness that has been excised, my gurulike stint. I made an announcement to our fans through dancing. By the time our music video was finally broadcast, most of us were dead, myself included. I go to the north pole to not be taken seriously. The way this planet is divided confuses me at times. I will never write a novel with less hair. Repetition is important because it valorizes the pope. Matthew’s wearing sandals. To put forth my goatless ambition, I’ll be sure to ride her. My salvation is an ultimate plea. An opportunity rots in the fold. My fellow humans are feeling the fire. A month of sundaes. People call me up to ensure my existence hasn’t been harmed. Me by numbers on a train. The satellite spelled exhaustion to our tributaries. Matthew was asked to go up in a spaceship and fix it. No more children about here. Only something with feathers and a moon. It hurt so much, sometimes I dreamed I had hair. A spooky donkey walked out of the room. Mountains of innocence formed the backdrop. When he finally got to outer space, and the journey took a long ass time, he missed his favorite wine sauce. So he blew up someone else’s satellite. There’s a certain amount of truth in most nouns. For instance, excess ovaries grilled to perfection. While in outer space, it is alleged that Matthew came into contact with a soviet nun, who instructed him to X out his eyes before returning home to save us. That would be the only way out of this drone, according to her. Freedom from opportunity had lifted her out of the glade, into a sepia-toned straitjacket covered with a thin film of spacedust. A bird inside the shadow. The kitchen sink is rather mexican. Matthew stood inside the hallway and counted to five, over andover again. He was trying to reach something. You couldn’t really blame him for wanting to wear the bandana. To not go outside and find himself a grave. Accessibility was pertinent to those sheep spiders. A bloated magnificence spun out of finance. A piccolo in his mustache. Maniac residuals oh the sure fineness. Matthew was arrested for going to jail. His causality’s all wrong, a distant feature. A mess of wills caused him to change his mind. The police over there were with him for most of the trial. He ordered baked alaska. Tennisball engulfed his thermostat. Here is a puking vitriol that is sure to be rebuked as a barking fossil fuel. The silence was orange that night. The clock read 4:27. A mosquito bit his soul. He wasn’t quite alone enough. But most of us went into the sink. He wanted to be alone forever, a bottomless drifter. The clock read 11:04. Morning combs the silence out of here. Where did Matthew go, there are 480 | some snakes it is true. There isn’t enough silence to bury. You can’t hold my hand, it hurts too much mom. Matthew versus the police part five. I’ll be so happy when suicide stops harassing me. You know how to play her game? I sure as hell knew a secret that year. It was zz top on backwards. My fellow monkey, Matthew fell into the margins. I open the window too brave to stop thinking. Here comes a smelly mannequin, it’s falling all over the whore. We were there the night chip daniels died, someone could be heard saying in the next hotel room. Matthew went on a mission to take scotch tape to the moon. Matthew brought the soviet nun back to earth with him to keep him company. I mean, in-your-face mole. Matthew is so grandiose. Matthew wants to take the soviet nun to live with him in the land of the female dictator. To be free on top of someone else. There are no strings that lead to desire. Matthew gets annoyed and takes a bath. He was sick of the others always trying to out-compete one another on stupidity. Icky virus satanic reminder. I go down for some real midnight shit once again you’re joking. I’m sick of how fucking innocent you are all the time, Matthew said to the nun. I only want to see you getting away from me right here and now. The nun wants to be a superstar. She can’t go back to the soviet enterprise anymore. Come on you savior, I don’t want your shit in my mouth this night. Matthew’s been a bad boy. He took the soviet nun away to visit her father without a tourist visa. The father had a bathroom in the kitchen. That way, he could sit on the toilet as he ate dinner. What went in came out at the same time. This isn’t a political allegory. Adam thinks of his mother. Piano music playing softly in the hallway. All sorts of communists came to feed at the trough. My head hurts. The muffin is dry. I am thinking things over tonight. Immeasurable distractions. Ironize these sentiments, make them fathomable. It is too late, the police are already at your window. I can’t afford to fall asleep yet. Matthew as a teenager. The silt-covered log he rested on was spooky. Intentionality robs a liquor store. There were two pirates mining the cables. The soviet nun doesn’t want to go back to california. You can’t blame her for being so demented, she has family to consider. A wily beast moving towards TV chapstick. Adam always bent down to lubricate the TV screen. That salty encouragement is what I need or crave. Sometimes the wrong word doesn’t occur to me on time. It hurts to have to be this bad. Now Matthew was speaking to Adam’s pet spider. The soviet nun knew how to turn the word trophy into a verb. She was good at things that no one had any satisfaction for. There was a cool river flowing in her left tit. The semantics of america did nothing for her. Matthew became anti-digital in his last years. A certain phase went | 481 through his face, he grew allergic to mines. There weren’t so many fathers out there to help him cope. Social indifference bled across the continent. An entire paragraph could equal one song. Here’s where realism shits its pants. Don’t think about god too much or you’ll pull a muscle. The anchovies on that pizza were disgusting. Matthew fathoms a blockade up ahead. I can’t stand it when there’s a crack in the door. It seems some of us can’t afford to play god, either. Toxic mushroom sauce on the whore’s artichoke. That’s what happens when you let the soviet nun make breakfast tacos. She wrote the word forgive on a piece of masking tape and stuck it on her throat. I just assault those things I don’t know how to challenge. The particularized sentiment is enough to squeak. Adam’s e-mail was doing just fine. Hint: The soviet nun’s mother is a jewish psychiatrist. Did the tight sanctity arrive yet? I made sure to strengthen his deception. Teenage nuts are never tighter. You don’t mind mama do you? I’m a one- armed industry in silence. There were cakes and he knew how to bake them. He’d bake them real good. Sometimes he went to the bathroom. That wooden table over there. Let this be called Matthew or the margins. Salt was the only foundation I thought I could unlearn. Some truths are truly solitary. The man came up from kansas to teach us all a lesson. A powerful reminder of truth’s solidarity to form. Matthew ate an apple inside of cancer. I could never survive living inside this country of the mind. There were teenage survivors spread across the platform. Take the edge away from silence, tropical tornado barks inside the volcano. A helicopter came down to rescue Matthew from the soviet nun’s embrace. All his friends were on board. There is something quite ruinous about survival. He wrote on graph paper to keep himself alive. Trash is teenaged. She needs a thermometer. There’s a static form of being at stake here. It is true that I masturbate to too much wisdom at times. The goats stuck inside of silence are too late. Chinese animals have separate meaning. Nothing was. Matthew wants to be a mental retard so bad, he can taste it in his shoes. He told us about it in the car one time. This was before the whore had come down to give us an imagination. We needed to transform the octagon on the transmission. Chunky spider formfucker went off on holiday, a bird flew in the back passengerside window to threaten Adam’s pet livelihood. Jesus H. spat verbs on her breasts. When we went into the abandoned school, it was empty save for a single torn scrap of sheet metal hanging from a thin piece of rope. 482 | I don’t want the authority figure to melt in my hands; sidelong tuna. The silence in the distance. Matthew spoke of his hands. Matthew told Lukas to shut the fuck up. Matthew told Zach what he was really feeling. Matthew told Adam I love your spider. Matthew told Adam’s pet spider I have a gun. Matthew told Jesus H. you squawk bitch I’ll mess up your variables. Matthew told the whore honey you can’t afford this livelihood. Matthew told Peter hey Peter what are you doing. Matthew has so many friends, he is minor. We went over to the house to forget about something. This is in the past. There were nails sticking out of her trash gun? We weren’t alert, but we could surely masturbate. Over at the zoo, I put a nail file around my legs. Matthew is a dickhead with problems. You’re not allowed to have a sex party in the ocean. Being a whore is never famous. Matthew wasn’t there the day they murderized the midget porn star’s brains out through the widescreen TV. The whore takes her child to daycare. The whore is a jewish psychiatrist. My culture is merciless. My situation is theatre. Manic sincerity on the rise. I love the way you blink your eyes. Adam did you find the goddamn suicide satellite. Shut up you imbecile that’s supposed to be Matthew’s job. Matthew’s looking out the window now. As though that’s supposed to mean something. All of my legs are teenagers to begin with. Let’s try out satisfaction and really go somewhere. Circular ovaries are my medicine. Poet is a person that doesn’t know what he’s after. Take a vitamin. Do I need to shit now? Know what you’re going towards, the underground is nasty, silence never sounds the same. I am a leopard, you remind him. Shift boundaries to de-insert the boundless paradoxical. Shifted shadow oops and hogtorn. I reminded myself better. My sexual life inside of a squirrel. The available wintertime. The career novelist’s transvestite is floating. Coked-out disaster mom is farming her sincerity. A living form of spitelessness. Don’t get on that airplane in silence. The whore evades responsibility by shrieking. Adam took a pill to regain his livelihood. The great burden of the satisfaction adventure tacos was weighing down on him. The black girl’s name was concrete. Give me just one equal taste of your verb. Concrete beats the soviet nun. Baby has vestibules. Matthew touches Lukas’s crotch. A ten-foot tangerine. Post-racial as this existence is, there’s a man outside the window. The soviet nun frowns, defeated by defecation. Concrete throws away the coded diaphragm. Cops in need of friends. Homeless faggots keep busting up our trashcans. I want a divorce. Call Zach back at the hotel, tell him something important. It doesn’t matter what, it just has to be something. No more lucidity, no more ambiguity. Shaved substance is what got splattered. I don’t know what the internet is supposed to mean. Matthew and concrete had a replacement child. Its name was sanitation. | 483 I know Arnold wants you back in his life Matthew. You are moving me out of substance. Matthew’s wife has green tomatoes for breasts. She is not the soviet nun. Then Matthew got a suntan. I envy the previous generations. The lace on your testicles has an accident. I want a movie to happen. The perspective ring gets re-afforded. I mean, a man. Matthew’s friends ran away from him. He had a fat fuck parrot fora friend named Jesus H. Christ. All of this is a minority. The operation is one we can all afford. Tomorrow has circumstances, today has logic and pills. I jerk off one diameter away from protein. Pigs are fat and some of them have throats. In the springtime, we all had an awareness problem. Kelli called up the superstition ring and told them where Taylor tried to go. Matthew was driving the car at this time. He had an uncle. But the new orleans land destination had already received its three vertebrae back from the president’s allies. It was elaborated in a public document that only three percent of the earth’s population was meant to know about. Zach drove an antique car out of nowhere. That’s after we had killed the furcoated warriors that tried to steal Matthew’s sandwich. I am the other self you once dreamed of inhabiting. That’s what I told Matthew. He wanted a disease so bad, he could feel it. Your magnitude is sexual, someone says. Here comes the hot falloffer. Oh shit—I have a leather fantasy night!!! Are you still so screwed up by the silence that you can’t latch on to the atomic dog? How many microbes created you? Do you want to screw me in the electric tunnel? Unfortunately, I never learned to shit. My dreams of naked recklessness aren’t as pretty as they seem. I’m a teenage commando on high, there are no proponents to whittle my disaster into shapeless. Adam’s mom is on the TV screen. My name is Matthew and I’m watching you. The penis paradox has a sibling problem. Former testicle glances, put my dick inside you. You’ll know you want it too. Pour out kaleidescope, the journey begins. Oldness tupperware game— gladstones bend their livestock gems. Teeth are so unbreakable it creams from a distance. Salad abstraction appointed. The hurt fields are glowing. I want your dick inside me too. It glows so righteous at times, it’s hard to know when to stop. Apply some pressure down there, sweetheart. A watermelon follows. The cheese of disgust is withered. Don’t unfold the brain—it is a lemony angle. You keep being uplifted—that black spot in your mouth. Where prose is misunderstood, pose follows. A venemous entropy. The seat of rising. 484 | The social self and the invented self merge closer together upon comfortability. You have to be careful when watching the smoke rise through the tar. Sun bends like a diagonal stripe across the windowless building. Girl outside sounds like a voice on the radio. Bound for rueful convent. My need is scarlet and teenage. Teenage whore leads us into the shadowfire. Matthew looks out the kitchen window. The day has a disease. Kettle reminds him of xmastime in america. He doesn’t want to go back there. He already knows he has. The three-pronged virus, more into the estate. I unawaken. Noselike testicles hanging down from that tree. Here’s what it means to have an inner life. The lady wore two golden wristwatches. The one said stealth, the other said prudence. Zach calls in the middle of the night to say this trip is a failure, as though I didn’t already know. Afraid to turn the phone on now. The constant desire to be left alone. Can you smell how close I am to your face this instant? Shut off in the long run, her steaming vestibules betray us. Is betray the same as portray, Matthew asked his teenage whore mother. Yes, she replied, wipe your ass son. This year is a total fogtrap. Synthetic euthanasia, down in hollywood once again—buy me a new dog. Little rectangles beyond the rain. The desire to sculpt something out of sheet metal. Ass canyon. Frothy abundant moron, move on into the sceptre. I love the sound this new motel room makes when it first begins to function in the morning. What we need is a new cocaine dealer. High-minded boyfriend, someone’s teenage queen, lodged in the network. Matthew has the spider angle to deal with. Pure content, all my theoretical blather. Art once meant something to these fears. What I can’t foresee isn’t quite yet worth mentioning. Here we are in france once again. The soviet nun ripped in pieces—my teenage trophy wife, ha, all over again. Good to get across and to drown all spectaclish. The freezing dawn welcomes me also. Says Matthew: When I go to heaven I will seem to myself much lighter than I actually am. There will be horses all around me, a caravan of force. Weaving in and around the boundaries. To not be careful is sometimes enough. I am spotted, so upsetlike, the air is a tangle of emotional truths. Let it be that you are on your own now, seeking justice. Your own concept thereof. Where needles enter the brain. Stab your own volition. Truth can go no further. The miracle of sappiness, my vibrational meanderings, oh yeah. Riding out on the highway. Of someone’s ashy spine—you’re all mine again. Being lost oh become a window. It will be more—to write poetry once one is in love again. Yeah to know what that is all about—one big epic travel poem. Do you believe in the earthly lord? A piece of caravan. I want to use my own shadow as a curtain—a poetic idea—how will that ever be possible? To mow a dog? | 485 Sometimes a shadow bequeaths itself to me. Don’t be disgusting. There is no such light as bitter triumph. What will I do may I ever learn how to sing. You knew me salty—hear you see me vague. The evening rape, dehydrate the soul. It hurts when you sing lighter, like Matthew did the other night at the karaoke hooker bar, snot coming out of his nose so subtitle. The extravagance of lice. I know you’re excited about it too. I was almost an african hermaphrodite, I did something else. It is true that subtlety is a dialect. Can you hold my fever watch it quivering your hands, a small fetus perhaps? I and too. Here comes the boss to tell Matthew he’s a friend of mine. Feels so good to let time blow off steam. This proves the gesture is premeditated, his farts’re like liquid hydrogen. I think the meal. That clunker really got by autobiographically. Smarts the real estate? And then the elements spoke out against fate. That shade of paint strikes me as self-sufficient. Wouldn’t it be enough to still be there? I was somewhere on the other side of the sky. Like going to the bathroom in a moleskine notebook. All the trendy fuckwads you once threw out the window—give me a bathtub full of lice. Licelike gravy the latticework. A terminal child. You go extravagandize your belongings. Nancy sinatra buttraped by the prison guard. Last night Matthew rimmed Peter in his dreams. He still remembers— keep me so close to you. Matthew is heaven, Peter a tube of paint. Sorry for overhearing what you never were. Sometimes walking down the street makes me cry. Young people. Expect something of my losses. Learn to shorten your sentences please please me. A subtitled conversation with Arnold and his friends. An eagle flies out of Adam’s armpit. Rats in the prostitute’s pussy. Definitely nothing to get upset about, those simple days and deaths, I love you most when you soar higher than me. There is a window over the fold, oh here we are. Specious lambs quite often, time is a value. Here we go, let me be the grand announcer. I have so much to offer this world of imageless thoughts, I’ll tell you something. Writing is telling, showing with words. I have to go sneeze. Don’t contextualize anything shadowy younger. I think you are brilliant too for what little you have to offer this world. Are you destroying me yet? There is some wonder… Trophies stuck to the ceiling reveal something about the past. There goes my royal thermometer vacant. Legions of collars make up for that loss, my wilted vocab. Just bring that dilemma on over here—my voice has already been broadcasted, we need it too. Hello, world, what are you looking like on this day. Escape all foundational 486 | precepts. A sort of anti-philosophy. Candles burn in heavenly abundance—I want your soul to fall apart, the truth. Some people truly deserve what they can’t even have—I am one of the few. Write a letter to Zach, become the morbid identifier, moral highground, bury me in fleas. To hurry it up and get it on out, once puke solidifies you are never very free, though aren’t you? Variables on fire, ecstatic mineway is so deep. Can I help out the film industry by hiding under my desk? Won’t they disbelieve me by flying? I hear some things and think about them just as well—you can’t blame me for crying now or can you. I would have announced it, my tears never get very far. Gone searching on the tower street among saris and shrines, shrimps spines. Here the bitter announcement seems to chime. | 487 488 |
Photo: David Kraus Ivan Martin Jirous from Magor’s Birds
I wanted to have another beer with someone, I turned away from my typewriter and discovered I was alone as if I were lonely.
Little loves, my birds, alight on my shoulders, seat yourselves on the keys of my typewriter, those you choose to sit upon | 489 I will carefully avoid.
Fly to me, little loves, birds! With people I can’t… You know that. Fly to me, I’ll legato the clucking of my fingers on the keyboard I’ll decrease the frequency of the hits I’ll slow down the quick tap of my heart I’ll drop my manic-mindedness, my little loves, birds.
Translated by Toby Litt and Tomáš Mika. First published in Inkshed 23 (Spring/Summer, 1992). To Amalrik
There water is boiling, I don’t know whose, By having killed you, They won’t destroy us.
There the sky is boiling, I don’t know whose, The KGB killed you, But won’t destroy us.
I shall grow tomatoes in your place, Until they kill me too. But by killing me, They won’t destroy us.
In heavenly Jerusalem 490 | We shall learn to play Electric guitar. It will destroy the Soviet empire, As you yourself said, as you know.
Translated by Anna Bryson and Jana Klepetářová. First published in Yazzyk 3 (1994). […]
Vráta keeps watch in Vienna Autumn days approaching, The Föhn blows to Vienna from the puszta, And this year in Vysočina the flax Is gathered without me Perhaps from the bottomless pit I should explore a few more fathoms, I have fallen as far as Valdice. No more drinking ersatz-coffee with Vráta, I’ve got stuck here. You will sleep alone There in the distance beyond Iglau, Ach, beyond Iglau. At noon you will be sitting at the table, A light breeze as from a fan Faintly shook the countryside Reflections of the winds blow weakly | 491 From the South, the Föhn from the puszta. It is only a short way through Znojmo. And you will go on waiting for me In the old world of the Celts In Vienna—a little further on— It’s with Marie that Vráta drinks ersatz-coffee It is only a short way through Znojmo.
Translated by Anna Bryson and Jana Klepetářová. First published in Yazzyk 3 (1994). 492 | Alexander Jorgensen “La Paix”
ZELDA: How’d you get back?
SCOTT: Took an aeroplane.
ZELDA: Didn’t crash, did yeh?
SCOTT: No.
ZELDA: You were safe, huh? | 493 SCOTT: Yes. The Wading Bird: Or, Gideon’s Ephod
I know about being a whore and lush/ High Noon/ “Do not forsake me, oh my darling.” This wearing a cap on my head/ coal and steam/ speech full of cultural indicators/ bald man/ a something borrowed during the moment when/ carrying rosary beads in case I might croak/ I settled to buy/ the room filled with prophets/ a few tracts of charley/ let me say/ c h a r l e y/ from some bartering who/ smile on greedily and wide his mouth/ “Yes...”/ A yahoo in the hand of a dick hoe.
And I’d smoked Gauloises to feel important/ supposing Frank O’Hara/ jerking to pics of African males with vaudevillian fatties stuffing small- mouthed blondes/ less than empty-handed/ or psychically broke/ that spinster at the end of my road/ her matted dog/ both of them/ afraid to be sociable/ telling myself the while I was breaking this habit/ smoking twice some brand at some hour and five the next/ these fingers brown and shitty/ my cute girlfriend the scent of bubblegum.
494 | Aunt Bev’d say: “Trifling!”/ drinking champagne at granddad’s funeral/ pocketing round wheat cracker with brynza/ sleepy-eyed/ holding out for scrub typhus/ the old brood mare’s ear pressed deep into a conch shell/ each unlaundered cloud hanging on loops of bang-up starshine./ And still my knapsack’s the mansion carried with me/ long unfactored miles/ no place to go/ not many friends/ Chuff! Chuff! Chuff!/ All nights but terror in foreign languages/ “It’s a quarter past two.”/ wetness on my face. | 495 Terminal (For David-Baptiste Chirot)
Know that Kiwi who says he’s a pilot ‘s a twitching eye? It kinda stutters way our auto- mobile’s brakes do? And his index- Forefinger’s always a bit shaky, tad behind the thumb. Awful at getting lost.
496 | | 497 498 |
Photo: Krista Katrovas Richard Katrovas Love Poem for an Enemy
I, as sinned against as sinning, Take small pleasure from the winning Of our decades-long guerrilla war. For from my job I’ve wanted more Than victory over one who’d tried To punish me before he died, And now, neither of us dead, We haunt these halls in constant dread Of drifting past the other’s life While long-term memory is rife | 499 With slights that sting like paper cuts. We’ve occupied our separate ruts Yet simmered in a single rage. We’ve grown absurd in middle age Together, and should seek wisdom now Together, by finishing this row. I therefore decommission you As constant flagship of my rue. Below the threshold of my hate You now my good regard may rate. For I have let my anger pass. But, while you’re down there, kiss my ass. The Boxers Embrace
In Prague or in New Orleans, my perfect night Of guilty pleasure is to watch a fight. I know that it is heartless past all speech To thrill at two men’s pain as both must reach Across the bloody billion-year abyss To strike the other one, or make him miss. Yet when I gaze upon the frank despair Of spirit-broken people who must bear The torments of cool fiends they cannot see— Systemic meanness and brutality Of bureaucratic processes that hide The facts of who has profited and lied— I see inside the grotesque and plodding dance Of boxers something beautiful: a chance To mediate the passions of the tribe By what the ritual of fights describe 500 | (As arm a sudden arc upon the gleam within that space); for public fights redeem Our sense of being, at once, in and out Of nature, and so map the human route Across the razor’s edge of slow extinction. Such is the truth of all destructive action, Transcending histories of consequence And serving therefore as a mottled lens Unto the bifurcated human heart Whose one true nature is to break apart Revealing beast and angel wrapping arms Beyond all consequence of temporal harms. As systems fade, transform, reconstitute, The fools will blather and the wise stand mute, Then innocence must suffer out of reach And over time our best intentions leach Through all the lies we hold as history. No yearning human heart is ever free, Except when it has found its one true base, Where the last bell rings, and the boxers embrace. The Bridge of Intellectuals
If Crane had been a Czech, and deigned to live Till ’53, he might have more than praised A bridge, for in that year of Stalin’s death, Artists and intellectuals of Prague— But only those the Party had to fix After an “elegant coup” in ’48— Finished their bridge across the Vltava. Each morning did they bring their lunch in bags? Did they bitch and curse and clown around behind The foremen’s backs? Were there foremen? Or did Each man (were there women?) pull his weight Unprodded by the ethos of his class? Of eleven bridges down the spine of Prague It stands the shabbiest and least necessary. From the road leaving town one sees the tufts Of grass and weeds muscling through the rusted Transoms that trains, some say, must rarely cross, | 501 And notes the webbed faults in the dark concrete Of columns lifting from the water like Wet khaki pant legs of old fishermen. To those whose ambitions for bourgeois fame Got them torn from their tasks to labor here, Is there ironic consolation that, As work is a matter of identity, So many praised workers remain unnamed? Anonymous bones of generations lie The snaking length of China’s ancient shyness; Unknown apprentices applied the strokes That smeared celestial radiance onto cheeks Of lesser angels in the master works. The petty, silly little men who snapped The blossom of a generation from Its living vine have watched their own bridge crumble, And even as this bad joke stands unused, Dilapidated on the edge of town, Perhaps its “rehabilitated” builders— Most dead by now, though some, no doubt, at work, Scattered throughout Prague, in little flats, alone— Feel vindicated in their bitterness, If bitterness survives absurdity. I’d like to know that once or twice a year An old man, whose hands are soft from idle thought, Comes, by bus or car, to gaze a while And simply marvel that the thing still stands.
502 | George W. Bush was Very Nice to Me
as Bacchus rolled down St. Charles, and I chatted with him about politics, local and national, especially the eleven-fingered idiot running against David Duke for the Republican nomination for Führer of the Suburbs. I told him flat out I hate the Republican Party and still he was nice to me, stood next to me, in the back of the ten-deep crowd that yelled for trinkets, and chatted for several minutes as though he really liked me, and didn’t mind at all that I’d ripped a fine white string of beads from his grasp when he’d grabbed it from the air at the same time as I. As we chatted about Duke and New Orleans apartheid, about my having recently lived in the French Quarter and about how the trees on St. Charles seem for months after Carnival— indeed on some stretches all year round—like bearers of many-colored fruit from where the bead strands get caught in the branches, I knew I would one day write about meeting a president’s goofy son, a nice guy, which is to say someone you shouldn’t mind standing around shooting the breeze with on a pleasant spring night in New Orleans, though not someone you’d want to be cooped up with on a long drive, say, from El Paso to San Antonio, or certainly not from one paradigm to another. | 503 504 | Vít Kremlička Tynia
Tynia is waking up she’s doing up her necklace how clear the light? she asks long, white so as to light up the clouds perhaps she loves you with her entrails and her joints
It was raining, and crayfish were running across the street he said: I am moving. The horrible summer (the time when I sold power plants) a thousand suns are rumbling in my head | 505 long, white so as to light up the clouds perhaps she loves you with her entrails and her joints
Translated by Petra Vachunová. First published in The Prague Revue 6 (1999). Cinema Arcadia
It’s mysterious it’s mysterious splendidly mysterious words, constantly creating something, at the site of ruins
a grampa in a chequered vest burns some furniture, the gambling house with the billiards is five houses further down, the branding of the sea cows, an immense lust at the Arcadia cinema
In the malt-house the guys are arguing about how Bosnia will turn out, silence there’s an awful silence sometimes, the periphery is shattered to splinters the school’s been closed for three years No Man’s Land, the rocks and the church and the factories and the corridors underhill perhaps it happened in past times definitely in times of cruelty 506 |
Translated by David Vichnar. The Attempts of a Commodities Expert
This grapevine here there amidst the railway rarest herbs are in bloom. Stoppers, shambles and shit have sprung beautiful flowers! Nature fears rectangularity, resists perpendicular perversions! Rarest herbs are in bloom! When a bronze shawl sets onto the horizon, when irises ooze a balmy odour, it seems the landscape is falling asleep and the cigar at the coffee is going out.
Translated by David Vichnar.
| 507 508 |
Photo: Aleš Machaček Jane KirwAn A Shed in Bohemia
Not soothing but essential to hide in the shed, stay in the dark with the geese rather than sleep beneath walnut trees. Squatting among them she knows to kill quietly the dark thick with scuffle, rustle, shit and sticky white feathers; can wring a neck deftly, knows whatever it takes to live, keep still, close shutters, listen. | 509 It would have been so much safer if they’d hid in the woods but her neighbours stayed. She heard them behind bolted doors praying, not believing. She didn’t betray anyone, sat by her stove, waiting as now—cold, old, strangely agitated. Caffeine
It was looking at the single yellow tile fixed among the blue, I realised I wanted everything, immediately
had to wait while coffee was ground in a souvenir from Amsterdam rescued from a marriage, a small box
with a metal handle, built-in drawer for collecting the grains quick hit, bitter kick of connection.
Slipped from red berries bean-like seeds are dried, pulverised so that laid flat, shape lost
510 | there’s no resemblance to what was there before. Simply a name. I snip silver foil off the Lavazza
or meet you at a café, my cappucino on the table your fingers brushing the spoon or here
in this kitchen. Steam forced through expresso your hand circling my cup, your lips sipping my coffee. Power Station, Ústí Nad Labem (‘Model of a landmark situation’: sculpture by Jiří Sozanský, 1982)
The figure is part of the ladder as if the building flooded years before and everything crusted with salt.
How does this scrap and papier maché work as art, pivot on more than your story, this country? Is it the figure, its scale tiny in proportion
– twist of pipe-cleaner, the trace of threadbare feathers fixed to its spine indistinct in clots of paint—or the act of climbing in a shell a mile from end to end that’s cracking up, rusting wires weaving skywards. Or is it the ladder, suspended up the middle, threading floor | 511 to missing floor, that stops halfway, above it space half as much again roofed by peeling plaster and sealed. One Made Earlier
She makes a mum out of old sweaters uses jam jars—newly washed— that scrubbing board for clothes found in the shed.
She makes it quickly, on spec, refuses to check it’s ok trims off the odd thread but doesn’t care if the stitches are slack
– this version stirs the porridge briskly considers corsets de rigeur.
She makes something solid and soft, stuffed with clean goose-feathers each goose personally plucked, each personally butchered
makes one before breakfast in the summer, before it gets cloudy carries on long after others have stopped for tea
512 | makes a genuine artefact, a hole, a cave, a source gets rid of the sour smell, the sweat.
She could go for supplies, a Vogue pattern, but the tissue’s so easily ripped, wishes she could match the silks.
This mum’s immaterial, shoddily made, a sort of tin-man tin mother, all cans and Sambuca. Agitated she puts it in a pile
with the others. She was never a Girl Guide, not even a Brownie, yet she wants to get it right a snip here with scissors, more chalk, still something missing. Teaching Czech to Foreigners
Room 221 of the Philosophical faculty they’re doing a translation: Mr Procházka gets up. Has breakfast, goes to work. Takes the tram and metro. Has a meeting. Has lunch.
Mrs Procházková wakes still lifting the small boy whose sweater is unravelling, holds up the solid muscled body feels it fade away.
She holds only stuff unravelling; unpicks the sleeves, the neck until she has a lap of red, tightly ordered balls of wool. | 513
She crochets curtains. The windows opposite, neighbours who take notes, are blotted out. Dogs that pace the fences blur between her densely twisted knots.
Her face, arms are layered with fluff, scarlet dust that specks the lace she has replaced. Before it was all white outside, and flowery.
Now the roofs, the ashen trees are suffused with crimson. She takes a dustpan from five she’s lined up by the door, sweeps up all the traces. 514 |
Photo: Zoran Kovacevic Maya Květný Promise
Time clittered off into the brambles “clagg” it said “o clagg!” These are the sharly bits which sweat me, they drag, see i’m held salvage…
Crumpets blow and off i go hark it! Listen, whoof! go stars…springing up into place Melluminous wheel unwinds. stop…is it moon? is it moon? Yes, and unencumbered, yes, i thin by shadows. Azure is umbrellaed over all. | 515 Day. ..now that is another sex altogether, but this, i am really a twin to…pop! pop! pop! there they go! the onned planets, i mean.
Much ago we rumbled falsely and simmered, falling ingeniously noggin first into spilled brain forests. Then muffled, rab our hampster-pink eyeholes wetsy. No shame, oh the villian who quashed a larval possible.
But i bent only this way, that is forwards towards shhhh … purse-dark isles of glycerous promise.
At off beats our odd shots rimpled past, ughing from behind, remorse had plunketed deep. Know on and on i go. Curse the bargainers, i will make none. Sun is no bedfellow, it is all whites and no pupil. Glinty-gluey, i raunch the strands free. Why is a know-it-not-never-nothing, why is a triple negative. Aaho, had i broken earlier on, it seems there would have been more of me.
Revegetate us maybe? I long to submerge afresh in mammary cambric tea.
First published in Optimism Monthly 11 (May 1996).
516 |
Opposite: Maya Květný, “Poodle Ruff Muzzle,” Gristle Floss 4 (1994). | 517 518 |
Photo: Katie Cooke Toby Litt Elizabeth Bishop: The Complete Poems
You did not have to write these poems, and each poem need be no longer than it is. You never tacked-on or filled-in. You were content in the company of silence, modest in the presence of words and frugal with the generous world. You had an income of your own and latin rhythms, so I hear, to occupy your leisure hours. You were civilized enough not to fret over the empty page, but could drink something fizzy through a straw and gossip wholeheartedly about the local animals, the real | 519 celebrities. You could forget you were a poet, and make of the remembering an accurate occasion, fully looked, colourful and sounded. Auerbach
Vocation, unlike dirt, cannot be washed off at the end of the day. Instead, rooted down in the flinty night of earth, the violence explored by worms, vocation is bloody, like a mythic tree which, when its twigs are snapped, bleeds blood.
Lost in the upper worlds for we cannot deny those basic, sub-iconic myths, of light and dark, of up and down: more basic even than male sun and female moon above the tangle of non-angelic thought, this is where you are not. Instead you are held, beneath, within.
Instead the basics; the form before, and its 520 | appearance beneath a different kind of weather, within the lightbulb’s cool, facetious gaze; the shift of perception like the shift of clouds without the clouds themselves: completion like the cup in which the ignorant water rests.
To instantly make the decision, breaking over the wave of occurrence, to see immediately that the decision was wrong, but not to regret the decision, to make the next decision and to accept the next mistake, knowing, at least, that your past mistakes were wholly meant. Celan
THE TREES play with their colours the dead the unimportant sea-distant river the weather of the parks the inauspicious bee reaches its sweet home the sugar collection and Paul his mind out a strong fog the iceberg metaphor out the burnt spaces wanting a utilizable god alone in a world of inexplicables another painted soul one of those recent men | 521 Schnittke
I recognize the need of desolation, of wood, horsehair and metal, of the light of Russia in your work. xxxx xxxxxxxxx xxxxx, xxxxxxxx, xxxx. The yearn of the lost ghost, looking for the door back into the flesh. The child, talking with owls. The mercury, the waltz and the empty fields. xxx xx xxxxxx, xxxx xxxx xxx xx xxxx xx? xxxx xxxxx xxxxx? But how can we speak in the language of men? How dance when our legs will not move? How live when suicide is possible and how die when God is not?
522 | Great Railway Journeys of the World
No. We are not eachother’s final destination. We didn’t stop eachother in our tracks. Any emotion we allow ourselves, today and maybe tomorrow, will be glitter, not even glow, and would threaten no clocks.
But, through derailment or unrepair, on-the-way can lengthen out into here, to residence and constant thought; even rigid timetabling cannot prevent the occasional accident.
Some brief delay that neither much desired might trick us into redesigning Chance as Providence: | 523 how strange if, during this short wait, we found ourselves required, by love and inept engineers, to destinate. 524 |
Photo: Rosabel Lord Christopher Lord Tres Mujeres de España
Dramatis personæ Imprudencia, the mother Tentación and Debilidad, her daughters
Scene One There is a music of guitar and castanets. Two women sit at a rough wooden table, shelling peas into a large bowl. The music stops, and Imprudencia sighs wearily and rubs her forehead with the back of her wrist in a gesture close to despair. Tentación does not look up, and continues to shell the peas in a joyless and mechanical manner.
Imprudencia: [Mournfully] Ay, ay, ay. | 525 Tentación: What’s that you say? Imprudencia: Ay, ay, ay. It is an expression of despair, my child. An expression close to despair, anyway. Tentación: Am I your child, then? Am I to be your child? Imprudencia: Well, once you were my child. My daughter. I remember it distinctly. You sucked at my breast with sharp little sucks. Tentación: Did I hurt you, then, mother? Imprudencia: Yes, you hurt me. You hurt me as no one else would ever have been able to hurt me. I will not deny it. But still, I loved you, you see, so it will all be all right. Praised be the Virgin. Tentación: What? It is very difficult for me to understand you. Imprudencia: The Virgin. We must praise her constantly. Haven’t they taught you that? Tentación: Who? Who would teach me such a thing? Imprudencia: Why, the priests, of course, and the nuns. What do you think we pay them for? You must praise the Virgin constantly, my daughter, for that is the nature of things: the general nature of our situation. For we are women, are we not? Tentación: That much is clear, Mother. Imprudencia: Yes, we are women, certainly. Tentación: But what is this task we have before us? Imprudencia: We are shelling peas. Tentación: Well I can see that. But what is it for? Imprudencia: You must not ask. We are women, remember. Tentación: Yes. [They continue to shell their peas expressionlessly for a while. There is a sudden crash of thunder and a flash of lightning.] Tentación: Oh sweet Jesus what was that, Mother? Imprudencia: It was just the lightning, my dear, my dearest darling, just a little lightning, that’s all. Tentación: But… It does not disturb you, then? Imprudencia: Oh, I am not so easily disturbed as all that, you know. A little lightning… Well, I have seen worse things. Tentación: What worse things have you seen than that? Imprudencia: Oh… I could tell you… I could tell you so many sad stories. But this is not the time for that. Tentación: Well, what then? Imprudencia: I suppose that the alternative is happiness. Yes. A little joy and happiness to tide us along. Tentación: Will you tell me a happy story, then? Or perhaps… I don’t know. A happy song? A little dance? I know you are capable of it. Imprudencia: Oh, yes, I am capable enough, I suppose, but you see for now I must limit myself to performing this simple task of shelling these peas. You see that there is still a great pile of them, and the task will not be finished 526 | until every pea has been torn from its comfortable little womb. Tentación: You make it sound… Imprudencia: Yes? Tentación: I don’t know. You make it sound rather medical, Mother. A little bit clinical. They are only peas, you know. Imprudencia: Yes. And we are only women. That much is clear. Tentación: Do you wish that we were men instead? Imprudencia: No, no. That is not what I mean to say at all. If we were men, anyway, do you think that we would be sitting here like this, shelling these peas? Do you really think that? Tentación: Well I have never seen them doing it, now that you come to mention it. Imprudencia: No. [She sighs again, and repeats her weary gesture of rubbing at her forehead with the back of her wrist.] Tentación: But what about the thunder, mother? Imprudencia: What? Tentación: And the lightning? What does it portend? Imprudencia: Portend? Signs and portents, is that what you are looking for? There are no signs and portents, my girl, not for the likes of us. Nothing has any more meaning than that very first bit of meaning which is immediately apparent. Tentación: I do not understand you. Imprudencia: It does not surprise me. Tentación: But anyway… Imprudencia: Yes? Tentación: Well, what about your story? I mean, since we must sit here and shell these peas like this, then I suppose it would be good to hear a story. Imprudencia: Oh very well. But I warn you, it is just imagination. Tentación: That doesn’t matter. But does it have a point, your story: a moral, or something like that? Imprudencia: Oh no, I make no such grand claims for it. No moral, no point, nothing like that. I hope you won’t be disappointed. Tentación: Oh, I hope not. Just as long as it helps us to get through this task of ours. [There is another crash of thunder and lightning.] Tentación: Oh, but I am frightened, mother! What does it mean? Imprudencia: Don’t be frightened. It means nothing.
Scene Two The same thunder and lightning, but now an exterior. The voice of Imprudencia begins to narrate as Tentación and Debilidad are seen, huddled under their shawls against the wind and rain.
Imprudencia: [off] Once upon a time—it happened in Spain, you know, and long ago—there were two fine sisters. Their names were Tentación and Debilidad; | 527 but that is of no account, since they never used these names to each other. They had no need to do this, since each knew quite well to whom the other was speaking, for their lives were so arranged that confusion in this matter was unlikely. They never spoke to another living soul, although Debilidad, the younger of the two, would sometimes converse with the angels she saw flying in the air around her. Debilidad: Where are we going? I am frightened! Tentación: Oh, don’t be frightened. Debilidad: Why not? Tentación: Because you will make me frightened too. And it would not do for us both to be frightened. Debilidad: Oh! Tentación: Please stop, please! Debilidad: Well we must rest then. Tentación: Oh very well. We will rest. Come and sit over here. Debilidad: And can you stop the thunder and the lightning? Tentación: Oh very well. I will stop it. [She claps her hands. It stops.] There. It is gone. Now come and sit over here and talk with me a little. Debilidad: [still frightened] What will we discuss? Tentación: We will talk a little on the subject of happiness, I suppose. That will drive away these demons of yours, perhaps. Debilidad: Oh I hope so. Tentación: Yes. Now, happiness, you know, comes in many colours. [She pulls a bunch of ribbons from her pocket to illustrate the colours.] Which one shall we start with? Debilidad: Oh, the red one! I like the look of the red one. Tentación: Yes. [She holds it up against her sister’s cheek and studies the effect.] I think the red one sits quite well with your complexion. Let me fix it on you. [She ties it slowly and carefully into her sister’s hair as she speaks.] Now… what shall we say about this red kind of happiness? It is the happiness of your warm blood, you see, that slithers about inside you, so warm and wet… Debilidad: Yes! Yes! I can feel it! Tentación: I was sure you would. Shut your eyes, and you will feel it more closely. This is the happiness of heartbreak. Debilidad: Heartbreak? Oh, do not say so. Tentación: Yes. Heartbreak. When your heart breaks, then this warm red happiness oozes out, you see. It oozes out inside and fills you with its glow. There. Can you feel it? Debilidad: Yes. Yes, I feel it quite distinctly now. But you know, it is not quite enough. Tentación: Oh? Debilidad: I feel that it is not quite enough for me. Tentación: I have some other colours. Debilidad: [opening her eyes] Oh yes! I had forgotten. I wonder why? Tentación: Oh, it is the happiness, you see. Happiness can make you forget 528 | things like that. You must be careful. Debilidad: Oh yes. I see. Well, what about the green one, then? Tentación: The green one. [She gets up and ties the green ribbon in her sister’s hair. Debilidad closes her eyes again.] Green is the happiness of growth. Debilidad: Oh good. Tentación: Yes, for that is what we must do. We must grow; we must grow and nurture living things; and we must grow ourselves, too, so that we are capable, and so that growing gives us this green happiness, which fills us so completely with loneliness. Debilidad: Loneliness? Tentación: Oh yes. It is a lonely sort of green sort of happiness, this happiness of growing. Can’t you feel it? Debilidad: Oh yes. Yes, I think I can now. Ah. Ah. Yes, it is very lonely, isn’t it? Tentación: Oh, very lonely, but quite delicious, don’t you think? Debilidad: It has a delicate sort of flavour, doesn’t it? Tentación: Well, yes, it starts out like that. You’ll get used to it. Debilidad: Yes… [opening her eyes again] But there are still more colours to be had, aren’t there? Tentación: Oh yes. [dangling the ribbons before her sister’s eyes] Try this pink one. Debilidad: Pink? I have always been very fond of the colour pink. Tentación: It is a colour associated with young girls, you know. Debilidad: Yes, I remember that. Tentación: It is the colour of sensation, you see. Sensation is pink like this. This soft, translucent pink. And so here is the happiness of sensation for you. It will tingle a bit, but don’t worry. You’ll get used to it. [Debilidad flinches a little this time as the ribbon is tied in her hair, but there is something sensuous in her flinching, too.] Tentación: Oh, yes, you mustn’t be surprised. It hurts a little, this sweet pink kind of happiness. Debilidad: Oh yes… you are right, it does hurt a little, as you say, but after all: what else is there to do in life but to search for happiness? [Thunder. Debilidad throws herself face down on the ground in terror.] Debilidad: I thought you said you had stopped it! Tentación: Oh, I do my best, you know, but you can’t stop it completely. Sorry. Just try not to think about it. Debilidad: That is usually what I try to do. Tentación: It is a good plan. Here is the last ribbon I will give you today. Debilidad: [Without looking up] What colour is it? I am too frightened to look. [Tentación holds it up. It is a black ribbon.] Tentación: The colour is of no consequence. Debilidad: I don’t understand you. Tentación: Understanding is not important. Happiness is important. Lie still now. Debilidad: I am afraid. Tentación: I know. This ribbon is the happiness of fear. Debilidad: What? Tentación: Yes. It is the ribbon which turns your fear into joy, my darling, and | 529 so I will just fix it to your hair. Debilidad: But… Tentación: Yes? Debilidad: But won’t you tell me what colour it is? Tentación: Oh, you will find out one day. Soon enough. There. [She stands back and admires her handiwork. There is another crash of thunder, and Debilidad moans and writhes as before.] Debilidad: Have you done it? Tentación: What? Debilidad: Did you tie it there? Tentación: Oh that. Yes, of course. Debilidad: But I feel just the same as before. Tentación: I know. It is because you are happy. Debilidad: Happy? Tentación: Oh, very happy. Can’t you feel it? Debilidad: Well… Oh, yes. I suppose so. If you say so, then it must be true, mustn’t it? Tentación: Yes, that is a sensible attitude for you to take. Debilidad: Shall I choose another ribbon? Tentación: No, that will be enough for you, I think; for now I see that you are very happy. Debilidad: Oh yes: I feel quite happy now. I think so. Tentación: Good. We can continue, then. Debilidad: Yes, yes. Where are we going? Tentación: Well, we are going to our castle, of course. Debilidad: Our castle? I had forgotten. Tentación: You must never forget it. Why, if you ever forgot, then there would be no point in continuing, would there? Debilidad: Oh, I suppose not. But tell me, what will it be like there; for I have quite forgotten, you know. Tentación: Oh, it is very grand, our castle. It has white shining walls, with golden windows. Debilidad: Golden windows, you say? Tentación: Golden windows, and diamonds on the roof. Debilidad: No! Tentación: Oh yes. And… the moat is filled with peacock’s tails. Debilidad: Peacock’s tails! That is very good. Tentación: So that when the wind blows, there is a rustling, and the peacock’s tails rustle like the mist in midsummer. Debilidad: The mist in midsummer? I have never seen that. Tentación: Hold your tongue. Debilidad: Forgive me. Tentación: You have quite broken my concentration. Debilidad: Oh, I’m sorry. But I think that is enough. I remember now, about the castle; and it is important that we find it, isn’t it? 530 | Tentación: Finding it will not be the difficulty, exactly. In Spain, there are many such castles that we could find. Debilidad: But not such beautiful castles as that castle you describe, surely? Tentación: Oh, there are much more beautiful castles than that to be found here. Don’t you know anything? That is not the point, anyway. The point is that we must struggle to reach our castle. Debilidad: Oh, but why? Tentación: Why? Because that is what makes it all worthwhile. Debilidad: But… Tentación: What is it now? Debilidad: Oh, but then I think that perhaps you have forgotten to give me one of your ribbons. Yes! That must be it! Surely you have forgotten to give me the ribbon… what colour should it be, I wonder… that brings the happiness of worthwhile struggle. Tentación: The happiness of worthwhile struggle? Debilidad: Oh yes! That is the ribbon I should like. Tentación: [Searching through the ribbons] I cannot seem to find such a ribbon just now. [Thunder] Debilidad: Oh! Tentación: But there. I think you are quite happy enough already. Debilidad: [Weeping] I am sure you are right. [Collecting herself] I suppose we should go on, then. Tentación: Oh good. Debilidad: Only… Tentación: Yes? Debilidad: Only I can’t. I am too frightened. Tentación: Too happy. Debilidad: Yes: too happy. That’s what I mean. I am too happy to continue for the present. Perhaps you should go on without me. Tentación: But what would become of you then? Debilidad: Oh, I would be quite happy, I suppose. Why, I have my heartbreak to console me, after all, and my loneliness. You needn’t worry. Tentación: Well, if you’re sure… Debilidad: Quite sure, thank you. [Tentación shrugs her shoulders and strolls off. Debilidad begins to weep loudly, and when there is another crash of thunder, she adds screams of terror to her pitiful weeping. Her sister, looking a little irritated, comes back.] Tentación: You’re still here. Debilidad: Oh yes, I am still here. Just the same. Tentación: Quite happy, then? Debilidad: Oh, very happy. Did you find it? Tentación: No. It’s no good. I won’t be able to find it without you. I realized it as soon as I started looking. I must lead you to the castle, you see. It’s part of the struggle. Debilidad: I don’t understand. Tentación: You will understand when we get there, perhaps. | 531 Debilidad: But I cannot follow you. I am too… happy. Tentación: Yes, I know. But I have something that will help us. Debilidad: What is it? Tentación: [Producing a blindfold] It is love. Debilidad: Love! Tentación: Let me help you with it. [Blindfolds her.] Is that better? Debilidad: I don’t know. It feels just the same as before. Tentación: But doesn’t it give you a sort of warm glow within? Debilidad: But I thought you said that was the heartbreak. Tentación: Oh no, it is quite different from the heartbreak. Debilidad: Well in that case… Yes, I think so. I think I can feel it now. Tentación: Oh good. Debilidad: It is, as you say, warm. Tentación: And reassuring? Debilidad: Yes, I suppose so. Only… Tentación: Yes? Debilidad: Only… I cannot see very well. Tentación: That is the price you must pay, I’m afraid. Are you ready now? Debilidad: Ready to continue? Yes. We must find our castle, mustn’t we, for after all, we are in Spain, are we not? And there is a castle here for everyone who wants one. [There is another crash of thunder, but this time Debilidad is able to resist the temptation to throw herself to the ground, and, as the thunder continues, Tentación takes her by the hand. Debilidad stumbles a little at first, but soon Tentación is able to lead her in a spiral around the stage, until they are walking around each other in a tiny circle.] Debilidad: Will you tell me when we get there? Tentación: It won’t be necessary. You will know. Debilidad: How will I know? Will I be happy there? Tentación: You are happy already, aren’t you? Debilidad: Oh yes. Very happy. Is it just to see the peacock’s tails, then? Tentación: Yes. That’s right. It is just for the sake of the peacock’s tails. That is our only purpose in going there.
Scene Three Debilidad, alone, faces the audience. She turns her head from side to side to conduct the following dialogue with herself.
Debilidad: I am very much afraid of the future. Are you? Oh yes; most desperately afraid. It is an unnecessary fear, though. What? I say, it is an unnecessary fear for you to have, this fear of the future. 532 | That is no comfort to me. Comfort? Who said anything about comfort? Well, I thought that was your implication. Hah! You think you are in a position to understand my implications, then? I did not say so. But you implied it. Perhaps I did.[Pause] I am very much afraid of the future, you know. Yes, you have told me that. I know; but that has not reduced my fear, you see. That is why I repeat it to you now. [She drops to her knees.] Oh, if only the Blessed Virgin would help me. [She sobs for a while; then, calming herself, she gets up, and addresses the audience in a different tone.] I was not always like this, you know. I remember a time when the future held no terrors for me. It was a happy time—happy enough, anyway. I never gave it a thought. Every day was an end in itself, and every drop of pleasure I could squeeze from things was—oh, it was so sweet in my mouth! [She savours the memory of the taste in her mouth.] But now I fear there is nothing left for me to enjoy but the memory of that taste in my mouth. For everything is tainted for me now by this great and encompassing fear which I feel. Each moment threatens to spring at my throat, and when it passes by peaceably then I am not fooled, you know, for I know it was just trying to lull me into a false sense of security, and lurking behind it there is another, just the same, and equally threatening. [She thinks about this for a minute, but it is too much, and she drops to her knees.] Oh Blessed Virgin, let me address a prayer to you, since I am sure that you will listen to me. [She collects herself further.] While some may pray for such simple things As peace or understanding, There’s no-one who is able To lay upon the table What secret song the siren sings, What time the ship of fools is landing. And so, Oh Blessed Virgin, let me Request this one small grace - And you should listen to my pleas, Since I am here down on my knees - Please wipe that smile off the clock’s cold face: Don’t let tomorrow get me! [She bows her head and mumbles, more ritualistically] Every last peseta is a tear of the Virgin. For what we are about to receive, straight into the bank with it. God bless General Motors, God bless Crédit Suisse, God bless our shares in Coca-Cola. Amen. [She stands up again. She looks one way.] I would not lie to you, you know. | 533 [She looks the other way.] I know you would not.
Scene Four Tentación and Debilidad are walking around each other in the centre of the stage, as before. Imprudencia appears with a large sheet. She watches them walking around for a while, and then drapes the sheet over them. They sink to the ground under it, and she turns around to address the audience.
Imprudencia: Oh, it’s no joke being a mother, you know. Let me tell you. Squabbling and screaming one minute, tears and recriminations the next, and only the Blessed Virgin to turn to for comfort and a little consolation. [She strikes a tragic pose and looks soulfully out at the audience. Tentación, peeking out from under the cloth, tries to use this opportunity to sneak off, crawling on her hands and knees. She has almost made it off when Imprudencia speaks to her in a commanding voice.] Imprudencia: And where do you think you’re going? Come here. [Tentación picks herself up and strolls over. Imprudencia strikes her across the head.] Tentación: Ow! What’s that for? Imprudencia: It’s a punishment. Now sit down and get on with your work. [Tentación produces a piece of paper covered with figures and she begins to add up the columns, talking to herself quietly as she makes the calculations.] Tentación: 12, 27, 32, 46, carry 5 makes 15… [etc.] [Imprudencia considers her sourly, and when she is satisfied that her daughter is now fully occupied with her task, she addresses the audience again.] Imprudencia: You can’t imagine the trouble I’ve had with her. You just can’t imagine. But you can see she’s got a head on her shoulders. [She speaks into her daughter’s ear, interrupting her calculations for a moment.] Imprudencia: What are you counting? Tentación: [ecstatically] Money! [She continues.] Imprudencia: It makes it all seem worth it in the end, now doesn’t it? When Cleopatra’s barge was propelled along the Nile I’ll have you know it all was done in the very grandest style; Upon the prow there stood a statue all in beaten gold: A symbol that each inhabitant should do as he was told - And in every case, that simple convention Allowed no exception or contravention. The statue, you see, was an upright man With the sword of justice in his hand: So we may do whatever we can, But the Queen is the Queen, and her orders stand. And Cleopatra, though she had her cares, Was more or less happy with this state of affairs; 534 | For all who saw her sailing by Knew they need not wonder why, Since in that statue’s sharp-edged sword Lay the power of the one who lazed aboard Casting a languid eye around Careless of where her boat was bound… [Tentación suddenly stops her counting and puts her piece of paper away.] Tentación: One day, as Cleopatra was proceeding in her barge, in her usual stately manner—propelled, that is, by her sleek brown slaves and their well-tempered obedience—she let her gaze rest on the statue of which we have spoken: the armed man, that is, who represented her power and her justice. [Imprudencia strikes the pose of a statue holding a sword. Tentación relaxes into the role of Cleopatra, lying back on imaginary cushions.] Tentación: She was greatly surprised, then, when the statue addressed her, in a cold, metallic voice. Imprudencia: Good afternoon. Tentación: What’s that? Imprudencia: Good afternoon, I said. Tentación: But… It’s preposterous. You are a statue. I can’t have a conversation with you. Imprudencia: Suit yourself. [Pause.] Tentación: Now wait a minute. Hey, you! I’m talking to you! Imprudencia: There’s no point getting angry with me, your majesty. I’m only a statue, remember. Tentación: But what is the meaning of it, that’s what I want to know! And how dare you address me in this contemptible manner! It is really most upsetting. Imprudencia: You can’t expect me to have much sympathy with that, now can you? Tentación: What do you mean? Imprudencia: Well… If I may speak frankly… Tentación: You most certainly may not! Imprudencia: Well… I suppose you are right. But if I may at least pretend to speak frankly with you for a minute or two, then I would suggest that you consider my position here. My predicament, that is. Tentación: Predicament? It is ridiculous. Statues don’t have predicaments. Your function is merely symbolic. I won’t have it. Imprudencia: Well, my position then. Tentación: Your position? Well all right, I suppose I must concede that you do have a certain position here… What’s the matter, then? Out with it. I haven’t got all day, you know. Imprudencia: It’s the idleness, your majesty. Tentación: [outraged] Idle? I am not idle. Imprudencia: You misunderstand. It is my own idleness that disturbs me so. That is what moves me to address you like this. Tentación: Idleness… Ridiculous! How could it be otherwise? You are made | 535 of… what is it? Gold? Imprudencia: No, your majesty, it is just an illusion, I’m afraid. Why, if I were made of solid gold, then I think your boat would sink beneath my weight. Or on the other hand, I could easily slide off and be lost in the mud and the slime of the Nile that bears us. I am quite hollow, that’s the thing. Tentación: Hollow? Really? Imprudencia: Oh yes, I assure you. As hollow as a promise. Tentación: Well I am quite disturbed to hear this. Do you mean to tell me that after all there is nothing to you? Imprudencia: I am really nothing but air. There is nothing more to me than that. This golden skin you see is just a deceit and a pretence. Tentación: Not so loud! But what about that terrible weapon of yours? [She gets up and inspects it seriously—although Imprudencia’s hand is empty.] Oh yes. It is really a most comforting sight. It looks very sharp. Imprudencia: Yes. Tentación: And weighty. Imprudencia: Yes. Tentación: Certainly something to be respected, wouldn’t you say? Imprudencia: Oh certainly. Tentación: And so even if all the rest is, as you put it, simply deceit, and nothing more than pretence, at least this weapon that you hold has some firm basis in reality, wouldn’t you say? And that is just as it should be, of course. It is the whole basis of my justice, and therefore of all my authority, wouldn’t you say? Imprudencia: Your majesty is right, of course. Tentación: Well of course I’m right. And just you remember it. I admit that it might be a little difficult for you sometimes, but that’s not my fault, is it? I can’t be expected to look after all the little details. But what you have to understand is that you yourself are of no consequence to me. Imprudencia: I understand that, your majesty. Tentación: Good. Your only function, let me remind you, is to bear before you that one piece of solid reality: the sharp and weighty sword of my justice. That is what the people respect, you see. Imprudencia: I see, your majesty. Tentación: That is why they revere and obey me; and for no other reason. Imprudencia: I understand. Tentación: Good. And now I am tired of this conversation. Was there anything in particular you wanted to say to me? Imprudencia: I think there was something, but I think instead I will simply concentrate on this very important task of mine. [After a silence, Tentación produces her piece of paper once more and begins her calculations again.] Tentación: 5 and 3 is 8 and 5 is 13 and 8 is 21 carry 2 [etc.] [Imprudencia holds her pose for a minute, then turns to look first at her daughter and then at the audience.] 536 | Imprudencia: When I was a girl, you know, we used to spend a great deal of time shelling peas. That seemed to be the main activity of life, as far as I remember it back then. We combed our hair sometimes. We fed the chickens sometimes; I remember that also—but it is mainly the peas that I think of when I try and remember that period in my life. You use your thumbnail to split the pod open, and then you use the same thumb to push the peas free of their little stalks, and they come tumbling out to join their brothers and sisters. [Pause] It seems to me that that is the principal task to which, for some reason or other, my life has been devoted; and yet I do not understand why this should so far have been the case. I don’t know who it was that decided it. It just always seemed to me that that was the most important thing that there was to be done. [She stares out at the audience. The mumbled counting continues, and now Debilidad, too, tries to crawl out from under the cloth. She is still wearing her ribbons and blindfold. She is at the point of escaping when her mother speaks in the same tone of command as before.] Imprudencia: Stop! And where do you think you are going? Debilidad: Mother? Is that you? Imprudencia: Yes, of course it’s me. Debilidad: Oh, Mother, it is such a joy to hear your voice! Imprudencia: Don’t give me that! Where were you trying to sneak off to like that, you little hussy? Debilidad: Hussy? Imprudencia: Would you prefer me to call you a whore, then? Debilidad: No! Oh, Mother, what is the matter? Imprudencia: Fine words! Fine words butter no parsnips, my girl. to[ Tentación] Shut up! [She stamps over to stand over Tentación, who stops counting.] Didn’t I teach you anything? Debilidad: [Breaking down again, and sinking to the floor.] Oh Mother, don’t! Imprudencia: And don’t you oh mother don’t me! After all I’ve done for you. And get up! Stand up when I talk to you! [She stalks over, grabs Debilidad by the arm, and yanks her to her feet.] And what’s this you’re wearing? Debilidad: This? It’s love, Mother. Imprudencia: Love? Is that what you call it? Debilidad: It’s all I have, Mother. Imprudencia: We’ll see about that! [She reaches up and pulls the blindfold off. Debilidad looks around her in horror and sinks to her knees.] Debilidad: Oh! Give it back! Imprudencia: Why? Debilidad: Give it back! I must have it! Imprudencia: Why should I? [Thunder. Debilidad collapses onto her face once more, and folds her arms over her head, trying to hide.] Debilidad: I must! [She subsides into quiet sobbing. Imprudencia, smiling cynically and dangling the blindfold from a finger, strolls over and begins to cross-examine her other daughter, who answers rigidly, like a schoolchild keen to avoid punishment.] | 537 Imprudencia: What is it? Tentación: Love. Imprudencia: Of what value is it? Tentación: No value. Imprudencia: Of what use is it? Tentación: No use. Imprudencia: Is it constant? Tentación: No. Imprudencia: Is it trustworthy? Tentación: No. Imprudencia: How long does it last? Tentación: It does not last for long. Imprudencia: [Contemptuously] Do we need it, then? [She goes to throw it away. Pause.] Tentación: Yes. Imprudencia: What? Tentación: Yes. We need it. [Imprudencia looks around in surprise. Debilidad lets out a great sob, and Imprudencia throws her the blindfold. She scrabbles gratefully for it and puts it back on.] Imprudencia: Is that better? Debilidad: Oh yes. Oh yes. It is much better. Imprudencia: Why? Debilidad: I don’t know why. Imprudencia: Why, I said! [Thunder. Debilidad sinks to her knees, but once more she finds the strength to stay standing. She is not completely defeated, and manages to stammer out her answer.] Debilidad: It is because of the peacock’s tails, you see, Mother. Imprudencia: Peacock’s tails? What nonsense is this? Debilidad: The castle, Mother! It has golden windows, and diamonds in the walls, or… No! In the roof there are the diamonds; but the main thing is the moat. It is filled with peacock’s tails. They shimmer like… Tentación: They shimmer like the mist in the midday heat of midsummer, Mother. That’s what she’s trying to say. Imprudencia: Who asked you? And what do you know about it, anyway? Tentación: I only know what I am told. The windows they are made of gold. The moat is filled with peacock’s tails. The path is rough, and sometimes fails. Debilidad: Yes! Yes! That is what I was trying to tell you! [Debilidad looks around, her voice and manner full of hope. After a silence, Tentación produces her paper, and begins with her calculations again. Fade to black over the drone of her semi-audible voice.]
538 | Scene Five Imprudencia and Debilidad are sitting shelling peas in silence, as before.
Imprudencia: Shall we continue, then? Debilidad: Yes. Imprudencia: Where were we, then? Debilidad: P. Imprudencia: P is for peas. [Debilidad is unimpressed, and looks satirically around.] Imprudencia: [severely] Q is for quarrelsome. R is for reticent. S is for self- imprisonment. T is for troublemaker. U is for unenthusiastic. V is for victims. W is for women. There is no letter X in Spanish. Y is for youthful. Z is for zeal. Debilidad: What about xylophone? Imprudencia: What? Debilidad: Xylophone. It begins with X. I’ve been thinking about it. Imprudencia: There are no xylophones in Spain. Debilidad: Ah. But if there were… Imprudencia: What? Debilidad: Well, if there were some xylophones in Spain, then it would have to go victims women xylophones youthful zeal, wouldn’t it, and not just victims women youthful zeal? Imprudencia: I suppose so. Debilidad: Or you could have “experience”, I suppose. Imprudencia: That doesn’t start with X. Debilidad: It sounds better though.Victims women experience youthful zeal. Imprudencia: Well yes, but if you’re going to accept that principle then you could have victims willingly exude youthful zeal, couldn’t you? Debilidad: It should be volunteers, then. Volunteers willingly exude youthful zeal. Imprudencia: Or wistfully. Volunteers wistfully exude youthful zeal. Debilidad: I prefer xylophones, though. Imprudencia: So do I. Debilidad: So, shall we do the whole thing? Imprudencia: I suppose so. Imprudencia and Debilidad: [together] After being callously ditched, every fool gets his ivory jewelled keepsake locket. Many new owners prefer quite recently slaughtered turkeys: useless victims willingly extinguishing youthful zeal. Debilidad: What happened to peas? Tentación: I don’t remember.
Scene Six Imprudencia is pacing around angrily. Her daughters are seated, with slightly bowed heads. They speak in unison, and without emotion. They stare blankly out at the audience (though Debilidad still wears her blindfold). | 539
Imprudencia: What did you say? Debilidad/Tentación: Nothing. Imprudencia: What? Debilidad/Tentación: Nothing. Imprudencia: And what kind of answer is that meant to be? Eh? How do you expect me to deal with you when all you have to offer is insolence and disrespect? Debilidad/Tentación: I mean no disrespect. Imprudencia: Shut up! I won’t have it! When you were a little girl, you know, I said to myself, I said, One day… but I suppose you are too grown-up and important now to listen to your old mother. Debilidad/Tentación: Oh no. Please continue. Imprudencia: Very well. One day, I said, she will be a grown-up woman herself, and then Oh! How pleased I will be, to have brought another woman such as myself into the world. Debilidad/Tentación: I do not understand you. Imprudencia: Understanding has no value. Debilidad/Tentación: I remember now. Understanding is not important. Imprudencia: That is not what I said. There are many things that are important, my girl, but not all of them have value. You would do well to remember it. Debilidad/Tentación: I am very grateful. Imprudencia: I care nothing for your gratitude. It has no value for me. But if you were to speak to me of diamonds, now, well then I admit that things might be a little bit different. Debilidad/Tentación: Diamonds. Imprudencia: Well then I tell you it would be a different matter, that’s all. It would really be quite a different thing. For they have definite value, you know. There is no denying it. Debilidad/Tentación: Apples. Imprudencia: What? Debilidad/Tentación: Apples, Bread, Cardboard, Diamonds. Imprudencia: No! Stop it! I won’t have it! I won’t! [But they start again, and Imprudencia breaks down as they recite.] Apples, Bread, Cardboard, Diamonds, Eggs, Feathers, Gunpowder, Hens, Inspiration, Jewels, Kings, Leftovers, Margarine, Newspapers, Overcoats, Puddings, Queens, Rainbows, Silverfish, Teapots, Underwear, Vomit, Whisky, there is no letter X in Spanish, Yachts, Zebras. [Pause, as Imprudencia manages to control her weeping to continue.] Imprudencia: What have I done? Debilidad/Tentación: I do not understand you. Imprudencia: What have I done, oh Sacred Virgin? Blessed Virgin, what have I done to deserve this treatment? For didn’t I wash you? Debilidad/Tentación: With your own hands you washed me. Imprudencia: And your clothes? 540 | Debilidad/Tentación: Yes. With your own hands. Imprudencia: Yes! [She strides over and hits them both.] With these two hands of mine that are as similar as two peas in a pod I did it. And your clothes! And don’t you forget it! Debilidad/Tentación: I cannot forget. Imprudencia: And what did I get in return? Debilidad/Tentación: I cannot remember. Imprudencia: Cannot? Cannot? Will not is more like it! [She goes to hit them again, but stops herself at the last moment.] I would like you to answer one simple question for me, that’s all. Debilidad/Tentación: What question? What is it? Imprudencia: It does not matter what the question is. Debilidad/Tentación: I do not understand you. Imprudencia: It does not matter whether you understand me. How often do I have to tell you? It has no value whatsoever. No importance at all. It is a matter, I tell you, of total and utter indifference to me whether you understand me or not. I do not understand you, you know. I’ll tell you that for nothing, if that makes any difference to your grand ideas. Oh no: I don’t understand you at all! I’ll tell you that for nothing. But do you hear me complaining about it? Do you? Debilidad/Tentación: We hear what we hear, We see what we see; Diamonds are dear, To one such as me. Imprudencia: Shut up! This is not what I expect from you. Debilidad/Tentación: What do you expect, then? Imprudencia: [thinking about it] I expect a certain amount of respect. Debilidad/Tentación: Certainly. Imprudencia: I expect a certain amount of disagreement. Debilidad/Tentación: Yes. Imprudencia: I expect a certain quantity of unhappiness to arise in the course of our relationship. Debilidad/Tentación: Unhappiness. Yes. It is only to be expected. Imprudencia: But these things, let me tell you, my dearest darling, even these things are not in themselves what it is that I require. Debilidad/Tentación: Yes. Imprudencia: What? Debilidad/Tentación: No. Imprudencia: That’s better. [Pause. Imprudencia produces a knife and holds it to her throat. It is an effort for her to control herself.] I will not be here for long, you know. Debilidad/Tentación: Oh, do not say so. I love you. Imprudencia: Love? [It is said very bitterly. Debilidad almost loses her self-control, and her hands go to her blindfold. It is still securely there, though, and she calms herself again.] Imprudencia: Shall I tell you what it is that I require from you? Shall I? But there is no need for you to answer. Your answer is not important. It has no | 541 value, either. I have learned all your answers, oh, long ago, you see; and so let me tell you that they do not convince me at all. Not at all. Debilidad/Tentación: There is no need for me to answer you, then. Imprudencia: There is no need for it at all. So just be quiet and pay attention. It is not too much to ask. And now I will tell you what it is that I require from you. It is sincerity. Debilidad/Tentación: What? Imprudencia: Sincerity. Debilidad/Tentación: You must be joking. Imprudencia: Sincerity! Debilidad/Tentación: It is a game. Oh, certainly, it is a game you are playing with me now. Imprudencia: No! It is all I have ever wanted from you. Nothing more than a little sincerity occasionally. It was, you see, the principal tragedy of my life with my own mother, oh, long before you were born, my dear, and what it was, you see, the tragedy, was just that there was no sincerity between us. Debilidad/Tentación: None at all. Imprudencia: And so all my life I believe that I have been searching just for that one thing and for nothing else. I have devoted my life to it. It is here somewhere, you know. Yes. Somewhere right here next to us. And we could have it so easily, you know. So very easily. It would really not be so very difficult. That is what I have always believed. Debilidad/Tentación: Not difficult at all. Imprudencia: And have you ever given me what I wanted from you? Debilidad/Tentación: I do not understand you. Imprudencia: Have you? Have you ever even for one second been really and truly sincere with me? Really and truly told me exactly what it is that you think and feel? Even for one second? Debilidad/Tentación: I do not understand you. Imprudencia: Evasions! Lies, hypocrisy, nonsense! Debilidad/Tentación: I do not understand you. Imprudencia: It is enough for me. Debilidad/Tentación: It is more than enough. Imprudencia: I am defeated. Debilidad/Tentación: More than defeated. Imprudencia: There is no future for me. Debilidad/Tentación: I am not interested in your future. Imprudencia: It is not a sincere remark! Debilidad/Tentación: It is not a sincere remark. [Imprudencia takes a last look at her daughters, tests the knife against her throat once more, and goes grimly off. Debilidad and Tentacion burst suddenly into a peal of mechanical laughter. Blackout.]
Scene Seven 542 | Debilidad and Tentación are sitting shelling peas. They are both weeping. Debilidad is still blindfolded. Their weeping is very affecting. There is a snatch of mournful flamenco music, and they manage to stop their weeping as they listen.
Debilidad: Where are we? Tentación: Don’t worry. Debilidad: But where are we? Tentación: It doesn’t matter. Our mother is dead now. That is what matters. We must be much more self-reliant. We must do what she taught us to do. That is our function here in this world. Debilidad: But… But Tentación, surely… surely we have arrived! Tentación: What? Debilidad: Oh, Tentación, we are here! Can’t you feel it? Can’t you feel it? All the glory? Tentación: Where is the glory in shelling peas? There is no glory, Debilidad. We are simply shelling peas, that is all, as our mother taught us to do. There is no glory in it at all. Debilidad: But can’t you see? [Craning her head around enthusiastically.] We are here! Can’t you see it? Tentación: [Carefully] No, I can’t see exactly what it is you’re talking about. Debilidad: The castle! The castle! We’ve arrived! We’re here! Isn’t it beautiful! Tentación: Oh yes, it is very beautiful. Debilidad: Describe it to me, Tentación! Tentación: [She is gradually isolated in a spotlight during this speech; Debilidad is left in darkness.] We are seated at a rough wooden table slightly to the left of the centre of the courtyard of our castle. We have arrived. We are here at last. The castle is full of our friends and our servants, happily living the life of the powerful and the carefree. High, high above us stretch the turrets and battlements of this great and strong castle of ours; quite fearsome and majestic it all is. Eagles and falcons swoop and glide there; and among the turrets and spires there is a great display of flags and banners and pennants and bunting. It is all waving gently down to us. And the walls… Debilidad: Yes? Yes? Tentación: They are pure white. And every single roof is studded with a thousand diamonds. Debilidad: No! Tentación: Oh yes. And the windows… Debilidad: Yes? Tentación: The windows are made of gold. Debilidad: Oh, good! Continue, continue! Tentación: Although we are sitting out here in the courtyard, so as to enjoy a little fresh air, there is an everpresent sound, a quiet sound that follows me wherever I go in this beautiful castle of ours. Debilidad: Oh, beautiful! Tentación: It is the quietest little sound, you know. Debilidad: Quieter than a mouse? Tentación: Much quieter. | 543 Debilidad: Quieter than an ant? Tentación: Well, perhaps it is a little louder than an ant. For it creeps into all the castle, from the lowest, blackest dungeon to the topmost swaying lookout tower. It winds its way all around us, wherever we are in the castle. It reminds us where we are, even when we are asleep in our great feather beds; even when we are feasting and banqueting; even when we are sitting shelling our peas in the courtyard in blessed memory of our poor dear Mother. Debilidad: Blessed be the Virgin. Tentación: It is the sound of the peacock’s tails, rustling in the mist on a midsummer afternoon. Debilidad: Oh yes… [Sudden black-out] 544 |
Photo: Michaela Freeman Paul Martia Žižkov Pub
Workers salute shots laughing souls resurrected they pat their fat bellies, glorious in their smoke stained sanctuary. Gilded aged icons lord over cabals shameful of indifference their eyes the pulse of history tearful, loosely tethered, cracked slipping into musty foundations. The bar maid becomes my obsession. | 545 Beneath her skirt dogs bark on my midday stumble through other men’s neighborhoods. Sunlight threatens ancestral as my own delirium working the room face by face a sad sack vaudeville wash out loosing life to the talkies spitting regret between swings of bath tub gin …just go away, man, go away. Mercury tosses yesterday’s mail from his shattered windowed podium. I crawl under the table Searching for postcards In the estate of my loneliness Godspeed
A journeyman travels lightly Of package and foot Where there is a mirror There is weight So why bring more Than you can give Away.
“Goodbye… again.”
The echo booms arrogantly persistent stalking corridors infected of transit moving moving past 546 | faces familiar the strangers mounting I roam the mystic depots and somewhere there is a destination after departure.
But a journeyman travels lightly through the violent hour meadows of larkspur and chicory nights alone under wily moons the rooms cold white where loved ones flee shamed at joy squandered. “It’s ME… ME!” tease the shouts of the trees when there is wind on the ridge and the water below roars. There’s a train out tonight so I’m told and if we go together you will see how simple it all is.
| 547 Before the River Flooded
Before the river flooded jetties stood boldly against the onslaught of inevitability. Winter’s clean embrace assured solitude. Before the river flooded yesterday lingered certain of its place secure.
Chests soon bared the bloated men will gather at the kiosk below our flat. Scrawled tattoos fester paunchy flesh 548 | dusk lacquers dead water and each night by ten their boisterous love withers.
After waking we take our stale bread and feed the swans. On the street above crowds rush home from work. With the next sunrise we will finally see daylight.
Before the river flooded the bridge alone shadowed our steps. Ghosts Now pass asking, “…Remember the old skin of time.” I look to my hands for pictures engraved in my palms. “Yes. Though there is pain in the reflection. We were beautiful.”
Before the river flooded patience governed a prophet of silence and I an anxious disciple.
| 549 550 |
Photo: Philip J. Heijmans Jason Mashak Opiate of the Masses
Goddamn the pusher man Steppenwolf
That Moses needs to hurry back with our tablets, We’ve hocked all our gold with his accountants And his lawyers incorporated it into a public mass, a con- gealed conglomerate The PR people then molded into | 551 an icon of that which provides milk. Only there is no milk, so they tell us to dance for it, but we’re tired. We just want to enjoy the sublime green cloud on the mountain.
First published in GRASP 2 (2009). WTFWJD?
I lost all the forms of capital punishment, the list I made thinking of crosses chaining ladies by the neck.
A Jesus born another century would give us tiny-jeweled guillotines or gas-chamber bracelets,
lethal-injective silhouettes or logos of firing squads on podiums in churches.
Perversion cherished! I’ve never seen pictures of the dead roadside Buddhas. More than cross-
ophilia, it defies psychoanalysis; it measures 552 | the reversal of civilization.
So what could He do but lean back with a bottle and wait for the noose to set Him free.
First published in Rakish Angel 1 (2009). On Questions
How many virgins, do you think, did God ask, before Mary said yes? R.S. Dietrich
I wanna know if Vestal Virgins fit like coats without arms, why when I stopped drinking I stopped seeing dead friends driving cars, how come Gone With the Wind had nothing to do with farts, why not being able to imagine a lack of imagination seems better than being gyp’d & jew’d by caucasians. I build my art upon | 553 why: when the metro station reeks of burnt rubber, I think of rapid sex? Let’s refrigerate the car instead of carrying in the groceries.
Hooked sansgravity, I am upward-hanging on the curved exclamatory of deep investigation. 554 |
Photo: Louis Armand Tom McCarthy From Men in Space
“You know Frieda Kahlo?” Klára shouts. “Who?” “Frieda Kahlo. She was married to Diego Rivera.” “The Mexican muralist. Yeah, I know her. She always painted herself surrounded by monkeys and things like that. And with nails in her skin.” Ivan’s gone into the kitchen to make coffee, and he’s checking the instructions on a bag of whiting powder while he waits for the water to boil. He vaguely remembers the ratio as two to two-and-a-quarter measures whiting to one measure gelatine to seven measures water. There are several empty gelatine packets lying around, but they’re not all the same brand | 555 and have different ratio recommendations, and his mathematics isn’t up to working out the median for one factor of a three-factor equation and then segueing that one back in with the other two. “You know why she painted herself like that?” Klára’s voice drifts from the bedroom. “No.” Two at a ratio of seven-to-one, plus three at three-to-one is… He could say four and a half, but it’s not very scientific. And then that’ll change depending on what Nick and Heidi bring back. They’ve been gone four hours now, which he didn’t mind at first—timing worked perfectly with Klára’s little visit—but now he’s kind of itching to get back to it… “She was in an accident when she was maybe eighteen or nineteen. In Mexico City, on a tram. She was riding on this tram, and the tram collided with another tram, and this steel pole skewered her. It entered her through the vagina, and passed halfway…” “What’s that?” “Her vagina. I said the pole entered her through the vagina. It passed halfway up her body. Can you imagine that?” “My God!” “But the strangest thing is that the passenger behind her was carrying a bag of gold powder.” “Gold powder? Like the…” “Exactly. I suppose he must have been an artist too. An artist or an artisan. And in the accident this bag split open and the gold dust showered all over Frieda Kahlo. So when the firemen found her in the wreckage, she had a steel pole stuck up her and she was covered in gold. A ready-made work of art, just like your saint. That’s why she always showed herself with things sticking through her.” Klára’s lying on Ivan’s bed crumbling the pieces of gold leaf Ivan blew across her body as a prelude to their lovemaking. It’s not cold in his atelier: he’s fixed his heating since she was last here. She’s lying naked on his bed watching the specks settle in the small puddles of sweat across her stomach. They go back a long way, she and Ivan—back even before AVU, right to middle school. They’ve worked together several times. When Ivan picked up this odd commission he called her in straight away, and she got him the blockwood panels, pilfering these from the crypt of St Cajetan, where she’s working renovating altars. She dug up some old study notes from the MA she did on icon paintings, and on her way down here she passed by the Malířské art-supply shop and picked up, let’s see: lamp black, French ultramarine, cobalt blue, raw umber, emerald green, plus viridian, red ochre, carmine, cadmium red, cadmium orange, raw sienna… raw sienna… raw sienna… ah yes: cadmium lemon, titanium white, then ivory black, then cobalt violet 556 | deep, and azure-manganese blue, chrome green, terra verte, madder deep, plus rose madder genuine, caput-mortum violet, burnt sienna, yellow ochre, cadmium yellow and zinc white, makes twenty-five. She’s still missing two out, which annoys her: she used to know the range by heart. Lamp black, French ultramarine, cobalt blue… Crouching beside the fire, she pulls the jumper down across her knees and looks at the painting Ivan’s being paid so handsomely to copy. This is sitting in an armchair which is backed against the wall that separates the main room from the bathroom. It isn’t huge: perhaps sixty/forty-five/three, about average for icons. She’d say it’s nineteenth-century, because the borders of the wood aren’t raised. The subject shows an ascension, but not Christ’s, or for that matter anyone she recognizes straight away. The Byzantine letters that should spell out the name of the ascending figure have either been corroded away or weren’t there in the first place. There is some text: three words painted at different levels above an ocean occupying the right side of the painting’s bottom section, plus two smaller words dotted between them—but they’re in a script she’s never come across before… To the ocean’s left is land, on which the standard topographic motifs can be found: a squat building with blackened windows at the bottom, then a mountain rising up from this, studded with bending trees—only the mountain also has some kind of very oddly formed birds flapping around on it, on ledges at its sides. The birds, if that’s what they are, seem to be keeling over backwards. She must have studied hundreds, literally hundreds of these paintings, restored twenty, thirty of the things, and she’s never seen these before. They’re oversize, misshapen, almost human. Another unusual detail is a group of ships in the sea to the mountain’s right. Fishing boats crop up frequently in these paintings, in particular in those of Simon and Andrew, the fishermen—but there are no nets here. The boats seem to be stationary: their sails are down, and groups of men in smaller boats are drawn up beside them, doing something to them. Are they repairing them? Klára shuffles forwards, keeping the jumper down over her knees. The men are carrying planks towards, or from, the ships. How very bizarre. Building them? They’d do that on dry land, surely. The men stare straight out from the painting. So do the strange birds. The floating saint too, come to that. Axonometric: there’s no variation in their distance from the viewer. Besides which, there’s a general lack of continuity between the figures. Rather than collaborating with one another to provide visual cohesion, they’re discontiguous, each occupying a zone of his own, each wilfully oblivious to the presence of the others. But the strangest thing of all is this: God’s represented not by a circle but by an ellipse around the saint’s head. Very, very bizarre. The coding of these icons is rock-solid: God’s always substituted by either a Christ figure or a perfect circle in ascensions. But an ellipse, a kind of oval which itself seems to retreat as though its top edge were being dragged back by some magnetic force? It’s simply, well, just wrong… | 557 Ivan walks in carrying two cups of coffee. He hands one to her and smiles; he even bends down and kisses her forehead. He’s not usually like this. She’s done favours for him plenty of times before, and all he usually does to thank her is get her drunk and climb inside her knickers. He’s climbed inside her knickers this time too, of course—but he did it with a tenderness he’s never had before, apart from one freak time when she was so massively oversensitized by hallucinogens that he didn’t even need to touch her for her to go off, so that doesn’t really count. And showering her in gold was something else! And even afterwards, when every other time he’s made no effort to disguise post-coital boredom, his need for someone else or something new to entertain him, now he’s being so kind. Kissing her forehead: what next?… “Where on earth is this painting coming from, Ivan?” She shuffles round and turns to him. “It’s strange, huh?” “It’s not right. Look: it’s got the four standard perspectives. There’s your…” “Four: that’s right. I remember that from Ondříček’s class.” “He’s dead, you know.” “I heard.” “It’s got all four perspectives. There’s your linear one, from the mountain’s edge up away and vanishing towards the oval zone. And then the trees all being the same size—and all the secondary figures too—is, you know, flat, axonometric. That’s the dominant one here. And the arms of the—what, disciples? bystanders? these guys here—are converging out towards the viewer. That’s its one concession to perspective. More a nod in its direction, really. And the mountain’s surface is all curved, bending up towards the holy figure. But then see here, there’s this fourth one: how the top zone bends away into a totally different dimension. This slanting ellipse. I’ve never seen anything like it before. It totally disrupts the sacred geometric scheme.” “You mean the three-four-one…” “Right: triangle, square, circle. An ellipse? What on earth was the painter thinking? Who did this?” “Don’t know.” Klára leans forwards, picks the painting up and turns it over. There’s a stamped mark on the back, some modern Cyrillic figures, but no signature. She sets it down again. “Who asked you to copy it?” “This Bulgarian called Anton Markov. He used to live next door to Nick.” “That’s your new English flatmate?” “Yeah.” “Is he an art dealer?” 558 | “Who, Nick?” “No, Anton.” “No. I don’t know what he does.” “Why does he want it copied?” “He didn’t say.” “That’s really weird.” “Who do you think the saint is?” Ivan’s crouched down beside her and is stroking her hair as he asks this: miraculous… “I was asking myself that just now. I can’t make out the letters. But it’s certainly not Christ.” “Simon?” “Because of the ships, right?” “Right.” “I was thinking that—but look: the men here aren’t fishermen. There are no nets. And they seem to be dismantling the ships.” “Why would they do that? What’s the symbolism?” Klára sighs, shakes her head, sips her coffee. “Not one I’ve ever seen before. The obvious answer would be the soul leaving the body. It is an ascension, after all. Abandonment of the old vessel, its decay…” “And the building? The mountain?” “Same thing. Icons are cosmic maps. They conceive space metaphorically, as a series of levels leading into the world of the spirit. They narrate transcendence.” “So…” “So the building represents the urbs, the polis: civilization, society, cities. Everything that’s being left behind. Its windows are dark to represent the fact that the world’s lacking knowledge, awaiting revelation. The mountain is the passage upwards—a passage literalized by the floating upwards of the figure of the saint. The top circle round his head is—should be—pure spirit, God. Only it’s not a circle; it’s an…” “But is he floating upwards?” Ivan’s peering forwards now, almost sniffing the painting. “Everything else seems to be going downwards. The trees point down. And these birdmen: they seem to be falling.” “That could be to emphasize the saint’s ascendance.” “Or to complement his fall. You must admit he doesn’t look too happy.” “They never do. His look is unusual, though, I’ll grant you. His mouth is more widely open than you’d expect. He looks as though he were disappointed. As though there were no transcendence—and no pure spirit either, no God: he gets up into the sky, and all there is is this ellipse, this void, this slanting nothingness…” “To me he just looks neutral. Deadpan. Disconnected. Maybe he’s stoned. You want to smoke one?” “Sure.” She sits back, sips her coffee again. Ivan starts rooting around in a box behind the tins of paint. Klára wipes a fleck of gold leaf from her cheek, | 559 then says: “You know, strictly speaking, your copy won’t be a copy.” “Why not?” “Because,” she shifts her weight as she turns to face him, “copying has always been part of the culture of the icon. These zographs travelled…” “Zoo graphs?” “Zographs: icon painters. Vitan, Nedelko, Chevinodola, the Zaharievs, and hundreds of minor ones whose names I can’t remember… They travelled around carrying little more than their tools and theHermeneia , and they…” “Carrying the what? The Ermenia?” “The Hermeneia, with an H: the zographs’ rule book. It supposedly originated on Mount Athos, in Greece. They’d travel around, redoing already existing subjects: literally copying older paintings. So you get the same images repeating down centuries, mutating slightly with each iteration.” “So Anton’s one’s a copy too?” “Well, yes—but beyond that, for zographs, copies aren’t secondary pieces. They’re iterations of the same sacred event. Each time you iterate you partake of the event: belong to it, as much as the last iterator did. But…” “Where are my cigarette papers?” asks Ivan. She picks these off the floor beside her and throws them to him, then continues: “But Anton’s asked you to distress the painting, right?” “Distress it?” “Make it look old.” “Oh, yes. He wants an exact copy, not a new one.” “Why would he want…” she begins, but Ivan holds up his hand to cut her off. Footsteps are coming up the final flight of stairs to the atelier: several pairs of footsteps. And there are two, three voices, one female and at least two male, speaking English. The footsteps stop and a key turns in the lock. “That’ll be Nick now. And…” Ivan looks anxious. “You’d better dress.” Klára darts back into Ivan’s bedroom and pulls on her underpants and trousers just as the door opens. She hears Ivan say, in English: “You didn’t precipitate,” and someone she assumes is Nick reply: “The jelly was a bastard to find.” “But you were successful notwithstanding?” Notwithstanding. She’d forgotten that word… “We’ve got everything on your list. Only, two eggs broke in my pocket on the way back. My God, it’s warm in here!” “The council sent some people round to fix the heating,” she hears Ivan tell him. There’s a clunk and wrinkle as a bag is set down on the coffee table. Klára pulls her socks on and walks into the atelier’s main room. There are three men, all in their early twenties. One’s got short brown hair; one is tall, with wiry, darker hair; the third’s blond. The girl they’ve got with them is the 560 | same age, and wears a headband and a stripy jumper. She’s looking at Klára in a less than friendly way. Ivan’s sifting through the shopping bags they’ve brought back with them. He pulls out a packet of gelatine and reads the instructions on the back. “One-to-fifteen. But that’s if you’re just making jelly.” “When you’re gessoing,” Klára says, “you have to gradate as you layer. So you start out with one-to-eight and end with one-to-twelve. And always two or three measures of whiting powder into each saucepan of gelatine and water.” “I used to eat this stuff in rabbit moulds,” the man with brown hair says in English to the girl. “When I was a kid.” “Yeah, me too.” The girl’s accent is American, not English. “We had this one with Mickey and Minnie holding hands. Only it always sort of flopped and lost its shape when you took the mould off.” “So did the rabbit one!” The young man with the brown hair’s all excited now. “Hey, Ivan, this is Mladen, who you’ve met already. And this is Roger.” “A veritable pleasure.” Ivan shakes both their hands. The one with brown hair must be Nick. Ivan brings the blockwood panels over to the table. “You only need to prime one up,” Klára tells him. “No,” replies Ivan, looking down now. “I think I’ll do them both. You never know.” She turns to the brown-haired young man and asks: “This Bulgarian’s a friend of yours?” “Anton? Yeah. He was my neighbour when I lived in Vinohrady. He used to be a football referee, and now he’s a political refugee. I’m Nick. You’ve got a piece of gold leaf in your hair.” He picks it out for her. The American girl walks off into the bathroom. “Hey, Ivan, do you remember when that Polish girl was round here and I thought she’d got a charcoal smudge across her face and it turned out it was a birthmark?” Nick says, letting the gold leaf flutter to the ground. “I certainly do. You entirely spoiled my chances of seduction with her.” “I’ve got to go now,” Klára says to Ivan, in Czech. “If you want to be helpful,” she hears Ivan tell Nick as she walks into the bedroom and puts on her shoes, “you might complete the joint I was constructing. I find it concentrates my mind, and I have work to undertake.” The American girl’s voice comes from the bathroom: “There’s a condom in here!”
*
…with the result that I am becoming something of an expert on the subject of zography. Most of my knowledge is gleaned from telephone conversations | 561 between Ivan Maňásek and Klára Jelínková, which have been occurring on an almost daily basis. Over the course of these, she has informed him that the image he is copying most probably stems from a set of murals in Bačkovo, a Bulgarian monastery founded in roughly 1100 [eleven hundred]; that, since at this time Bulgaria was ruled by Byzantium, the monastery was in what she termed “deep bandit country”; and that the monastery’s muralists were trained in Byzantium then sent back to Bačkovo to paint in the official style, this style being an extension of religious dogma, a putting-into-action of Byzantium’s edicts. For example: Byzantium might decree that, when painting ascensions (as Maňásek is currently), the Coptic-Egyptian code, which depicts the body rising intact to heaven, must be followed; but at a later date, Byzantine doctrine might change to decree that the Palestinian code, whereby the soul departs the body—represented by, for instance, a dove—must be observed. A painter could be imprisoned or even executed for using the wrong code at the wrong time. On learning these facts, Maňásek ventured that Byzantium during this period acted much as Moscow has done during most of ours. I must admit that I find his reasoning sound— indeed, compelling. In prohibiting modes of expression not sanctioned by Moscow and in supervising and arresting dissidents such as Maňásek for deploying such modes, was our state not performing a similar role to that of the regional enforcers of Byzantium’s canons? The Emperor Comnenus, Domesticus of the Western Byzantine army, Jelínková informed Maňásek during their second or third phone conversation, realizing he could not crush dissidence entirely, took to hiring Georgians and Armenians as priests— people who, being closer to the Bulgarian natives, gave an impression of independence. Comnenus thought, not unreasonably, that by being a little laxer in Bulgaria than he was back in the seat of Empire, he would manage simultaneously to monitor and absorb the energy that might have undermined Byzantine doctrine, to channel it through an official institution: Bačkovo would thus serve as (as it were) both loudspeaker and listening device. But, she continued, as time progressed the muralists started taking more liberties than Comnenus had intended, flouting the canons with heretical paintings, and the regime of propaganda and surveillance envisioned by the Domesticus slowly broke down. Was this not the fate, after Perestroika, of the empire of which our nation formed a part? Maňásek and Jelínková talk; I listen and repeat; and my superiors listen in through me. My car is cold, but I am loath to leave the engine running for extended periods lest I draw undue attention to my presence. Most of the time Maňásek works silently: I hear him moving around his studio as he copies the painting—the odd scrape or rustle, but no more. He seems unwilling to receive visitors. His flatmate has been absent for the last 3 [three] days. The most recent phone call between Maňásek and Jelínková took place at 17:42 [seventeen forty-two] on December 24th [twenty- 562 | fourth]. On this occasion he did have a visitor, with whom he conversed in English while speaking in Czech to both Jelínková and, for much of the time, his landlady, who had come onto the building’s party phone line. During the course of this call, he informed Jelínková that he was making 2 [two] copies of the painting, and would give the best one of these to Associate Markov. Jelínková seemed flustered, and kept trying to tell Maňásek about an unknown saint she had discovered among the ones depicted in the Bačkovo murals. Maňásek, meanwhile, argued with his landlady, who repeatedly requested that he leave the line to her since she needed to phone her sister who had been ill for a week, and reminded him that he had not paid the last month’s rent. He informed her he would pay the rent if she hung up her own phone, adding that if her sister had been ill for a whole week she was unlikely to die within the next few minutes, and joking in English with his unknown visitor that party lines owe their name to the fact that there’s always a party going on on them—a point with which I must, again, concur. The tone of Jelínková’s voice suggested that the information she was trying to impart was vital; she seemed quite disturbed by it. This unknown saint, she kept trying to tell him, was not one recognized within the standard canon, and was not even Christian in origin. Scholars seemed to agree that his provenance was Greek: eastern Greek, either Lydian or Phrygian. After his first appearance in Bačkovo, Jelínková said, his image cropped up, albeit extremely rarely, in the work of several painters, the most prominent of whom were the Zaharievs, a family of zographs operating in the last century. He was, she continued, always shown ascending, just like Christian saints—yet, not being Christian, there was no particular reason why he should be doing so. Despite the imagery in which, for the sake of convenience, it cloaked itself, his presence served another purpose, embodying other beliefs and sets of knowledge— values perhaps long since defunct but which, through him, had found their way into the zographic repertoire. This is the information to which Jelínková attached so much importance, and by which she seemed disturbed. Maňásek broke off arguing with his landlady and quipping with his unknown guest to ask Jelínková if she believed that the artwork he was currently copying depicted this same maverick saint. Jelínková replied that she thought it possibly did, and that his painting might be by a Zahariev, since these were the only nineteenth-century zographs in whose work the saint was known to have appeared—adding that if this were the case, the painting was extremely valuable. She expressed doubts as to the honesty of Associate Markov and the legality of his activities. Maňásek seemed unconcerned by her anxieties, and resumed goading his landlady, enquiring whether her sister was attractive and implying that prior to 1989 [nineteen eighty-nine] she(the landlady) had passed on information about him to the StB—a claim that, while made maliciously and without any basis in evidence, was, as my team had already established while attempting to recover details of previous surveillances of Maňásek, true. Shortly after this conversation, I was forced | 563 to hand over my earphones to one of my men by a ringing which had developed in my ears due to their extended exposure to a source whose signal-to-noise ratio was, as previously indicated, less than ideal. As bad luck would have it, council workmen were removing the loudspeakers from beneath the street lamps on Lidická, and their activities caused further interference to our reception. I left the car and remonstrated first with these men and then their supervisor, divulging my identity and role to him. To my great dismay, he professed himself completely indifferent to these, and went as far as to question the integrity and, indeed, sexual orientation of the entire police force. Something like this would never have happened three years ago; a person in his position would immediately have acquiesced to any demand a person in my position might have made. Listening to him speaking, I was struck by a phenomenon of which I had been theoretically aware but the full reality of which I had never had to face until this moment: people are not afraid of us any more. We have, in effect, suffered the same fate as Byzantium. I have sent my men home. It is Christmas. In 1 [one] week our new state will be born. I sit in my listening post alone, listening. The ringing in my ears is growing quite persistent. During a previous conversation either by phone or in person, Jelínková informed Maňásek that zographs have always reprised previous images, mutating these as they repeat them. Listening to Maňásek and Jelínková’s conversations, I have the impression I am tuning in, through them, to something quite archaic, or at least picking up its echo, its mutated repetition, or its muted one. Maňásek works in silence. Nobody has called or visited him for more than 24 [twentyfour] hours now, and yet something is emerging, beginning to speak: of this I am certain. I do not know if it is the cold or this fact itself which makes me shiver. At 8:25 [eight twentyfive] this morning I was awoken by late revellers dancing over my car’s bonnet…
*
26th December 1992 c/o Martin Blažek etc.
My dear Han, What beastly people these are! Do you know what they eat for Christmas? Carp: those ugly, tasteless fish that anglers of civilized nations, when they’ve landed one, unhook and chuck straight back. Here, they serve them up in fillets, breaded, with horseradish sauce—not that any amount of this can hide their lack of flavour. What’s really gross, though, is the way they harvest them. In the weeks leading up to Christmas, tanks are set up in the streets, and tons of the things are poured into these—alive, no less, like lobsters in good restaurants. People queue up and buy 564 | them from men who fish them out and slaughter them right there in front of their eyes. For a docile, peaceful people, the Czechs show an alarming degree of interest in the spectacle, gathering in crowds around the tanks to watch. It is rather surreal, I must admit: the streets running red with blood; piles of gut and head and scale accumulating about the pavements like so many Juan Gris collages… I celebrated Our Lord’s birth with Martin and Olga, Martin’s charming wife; also her sister and her sister’s husband from Slovakia. The table talk was all about the impending separation. It’s to take place on the stroke of midnight, just as 1992 lurches and vomits into 1993. Slovakia was an independent state before, during the belle époque of World War Two, when Hitler turned it into a Nazi satellite. Its people seem to have lost little of their kindness and compassion in the intervening years: their elected leader is a man named Mečiar, by my hosts’ accounts a jumped-up little Mussolini who intends to start his reign by walling Gypsies into ghettos to venture out of which they’ll have to carry passports. Plus ça change. I bet they love queers there. Martin’s brother-in-law is convinced that Mečiar had Dubček murdered—the leader of the ’68 Prague Spring who died in a car crash last month. Turns out he was en route to spilling the beans on the old communist regime’s more shameful secrets to some official hearings—and that the main subject of his imminent testimony was this very same Mečiar, who was trailing well behind him in the polls for first Slovakian president. The usual conspiracy props littered the brother-in-law’s rap: missing documents, an uninjured driver, a disappearing mystery car: their own JFK myth. Kind of droll, but tedious after a while. So when the Becherovka (don’t ask) came out, I unhooked my jaw, slipped the landing net and went to visit my new friend Ivan Maňásek. I found him busy copying an icon painting. Most artists here earn their keep by restoring old art; copying it, though, is something I’d not come across before outside of AVU, the main art school which I visited with Martin on my second day here, where the students spend their entire first year mechanically reproducing the statues and murals dotted round the studios. I’m still not quite clear about why or for whom Maňásek was copying this work—but he was taking the job very seriously. I’d not realized the degree of coding that goes on in these religious paintings. There’s the visual coding, of course—but also a whole system of pre-visual formulae that regulate the spatial layout of the whole thing. Pythagorean and Platonic notions about geometric form get trawled through a medieval mesh to throw up the numbers three, four and one—corresponding to the shapes of the triangle (three sides), the square (four) and the circle (you guessed it: one). Which in turn correspond to the Trinity (father, son, ghost), the earth (four corners: NSEW) and the Divine Unity—one-sided, round and seamless, like your mouth, or… anyway, it gets really complicated: modulations within these shapes require the artist to develop root rectangles from a given square, along the lines of √2 √3 √4 √5 etc, spirals within rectangles, pentagons within circles, Heaven knows what else. All of this has to be calculated and transposed before a single drop of paint is placed onto the wood. Maňásek had a calculator out and was furiously tapping figures into it, folding and refolding pieces of grease-proof paper, subdividing the divisions with a pencil and so on. You have to find the “Golden Section”, a kind | 565 of Bermuda triangle—although it’s nothing so simple as a triangle—in which the “divine mystery” resides. It’s positively Gnostic. Sorry if I’m going on, but I did get really drawn into it. There was the material side too: Maňásek’s kitchen, former scene of cunnilingus interruptus, had become a pharmacy full of pots of whale- blubber-like sauce. In the main room there were compasses and scalpels—and, of course, these endless pages full of charts and calculus. It looked like a cross between an operating theatre and a navigator’s map room. The subject itself showed a human figure floating above a sea, beside a mountain. There was a building at the bottom of the image, with blackened windows which reminded me of your studio on Windtunnelkade. They also looked like Maňásek’s own skylights, which are filthy. It was more than just a building: more a setof buildings joined together to form a kind of city, with staircases and levels running into one another like the Escher where the water runs round and round stone passages. There was a sea, or ocean, and a set of ships—oh, and a mountain with strange birds perched teetering on it. But the oddest thing was the oval shape of the saint’s golden halo: it was like a hole into which he was disappearing head first. All the rest of the image was flat and depthless and without background, kind of blandly omnipresent—but then suddenly you got this other dimension entirely: an absence, a slipping away. When I asked Maňásek about it he told me that the visual motif was called ellipsis, but added that this motif didn’t properly belong to this type of image. For some reason, he was copying the painting twice, so there were three saints, three mountains, three oceans, goodness knows how many ships, being formed in front of me while I sat drinking coffee after coffee… Enough talk of icons! Do you know who I bumped into? Tyrone! Yes, Tyrone the black tran who compères at the Roxy when he’s in Amsterdam. He’s got the Czechs convinced that he’s some high-powered theatrical director back in San Francisco, and they’ve flung their doors wide open to him. Their legs too: he seems to have the pick of Prague’s young gayboys clinging to his shawls. I met him with Martin in some club and he invited me to come to another club on New Year’s Eve to watch him performing one of his cranked-up cabaret numbers with a bunch of Czech extras. He said Flash Art or Art in Europe or someone would be covering it, but I’m not sure that that wasn’t just the usual Tyrone hype. I don’t think I’ll go. He was quite zonked, as usual—and he handed me a replica gun, which I then went and left, it’s just occurred to me, at Maňásek’s. A shame: I wanted to paint it blue and give it to you as a homage to your hero Mondrian. Tant pis. OK, I’ll run and post this overlong epistle. Should you desire to respond in kind, you just have time before I leave for Tallinn. Did you pay the phone bill? If not, please please do. Typeset the Harris catalogue? Ditto. Can’t wait to be with you corporeally as I am now in spirit. Stay lovely, halo boy. J. xxxxxxx 566 | *
The first stage, after the boards have been gessoed and gilded and the drawings transferred onto these, is painting the background colours. On the day after Christmas Day, Ivan Maňásek lays out the materials he’ll be using. His pigments he arranges in two rows, ranging from light to dark, from zinc white on the upper row’s far left to lamp black on the lower row’s far right. The brushes he stands hair-up in a jar beside the phials. He’s using fine best-sable riggers: two each of numbers zero, one and two, three each of numbers three through five and one each of eight through fifteen. He cracks an egg over a bowl, lets it run out onto his hand so that the white slips through the gaps between his fingers, leaving the yolk resting in his palm. Then, pinching the yolk between the thumb and first finger of his other hand, he lifts it up, suspends it above another, smaller bowl and pricks it with a needle so the orange liquid oozes from the skin, which he then throws away. To the decanted yolk he adds roughly nine times its own volume of purified water and three drops of vinegar. He stirs the solution, then transfers it to the compartments of two ice cube trays, to which he adds the pigments, one by one, by wetting a brush in the solution, dipping it into a phial, letting it pick up flakes, then plunging these back into the compartment. The Prussian blue, the terra verte and the raw and burnt siennas are gritty and need to be ground down against glass. It’s just like chopping up Hájek’s speed: he uses the same shaving mirror, hunched over it, watching his own face becoming eclipsed by these powdery tones… To apply the background colours of the sky, the sea, the mountain and the saint, he uses petit lac, flooding paint onto the gessoed panels with well- loaded riggers, eight and up. As each wet load goes on it forms a puddle; the next load goes no more than a centimetre from the first one, the third similarly equidistant from the other two and so on; each one, forced by its volume to expand, eventually runs into its neighbours, all the puddles merging to form one large puddle or (whence the technique’s name) little lake. He’s already incised the boundaries of each area so that different colours won’t run into one another; all the same, he has to let each dry before starting the next. The sea, of course, is blue; the ships, light brown; the strange, multilayered building at the bottom, mainly black; the mountain, darker brown, with white streaks which he’ll add later. The sky’s silvery gold save for the part of it that’s taken up by the ellipse around the saint’s head: this is brilliantly, almost luminously golden—he’ll have to burnish the leaf afterwards. The saint’s robes are red. As he daubs the caput-mortum violet on, it strikes him that, even though he’s got the original to work from, he’ll have to bring the full-length mirror from his bedroom and dress in a sheet himself to get a real sense of how the body’s articulation points define folds and creases. To think that his corrupt flesh should be invading this image of piety makes | 567 him first laugh, then shiver—instinctively, for reasons that he doesn’t really understand. Is it while he’s copying the robes that Sláva Kinček drops by? Hard to say. Time’s petit lac-ing too, mornings running into afternoons, days into nights. When he’s particularly tired, Ivan sleeps—but as his dreams consist entirely of saints, mirrors and mountains, of pools of colour flooding gessoed landscapes, he usually opts, after a short while, to wake up and encounter the material versions of these objects and events. It’s after he’s slipped the bedsheet on, in any case: Sláva spends several minutes laughing at him, then tells him to put some real clothes on and come out for a meal—he’ll pay, he’s found a place, a new place, really chic. When Ivan declines this invitation, Sláva huffs for a while and tells him that he and Michael could have the whole thing scanned, photoshopped and transferred back to wood in twenty minutes if he’d care to come round to their office on Italská. When Ivan doesn’t even bother answering, he huffs some more, then leaves, instructing Ivan to present himself at Pod Stalinem on New Year’s Eve for the greatest party of all time. Ivan pays Klára more attention when she calls round, but only because she gives him pointers. When he’s reinstating the drawings, dragging the zero- and one-riggers over the barely visible incised lines, he’s forgotten to modify the egg-to-water ratio in the base solution; she tells him one-to-six, then one-to-six for the lighting stage too, one-to-twelve for the nourishing layer, then one-to-three for skin pigments in the final highlights, then… He makes her write it down on a piece of paper which he sticks to the coffee table’s surface with the rabbit-skin glue. She also points out that he needs to model the saint’s face with a transparent glaze of raw umber mixed with a little terra verte, to deepen the shadow slightly. She asks him why he’s making two copies. He shrugs and asks her why she brought him two boards. She throws her hands up, goes and buys some food and brings it back to the atelier where it sits beside the table oxidizing, glazing like the hues of the original. She starts telling him he shouldn’t have accepted a commission like this without first seeing a provenance certificate, that he should be more careful who he gets involved with—and he zones out, loses himself in the contours of the two identical landscapes he’s creating, their brown-white mountains and blue seas. After she’s gone, Ivan turns his attention to the saint’s hair. It’s about the same length as his, but grooved and greased back, almost plastic. He tries wetting his hair and combing it the same way, but it won’t stay grooved. Does Nick use hair gel? Nick’s been away almost constantly since—when?—must be since two days before Christmas, when he went over to that Gábina’s. How long ago is that now? Nick hasn’t even slept here as far as Ivan knows; he seems to recall him having slipped quietly in and out with some girl in tow. 568 | Perhaps he dreamt that, let Nick drift past the incised borders of his mind, entering elliptically. When was the last time he slept, in any case? Ivan goes to the bathroom and looks through the cupboard by the sink, but doesn’t find any hair gel. Then he remembers he’s got beeswax for the varnishing stage, goes into the kitchen, melts a little in a saucepan, trickles it onto his head and smoothes it evenly across. It works: his hair can now be moulded into the same rippled, slightly undulating layer as the saint’s—a single layer, as though one of several strata of a geological formation had been peeled away, shrunken, then folded round his scalp. As he copies the original’s hair onto both his paintings he moves his own head from side to side, watching in the mirror the way the light slips over yellow ochre, raw sienna, ivory black, glazing it with umbers. And if he opens his mouth just like this man’s opening his… It gets so that he can feel the saint’s way from the original on to the two new boards, channel the multiplication not just through his hands but through his entire body. His mind too: he lets his eyes glaze over so that the atelier’s reflection blurs, and pictures himself floating in the sky over an ocean, up above a mountain streaked with white, the world and its dark windows and its people and the lower areas of sky draining away from him like egg white through fingers as his own yolk is pinched upwards, elongating, waiting for the final, divine prick that will release it from its skin to let it mix with purified liquid, with the pigments that lie behind sky, earth, people, everything… Mladen’s his best guest—Nick’s friend Mladen, the architecture student from the former Yugoslavia. He comes looking for Nick, but when he sees what Ivan’s doing he becomes enthralled and stays. He doesn’t try to make inane conversation, or to force food on him like Sláva and Klára did—just sits for hours and hours in silence, watching him paint. At this point Ivan’s finished detailing the ships and sailors and is putting the bird figures on the side of the mountain, thinking of the seagulls under Palackého Most, the moment as they take off at which they’re neither airborne nor resting on the water’s surface but suspended between the two, in some vague halfway state. His angel hangs behind him, still gazing upwards and away. In Ondříček’s class they studied an old Russian icon painting in which, as Luke the Evangelist toiled to represent the Virgin and her baby who were modelling for him, an angel stood behind him, pressed into his back, arm resting across his shoulder to guide his hand. When he restored the Moravian monastery’s fresco, that monk told him that the early church painters would fast while they painted, just like he’s doing now, in order to get close to God, to angels, to their strata. What was that monk’s name? He was trying to remember it recently: when was that? He doesn’t notice Mladen going; just, as he adds the nourishing layer of base solution—one- to-twelve, unmixed with any pigments—to bind all the layers together, that he’s not there any more. His buzzer rings two more times while he’s on the finishing stage, but he | 569 ignores it. It’s too delicate now; there’s no room for mistakes. You only get one go on the halo, the text and the panel borders. Ivan consults Klára’s list for the egg/water ratio and finds it’s—no, that can’t be right: one-to-one! So rich: the orange swallows up the cadmium red, then the red ochre, then the terra verte without changing, and it’s only when he stirs it round in the compartment that it takes on the scarlet tone of the original. That ellipse shape. He sits still, waits until his breathing’s deep and regular before he paints the outline of this. It’s not just a case of getting the curve right: it’s about stepping into the right rhythm and inhabiting it, letting it move you… He pictures himself in the air again, gliding along the groove of an invisible ellipse, or higher, out in space, a planet orbiting a sun, around a ball of intense, burnished gold—makes the line on the first painting, steps back, then moves straight in again, dips the three-rigger back into the compartment, paints the ellipse on the second. Perfect, both times. Then the text. Klára couldn’t tell him what the three large words meant. Or the little ones dotted between them. She said the letters weren’t Byzantine or standard Greek—and he knows they’re not Cyrillic. He paints them on with a two-rigger. Then, finally, the gold inside the ellipse’s red boundary has to be burnished. Ivan uses the smallest agate and rubs systematically, first from side to side, then up and down, then diagonally. To keep the agate warm he holds it to his nose every so often: that way it’ll slide more smoothly over the leaf. As he rubs, the gold inside each of his copies’ ellipses starts to glow just like the gold in the original, takes on the same strange incandescence, as though it were not just reflecting but also generating its own light… When Ivan finishes it’s night, perhaps the fourth or fifth he’s worked through. He can’t varnish straight away. You’re meant to wait weeks, till the paint’s absolutely dry, but Anton told him that didn’t matter as long as the copy looked the same as the original. He’ll still have to wait at least a few hours, though. Then he’ll layer on a varnish of ketone crystals and beeswax. He’ll need a stocking for the crystals. He seems to remember… yes, it’s there, beside his bed, when he goes through to look: a single, laddered stocking. Could be Heidi’s or Klára’s. The crystals have to dissolve for several hours, suspended in a jar of warm white spirit. He should sleep. What day is it? He’ll phone Anton now, to tell him he can come tomorrow. Which one will he give him? He places his copies next to the original, one on each side. They’re both perfect. When they’re waxed all three should look exactly the same. He’ll phone Anton, then sleep, then varnish the paintings and collect his money. The phone’s been unplugged from its socket and placed in the room’s corner, by the plant. Did he do that? He should move over and phone Anton. But he doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to take his eyes off the three images—four if you count the mirror in which he’s framed, standing, wrapped in a sheet stained the same crimson as the saint’s robe, with his grooved, waxed hair, 570 | his gaping mouth.
From Men in Space (London: Alma, 2007). | 571 572 | John McKeown Alcohol
In every bar in every town, with every shot, you were my alcohol. Bitter-sweet, you filled my empty skull as Joe set them up and I knocked ‘em down.
You were sorrow that would never drown, Venus glimmering on the half shell, in every bar in every town, with every shot, you were my alcohol. | 573 Now it’s tea, three sugars, lemon, a good woman at my beck and call, but I prefer your hell to heaven, those beds of flame where I drank my fill.
In every bar in every town, with every shot, you were my alcohol. Wild Poppies
I am with the wild poppies Folded in the wet grass With the other weeds, unregarded. And the dark moss too, Along the top of the famine walls, With those tiny spring flowers in cocktail groups Leaning out of it, delicate enough To make me weep for happiness.
I am with wherever nature Is breaking through in a green rash, The lacquer of her ragged nails Dripping unheeded where the cars pass.
574 | The Day You Love Me
The day you love me is the day the stone breaks like bread and bleeds. Will be the day the manna falls and can’t be ploughed away.
A rain of frogs in each gold ray, locusts flying, clean cut as grass; the day you love me is the day the stone breaks like bread and bleeds.
The Sun will stop up in the sky, kisses blossom on stony lips, Israel embrace Palestine, every no become a whispered yes.
The day you love me is the day the stone breaks like bread and bleeds. | 575 576 | Maureen McManus Collateral
Making love in a Baghdad hotel, you’re Milwaukee, via MTV, she’s Canadian. Your hands on the ridge of her neck, almost like you need the terrorists, the adrenaline, fingers opening up that space between the collar-bones (further down) the trail of spine. You needed this, | 577 kneading flesh. You’re journalists her husband’s in Quebec. Your back’s arched, a slick of sweat, TV reporters don’t carry much fat, you bet she can’t wait to get back. It’s great sex. Poetry Totem
See there, the figure in the middle, that’s the mother of lampshades made from skin, and the father of high windows below, with an unidentified figure in between. Speculations give it as a bee, or alternately a wedding party. The woman is a military figure, the sex exposed, indicating that she is ready 578 | to die in action, the male holds a tumbler, thought to signify privacy, while the three small figures circling the top represent the dangers of offspring, differing significantly from the native use of watchmen. Oddly too, it lacks ravens, the creator deity;or bears, all the usual bird and animal imagery, though much freedom has been used to portray the humans as half-demonic. Turf
Turf broods in dilapidated sheds, once houses; I sense the pookeys sitting on its pent-up warmth, it’s like my farmer-ancestors, browned by sun. Its hardening spirit draws us to it.
In the mud-stuck density of winter, rears fixed to the heated range we smell the dark sacrifice of burning earth glowering at its own gnostic conversion from which it learns the freedom of a new form. And our limbs fill with its fervour.
| 579 Joking Apart
When you say I can’t touch your furniture I think you mean I can’t touch you and I say I wouldn’t.
I sit there looking away from your eyes wondering, why your pupils never dilate, why I’m alive.
“Whereof one cannot speak, one should not speak” said Wittgenstein, that philosopher, in his first book.
By the time he got to the next, his last, he claimed language was a game. I don’t want to choose between
580 | you and your furniture, but I want to know if “this” can be true and not true at the same time. Ambiguity,
a woman tells me is hard to come to terms with; and I know what she means. When you say I can’t touch your furniture
I say I won’t come round so, but I mean I don’t want to touch your furniture. Deconstructing Eternity, A-Z
never again a love like this Roddy Lumsden
It is the case, definitely the case, that x is y or z looked at another way, or t, t that is in certain circumstances,
(as in the intersection of the sets r, u v; namely the subset w in which are found d, e, f, g and h); then, it follows that i
(when, k exactly touches q, and m appears, part ‘n’, part j, with a complete p made up of l and o (and which when I act like s)) | 581 says a, says b says c. 582 |
Photo: Aleš Rumpel Joshua Saul Mensch The Marvelous Marvels Forward
In extraordinary choices the ordinary prevails sensibly for a time till the risk margins are set against it—burn that village to save our town or let the lot fall to ash, is there another option? So goes the arm, and the hand, thumb, foot toe grown cold and black and worthless. To save the whole, so that it might be whole. Thus the famished insects, worms, bacteria react—their way of celebrating another operation gone well, the patient saved, appetites sated | 583 till other neighborhood war, bodies stacked, fire, gutted cars, windows, widows—hurray! Who is this nature who needs to keep the balance? What’s this obsession with balance, anyway when it’s in the tipping of it that the marvelous marvels forward into the winking unknowable clatter, plates in a heap by the sink until one day all that progress is rudely washed away. Quick Start, Long Night
By which I mean the speed one thing leads to a disaster. Here, an evil day at the bank tosses the river over its jetty till half the town is under water. No one bothered to say the drowned houses were ugly before, though they were. Just ask the declawed, water-logged cat riding a floater across the factory floor. With the right sentiments, pity will disable her rescue and release among the entrails littering the streets. By which I mean the full inventory: sofas, postcards, lamps, their trailing electrical wires like snakes among the roots of toppled trees. Yes, it’s a bad day in Bohemia when you wake up to all your dishes washed and no more soap for simple pleasures. Lady, forget the shower, get your man off the lawn, ride the mower into town and buy new wares at the store, what doesn’t exist anymore.
584 | Art Appreciation
“And in this one he bends on his cane, his neck a kind of shawl, his face…” a drop of flesh against a zero wall.
What the rain hits, it cloaks, all the way to the bone, so that his back’s entirely soaked.
Except he’s only as thick as paint, and like the rain, he must be dry by now. One girl raises her hand, looks around. No one else? She’s careful not to go too far. “I don’t see why this is here.”
Gentle snickers, though, the truth is, | 585 who doesn’t think they could do better?
Our guide smiles. “The Curator feels otherwise…” We move on, compliant, to another of a man raising his fists as he crosses a finish line in a wheelchair; where a silent crowd cheers, inspired.
First published in Grasp 2 (2009). My Third Arm
I love this salesman. I’ve grown another limb To keep him standing over me. His coat tells me he is thinking of his children. His shoes tell me he’ll spend the summer in the Keys. I love him. I’ve lost another limb. I need him To help me sew it back on. The salesman knows all about me. He knows My third arm is an act, a way to grab pigeons As they fly past. I touch his face Where a shred of green has shot out of the mortar And rooted itself. He’s ready now to commit The last petals of light to the tar shingles of the roof— To the leaves dead in the fire. The incendiary does not complain—it’s not afraid Of loss. Its bonds are complete, keen, and arbitrary.
586 | New Continent
We saw it moving in the distance. A white object, then two, then three, as a cell of light splitting. It was past dusk, on the deck of a friend’s house. He had a view of the mountain, and you could hear the river below. The objects drew closer, in my ears a soft throbbing like the bass of a passing car. They hovered for a moment, not too far away, and afterwards sped off to somewhere behind another hill. We drew pictures and wrote down what we saw. There were three of us. Our drawings looked pretty | 587 much the same. Mine was badly done, as if a child had drawn it. Still, you could see what I was getting at. An object divided, taking space. Scribbled approximation Like a scrawled map of the state. The real differences were in the lights. For example, I saw only white.
First published in Poetry Miscellany (Fall 2009). Seance
As if in a dream. The hideous beginning. Bodies in a pan, fat separating, draining off....
Bridges, elevated roads held together by plaster, makeshift crutches, houses disassembled like protesters.
Where a man makes his home, cardboard or tarp, is a shiftless place in the world.
Who sees an angel broken down by the side of the road, one wing sheared off, the other in tatters?
Someone come quick and rope his heart together, bind his ribs like a cord of wood.
588 | And so the River Passes like a Long Blue Yarn
I am Achilles, heel unharmed, safe in my carriage. I am Joshua, warrior of solid walls. I am Orpheus, check the belly—great marriage. I am Cassandra, well loved by birds and dogs. Wherever a man sits alone, thoughts prevail. If he be drunk or badly dressed, do they be more or less true? Look at Ovid, nice house, no ails, great view. I am Joshua, hair on fire, watching over the pale moors; Hecuba tending to the warm ashen dirt while a flower withers behind my ear. Oh look, here comes God in the shape of a worm. What was it you said about life being unfair? I am Joshua sitting on a bench by the placid Seine reconciling myself with the places I’ve never been. | 589 The Fine Print
When tracking a wolf through the forest keep in mind the different size ratios between the middle two and the outer digits on the paws of a wolf versus the paws of a domestic dog.
On a wolf, the outer digits are larger than those in the middle, distributing weight well on thin, subarctic ice, while the dog’s penchant for cooked food has bred a balance favoring forward motion in the digits closest to the heart of the paw.
To determine the direction of a rabbit, on the other hand, view the placement of the hind feet 590 | and the forepaws in reverse, like the contrary cyclical motion of a piston wheel picking up speed and distance as it tries to outrace airborne dangers.
On idle rabbits, the forepaws will appear as points between the long horizons of the lucky feet— should a bullet find one, sold for a dollar a piece.
In the sharp tundral air at the edge of a lamp lit lot, the history of a fox scrambles after the history of a vole five feet from the side of the road and onto the road and across the road.
Watch the car as it idles in its own tracks, one history erasing the other as the snow recovers the road from rig skids and hard- breaking drunks, as you slip-slide slowly home.
We are surrounded by the history of things waiting to happen: the impact of claws on impacted dirt; beaks breaking out of the wire fence.
Notice the diligent weasels waiting for the moon to rise while still, quiet trees drained of water wait for fires to consume the hills, houses, cars so that they might finally reproduce.
When dry winds pass, follow the ashes across the yard to where the pool was. Climb down its black, broad, bowl cracked like a Cretan vase. All this will pass, has passed, is past, next summer or last. It doesn’t matter— dapper hunter, raise the rifle to your shoulder, fix the sight according to the wind’s distance and when you have a clean shot, fire—
Here comes the wind rocking the flames from the branches, watch the seeds bursting from the sap. | 591 The wolf you’ve followed is after a hide of its own. Where the lead lands, a seed will follow. 592 | Tomáš Míka A Castle
A castle inhabited by spirits weather-worn openings where windows used to be stones half eaten by salt and winds only veins protrude under the cliff on which I tower waves are gnawing working on me to turn again into dust on the walls | 593 to turn again into a heap of stones where limpets live and black weeds a natural shape not something marked with a human hand and the memories of stones no-one can see only the memories of stones keep the remembrance of a touch of a human hand and they quiver with delight a palm a back of the hand a palm a delicacy which the stone is longing for which it does not have and never can and waves
Translated by Bernie Higgins. Life Delusion
a stream over the stream a bridge like a ribbon rivulet in a gift pack you cross to the other bank it’s like a delusion the same you walk along the bank and a bridge again to the other bank breathe in breathe out you cross and are where you were before in a gift pack life 594 | delusion
Translated by the author and Bernie Higgins. A Dream of a Foreign Land
In a dream I found myself In a foreign land
Somebody was about to leave Somebody stayed
I understood foreigners Better than my own kind And women Better than men
But who is going to read my palm My cards Write my horoscope Draw my genealogical tree Explain the dream Put together my image | 595 Tell me who I am
Now that something is coming to an end And nothing begins
Translated by the author and Bernie Higgins. 596 | Ewald Murrer End of the Circle
…any kind of implied theory, could even be the truth… Paul Linde
A set of complex measurements and calculations was about to take place. A concentration of figures was bent over a diagram. An old man quickly waved his hand holding a wooden compass that was enormous compared to the size of the drawing. The young, athletically built men followed the circling hand, the professor’s gestures. Concentrating, they wrote down his words into their notebooks. Then, as was expected, the door opened and an inconspicuous young man entered the study. The bowed heads greeted him deferentially. The old professor turned toward him, as all present had | 597 mentally assumed, and bowed to the inconspicuous young man, whose face was not overly attractive, whose body was not overly athletic, it was even a little corpulent. “Through these steep calculations we are looking for the end of the circle,” said the professor and the students emphasized: “the end of the circle.” Roller—he was the young man—took hold of the large compass and jabbed it into the middle of the circle. The professor and the students listened to his hush-voiced computations: “The first measurement—the number of homes on the streets through which you have passed. The number of windows in them. Discarding the incorrect numbers. Arriving at the mean. A window with white curtains, recently washed, fragrant. A figure in this fragrant apartment. Descending the stairs. The sound of keys in a pocket. The second measurement—the purpose of the journey, a progression of thoughts sliding away. The third measurement—the journey, expectation.” Roller straightened up and said to the professor and students: “We must now clarify the essence of the circle. There are recurrent events on this journey—in the life of an individual a succession of details circle the center, circle the essence or possibly the soul, the original thought or intention. Thus we now have the disqualified essence of our academic (sample) circle: the figure from the apartment with the white curtains, whose idea is a journey. We also know that this journey is repeated, it is a circle. It comprises tiny numbers, points, thoughts, imaginings, aspirations.” Continuing on, Roller presented this episode to the mind’s eye of those present: “Consequently, this figure, a girl, went down the stairs. She exited the building out to the street on which high, today now old, houses are constructed. She took the keys from her pocket, unlocked the garage door, unlocked the car, and drove off. She drove down a wide road lined with towns. The numbers ran quickly in the opposite direction, thus she was approaching negation. After some time she arrived in the town shehad wanted to reach. She came to a stop by a curb on a street with different old houses. She locked the car, opened the door, and walked up the stairs. She unlocked the apartment, went in, quickly passed through the entranceway to a room, and opened a window covered by white, freshly washed curtains. From the window she looked out at the car parked by the curb. She then sat in an armchair with a book she had just taken from the bookshelf, opened it to pages at random, and read. The room became torpid through the torpor of the reading girl. “And in another town, as we are assuming, at precisely the very same 598 | moment, in an armchair behind white curtains sat another girl reading a book, the pages of which, however, were not opened at random. She was the friend of our sample figure. She was reading a book, and from time to time she glanced up at the clock, for she was waiting for the moment it would be time to leave the house. The girls had arranged a meeting. They were meeting, then, at the same point of the circle: the expected time of their meeting. They met in a cafe. Upon greeting one another they each extended both hands and thereby created the form that we are investigating. Over coffee they each notified the other of what had happened in their lives since they last parted. “They met regularly in this manner, either in the town of the first girl or in the town of the second. Invariably they marveled at the similarity of their private experiences. In this way they felt like sisters even though they were from different bloodlines. The startling similarities elated them. They laughed and their mouths formed circles. Their earrings, rings, and bracelets also must be included in our computation. And perhaps somewhere here, Professor, we are at the essence of the theory of the circle. But if we were to compute all the variables, how distant we would still be from its end! We still have a long way to go toward completing the calculation.” The students stood above the drawing in deep thought, as did their professor. At that moment Roller left the room. The professor bent over the sheet of paper, having taken the compass from it. He remarked quietly: “Gentlemen, we have arduous work ahead of us.”
Translated by Howard Sidenberg. Temptation
At present I lie alone on a ridiculously small bed… Anne Hebert Kamouraska
The company gathered in the house at the customary hour. In itself, then, this was nothing extraordinary. It could be said that all was as it should be. Herbert Lusperto de Pedurac sat in his armchair, sipping a glass of dark red wine that had been poured by the hand of his wife, Liesele. She had also served wine to the other gentlemen, Mr. Poschleier and Mr. Kever, guests of the house with whom Lusperto had just been conversing. The countryside beyond the windows of the house was growing dark; it was evening and the sky reddened the room. At the moment the walls were turning crimson someone pounded on the gate with a resolute, perhaps even a nervous, knocking. “A visitor at this hour must be bringing important news,” said Lusperto, “I cannot imagine an ordinary and insignificant caller at our door at this time of day.” They waited to see who would enter, hearing the opening door, the brief conversation with the doorman, the stairs being ascended, the steps in the | 599 halls. The door to the salon opened and the visitor entered - a swarthy visitor, unknown to the gentlemen. Yet Liesele had visibly become distraught, the visitor had unsettled her. Lusperto rose and, with a quizzical countenance, strode up to the visitor. “I am Ion Lupulescu, I have just flown in from Bucharest,” said the visitor, introducing himself. “And what are you looking for in this house?” asked Lusperto, astonished. “I am looking for a girl in this house,” answered Lupulescu. Lusperto no longer said a thing. He motioned to Liesele; she was the only woman in the house and besides, she had just flown in from Bucharest not more than an hour ago. Here, then, was the connection. Clearly the visit was for her. Lupulescu hastily walked up to Liesele and solemnly kissed her, it could be said with excessive solemnity, even confidentially, and with a considerable dose of indecent allegory. Liesele seated him at the table and poured him a glass of dark red wine. In a moment all were sitting at the table and drinking the dark red wine. Lusperto attempted to resume the interrupted conversation with Poschleier and Kever, but their chatter was contrived; it was not possible to take up again the topic. Liesele talked with the Rumanian, and their conversation confirmed the suspicions of those present: they had flown in together, and had become acquainted, on the last flight from Bucharest. Their preoccupation with one another seemed vulgar and indecorous to Lusperto and his friends - mentally they especially reproached Liesele. After a short while Lusperto could no longer bear it and quit the company, leaving the room. He paced the terrace, smoking a cigarette. Poschleier and Kever did the same. So together they smoked cigarettes and from the room the voices of Liesele and Lupulescu struck their ears. “This situation should be resolved,” said Poschleier. “How?” asked Lusperto. “Let’s throw the Rumanian out of the house!” proposed Kever. Lusperto nodded and they then went back into the room. They seized the Rumanian Lupulescu and led him out to the front of the house without any difficulty, as he did not resist. He walked off without even looking back. “A bit peculiar,” Poschleier said of the incident. Standing on the terrace, Liesele watched the man depart. “A sign, if it were to be genuine, a sign from the heavens to convey the import of the event!” called out Lusperto who was standing behind her. “Look!” suddenly shouted Kever. A plane, a wooden vessel of enormous proportions, a winged ship, was drifting dangerously low over the hills. The body of this machine was so immense that in passing it darkened the sky. It drew nearer the house, and 600 | the ingenious ornamentation carved into its side could be observed from the terrace. It was a magnificent sight - the sky completely hidden by a wooden machine that was reflected, together with the peaks of the mountains, on the surface of the lake below. “The plane from Bucharest,” said Lusperto. “Look, Liesele, the plane from Bucharest is approaching, just like the one you came in on today. Isn’t the fact that it’s flying over our house a sign? Let’s wait for some detail that will enable us to decipher the precise meaning of this communication!” The wait was not long for the plane suddenly ended its fly-over with a booming clatter upon striking a rock ledge. Some figures went scurrying along the deck: an old man in uniform and several young women. Clutching the frames of opera glasses and binoculars, the company on the terrace could only mutely watch the catastrophe. The vessel tumbled over and rolled down the mountain slope toward the lake, where it stopped for a moment on the surface of the limpid water. It straightened up, and quietly, with dignity, sank to the bottom. The clear water made it possible to follow the entire descent. The craft sank slowly and disappeared in the depths, jolting and quaking against the stones on the bottom. The captain, the old man in uniform whom the company had spotted in the air, swam ashore. The women could be seen, now on the bottom, sitting dead in armchairs, swirling around in them, swirling - winding their way upward, toward the surface. “This was the sign we’ve been waiting for!” said Lusperto, and the whole company left the terrace. Lusperto closed the casement and went to bed. In the morning Lusperto went for a walk to the lake. He found the prints of five pairs of girl’s feet in the sand of the bank. The sole-prints of the dead women’s souls. When he returned home, he said to Liesele: “Your child is crying, go comfort little Rosali.” And Liesele went and comforted little Rosali.
Translated by Howard Sidenberg. Published in The Prague Revue 2 (Winter 1996).
| 601 602 |
Photo: Michaela Freeman Ken Nash Maurice Utrillo
If there is a place to start, it’s not at a doorway, it’s not on a sheet of parchment or primed canvas. If there is a place to start, it’s with a wall, blanched whiter than white, so white it’s almost not even there, a vacancy in the landscape, a missing piece of town. Maurice shouldered his way past the crowd and stood before the wall so that it filled his peripheral vision and the whole town became a wall for him. And as he peered closely, he saw that the vast white expanse was not truly a vacancy, but a place unto itself, with its embossed craters, lips of mortar, embrocated veins of brush stokes layered like intersecting pathways. He saw the gradient shades that hadn’t been there in the distance. He saw | 603 the miniscule shadows of its pitted surface, the faint persimmon corners of plastered-over brick, the verdant spores of lichen, the trace deposits of dirt, ash and ecru bird droppings. His eyes wandered the wall, in exploration. Here was a place to start again. The cravings in his veins, like an army of red ants, began to slow their march to a halt as the wall absorbed his entire attention. He did not think about another glass, another smoke, another night alone. He did not think about the garden of cherry trees, flowering bougainvillea and crocuses that lay just beyond the wall’s cap of shattered glass embedded in mortar. Nor did he think of the town hall, the breeze baring up the stripes of the flag. Nor of the town and its people, its ridicule and gossip. Nor of his mother and his drinking companions. Only the wall, which was absolute yet yielding to so many suggestions. He ran his hand along its braided surface. It scrapped against his palm and finger tips. There was depth here that could not be recognized from a distance. How was one to convey this, to explain it? He would need to work fast. If he hurried home now and got his paints he might still capture the wall in this light and be able to reproduce its expanse and the suggested possibilities it conveyed to him at that moment. If he hurried. If he walked quickly. If he passed the café and no one called his name. If the Russian waitress, Irina, did not call out to him. If Monsieur Henri did not accost him for payment. If his blood stayed calm and the vision of white stayed before him and did not leave him for one moment. The Two Lives of Edward Hopper
Summer, 1953. Edward Hopper had been unable to paint for months. What was left to paint? Nothing. He had pursued realism to its very end.The course ran off into emptiness, like the road to Coast Guard Beach, bitten off at the end by the hurricane of ‘38. Trying to proceed was hopeless. He risked plummeting into an abyss where not even the guiding beacons of Nauset Lighthouse could reach. It was the year Communists invaded America. They were everywhere. They filled the headlines of the Boston Globe, the New York Times, the Brewster Herald. Their names were whispered amidst the static of AM airwaves. In New England, the communists floated zeppelins carefully constructed from cumulonimbus clouds, sea salt and gull feathers. They ran stealth recognizance missions up and down the coastline. Hopper kept up with the news. Stalin had died in March. Three months later he was reborn as a hydrogen bomb. In six days time, the Rosenbergs were about to pay the price for their atomic midwifery. The red menace was said to have infiltrated the postal service, the film industry, food service 604 | personnel—even street walkers were said to subsidize their income by passing along reports and photographs to Soviet agents disguised as Roman Catholic priests, medical veterinarians and trash collectors. Hopper knew that even the local whippoorwills were suspect, their whistles beginning to sound more strident and anthemic than like mere avian mating cries. Hopper’s roof was leaking. The brand new roof of their Eastham cottage. He carefully positioned an empty paint can on the wood floor. Every half hour he rushed over to empty and replace the can. Hopper sat in an Adirondack chair by the open door, watching the tall grass undulate in the wind like green and silver waves. He thought of moving his easel here and trying to capture the effect. Then he decided he would rather eat week old clam chowder than paint another Cape Cod landscape. Hopper longed to be in New York. When he was in New York, he longed to be in Cape Cod. When he was in Cape Cod, he longed to be in New York. “What sort of realist are you?” he asked himself. “A person who perpetually longs for what isn’t there is not a real realist.” During lunch, he had a momentary flash of inspiration. “I will paint this Campbell’s soup can! Just that. The can and nothing else.” By the time he had squeezed out a full tube of cadmium red, he realized it was a stupid idea. Nothing felt new to him any more. Everything had been done. Not even Jo excited him any more in the ways she once did. She had grown broad in the hips. The sour skin of her buttocks had begun to curdle. He had grown so accustomed to tuning out the sound of her voice that she had started to pummel him with cutlery and house plants to get his attention before telling him anything important. Technically, Hopper knew that he was never going to be a better painter. He was too old to improve. There were now only three things he could do if he wanted to assure his place in art history. Stab Jackson Pollock repeatedly with a fork. Shoot himself in the head. Or single handedly capture a communist spy. He immediately ruled out capturing a communist spy. He wasn’t entirely sure there even was such a thing as Communism. Communism was like light; it had no real source, only its effects existed. Hopper stood in the doorway and watched the dark clouds moving overhead. There was a change in the air. The stench of sea awoke in his nostrils. After a moment, he realized there was something unusual taking place in the sky. One of the clouds seemed to be moving much faster than the rest, nosing its way through the sulfurous haze. Hopper stepped out into the rain. His balding, flattop head repelled the heavy drops. Streams of silver and white water ran down the creases of his face. He watched the cloud moving through the sky toward his home. As it neared, he thought he saw lights blinking from inside, like a bellyful of stars. The wind grew more intense. The tall grass whirled like ecstatic Sufi dancers. Jo’s hydrangeas leaned forward and bowed their heads. The grove of locust trees protectively wrapped their branches around each other. Hopper wiped | 605 rain from his face, while still trying to keep an eye on the cloud directly overhead. It had slowed to a complete stop, yet all the other clouds kept passing by. It struck him then. He had lived this moment before. This very moment. Though it was not really this moment. It had been a moment like this, but from another lifetime.
2 Hopper’s previous life had ended in the summer of 1953. That summer, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, after making a daring prison escape, fled to Cuba to help Fidel Castro gain Soviet support for his revolution; Senator Joe McCarthy lead a Senate inquiry regarding the possible abduction of American citizens by Russian spacecrafts; Albert Einstein had proven the possibility of time travel; and Edward Hopper was placing the finishing touches on his painting “Sexy Robot Slaying Dragon in Outer space.” His wife, Jo, had gone out to visit a friend, pick up the mail, then buy groceries and a fresh bottle of Scotch. That evening, they would celebrate the completion of his painting with a dinner of baked potatoes and fried cod, then play cribbage, get drunk, fight about money problems, and fall asleep after making love on the sofa. Hopper knew he was at the height of his powers as a painter and yet he was lucky to sell one or two canvases a year. His “sexy robot” paintings were not doing well, but they sold better than the “Jungle Vixens of Venus” series and the “Vampire Harlots Battling Squids” series before that. His last dealer, Vivian Lieberman, suggested that if Hopper ever wanted to become famous, he had only three options available to him: stab Jackson Pollock repeatedly with a fork, shoot himself in the head, or move to Italy were they were more likely to understand his visionary work than in America. Jo, in what Hopper described as “her usual selfish and abusive way,” refused to move to Italy. The ceiling was leaking. The wind was picking up. Hopper was daydreaming about Tuscan villas and buxom, Mediterranean beauties with bare, grape-stained feet hefting wicker-wrapped jugs of Chianti upon their tan shoulders. Hopper stood in the doorway. The tall grass was bent by the wind into waves of silver and green. Crimson dragon blood clung to the tip of his sable brush. He wondered if he had chosen the right path in life? What if he had stayed in Nyack and taken over his father’s dry goods store? What if he had married young, started a family? Why is it that we have only one life to experience? The impulse seized him to smash the sexy robot painting and denounce all art as a silly, useless contrivance. Hopper heard a loud mechanical screech. He turned his head in the direction of the ocean. Dark clouds were rolling towards the shore. One cloud amidst all the others appeared almost luminous and moved rapidly 606 | through the sky past the other clouds. As it neared Hopper’s home, it began to slow until it came to a complete stop. The cloud was nearly translucent. It seemed to Hopper that there were stars within it. Something hung down from the cloud. It tumbled forth and stopped just several feet above the ground, nearly within Hopper’s grasp. It was a rope ladder. It dangled there like an invitation. Such an event was like nothing he had ever dreamed of, yet it was real and happening at that very moment. He seized the opportunity, pulled himself up, and began to ascend. As Hopper rose toward the cloud, he began to wonder if perhaps the world was full of more possibilities than he had ever imagined. If even a simply cloud could contain such mystery, why not a lighthouse, a barn, an automat, a railroad crossing, a gas pump, an all night diner, a shaft of light in an empty room?
First published in Border Crossings, Berlin (2007). The Great Simanoa
One morning my father woke with a slight limp. He looked tasseled and ruddy-faced as if he’d spent the entire night on the deck of a ship. “It was different this time, Ken,” he told me, steadying himself with an arm clutched to my right shoulder. “This time I saw the old Simanoa herself.” The Simanoa was the great sea lizard he’d been chasing in his sleep for years. Each night he returned to his unending dream quest, following traces of the Simanoa’s carnage as he navigated his steamer through narrow straights and high seas. To understand these dreams you must first know that my father spent many years as the captain of a Merchant Marine ship making runs from New York all the way to the Pacific Coast of Asia. It was a hard job, equal parts back breaking labor and mind numbing indolence. Not nearly as romantic as how talk of seafaring ways is often made to seem. “There were great hardships and privations,” my father used to say. He spoke of times when provisions ran short and he, as captain, fed the crew on “nothing but dreams” until they made the nearest port. He had been a great man, well respected—an iconoclast who could | 607 not abide by the rigors of wartime regulation, collusion and constraints. He crossed over the line one too many times. Finally, when caught flying the fictitious flag of the Federal Republic of Aphasia while in restricted waters, his command was taken away. He was given an office in Brooklyn near the docks where he collated timetables and kept track of fleets and cargoes. And that’s when the dreams first began. But before the dreams, before the demise of Dad’s sailing career, he had actually seen the legendary Simanoa. It was off the coast of Indonesia. The great beast had lurched up beside his ship, nearly toppling it with its wake. Then, quicker than any ship he’d ever seen, the Simanoa slipped far out to sea. That was his one and only sighting of the mighty creature and I can find no one to confirm or deny the event since his crews were always a nameless, transient lot, uneducated, unreliable and, as Dad would say, unfit for human conversation. And even Dad, himself, was too easily ready to dismiss the incident as just one ten-minute event in his long life. It was the dreams that mattered to him. And no one could soundly dispute that Dad saw a Great Simanoa in his dreams. I had been on my way to buy groceries when Dad cornered me with the story of his recent dream, how the Great Simanoa came into view on the horizon, its horned head protruding out of the water, tail whipping a spray of salt water into the air. He would have sailed nearer if the wind hadn’t picked up so suddenly, slamming a fruit crate against his shin and filling the sails with air that pulled him closer toward the shore. He savored the sighting all day long, going over details with his morning coffee, trying to predict the Simanoa’s direction and state of health, planning his strategy should he come upon her in his next night’s sleep. Now that he had retired he could devote his time entirely to such thoughts. The next morning, after having slept in, I entered the kitchen and found my father with a raw steak over his right eye, lifting forkfuls of scrambled eggs to his mouth. He was eating ravenously. I noticed several egg shells in the sink and wads of grease-soaked paper towels on the counter from the bacon he’d been frying. “Morning, Ken,” Dad said with his mouth full, yellow egg and ketchup caught in his grey whiskers. “She came again last night.” “What? Who?” I yawned. “Who came?” “The Great Simanoa! I saw her as clear as day. She tried to sink my ship with them venomous fangs, but I fought her off but good. Shot a harpoon straight down the old gal’s throat. Course in all that jostlin’ and runnin’ about I got myself one hell of a shiner.” He removed the steak to show me the swollen wound surrounding his eye. It was quite a bruise—deep purple and maroon like an evening sun—and I wondered what Dad had 608 | smacked his head against during the night to cause such a swell. “Sit down. I’ll make you some breakfast,” he said, rising from his seat. I sat, but could not take my eye off his eye. Somehow the swelling, the dark coloring and the raw meat clutched in his hand made Dad seem years and years younger. | 609
Sarah Morris & Ken Nash. Photo: Molly Radecki Anima Husbandry
She took apart her husband. Unhinged the knees, unsnapped the clasps at each hip, rotated the head counter clockwise until it loosened enough to pull free, then set about with the custom wrenches, painstakingly disjoining each section, removing piece by piece and placing them each within its assigned, contour foam rubber compartment in the large metal carrying case. It took her nearly three hours to get her husband completely unassembled and packed away. She wasn’t looking forward to the job of reassembly and thought to herself that whoever invents a husband that can be taken apart and put together in less than fifteen minutes is going to make a killing. She was taking him to Paris. She had always dreamed of living in Paris, the city of virtual appetites and gastronomic mainframes. She had all sorts of crazy notions of life in Paris, but most related to the old Paris, the Paris of the early 21st century when Parisians had given up speaking French and making films and learned to enjoy American culture and English language. Those had been heady times, the era of the Young Maldives. They had flooded the city, able to afford living stylishly in Paris due to the immense strength of the 610 | Rufiyaa. Some of the greatest contemporary works in the English language were written by the twenty-something Maldives of that period and much of the greatest contemporary art—holographicmotion sculptures, subatomic happenings, plasma canvases—were all created by young Maldives living the bohemian life in Paris. But Paris had changed. People no longer spent much time in the hot, arid streets. Life moved into environmental domes and inhabitable theatres, great amusement parks of images and sound where people spent their entire days. The subsequent generations of Maldives, Timorees, Inuits and youths from other affluent nations were setting up expatriate communities in places like Vladivostok, Calgary, and, for a short time, the Prince Joseph Islands (before the tragic bioengineering disaster that released hundreds of thousands of carnivorous moths). Her husband hadn’t wanted to go to Paris. He knew that life there was harsh for husbands and spare parts were overpriced and difficult to find. Husbands in Paris were mostly K-12 Graduates, a popular model manufactured by Hasbaro. Very affordable, but fairly unreliable. He was Princeton GP- 800, Fabio edition, with suped up Tickler and Black Mambo components. If anything were to go wrong, he might lay idle for weeks on end waiting for a shipment of replacement parts. But then, how bad could that be? He had heard of a time when husbands were flesh born, back when DI’s, designed identities, were still called artificial intelligence or, among the vulgar classes, robots, and were far too primitive to be suitable husbands. The flesh born husbands of that time stayed with their wives, on average, a mere seven years, with the exception of some lunar colonies where husbands changed wives every 72 hours. The development of DI husbandry changed all that. Yes, some people still lamented the rapid decline and near extinction of flesh born husbands and the days when, as they used to say, it was a man’s world and men ruled the roost, wore the pants in the family, brought home the bacon and inseminated organically. But, most would agree, those were views born purely out of nostalgia and served very little practical purpose. As the lid came down upon his head and the latches clicked in place and the tumblers turned, scrambling the lock’s combination, her husband thought to himself, as all husbands are programmed to think, “Yes, I am very lucky to have been made in these times.”
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Photo: Sarah S. Boling Scott Jonathan Nixon Draža Mihailović
This is why I believe there is nothing More foul than to be branded a Nazi. Everything that was written about you, My grandmother threw away; and now The world and I remain baffled, Deciding your part, When there are still so many That deny the holocaust.
In the summer of 1946, five hundred | 613 Americans rallied and picketed for your honor And chivalry, while the Partisans tried And executed you as a collaborator, Still no one recollects if you were willing To surrender your arms, before they were To begin killing every man in your village.
They don’t even see that in the streets Of the white city, masses again parade into The capital, with fiery gonfalons and graffiti faces. They demand for the vile despot’s resignation; Otherwise they will tape and rack him Like a slab of Mussolini; dangling by the feet; So the peasants may have a fascist, or rather An Ustaše in Serb’s clothes, on which to spit.
Still, could you stand by and watch the excavations Of the killing ditches and the deliveries from The zyklon gas trucks? Or did your people’s wails Goad you until you ran towards the mountains, Only to came back down raising a feral hue and cry? After all, that was the Chetnik way. Five hundred liberated Americans begged And pleaded to testify that you recovered And shepherded them to safety, after their planes Were shot down. But governments, no longer wishing To get involved, still refused to listen and take action. And on that sunken day of July 1946, your “allies” Abandoned and buried you, along with The Ravna Gora movement In the forgotten and desecrated earth.
Čiča Draža! These days, people recite Their prayers against what is left of King Alexander’s legacy, and I cannot say That I do blame them. I see no glory in The underground mortuaries. I see dismay And ignominy of soldiers; executing foul deeds That make them feel lineally sanctified. These Slavic yeomen tossed flowers on The tanks rolling into Vukovar, but I can no longer Contain the tears and spit, from hearing of 614 | The women raped by the rifle barrels of soldiers. I sneer at the reporters and editors, calling The people Nazis, and the hate mongers that speak In defense, who none of them know the full history.
Five hundred American Veterans, along with Many American-Yugoslavs, such as my grandfather, Mourned when they heard the news of your death, ’though your son and daughter listened to the lies And disowned you, during your incarceration. No one remembers, except for my departed mother, How you willingly surrendered before they began Killing every man in your village.
You said that your life was not worth the expense of others, And if what you said is true, then we lost our honor, And I am left with a heart full of odium and mayhem. the wastebasket
April is the most conceited slut, nagging Blood clots out of Nixon’s lung, inducing Labor after a ten-month pregnancy, prescribing Valium to my mother after she delivered me. Mature enough to steal but not old enough To be decrepit when someone Expects a favor or a lock of hair. Autumn was all over me, coming towards A broader path, forgetting the leaves covering The graveyards and the streets; we drop by Galileo’s, And go out of the moonlight, into the smoking section, And drink merlot, and black out during the night.
In the Habana Inn, thespians come and go, Angling for an Oscar and a blow.
In the bamboo cage, there I feel free. | 615 I’m dragged throughout the streets And put on display while a demented journalist, Who looks like Dennis Hopper, Gives me water to drink and takes my picture. “This is dialectics, it’s very simple dialectics, One through nine; no maybes, no supposes, no fractions. You can’t travel into space, you can’t go out into space, you know…with fractions. What are you going to land, one quarter, three-eighths?” HURRY UP PLEASE, IT’S HOWDY DOODY TIME. “What are you going to do when you go from here to Venus or something? That’s dialectic physics, okay, dialectic logic is there is only love or hate; You either love somebody or you hate them.” What do you get married for Doc, if you keep strangling Your wife with your best necktie on Valentines Day? HURRY UP PLEASE, IT’S TIME TO MAKE THE DONUTS.
In the Habanna Inn, the men come and go Wearing their letterman jackets, drinking Buds, Getting into their fancy pick-up trucks, cruising On 39th Street and looking for another fag to bash.
Another year goes by and ’though it’s been His destiny, Ralphie “Gonzo” Emerson has yet To discover a new source of energy And his hair is beginning to recede. He signed the registry at Shakespeare’s Birthplace, Right under Thomas’ signature, but there are thousands Of names to distinguish my handwriting from his. Bruce Campbell has never given blood, for he’s always Been afraid of needles, and there is now talk of a war That’ll last for twenty-seven years, Two weeks before his birthday. He’s never seen a snail or a straight razor, But he watches packs of domesticated hyenas, Snickering from sniffing blood and glue.
Dream without thought, think before you dream, Whistle a tune thoughtfully and then without 616 | Thought, now just be thoughtful and dream.
Ludwig Wittgenstein, famous philosopher, Grew to be very senile; nevertheless is known To be the wisest ass of language, With a marked pack of death cards. “Let’s see what we have,” said he, “two of clubs, Four of diamonds, five of clubs, eight of spades, Queen of hearts and there’s not one jack In the whole bunch.” I remember that card belongs to the poor Bastard with pearls that were his testicles.
Indeed there will be time To be a Titan or a Deadite, And come up with all sorts of new ideas; There will be time, there will be time To send promising children to the finest modern schools; There will be time for tremendous success During this fascinating lifetime for life is very long. You may not understand the young at first, But you go along with the modern trends, too; There will be time to dare and disturb the Petrarchan verse, And show you fear in a handful of dust bunnies.
This is the way the poem ends This is the way the poem ends This is the way the stupid poem ends Not with a bang or whimper, but a queef “And with a queef, I’m splitting Jack!” So goodnight ladies, goodnight sweet ladies, And kiss me with your tongues goodnight, goodnight.
| 617 618 | Peter Orner Belief
An old communist who believed in it once and for all time but who also, almost from the very beginning, nursed a healthy animosity for the liars who carried it out and fouled it up—so he was never considered by anyone who mattered to be a good communist—walks the streets of Nusle, northwest Prague, with hunched shoulders. They’ve put him in a home, but still he wears his slouched hat crooked as a sign that although he looks dead, he’s not—far from it. Feet no good anymore and so he shuffles, wanders, watching the changes with a cynical eye, watches the young men and their cars, watches the apartment balconies crumble. What good was believing? And yet the alternative was not having faith in men and so dying young—so | 619 now he shuffles and watches, not hating any of it, any of them, but at the same time lording over them like the god he always swore he never wanted to be, and if there’s been any change at all in him after forty-seven years of working in grease in Kladno, it’s this: that he’s so old now he’s like a god, not participating, only watching, not giving any opinions, not scoffing, not pointing his glass and spouting off in the pub about the way things were then—none of that. Only existing, whatever this means, if it can mean anything for a man who no longer has the strength to work. And even the love he once had for her has boiled down and hardened so that it’s not even a memory anymore. She used to tell him not to be so serious, that he was always so serious, watching himself as though from a camera on the wall. It was true—but she was wrong that it was out of vanity. Not vanity but a need to see himself through his friends, comrades, to make certain he was sufficiently demonstrating that he believed in them and their work. Now he doesn’t watch himself, only them, the young ones who have no names, and even she is no longer, and he no longer hears her voice. 620 |
Photo: Louis Armand Tony Ozuna
El Czechano
Chico stands at the fourth story window of his homeboy Art’s apartment in Prague staring out across a little valley in the city. Trains covered with graffiti pass by every few minutes shooting out or disappearing intothe tunnel leading to the main station. It’s not a beautiful morning; it’s cold and overcast, but there is something intriguing about the haze hanging over the city, Chico thinks, as he stands at the kitchen window absorbing warmth from the only heater in the apartment. Art hadn’t fallen or jumped from this window; it happened from the bedroom next door to the kitchen. Actually | 621 Chico hasn’t yet figured out whether his friend had fallen or jumped. No suicide note was left behind, and Katka won’t tell him anything. So no one knows what really happened. The gold-plated trophies in the bedroom are starting to gather fine dust, so Chico gently dusts them off as if they are plants needing to be watered. Framed plaques and photographs of Art holding each trophy won from car shows in California line the walls on another continent. Lowrider of the decade. Most firme Bomb in the universe. Grand Prize in almost every county of the state for his legendary, customized ‘57 Chevy. Chico had brought all these trophies over for Art four years ago, for the wedding. Art had asked Chico to bring them all because, he said, they were all he needed to make his life complete over here. Chico is in Europe for the second time in his life—and it is just another short visit, but it seems like he has far more years of memories abroad jammed into his head. Remembering when he had asked Art at the wedding, “Why are Chicanos so obsessed with memories?” Art had replied, “It’s the only part of our lives we can control.” While all Chicanos are obsessed with memories, “cholos” that most violent subculture of Mexicans in America are transfixed in the past even more so, by binding their histories to small territories or varrios, sometimes the size of a barrio, but it could also just be a street or even a street corner. Chico dresses like a “cholo” though he isn’t too hardcore about it, anymore. And this means that in Europe, he’s in vogue. This is because at this moment in history, meaning always and forever, Chicanos represent a unique population with universal appeal due to their convenient proximity to Hollywood. Without a charismatic leader, or financial clout, they are still worldwide in Images. Representing eternity, on one side, Chicanos are a population able to successfully assimilate with Whites; but the subsection of “cholos” as the truest representatives of American history refuse assimilation and even the authority of Whites in power. Both sides of the culture are proud, entwined, living together and apart. At the root of the problem is history and the future. Chicanos are growing in number, second only to the Chinese. And so, because they tend to have families of ten or more, they need more space and cities like Los Angeles—this means territory that was already theirs to begin with. Like any modern people, Chicanos just want a home of their own, and a safe place to park all their cars, running or not; but they can’t compete economically or politically in a region overrun by Hollywood which means by people from all over the world. And so, Hollywood immortalizes and exterminates Chicanos at the same time. The day before, Chico had passed by some Ukrainian and Czech workers with shaved heads, creased khakis, shiny-black shoes, and arm and back tattoos to match any cholo homeboy back home. Like Art’s choloized employees, these workers hadn’t surprised Chico too much since they looked just like Art had described the new East Europe. Just as the cholo style has 622 | already taken most of Asia, especially Japan and the South-East side of Asia (esp. Vietnam), Eastside Europe quickly fell in line. Art said it was a trip, how the globalization-cum-Americanization of the world ultimately meant the choloization of the world. Because the U.S as the new world empire is neighbors with Mexico, one of the oldest empires in history, the two worlds have a fragile relationship based on geography, history and the future. Sitting with Art’s Czech friends later in the evening, at a party in memory of Art, Chico felt guilty because he’d been so out of control the first time he had visited Prague; fighting like a maniac and chasing women as soon as he had arrived. None of that this time around, Chico thought as a couple of Art’s employees started a sloppy Bohemian waltz in the front room. A fat guy in a replica Pendleton and khakis led the host of the party, who wore grey dickies and a white Dogtown t-shirt. Everyone in the room was so smashed, no one even bothered to laugh at their silly curtsies and bows. Chico had just sat down on the couch when the dancing Czechs fell on him. Automatically, he was ready to get up throwing chingazos but instead remembered Art for reassurance, trying to hold a grin. He imagined Art grinning back nervously. The crisis passed unnoticed. The drunken employees were back in the middle of the room. How could Chico explain to everyone that instead of laughing at the dancing idiots, he was fighting with his internal programing. Back home, if two drunk assholes had fallen on him, anywhere, anytime, he would have jumped from the couch swinging. He would have first wailed on their heads then thrown them not only out the house, but out the window on their way out on the street with the dogs where they belonged. At home things were just different, and these unnoticed incidents were again, quickly starting to drive Chico berserk. Across the room, Katka smiled sadly then shook her head with a confident nod, seeing that Chico had let it pass. Doing what she has been doing most of her life, smoking cigarettes, her big hair and thick false black eyelashes made her look like a very pale and beautiful homegirl from back home. Looking at her, Chico could understand why Art had moved to Prague. Chico did feel like swinging and punching his way out the room, but he had promised not to get into any more fights. Especially not like the one he had pulled off at Art’s bachelor party, then again at the wedding (not even so long ago). Art had barely been able to explain that violent outburst to his bride’s family. It’s due to jet lag, he had said. Now that Chico has decided to stay for a while longer, after the funeral—who knows for how long—he had to try hard not to kick on every ass that deserved it. People were less tolerant of that kind of behavior here, and he’d just have to conform. At the bachelor party, Katka and Art had actually missed the flurry of blows. Chico had just arrived, his khakis still pressed stiff and clean. After being shuttled from the airport, they all went out with Katka’s family for lunch, and then the pounding down of beers began. Later that night, at the party with all of Art and Katka’s friends, a pipe had passed their way to put | 623 everybody’s head in a crazed blur. Chico had been silent most of the day, but he was always a reserved dude. It was just his cool way, sitting beside Katka’s brother Ivan and Ivan’s American friend Freddie K. “How can you explain why you play ping pong with a ping pong ball, but you don’t play volleyball with a volleyball ball? The game is called volleyball, so to play it you need a volleyball ball. And for football, a football ball?” Ivan had asked Chico. “Huh? Why don’t you ask Art or Freddie that kind of shit?’ “They said to ask you.” Freddie K. told Chico that Ivan asks the same thing whenever he meets anyone from America or England. Chico and Freddie ended up talking about Prague, asking things all Americans ask each other when they meet abroad: how long have they been away, where were they from, how much was this and that compared to the dollar. Freddie K. came from L.A.’s lower eastside mass of suburbs, and so does Chico, generally, but when Freddie K. said he was specifically from Norwalk, Chico puffed out his chest and clenched his fists. Fucking Norwalk! Chico had never forgotten his brother Pete once told him if he ever gets the chance to punch out a dude from Norwalk—do it for bro, cause dudes from Norwalk had once jumped Pete just for walking down their street. It was something that had gone down years ago—something that Chico had no real connection to—but he still had never forgotten his brother’s request. Since Pete wasn’t from their neighborhood, those vatos had fucked him up. All this is what Chico was thinking about as he looked down at Freddie K. from Norwalk. Ivan’s American friend in East Europe? He was a typical suspect flashed on the evening news every night back home, somewhere between five-five and five-eleven and a half, 150 to 200 pounds, aged 25-45, short black hair, swarthy, a Latino male. Any Chicano cruising down any street in southern California. Chico had listened hard for a reason to punch him in the face. He just needed something to pounce on. Who the fuck did this vato think he was? Spouting off his plans to import thoroughbred Chihuahuas into Eastern Europe. Global business, meet a demand, all that. Chico thought of suitcases stuffed with chiquita Chihuahuas. Freddie K. had already lost money importing chicharones. Not enough advertising and marketing research done to prepare East Europeans for fried pork rinds. Then he tried to sell Krager lowrider rims and tiny whitewall tires, but the lowrider scene just hasn’t picked up outside of America and Japan. He told Chico that one way or another, he was going to get rich quick in Europe. All the way live, from Norwalk, California. “From Norwalk?” Chico cornered him. “That mean you willing to back that shit up? Pay for all the sins ever committed there?” “What do you mean man?” Freddie K. asked. “Orale!” Then Chico went off. He leaped across the table like a cartoon action hero and punched the Chicano importer twice in the face, though once would have been enough. Freddie K. was left sprawled out on the dirt 624 | cold like a corpse. “Don’t fuck with my brother, Puto!” Chico yelled, then as he was strutting away, Katka’s cousin grabbed him by the arm. “What do you do crazy guy?” The cousin was drunk, of course. “You ever studied free-market economics in Czech? Well, I just cleaned up an old account. That’s what the fuck I did.” Then Chico tried to pull away but the guy held on tight. Chico hadn’t even thought about where he was. At his best-friend’s bachelor party in a roaming park on a hill with a panoramic view of Prague, in the eastside of Europe. Cathedrals, gothic spires, all that. Less than 24 hours abroad and he was already flipping a drunk Czech guy over on his back then jamming his shoe onto the dude’s chest to keep him from getting up. A fellow Chicano was sprawled out cold a few feet away just because he was from Norwalk. Chico hadn’t planned on this. When Katka’s family rushed him, he panicked. Where was Art and Katka? Off for more beer. Then all he saw was a fat lady swinging an umbrella, yelling in a language he didn’t want to understand. How was he to know she was Katka’s aunt. He grabbed her by her blouse, ripping it open as he threw her to the side then tried to escape. A hundred hands grabbed him and were holding him down by the time Art was back to cool everybody off. The next morning, while taking photos for the wedding, the friction was still in effect. Everyone was stressed out anyway because of the wedding but the drunk guy who Chico had flipped over was Katka’s uncle. His neck was now in a brace, and he was the one paying for the bash. Katka’s aunt was still furious about her ripped blouse and the huge bruise on her arm. What type of madman had Art invited over from the City of Angels? All such insane maniacs in Pico Maravilla? Over and over, Art had to explain to his new family that NO NO, his family back home wasn’t all so violent, even though most of them were. It may seem bizarre but the brawl at Art’s bachelor party never upset the groom. Freddie K had just been stupid, he thought, so he didn’t even bother to go and see him in the hospital where he was laid up for weeks. Fuck yeah such violence, Art had thought to himself with pride, though he had tried to explain it to Katka’s family with sincere embarrassment. His whole friendship with Chico, since they were little kids, was rooted in violence. Thinking back when he was a boy, he imagined a paper-skinned bull striped in bright blue, orange, green, pink, red, and purple hooked to a makeshift pulley, hanging from a tree and swinging up and down or like a pendulum. The bull is stuffed with chocolates and pennies and other little surprises for kids, and all of them are in a circle underneath the swinging treasure chest, made of papier-mâché. One boy with a long stick is blindfolded, standing in the center of the children’s circle, swinging the stick with a frenzied desperation. It seems like he has a century of anger pent- up in his less than ten-year-old body as he rushes around blindly trying to | 625 smash in the bull’s head or belly. Since the boy is practically standing beneath the piñata, sometimes it is dropped down on his head but these contacts only ensure that he’ll respond with a solid smack before it’s lifted again, out of his reach. All the kids take turns getting blindfolded before they can take furious swings at the piñata but Chico had always been the one to finally bust the piñata open, spilling its guts of candies and coins out to the party. Even when he was wearing a blindfold, everyone could sense in Chico’s eyes the fury in his swing then the ecstasy when he’d hit the mark. This is how Art and Chico had enjoyed parties as kids. Violently, and so what. Art couldn’t have imagined growing up any other way or anywhere else but in Pico Maravilla. Before the freeway had been built over that old neighborhood, it wasn’t just old houses, corner liquor stores and open fields. It had busy lives connected by gossip and shared memories. And the hills over the little valley were another violent backyard for kids, not just because rival barrios had fistfights there every Friday after school. In school, Chico and Art were taught that mighty Egypt had risen from the banks of the Nile, and the river united that culture, which was unlike the Greeks who were raised in little valleys, and the mountains separating each valley kept regions of people from uniting into one great nation. And so, just like the Greeks, the history of Pico Maravilla was doomed to be small and divided. In school, Art and Chico also learned in their real history class that the valley where they grew up was once a Native American village called Sejat, and the people who’ve always lived there still call the area Sejat, which means “where the bees burrow into the ground.” An Awigna tribe legend says that Sejat is the place where the world began and though it’s now smothered by concrete, isolated strips of weeds still manage to push up from the ground, and the undeveloped hills remain for children to follow a custom which no one can explain. Children still go into the hills there and dig holes into the ground, burrowing themselves into the earth for warmth and solace. Art and Chico did this as kids, and they could never even explain why. Other times with mud-packed faces, football helmets on their heads, and carrying slingshots, they’d strut around the hills protecting their turf against outsiders. On weekends and summer holidays, Chico and Art had spent all their time in the hills throwing lumps of mud stuffed with dog hair at other kids. Assorted screws and lug nuts could be especially lethal with a powerful slingshot. Because they had fought for years in overnight jungle-style battles in the hills, they could describe the terrain’s surface and caves like their own skin. Packing metal into mudballs, they had even attacked construction workers nervously trudging alongside the future site of the freeway. Once, late at night, they had camped out in a clearing between the weeds, gazing down at the men constructing the soon to be hated freeway. With common signals, boys from all hideouts unloaded their football helmets filled with mudballs, hurling them down on the bulldozers and tin roofs of the 626 | construction workers’ trailers. Then they simultaneously whipped out cold cheese sandwiches and Kool-Aid to celebrate before nodding off to sleep out there in the weeds. Pico Maravilla doesn’t exist anymore, and that’s one of the reasons why Art had been living it in Europe. Chicanos don’t have much but their territory, and they fight everyone including themselves to the death to hold on to it. Art couldn’t just move to another Chicano barrio because he just wouldn’t belong. Acceptance rejected. His only reminders of home existed in the hills where the weeds still tower like trees, and he had believed that one day he would return home and find all his abandoned toys buried safely in the dirt of those hills. Before the freeway was built, as kids, Art and Chico thought the hills stretched to the south as far as the ocean and to the north as far as the end of the world. But after the construction workers arrived, they realized their lives were connected to forces they had no control over. Bulldozers had leveled their houses on Manuelitos Avenue and everything else in the barrio in a few hours. The playground of their youth was suddenly replaced by chunks of sparkling asphalt, tar, canopies, wooden planks, piles of iron rods, pipes, and a chain-link fence. Soon a smooth grey carpet of cement floated above the exact spot where Art had lived; the rusty beams thrust into the cement rising out like flag poles symbolizing all people who used to roam beneath the site. Just an area of dirt used to be home for Art. Not all of America, and certainly not the hideous stretch of freeway covering that spot of earth now. Before he had moved to Europe, every Sunday night he would return to the land where was from, rolling over it slowly—a 20-foot concrete slab between him and his true homeland. Other lowriders moved over their native lands too, feeling all homesick and nostalgic like Art, blasting tunes straight out of their baby crib: “It’s a Family Affair,” and “Me and Baby Brother.” The booming speakers would get Art all softy till he felt the urge like everyone else around him. In locomotion, all he wanted was to stand alone in silence in the middle of the freeway and try to feel a connection to his roots. Driving slow, oblivious to the pumping bass and blowing horns bouncing off each other, Art would imagine voices from beneath the concrete. The chosen one. Only he was able to hear unrhymed words retelling history beneath the cement, though all the hopping hydraulic systems, sirens and stereos blocked out the fine points. He could hear voices coming from where he had been destined to live, and these voices from where the bees used to burrow into the ground called him even when he was a long way from home.
Like Art, Chico accepts violence as the way things are, so his best friend’s death had been accepted with stoicism, though he’s still curious to know how it happened. Was it suicide or not? Katka refuses to sit down and discuss any of this with him, and for the time being, he doesn’t want to push her; but before he returns home, he intends to find out. All he knows is that either | 627 way it was inglorious. No witness, no reason. When Katka had made it clear that Art would be buried in Prague, Chico first tried to persuade her against it, for Art’s family’s sake, then he just gave up. Does it even matter where a man is born or buried? Chico never even knew where he was born, exactly, until he applied for a passport to come to Europe. Before that, his dad had never wanted to tell him where he was from exactly, because he had said, he didn’t want to limit him. Thinking back about the wedding, again, Chico remembers that the photo shoot had gone down without a hitch. He and Art had looked royal in their rented tuxedos—black cutaway coats with tails, silk grey lapels and cummerbunds, black derbys and semi-flare bells, crush velvet purple bowties, ruffled violet shirts, and walking canes. With Art and Chico just standing there alone, the wedding couldn’t have been anything less than classic. No wrinkles. Later at the reception, another pipe was passed, and it was all going down smooth, until Art opened up a bottle of tequila. Knowing well that Mexicans, tequila, and mota are a wicked combo, practically a threat to global peace and security, Art passed the pipe and tequila over to Chico. Again, at least for the two Chicanos in the house, the rest of the evening became a blur. Since Art had gotten together with Katka, he also became obsessed with traditional Czech folk or polka music with its full brass band line up of tubas, trumpets, trombones and drums. He had learned about the migration of Czech workers in the mid 1800s, especially men working on the railroads of southwest U.S. and Northern Mexico, and he had insisted that Czech music had a spiritual link to Mariachi, and thus the essence of Mexican music. Before the Czechs, the Mexican folk musicians already had their guitars and rhythms, and they had their own style of dressing up, by stitching jingling carracas, sometimes even seashells, along the seams of their pants and sombreros, and most importantly they had their tragic love stories, or canciones. But later, when the Mexicans adopted the oompah from the Czechs into their tragedy, it became a sound of celebration but with tears of a broken heart. Mariachi is related to the word Marriage, since this music blossomed at Mexican weddings in the 1860s, during the French intervention in Mexico under the Austrian Emperor Maximilian. After explaining the musical history of Mariachi to the Czech musicians at his wedding, Art had convinced the men to blend their upbeat polka with a touch of Mariachi melancholia. And as they played the faster songs, he had grabbed Katka and her family to form a circle on the dance floor, clasping their hands together and holding their arms up in the air. Art had instructed everybody, the little kids, old people, everybody to put their wallets, purses, keys, everything from their pockets needed to be set on the floor in the center of the circle then they all moved in one direction, left then right, always facing the circle. Art was ordering all 628 | the party around like a general. The only one not dancing was Chico. In all of the commotion, Chico only remembers one girl dancing off to the side, rhythmically moving in sync with the weird band’s beats. He was just trying to check out her dancing, ignoring Katka, when she came up begging him to dance with the others. “Everyone is so stiff! Czechs dance like Germans, up and down all jerky like puppets. Why don’t you dance Chico? Come on! Show us how Latinos do it!” “Who’s that dancing?” Chico asked. “My cousin Fanny from France.” After the musicians had packed up their instruments and all of Katka’s older relatives hobbled off with them, a DJ took over for the younger crowd. Soon after, apparently she’s the one who had come up to Chico and Katka, then boldly asked him to dance, though she barely spoke a word of English. Katka’s French cousin whose father had brought all the cheese for the party. After dancing with each other for over an hour, she’s the one who’d first rubbed her hips into his and then let her head dangle gently over his shoulder. She’s the one who first brushed his upper back with her fingers, as they slowly spun around to, “I’m Your Puppet.” Where had the DJ gotten that anyway? Or was Art fucking with his head? Chico felt the thin strings being tied around his neck, wrists and ankles; the fate of a puppet. He jerked his head up to mock his inevitable fate, with Katka’s cousin wrapped around him, seeming to be begging for a hickie—French love bites—and he knew there’d be no quick road back home after this. No more GooGoo, her tattoos and her fucked up family, all hypes. Slowly revolving around together on the empty dance floor, Chico had felt like they were invisible, tangling up in the strings which were binding them to each other for god knows how long. When the DJ shifted to a 50s style rock beat, she slipped out of his grasp. He was left dazzled; he just couldn’t take his eyes off her magical dance, and she was dancing her ass off, ignoring everybody else doing the rock and roll, French-style with precise spins. Constantly blowing bubbles with her chewy bubble gum, or else shaking her long hair out at him, she had put on sunglasses so he couldn’t tell if she was looking only at him or through him. Were they really staring at each other from across the room? Her pouting lips. Sometimes fast go-go shakes, turn left, turn right, twisting her body around like rubber then in between songs, a weary, lascivious sway standing all alone in a corner of the dance floor. Weaving and bending her body from side to side, softly touching her shoulders with her chin, each movement of hers sent screams up and down Chico’s spine and beyond. He pictured her beside him, space walking, grooving around the stars and lost planets all night. One long sweet dessert, banana time, whip cream and thick scoops of choco-sauce on top of French Vanilla. Bongos beating inside his head and pants. Somersaults flipping feet inside his stomach. Banana baby wow. Once she finally took off her sunglasses—the dark circles, the lovely shadows | 629 under her sad eyes were all it took for Chico to lose his cool distance and go do the babaloo boogaloo bounce up beside that precious girl. Chico was so out of control he didn’t even notice the French guys collecting around the dance floor eyeing him with a plan to contain the fire building up in his semi-flares. Though French now have a reputation for being wimpy and hardly worth a shit in a war, atavism can’t be ignored. The ruthlessness of Genet’s policemen, or his hoodlum friends and lovers can still be found in picturesque French villages around Mont Chanin and Macon, precisely where Fanny, her boyfriend and his buddies had come from. Art once even bragged about being one eighth French. From a village of thugs, one great- grandfather of his had immigrated to California. Chico now pictured Art’s great-great-grandfather as one of the depraved who had lurked around the dance floor at the wedding. Jealous of Chico styling in his tux, white shirt creased stiff and sparkling, he was in transcendence as the French thugs formed a circle around him. He just kept on bumping up to Fanny’s gyrating body. Watch your fangs, he kept telling himself, as she twisted around him, coiling up and down his leg, pulling her skirt up higher showing him warm enough thigh to be killed for. Then she wrapped her arms around his neck resting her head on his chest for another slow dance.
Mexico’s greatest national holiday, Cinco de Mayo, meaning the Fifth of May, celebrates the defeat of the French army at Puebla in 1862. Six thousand well-trained French were brought down by less than 4,000 ragged Mexicans. Though a year later the French went on to eventually capture Mexico City for Napoleon III and Emperor Maximilian’s short-lived reign. During that invasion, Mexicans called the ruthless French in blue-uniforms, “blue butchers,” because so many prisoners were hanged in plazas. The French had believed Mexicans considered public execution to be an honorable death, and for many of them it still is. At the end of the song, Fanny moved to the edge of the dance floor coaxing one of her girlfriends to dance with her and Chico. But before the two girls got back to the gyrating descendent of Mexican-Indian peasants, the exotic tourist from Pico Maravilla, two blue butchers were on him, pinning him to the floor in a stunning reenactment of French barbarism in Mexico over a century ago. The blood gushing out of Chico’s nose met up with an outpour from his mouth to form a pillow of roses under his head. How would Genet put it? Flowers, red petals spreading out rapidly. The blood sucked up the side of Chico’s head then settled on his aching face like an ointment to seep back inside where it belonged. Lying in his soaky bed of roses, the petit French dandelion rushed over to comfort Chico after the gang dispersed as quickly as they had descended. By the time Art scrambled on to the floor to back up his homeboy Chico, the girls already had him up on his feet and swigging a glass of red wine. Everyone remembers that that’s when the free-for-all began. All Chico can remember is that it had been him against Katka’s family, the Czechs and 630 | their French cousins. Again a hundred hands grabbed and punched him after he had knocked out two of the Frenchmen—flattened them out cold on the dance floor. Cultural differences. Art had desperately tried to convince Katka’s family to back away, and let his best man off the hook. Chico was new to the country, still had jet lag, had been raised in a hard part of the city, overwhelmed by so many exotic women checking him out, and Art had to explain all this to his in-laws in a foreign language he was still learning. Besides, he tried to explain honestly, that actually it’s a tradition for Mexican and Chicano weddings to end up in free-for-alls, one family against the other. It’s normal for police to come and arrest dozens of cousins at weddings back home, Art had explained this, almost in tears. Assault and battery. Disturbing the peace. Manslaughter. Sometimes people are stabbed or shot, but that’s all part of the celebration! That’s how we do it back home, the bride’s family versus the groom’s—punching and stabbing it out, it’s tradition. The only problem was for this bash, Chico had been on his own. Art didn’t back him up on that night, though Chico had held his own pretty good, Katka and the new in-laws had to regretfully admit. After clearing the floor at Art’s wedding Chico was so proud that his years in elementary school, junior high and just two years of high school before he dropped out, had made him a man to deal with in any Euro city. He laughed about it back home for months, explaining that his childhood had left him able to put up a good fight anywhere in the world. Now that he was in Europe again, he’d promised to control his temper, or contain his survival instincts. Now he needed to stay and help Katka decide what to do with Art’s taco stand, El Czechano, and try to figure out what the hell had happened to his homeboy. But it was also complicated to stay in the country longer than a month, because his visa would expire. He had just spoken to his sister La Lupe a few days ago, explaining all this to her from the main post office, since Katka’s flat didn’t have a phone. “What’s this, you’re not coming back?” “What are you saying? Look I’ve just decided to stay here longer than I thought. Can you please send me the original copy of my birth certificate? You wouldn’t believe what the Foreigner’s Police needs just so I can stay longer than a month. You need to get there at 4:00 am in the morning then wait in line outside in the cold, with mostly Russians and Vietnamese, dressed like cholos, who are really desperate to stay in the country. Well you push your way into the building then into so many other offices just for them to yell at you, shouting all the things you need to bring back. So now I need my birth certificate, and here it needs to be translated into Czech, then taken to a notary for final verification. I need one of Katka’s friends to sign me into their apartment, so I have an official place to stay, though I’m just sleeping on peoples couches. I need to borrow a couple thousand dollars from Katka so I can open a bank account with a thousand dollars in it, to show that I have money to fly home in case they kick me out of the country, and what | 631 worries me most is that I need a verification that I’ve never been arrested back home. The U.S. embassy can’t show that anyway, so for the time being I’m alright. I just need to “say” that I’ve never been arrested back home or in this country. I’m just lucky no one called the cops when we were fighting at Art’s wedding.” “Lucky if you’re going to the Foreigner’s Police? That sounds like trouble ese, maybe those people don’t want anymore Chicanos moving in. Why don’t you just come back? Does Katka really need you there? And maybe the embassies can get this information. There’s men asking for you, they keep asking when you’re gonna be home. They come by early mornings, driving Fords like FBI.” “Probably insurance salesmen in training, working for my old boss.” “I don’t think so. They were waiting for me when I came from work and wanted me to go out for dinner, to a McDonalds, to ask me questions about you. But I’m tired when I get home, so I told them No Way. So it sounds like you are flying the coop like Art and Bad Rosie, or what? I don’t know if she had told you, but she was planning to go to Prague too and stay with Art, but now she has to change her plans. Maybe she’ll go to Columbia just for a while to hide out. You gonna be an alien too?” “Hard to say, but it’s not just those Fords. I gotta figure out what happened to Art. He had good business with El Czechano. And what was I doing at home anyways? Same thing Art was doing before he left home. Get up every morning at 5:00 to catch a bus at 5:45 to get to Century City at 7:40, go buy a coffee together then get to the office by 8:00. All day call people up and pound fear into their heads. Buy insurance. Then wait around for them to call me back, cause they finally were scared to die. Get off at 6:00, get home around 8:00-8:30, eat dinner, watch reruns then try to sleep by 10 at the latest. I’m in no rush to go back to that bullshit. I need more time here. I just don’t understand why everybody back home is only preparing for death or retirement. Can’t you please send me what I need? “ “You need to come home where you belong. Oh yeah, you have a letter from GooGoo, she says, ‘I can’t get you out of my mind. I’m your puppet. Love your Angel Baby.’“ Maybe GooGoo hadn’t gotten his last letter, Chico thinks to himself. He had sent her one weeks ago, explaining his plans to stay longer, but not having the courage to tell her that he really wanted to break up. He did say they needed another separation for a while. He didn’t use the word break up, but he literally meant to break up—he needed to lose his self in another country, to dissolve all the memories in his head. Breaking away was just the first step, breaking up was the ultimate plan. “Look just send everything as soon as you can. Is Mama there? Can I speak to her?” “You messing around over there?” “Shut up, I’m not even drinking much. Katka gave me some tapes, so I’m 632 | listening to classical music. Hah, Katka said that’s all Art ever played too.” “Yeah Art told me that Czechs are like Chicanos, hooked on Oldies and shit.” “Classical music pendeja! Not oldies, Stupid! Hey, I need to talk to Mama.” Chico pictured his mom bringing him a bowl of menudo and then sitting down to watch him eat. She always loved to watch him eat; the vision of him filling his skinny body with cow intestines, cabeza or fried pork especially made her glow all up inside. “How you eating, mijo?” his Mama asked him over the phone. He pictured her fidgeting with her hair, then bringing him tortillas to the table. “Well, I think about Mexican food more than I eat. But Art’s tortas and chorizo con huevos are okay. Hard to find good chilies and masaharina to make corn tortillas though.” “If you’re gonna stay there, I’ll send some in the mail. Just don’t become an alien!” What’s all this bullshit about aliens, he thought. His great-great-great- grandfather had become an alien by not moving at all. That man had never left Pico Maravilla once in his life, but one day he was a citizen of Mexico, then the next day, he was an Alien. After the white Americans annexed one third of Mexico, in 1848, he became an outsider. Illegal just because his country had lost a war. Because his country has always lost the war. And his children born in the new country weren’t automatically Americans either. Even if they tried to speak English and assimilate since they were born in America, they were all branded as Mexicans because their father or great great great grand father once was. Outsiders. Chico has a people’s history rooted in alienism. Alienation. Alienhood. Illegal aliens unable to speak in their native tongue, own land, vote, work properly, walk tall. Alienated at birth. “I’m already an alien, in my own backyard!!” He screamed into the phone, to his mother, not caring about upsetting others since no one in Prague’s main post office could understand a word he said.
Like Art, Chico’s family house when he was a kid is under the same stretch of freeway only about four blocks south of Art’s old neighborhood. On the same street in Pico Maravilla. And on Sunday nights Chico returns to his original turf with hundreds of other lowriders moving over their homes feeling all homesick and nostalgic. Just like Art used to do, blasting the same oldies gets Chico all softy sentimental till he eventually starts to feel like everyone else around him. In locomotion, all he wants while driving is to just once stand alone in silence in the middle of that freeway and try to feel a connection to his roots. Driving always slow and oblivious to the bouncing bass, Chico imagines that only he is capable of hearing voices from beneath the concrete. Like a chosen one, only he can hear the unrhymed words retelling history beneath the concrete though all the hopping hydraulic systems, sirens and | 633 stereos hooked up to home speakers block out the fine points. Voices coming from where he should have been destined to live, from where the bees used to burrow into the ground still call out to Chico, even now, as far away as East Europe. Art had invited Chico to Europe dozens of times but only his wedding and his funeral had compelled him to make the trip. Chico just couldn’t get himself to go abroad otherwise. Art had made the move, but why don’t other Chicanos travel more? By tradition, homeboys just don’t stray too far away from the house, and they never go out of state or abroad unless there’s a wedding, a funeral, or they’re drafted. Literally, a homeboy or homegirl is just someone who’s always hanging out at home or just a few houses away and when they talk about traveling, it’s just to drive back and forth a few blocks of boulevard in the hood. Besides kings and queens don’t immigrate, do they? Even when their reign is over, they don’t run off to start another kingdom in exile. Aztec royalty silently became Mexican peasants and they still are, while some of their northern descendants call themselves Chicanos. Art was a homeboy just like Chico, so where did he differ? Chico can’t stop thinking about Art and their shared history, as kids watching reruns and playing in the hills. Chicanos all do the same thing after a few drinks— bringing up memories, dreaming about the past. He remembers asking Art if he ever felt ashamed of being from Pico Maravilla. Art didn’t answer right away, looking straight into Chico’s eyes. Chico felt a slip there, but thinking about all the embarrassment he had caused Art during the wedding, he felt he could maybe understand. Then Art had explained that sure Katka was the main reason he had decided to move, but that something else had happened closer to home, to make him just want to go all of a sudden. He had been riding the bus home late one night. Two Chicanos were sitting across from each other just behind the bus driver. “What’re you fucking looking at, ese?” The older cholo yelled at the younger one. “You better not be looking at me, cuz if you are I’m gonna fuck you up.” He said. “Are you?” The younger guy stayed silent. Not glaring, just looking back at the guy with a smirk. “What are you looking at Puto?” “Looking at me like a fag?” “Putito. Don’t even look at me, ese.” “Don’t even look at my face again or I’ll put you out.” “You don’t think I will?” Boom. “Why you embarrassed of that?” Chico asked Art. “That had nothing to do with you.” 634 | “But it does. That’s our life, and you accept that?” Art asked.
When Art started seeing Katka while she was studying for a year at East L.A. Community College, his family thought nothing of it. But then he started to change. There was a tension building up in him especially after he started to take politics and history classes. Then he started to take trips to Berkeley on weekends with friends from college. Over one Christmas break, after being in Berkeley for over a week, Art made a confession to his family. Sitting at the table over a meal of Sloppy Joe’s and pink lemonade, Art told his Mama and Step-dad that he was unhappy with everything in his life, and finally he had to come out of the closet about it. He was a Marxist, he confessed. When his Step-dad heard this, he fled the room in disgust then returned with a baseball bat ordering Art out of the house. His Mama cried out, asking if this meant he wouldn’t be going to church with them on Christmas eve? The simple fact was that even before Art had moved to Europe, he had changed. His few semesters at East L.A. College and his trips to Berkeley had transformed him at the age of twenty into a supra-analyst of media manipulation and a non-stop critic of his family’s consumption patterns including their diet, fashion, modes of transportation and hygiene. They just need to be “educated” as far as he was concerned. “Motherfucker won’t touch Wonderbread. He needs a kick up his ass is what he needs,” was all his Step-dad had to say about it. Art spent the rest of that Christmas holiday informing his family how TV had made their minds dissolve like Silly Putty, admitting that he was still programmed into explaining everything by some namebrand, slogan, TV episode or commercial. Dissolved like Silly Putty means nothing to anyone living outside of American TV culture. It means nothing. The only things, he said, that they had in common as a family was that they had all watched every episode of I Love Lucy, Three’s Company, and Happy Days, together night after night after night. And his friends from the neighborhood could also be broken down into which TV shows they had shared in common. Chico and Art were linked like blood brothers for life by all the hours as little kids spent watching the Little Rascals, Three Stooges, Speed Racer and all the Mexican wrestling matches on Channel 52. Their adolescence was bonded by watching Good Times, What’s Happening, Sanford and Son, and Soul Train. According to Art, this had been their Racial Awakening Period, noting that they had never bothered with Dick Clark’s American Bandstand. That show was for people on the other side of the planet, as far as he was concerned. Bonds, links, a common TV culture, that’s all we have left. There had been a period after this, when Art made his family watch ballet and opera programs on PBS. They sat silently, confused and bored out of their wits. When they eventually left the room, trying to escape his high culture assault, he would either turn up the volume on the TV or turn the set off to quickly turn on the radio to a Classics program (not Classic Rock or | 635 Oldies). For variety, he’d tune into left-wing talk radio shows about politics in Nicaragua, El Salvador or Koreatown. His Step-dad didn’t know whether to kick him out of the house or just kick his ass. Eventually, Art pushed his family into a sort of existential crisis, probably the first Chicano family to ever have one explained as that anyways. They started to doubt their lives, thinking that maybe Art was right and their lives really were Nothing. He had gone on weekends to Berkeley, after all. They started to drink Chablis for dinner instead of pink lemonade, and Art’s Mama even let him put stickers on her car that said, “U.S. Out of North America.” So when Art finished studying at East L.A. College and decided to move to Europe, his family wasn’t in such a shock. When he said he wanted to try and live in Czechoslovakia, they weren’t surprised either. It just sounded like a communist country, even though it wasn’t anymore. They had accepted everything he did in his life, but still they had refused to go to Prague for his wedding and they didn’t go to the funeral. And so Chico was left to be the visiting cultural representative from Pico Maravilla, and now he seems to be staying longer than planned, explaining to everyone that he’s decided to take a sojourn abroad. Like Art had once proclaimed, now Chico’s on an unsponsored sabbatical from the barrio to research the Coca-colonization of Europe. Chico’s family thinks he’s staying because of Art, and besides the feds are looking for him anyways. He hasn’t told anyone the true reason, that somewhere along the way, he’s ended up falling harder than he ever has before. Chico wasn’t expecting to see her again, but just days after arriving to Prague he saw her on the metro busily scribbling into a notebook. It was strange because he wasn’t surprised at all to see her even though she hadn’t been at Art’s funeral. She pulled him out of his depression by just sitting a few feet away, though not noticing him because he was wearing black sunglasses and he had a beanie pulled down low on his head. Behind her the graffiti on the windows of the metro car illuminated like the painted glass in so many of the cathedrals in the city. When she came to her station, Chico secretly followed her out and up the escalator, positioning himself several steps behind her. He was far enough away to check her out better than he had the first time. He was sober this time. Yeah he needed to figure this shit out about Art, but now there was another pull happening. Just like at the wedding dance, years ago, she had the same mouthwatering effect on him just being in his vicinity. And since that second sighting, Chico’s been stuck with a feeling he doesn’t want to admit. It’s a feeling that one day he’d meet her again and this would lead to again and again. But he wasn’t sure when where how with whom or why her. Katka’s French cousin Fanny who he had danced with at the wedding appeared again at a time when he didn’t expect to totally alter his life and plans and well everything else only to follow one girl around. He had only come to Europe for Art’s funeral. Now it was time for him to go home, but he can’t because he honestly doesn’t know what to 636 | do about how he feels or what he should or could or needs and wants to do with her.
Sitting alone in a bar having a beer and thinking mostly about her, but also trying to push her image out of his head, he can’t imagine staying in Prague as long as Art did. Most of the Czech men, workers of the world all united around him, were just guys with pot-bellies pounding great beer after beer after beer as far as he’s concerned, and he’s indifferent to all that drinking. And while he likes Katka and all the workers at El Czechano, he feels more relaxed in a barroom of gypsies. They don’t look at him suspiciously like East Europeans usually do, and that shit gets exhausting. A few days ago while looking around an antique shop, the shop owner followed Chico down each aisle. Chico was ready to punch out the sucker, but instead he held up a pair of shoes shaped like hollow horse hooves. “How much?” He even tried to put them on to annoy the owner, but couldn’t seem to balance in them. He almost fell down a couple of times, trying to stick his feet into the wooden hooves. “Your feet must be very heavy, like a European,” the shop keeper told Chico. “That’s some heavy shit,” Chico replied, then walked out the door. And with the exception of the gypsies, Europe, and especially the Eastside is mostly heavy shit. Entire nations with broken hearts. The Germans gave all their love to Hitler then were betrayed by him, so they were left with partial amnesia, helping them forget all the fucked up things they did under his love spell. Not just killing Jews but gypsies too, pushing them out of history and the future. This could have been the same fate as Chicanos, but Chicanos are still fighting, Chico thinks to himself. Chicanos have never given up the fight.
On days when Prague has too many tourists on the scene, Chico likes to wander through the dilapidated gypsy quarters more than anywhere else. Exploring those streets, mostly on the eastside of the city it seems, gangs of kids will approach him. Just the other day, one gypsy boy asked Chico if he was one of them. “No,” Chico laughed, smiling back at him. “Though you could be one of me.” The boy told Chico that he had too big teeth to be gypsy anyway, then he asked for money. He told Chico that he liked his shoes, shiny and not made of plastic. Chico sees Chicano faces in all gypsy kids so he always passes them his loose change. He doesn’t accept all of the Czech-Mariachi connection either, that Art was so excited about. The way Chico sees it, as the first Spaniards arrived en masse in Mexico, most of them were from Andalusia, a region | 637 where gypsies are and were even in the 1500s abundant. They were hired onboard ships as laborers, so scattered gypsies from Andalusia migrated to the New World with the first Spanish missionaries, and then instead of trying to integrate with the Spanish Catholics who were imposing their culture on the natives, the gypsies went native with Los Indios. Convincing the Indians to pick up and move on with them, they dispersed throughout the country though most headed north and west until one day some of them even reached Sejat. At the same time as the arrival of gypsies in the Americas, an ill-fated council of Aztecs was sent to Europe to make an accord, a kind of UN deal hoping to establish an economic program to help emigrating Europeans return to their homeland. But this didn’t work because the Spanish were more than conquerors, they were also seducers of nations, like Hitler. Anyone who invades a nation then erases its religion by psychically removing beliefs steals the heart of a culture and when this first love, language and traditions, of a culture is wiped out, it can never love the same way again. It’s clear the Aztecs, the first Americans in Europe, failed miserably. Chico imagines them stranded in Europe with broken hearts, and maybe now gypsies are Mestizo foundlings, a Euro-Aztec hybrid, why not? Chico tosses around these ideas, downing another beer in a darker dive, a red room with dim lights and wooden booths. Across from him there’s a gypsy waving a pistol around at his wife or girlfriend. Chico doesn’t understand what they are arguing about, but he senses it is something like “Watch what you say to me bitch.” The couple is sitting in the middle of the room with their kids who are all sucking down Cokes, not even paying attention to their agro Daddy. When Chico first came in, everything seemed normal, almost like if he was back home with Chris Isaak’s Wicked Game playing, but then the man pulled out his gun and slammed it down on the table. When one of the boys grabbed at it, the man slapped the kid’s hand back. Three gypsy women came in to sit down with the family. Sitting at a table just next to the group, Chico is trying to guess what everyone is talking about by just following the rhythms of their speech. As the chatter becomes more heated, they speak faster and louder to each other, but this is all at a gradual pace. All at once everyone even the kids at the table are arguing furiously at each other, but by now the gun has been put away. In between verbal blasts the adults take swigs of coffee and the kids down Coke. Like gypsy ballads that all begin slow in tears then end in a frenzy, all Chico can think of are Chicano weddings back home, even Art and Katka’s, since there were blows too after all. It becomes quiet for a while until two older women come in and the slow ballad starts over. First low, drawn out words almost melancholic for Chico to hear, then their speech gradually picks up faster and louder till everyone is yelling more intensely than the first time. People at other tables are shouting at the old women though they are holding up against everyone in the cafe. Chico figures that the oldest woman with dyed yellow hair has just cursed 638 | everyone with a bizarre hand gesture ending with rapid slaps on her breast. Fuck, I’m cursed too, Chico thinks to himself. Then the gun comes out—the angry man aiming it at his wife’s head. Chico can’t see her face but the man is smiling with one eye closed for aim. Calmly the woman takes the gun from her husband’s hand and wraps it in a black-knit scarf. When the waitress yells to put away the pistol and get the hell out of there, the dad gets up with the rest of his family while the old women are still yelling. It seems they don’t have enough money to pay so another argument starts up. Chico expects the man to whip out his gun again or for one of the other gypsies to at least pull out a knife for show, but before Chico has time to fully envision this scenario, they are again all laughing and joking around with each other. Or they are all sad. With everyone outside, the man has to come back in to pay for the old women, and he looks furious. He throws money down on their tables then yells some more, the handle of his pistol just showing from his jacket pocket. As everyone gets up to leave, still arguing about change, Chico figures the gun isn’t even loaded. This kind of shit would have definitely ended differently back home. This isn’t a critique, because in a way Chico likes how the gypsies are able to cool down so quickly, almost out of the blue. Not like Chicanos who let things burn inside for years, decades even centuries, never losing an opportunity to shoot at a deserving party. The difference is that even though Chicanos aren’t heavy like Europeans, in their own way, they are actually the heaviest people on earth. Forget the Germans or all East Europeans for that matter, because Chicanos are hooked into pure gravity. They don’t need heavy boots or wooden clogs like Europeans because they keep themselves as low to the ground as possible with modern technology. Hydraulic lifts, the best designed in France, and skinny whitewalls with shiny rims make it possible for Chicanos to scrape the ground on every speed bump in the universe. Their pants, shoes, hats, cars are all as low as low can go. And slow. The slow Chicanos just check it all out, from the street corner, from the car. Watcha ese. Check it out homes. Chico tries to imagine Chicanos cooling down as quickly as the gypsies do here. No way he thinks, no fucking way. Remembering back when Chico and Art were watching the changes in their neighborhood, they had no idea that all of those men in their florescent orange helmets and jogging suits working on the freeway would change everyone’s lives forever. They made their plans to build a freeway over the cloud of dust where no one but Chicanos were hanging out, without even asking anybody in Pico Maravilla. Everybody in the neighborhood only found out after the construction company had people drive around the old neighborhood blasting a tape loop over loudspeakers, explaining their plan. Men with bull-horns interspersed the tape with calls, “This is progress!” Developers, politicos and other speculators eventually joined forces in a show of united boom. Not long after that they held a parade down Manuelitos Avenue. Chico remembers the long parade of | 639 construction workers in their bright orange work-suits and orange helmets followed by high school marching bands and floats. The floats were actually rolling billboards in disguise with slogans like “Expand or Extinct!” “Build or Be Buried!” Bulldozers and tractors rolled by with the marchers in the mad parade. At the end of the procession there were men, not from the neighborhood, eager to begin work. They marched with hammers, shovels, and pickaxes in their hands waving them around like batons. Wannabe managers skipped alongside the workers calling for more order in their marching formation. The whole spectacle was sponsored by the developers’ brigade, and overall it proved to be an elaborate show of force. It was a rude punch of reality to the Chicanos who thought their lifestyle would always be a combination of looking for work and then lounging in the neighborhood after looking for work and on the weekends. During all this parading around, from a secret dugout in the hills, Art’s older cousin Bad Rosie had organized all the vato locos and selected kids to attack a newspaper photo shoot of developers. With big smiles and shovels breaking dirt, the suave politicos in impenetrable black- sunglasses breezed past journalists as the developers cheered throwing confetti at them. From their hideout, Bad Rosie and the others waited with slingslots loaded with mudballs. When the mayor arrived in his monster-sized truck, the Pico Maravilla United Front (Bad Rosie plus vatos and assorted kids) let out howling war whoops then shot their rounds. Only two mudballs mixed with horseshit smacked the mayor, one on the side of his head, one on his chest, just as he was reaching out briskly to grab some flowers tossed at him. The jolt knocked off his sunglasses revealing absolute fear in his eyes. Seeing horseshit upside his head and splattered on his white suit, the photographers shot in ecstasy. After this, the mayor turned toward Bad Rosie’s position with an uncanny accuracy, and in a flash, his toadies descended on the hills. All the newspapers the next day said the attack on the mayor was made by “Losers Living in the Past,” as the media later renamed Pico Maravilla’s United Front. And they wrote that it was a heinous act of urban terrorism. Sandanistas in the Hills! Helicopters and surveillance planes which no one even knows about have incessantly scanned the valley and hills overlooking it ever since. Years later, on the morning of the freeway’s grand opening, lowriders were backed up for miles, barely moving across the massive structure which took so many years to construct. It was almost like a carnival with sad clowns running from car to car and Mariachis playing from the beds of old Chevy pickup trucks. Vendors with balloons walked up and down between the aisles of idling cars selling new maps of the demarcated neighborhood. Even now, with the neighborhood of Pico Maravilla long gone, Bad Rosie is still fanatically against the freeway. The last time that Chico saw her, she was explaining to some veteranos about her plan to toss bowling balls over the freeway’s brick-walled sound barriers onto passing cars below. But even 640 | those dudes were hesitant. Chicano’s love blood and sacrifice, but it would be too much, they thought. “Look we don’t wanna kill nobody, we shouldn’t even be spilling blood, I know. I just wanna scare them. We need to show where we stand, and that this is still our place,” she had said. Unlike the veteranos who had been in and out of jail most of their lives, Bad Rosie had spent almost twenty years paying mortgage on a house which no longer existed. She wasn’t even a chola, but after having her home erased from city maps, she plotted out a life plan to carry out her guerilla war against those who had ruined her life. And her war goes on. One night, just before the time that Art died, Bad Rosie and Silent, one of her ex-boyfriends, snuck into a construction workers’ trailer parked beside the freeway. Only two engineers seemed to be sleeping in front of their computer screens that night. Bad Rosie stood by the door as a lookout, as Silent jumped onto the back of one of the snoozing engineers and dropped a double fisted slam on his head then kicked the other on the side of his head, until he was unconscious. Bad Rosie then charged the table where most of the plans and documents were. She screamed at the engineers not to move from the floor, and she started to shred and burn all the documents in the room. Still in a fury, Silent ripped everything from the walls and shelves until everything on the floor was stomped on. They knocked out the windows and the panels of the trailer then before they left, Silent returned to the two men on the floor, grabbing each of them up by their collars. He faced them off, as they were still kneeling on the floor, then with a full-forced thrust knocked their blockheads together, sending them to rest forever. The next day it was clear Feds would be sent in to investigate the murder of the two engineers and they weren’t going to stop until they found the killers. When Bad Rosie asked the diehards in her group to raise their hands in support of flying to Prague and hiding out at Art’s for a while, till things cooled down, only Silent raised his brown fists high into the air.
“We need to remove the root causes of people’s desires to leave their homelands.” (Taken from a discussion on the problems of global mass migration on the BBC, which Art had taped and sent to his family—i.e. Bad Rosie and others—not to emigrate to Prague.)
The past, the past…it seems that Art had never been able to escape his violent past, no matter how far he had moved away from home. His friendship with Chico was rooted in it, and whenever they got together, they had drank or got high and tried to forget it. But by hiding their past, this made them equally guarded about revealing their lives in the present. Katka only came across Bad Rosie’s letter by accident while cleaning out Art’s desk, after he had died. Bad Rosie had written to her cousin, telling him that in a few weeks she would be arriving in Prague with Silent for who knows how long, until things cooled down in what used to be, Pico Maravilla. She thought it was | 641 strange that Art hadn’t mentioned this to her. And just days after getting the letter that Art was dead, Rosie immediately cancelled her plans. Why didn’t Art share this with her, she asked Chico. And with the same tendency not to share, Chico sensed something had begun in his life, but he wouldn’t dare mention its name to anyone, because it probably wasn’t going to be a happy love story—a man and a woman meeting and going off together happily forever and ever. There is no such story, he thought. Eros was taunting and confounding Chico, mocking him; and while he couldn’t control his feelings, he also had no one to share his dilemma with. Katka never mentioned GooGoo but Chico knew she was curious why he never spoke about her. Art had instilled in Katka’s head that Chicanos were loyal, explaining that Chico’s girlfriend was so loyal she had once walked up and smashed her girlfriend over the head with an iron skillet because she knew Chico was planning to fool around with her. Just planning! And GooGoo was so loyal, she stood trial for what she did out of true love, loyal enough to be spending five years in prison for a murder of passion and all this time loyal in her heart to him, writing him letters and always putting in messages for him in Teen Angel. She was loyal to the bone, and a loca in love enough to tattoo Chico’s name on her back, her burden por vida, in big block letters, and so Chico responded by tattooing GooGoo por vida across his chest, in bigger block letters, though he really didn’t feel it. She was his burden for life. For Chicanos, loyalty is the word. So now after all she’s done to prove her love to Chico, after she has killed for him, if he ever decided to break up with her, especially in a letter from Europe, while she’s still in prison, he’d be breaking the unwritten Chicano code of honor. Loyalty. So Chico wasn’t able to tell Katka that he had seen Fanny though he wanted so badly to ask for her telephone number and address, to find out if she was now really staying in Prague. At the same time, how could he ask her about finding a decent tattoo parlor, because he wanted to get his tattoo of GooGoo’s name removed from his chest? Then how could he explain that he wanted to stay in Europe even longer, maybe for a year or so? It’s true, El Czechano was in need of someone with a native taste for Mexican food. He was needed around here. And Art’s tacqueria, a little wooden shack on the riverbank, had established itself as the premier spot in Eastern Europe for authentic Mexican, kick ass salsa, y que putos. If he stayed, he figures he’d be able to arrive to work late, or whenever he wanted. His duty would simply be to make a daily visit to taste the salsa, beans, rice, etc. Quality control. He could also help to train cooks, though Katka seemed to be doing more and more on that end. Art had never been much of a manager either. “Chicanos aren’t typical Americans. They aren’t made to lead or push everybody around, baby. They just like to lay back and take it all in S.L.O.W.L.Y. You know what I’m saying?” Chico remembers Art saying this 642 | to Katka soon after they’d opened their business.
The next day sitting outside El Czechano, Chico explained Bad Rosie’s lifetime struggle to Katka, and she compared this to how in 1968 Russian tanks invaded Prague after the Czechs had started moving too closely to the West. The Czechs’ communist government had lifted restrictions on traveling to the West, allowed more music, film, and literature from the West to come in, and even made it easier for foreigners from the West to come into the country. And when the Russians came to end this, students threw mudballs and rocks at them just as the Pico Maravilla United Front had attacked developers and their construction crews; and in both cases, the response by the government was quick and ruthless. There are so many statues around Prague honoring students killed in ‘68. To this day graffiti commemorates the invasion, students take flowers to the martyrs’ graves, and you can still see documentaries about it on Czech television, even though students didn’t stop the Russians; it took another 20 years and McDonalds’ mania for franchise to really open up Czechs to the West. While Bad Rosie was fighting in the opposite direction, not wanting the Westside to invade her hood, not wanting outsiders driving-by to simply show how rich and successful they were compared to the Chicanos in the land that used to be Pico Maravilla. “Art didn’t like living in America anymore. He said there were too many foreigners.” Katka said blankly, “Too many immigrants, especially Russians are everywhere over there. If he wanted to be around so many Russians, he’d live in Moscow or any big city in America.” They are both oblivious to the odd mixture of American backpackers, Czech hipsters, Russian mafiosos, and homeless, crazy with hunger vagrants hovering around them. Art’s taco stand is a trans-global success story. Explaining why she never wanted to live in America with Art, Katka says, “I love living in a country where people are rooted to the land. Here history is linked to the people and architecture. You can see it in people’s faces.” “So you really would have loved Pico Maravilla,” Chico says biting into his taco. “It doesn’t exist. And it never will again. When I was driving through there with Art cruising the freeway, people in their lowriders looked at me like an invader or a threat to their land or something. They knew I didn’t belong. I know they had to knock down your house to build the freeway, but come on, that’s progress!” “Not ours,” He says. “If that’s progress, then so are Russian tanks. Look, what did we get for that? Better access to perfect waves and hot tubs, and more drive-by shootings,” Chico is surprised with himself for how much he’s starting to sound like Art, then he goes on. “I just got a letter from Bad Rosie the other day, she says they’re opening up the hills over Pico Maravilla for moto-crossers. Some group called the Dirt Diggers already bought the | 643 land and they’re importing adobe soil from Central America. She spies on them with her binoculars, says they look like aliens, with their knee-high boots, helmets, shoulder pads, spandex pants.” “But you’re the alien,” she says with a smile. “You’re going to be here Illegal, aren’t you? How’d you come here anyways? Flying saucer?” “Like Art, I just closed my eyes, and I was here.” “No. I closed my eyes and he was here,” she says, “then when I opened them on another day, he was gone.” Katka’s eyes are soaked with tears, but none fall. The sound of Chico sucking the last drops of his margarita drowns out all the others talking around them. Chico knows the hard stares Katka got when she had cruised Pico Maravilla since he connects it to the blank glares he gets in East Europe. Everywhere he goes, people look at him suspiciously as soon as he walks in the door. It seems locals everywhere have a secret power, possessing a knowledge and pact with the dirt between their toes that they will never leave, and when they die they will return to the earth that they have always been standing on. So the look that Katka describes shouldn’t make her afraid, because there’s no chance of anyone ever trying to hurt her. The look of jealousy or aggression that Chicanos have toward outsiders is just caused by the fear that “los otros” might die on their land and expect to be buried there too. Locals everywhere will accept foreign yoke as long as they don’t expect to be buried in the land. To shed blood on the earth is an act of giving. Blood is the essence, and to shed it is to fertilize the earth. The Aztecs knew this better than any other civilization, that’s why they sacrificed each other and their enemies. They needed to feed the earth with fertilizer and Chicanos can still feel this connection; they love blood and sacrifice, just so long as it’s from their own people. So don’t worry, Chico thinks to himself but doesn’t say it to Katka. Chicanos aren’t dangerous to you at all, we are only dangerous to ourselves. And this is the reason Art’s death confounds Chico so much. Art has betrayed his family and friends from Pico Maravilla by not dying or at least being buried on his home turf. He seemed to have even prepared for this by having Chico bring all of his trophies and awards for his wedding. Now all of Art’s accomplishments line the walls of Katka’s little apartment. One day she says she’ll move them to the taco stand, but for now they gather dust in her bedroom. “So when are you going back? Chico.” Chico doesn’t answer. Looking at Katka, he truly feels like he’s in another world. He looks behind her at the meandering river which divides the city, on one side a majestic hill and castle, on the other side a puzzle of little streets, including the Jewish quarter where Franz Kafka had lived most of his life. Chico overhears a couple talking in English, so he turns around toward them just out of curiosity. He sees a guy in a UCLA sweatshirt, most definitely a Chicano, talking to another American. 644 | “Kafka is very Mexican, actually he’s a typical unpublished Chicano writer. If he just had more machismo, more lovers and kids with a lot of different women, in his stories, he would have been published by Arte Publico or someone like that. His life was just like a Mexican-American caught in the borders of two countries. The Czechs and the Germans, neither allowed Kafka any real sense of belonging. He wrote aboutLa Cucharacha, man, cause he was the cockroach. He lived in Prague, so he was a writer; if he had lived in Aztlan, he would of just been another Mariachi singing La Cucharacha on his guitar.” Chico can’t contain his grin, the combination of some Chicano behind him buying burritos from his departed homeboy’s place, El Czechano, while Chico sits beside Katka both eating fantastic tacos made from a family recipe from Pico Maravilla. Would GooGoo really hunt him and Fanny down if it got down to that? Once she got out of prison, out of Chicano loyalty, honor and tradition would she be able to scrape enough money together and fly to Europe to gun them both down. He felt that she would, and this was just a fundamental difference that needed to be respected between cultures, before Chico would start anything. “What are you thinking about?” Katka asks. “I’m thinking about what you said the other day. Since Art turned you on to Mexican food, you really hate the Czech stuff now. You were saying how you can tell the sexuality of a culture by its food. Czechs eat meat, potatoes, sausages and dumplings. Everything on the plate is greasy, deep fried and not presented with much flair. It just gets stuffed in. Americans take huge bites into their hamburgers. It’s an aggressive act with messy hands squishing the delicate buns. Japanese like it raw and fast. And Mexican? It’s got the little chilitos, spicy meats and tortillas wrap into everything nice and warm. Do you remember saying that?” “Yes, why?” “Well, I’ve been thinking that maybe I should stay out here longer than I planned. You know you really need someone who knows how the food should taste. I’d be glad to do that. And anyways if Bad Rosie is having some problems back home, maybe she can stay too... By the way, I think I saw your cousin Fanny the other day on the metro. Is she living in Prague?” “Well she lives here now…but I didn’t want to tell you.” “Well I did almost kill a man just to dance with her, you remember.” “How can I ever forget.” “Well would it be possible to meet her again?” “Depends on her. I do know she’s broken up with that French boyfriend. And she doesn’t want to live in France anymore. I can call her if you want.” Déjà vu. Chico once again feels thin strings being tied around his neck, wrists and ankles; the fate of a puppet. He jerks his head up to mock his inevitable fate, imagining Fanny sitting beside him. With her leg pressed up to his, there’d be no quick road back home. No more GooGoo, her tattoos | 645 and her fucked up family, all hypes. Slowly looking around him, up at the castle then down at his last bit of soft taco, Chico feels like a puppet, tangling up in the strings which will be binding him to this place much longer than a holiday. Chico feels like Art must have felt, when he first came to Eastern Europe. Not like an exile or an alien, but a man briefly free for once in his life, entering an unknown prison of his own free will. And just like when he was in Pico Maravilla, there’s an ambivalence to death which at least makes him feel at home. Fully aware that he’s digging his own grave, Chico asks Katka for Fanny’s phone number, then runs off with a grin to the nearest phone booth. 646 |
Photo: Kenneth Osieme Odozi IVA PEKÁRKOVÁ from Elephants in the Dusk
Fig pudding Exactly at that moment when passion should have driven out all his thoughts and turned his brain into a fig pudding (which the English supposedly love, but which he’d never seen), at the moment when he thrust mightily and buried himself deep into his wife’s body, it occurred to Amadou the he is a whore. At first it was just a vague feeling, the timid tapping of a newlyborn thought on a remote, forgotten bit of his cerebral cortex which had not turned into a fig pudding. But under the influence of Amadou’s current situation his brain did become more pliable. He chose to ignore ignored the | 647 bothersome embryo and dutifully continued recording the pleasant feelings this intercourse brought him. A few seconds later, while pulling his wife closer by her lardy hips and moving his male piece quickly to and fro in her depths, trying to find the source of her amorous sighs, the thought weaned off nappies, graduated and grew up… It was now older that Amadou and it yelled into his ears, from the inside, “You are a whore, a whore, a WHORE!” Amadou was thrusting diligently, as if he was briskly trying to erase an unpleasant message from a board by going over it with a rag. Unfortunately it did not work out; the voice grew shriller and shriller. “Whore, who-re, who-re,” it was reciting as if it was chanting to Amadou’s rhythm. IT WAS MOCKING HIM! For a while it was coming at a dizzying speed (every silent “who-” squashed a loud sigh out of Annie), whereupon it ordered him to slow down in the rhythm of a lame waltz, “Who-o-ore! Who-o-ore!” Maybe his brain softened into the consistency of the mysterious fig pudding after all, he thought using the remaining tiny bit of his mind which was not cursing him yet. O Allah, he checked himself, I’m chanting it out loud! Anne opened her eyes, focused, looked at him with her limpid blue gaze. It was the mixture of innocence and suspicionIn, so typical of her, that look which she used to X-ray him whenever he said he had to leave the house for a bit, that he really needed to take care of something. There was nothing new in that look, but he was used to seeing it in completely different situations. Lying in bed—deep inside her body—at the moment when her brain should have had the consistency of the fig pudding—she had never looked at him like that. He never thought she could. “I love you,” he managed quickly. “I lo-ve you, I lo-ve you, I lo-ve you.” This utterance changed his rhythm slightly, and the frequency of Anne’s sighs was altered as well. Finally she closed her eyes again. Amadou figured out that there had been just enough of bonking for one day and brought the intercourse to a successful conclusion. Although a “whore” got mixed up with “love” at the last moment (and on that orgasmically potent word he flew high above the roof of the house), to all appearances Anne had not noticed. Amadou did not wipe his member dry even thought the sticky wetness was bothering him. He had noticed a few times that Anne did not like it at all when he wiped it on a tissue immediately after pulling out. She had never voiced that complaint but then white people have their thoughts carved into their faces in a way a blind person could read. Well, at least white women do. Shorty was right. They are as naive as little children. And his Anne was no exception. Amadou snuggled up to her, opened his arms as much as he could, and embraced his XXXL rightful wife. By now, he should have been used to that feeling which went through his body whenever he sank his fingers deep into her—well, yes—fat. His Anne was so splattery and lardy that the fat was parting under his touch; he could easily prod her ribs. He had impishly tried it a few months ago, in an 648 | intimate moment after making love—and Annie had sucked in her breath so much that her flab had started to ripple, and with the intonation of a waggish girl had blurted out, “You see, you can feel my ribs. That means I’m almost slim! I can’t feel yours so easily. Maybe you should go on a diet…” Sure, Annie was not dumb, at least not COMPLETELY dumb, so in a couple of seconds she realized what she had said… and turned red, or became unhealthily pink—from the hair-roots to her chest (with those “tangible” ribs) and to her stomach with two-foot folds of fat and to those abundant hips and thighs so overflowing that there was no cellulite in them—and over carefully shaved calves to the tips of her toenails which she had painted pink just as her fingernails. The whole of Anne had turned pink, she had taken on the shade of her nails, though without the pearly additive, and had mumbled some kind of apology. Amadou had loved her at that moment but, unfortunately, that moment never returned. Anne, pink as the blush of dawn on a windy morning, was totally different from the usual everyday Anne. He could tolerate pink Anne next to him, even if she was blurting out nonsense all the time. The colour of pink would have masked all the skin imperfections—and that she was entitled to them at her age—and turned her, at least for a short moment, into a little girl she used to be a long time ago, at the time when his grandmother (yes, grandmother, Amadou, you whore!) was unfolding the prayer mat five times a day, always in the same direction—in the direction of Mekka, in the round house made of clay and thatch. In the house his grandfather had built. (But he was not about to think about that, not now!) Amadou loved those rare moments when his wife looked like a little girl and he was fiercely afraid of those (unfortunately more and more frequent) when she would speak in a little girl’s voice and try to behave like one. He loved the moment when she closed her eyes and he was able to imagine that under their wrinkly, sandy coloured surface there slept African, trusting, deep brown irises. However, Anne’s eyes were, at least from the white person’s point of view, quite nice. He should get used to them, no problem. He should love them, after all, he LOVED Anne. He LOVED his wife. Only that whore in him, Amadou-whore, a creature he had known about for a long time but he had refused to believe in its existence, had dreamed up the eyes of an African woman under Anne’s eyelids, and under her sagging skin, the firm complexion of women half a century younger than her. Under her fat, the body of a gazelle. And under the layer of Anne’s prejudices (it was not her fault, surely it was age-related) a young open mind of a PERFECT COSMOPOLITAN, whom Amadou had never had the opportunity to meet in real life but in whose existence he deeply believed. “That’s what I like about you, Amadou,” Annie used to tell him. (And a truckload of others before her.) “You don’t dream. You can’t dream. You live HERE and NOW, you have learnt that from your ancestors. Oh God, how I envy you! We, whites, can’t do that! We either study the past—all those dead monarchs and politicians!—or we are dreading the future. For | 649 us happiness is something vague, out of our reach, a philosophical category. Do you understand what I am trying to tell you? Sorry, it’s probably quite incomprehensible for you… but you understand me, don’t you? At least a little bit? We, whites, can only envy you, natural peoples—in the best sense of the word!” Amadou drifted off into a daydream. He remembered the past nostalgically though as a member of the natural peoples (in the best sense of the word!) he had no need for it. For a tiny guilty moment he plunged into the body of the first woman who had told him these things, in barely comprehensible French, in a Dakar hotel room, and he shivered under that sweet memory. In no time her returned to HERE and NOW which, he had to admit, suited him, as an African, best. He snuggled closer to Annie. Her body allowed at least half a dozen of snuggle stages depending on how deep into her lard you were willing to plunge. Today Amadou decided on snuggle number six. His member got stuck to her hip because of the love juice but he ignored it. As a true African he refused to fear the future. Though he wondered how Annie would unstick him. A few weeks ago he had fallen asleep in a similar situation and when he woke up he nearly howled with pain: he had torn off a few square millimetres of his skin on the most sensitive place just under his glans. Annie had not been harmed, but to do her credit, she had immediately set off for the pharmacy and for the following week she faithfully applied ointment to it twice a day. Amadou laid his ears back when he imagined what she had probably told the person behind the counter. White people are awful, without embarrassment or even going nicely pink, they buy pills for diarrhoea, creams for sweaty feet, salves for a rash on their asses. Amadou could vividly imagine how Anne, with the grace of the queen and without as much as batting an eyelid, asks for an ointment for her husband’s wounded penis. She would brood over the piled up packets and bottles, considering which potion would cure him promptly. “I need it healed as soon as possible, Miss, money does not matter. The most important thing is that I could again make passionate and wild love to him three times a day…” Amadou could vividly imagine his wife making a similar speech. Well, he rather did not try to imagine it. During the following days, Anne had lavished his member with loving and pleasantly asexual care. At that time he had been really grateful. Now, when his thoughts were invaded by an unflattering revelation about himself, her care did not seem so altruistic. After all she was repairing Amadou’s working tool—for very selfish reasons. “I’m a whore” and “I love you,” two sentences, dissimilar both in sound and rhythm turned, in Anne’s presence, into a single, deeply truthful one. [...]
On the beach When the hangover faded away (in that blasted heat it lasted till the evening), 650 | Anne went out through the second gate, the one that led onto the beach. This one was not guarded—at least she never saw that smiling porter with a sub- machine gun. And still there were no uninvited guests trying to barge into the fortified hotel (fortified white tower!). Anne ceased trying to understand that, just like so many other things. Behind the fence (a low and discreet one, so that the white tourists would not think they themselves were the ones kept behind it) were some men— rather lads—hanging around in the sand. Apparently, they had nothing else to do. Their silhouettes looked completely black against the background of dark blue ocean waves and the shadows of distant palm trees. (Anne, you really are an idiot! They are Black Africans! Even in daylight they are black!). The sea was swashing softly and glittering mysteriously. This beach offered all the colourful effects of pictures printed on glossy paper. This way, exactly this way, she had always imagined African sunset. Only instead of the graceful and beautiful animals here walked—with the same graceful movements— just as graceful and beautiful… young men. Perhaps even more beautiful. Anne had never been predisposed to zoophilia but here and now, in this strange situation, she felt a pang of passionate desire. She longed to capture the first black gazelle which would wander off in her direction, and do with it something… deranged.
She entered that dream scenery, both familiar and perfectly new. It smelled of sea, sand and exotics. Anne had a feeling that she was dreaming, that some strange force was dragging her outside, towards the waves, towards adventure, towards the unknown, towards LOVE. Could this be a hangover? The dark silhouettes around her did not behave like animals… and if they did, then like tame, domesticated ones. Instead of keeping their distance, instead of running away from her, perceiving her as danger, they were gathering around her… timidly, shyly they were approaching her, just like gazelles approaching a water hole. And now… now… one of them separated himself from the rest and made a beeline for her. He was not timid at all. He had dreadlocks, but not in the Jamaican styles—his head was covered with well groomed plaits that bounced with every step. And on his ass… nicely tight jeans, revealing the shape of his behind… Well, they would be revealing it if he didn’t stand face to face with her. This way they revealed… No, no, no! Surely he put a banana in there! Anne argued with herself. That’s just not possible! She had no illusions about her ability to guess the age of Africans, but his one looked fourteen. He was saying something in language she identified as French. When she did not understand, he switched to English. “You looking for something?” He smiled timidly. Or maybe not so timidly. “No, no, no,” she shook her head, feeling enchanted. “No?” repeated the lad. He swayed to and fro on his heels. | 651 “No, no, I’m not looking for anything!” Once again and without a warning Anne found herself in the middle of an odd film, possibly a documentary, or a trashy movie, whose script she did not know. The film was not worth watching. But it intoxicated her. “Not looking?” he repeated, clearly disappointed. “You sure?” “No, no, no.” “Big pity.” The lad smiled sadly, turned and skipped away. The dreadlocks were fluttering behind him like a mane and his ass… No, better not think about it… That boy had nothing to sell! He did not have anything with him, he was not waving his goods in her face. Or was he? She didn’t want to know. Step by step she set off across the beach. It was not easy, walking in the sand. The sand soon got into her sandals, each step was a strain. She felt that the shadows of dark gazelles were watching her, but she kept on walking, looking at her feet. She did not raise her head until she heard those pleasant, refreshingly unobtrusive words from behind her, “You should take sandals off. Will be easier for you. Wait, I help you.” A young man was kneeling at her feet. He was undoing her sandals and looking up to her with devoted dark brown eyes. Yes. Definitely a hangover. 652 |
Kateřina Piňosová, “Tuzka,” 2009. Kateřina Piňosová Again
Again I sit in front of that house That house with shutters That corner house without shutters That small and white house That house with a rounded balcony That long and narrow house At the crossroads That house by and in a rock Again I feed peacocks Peacocks without eyes | 653 Swans with orange blood Again I run into that garden That garden white in the glowing sun That garden with a labyrinth That garden with black sand and ivy That garden with a dried-up pond That garden with foxes that fall asleep Again I talk to them in my dream They say they don’t live here any more. 654 |
Photo: Dana Blatná Agency Jaroslav Pížl It’s drizzling
It’s drizzling and twigs are drinking, it’s drizzling and club-moss is drinking and even leaves. They’re drinking, they’re soaking. The undergrowth is steaming: the viz grows damp and by dampening, it dews damp. Not undergrowth only but river also is steaming. Steaming, evaporating, in streams outgushing damp, and so twigs are drinking, club-moss is drinking damp and by dampening dews damp. The undergrowth, river, viz and flowers: everything is steaming stormwards, everything hotly breathes, with closeness chokes. Whoever goes now along the riverbank, feels; chokes also. And if he chokes, grasps gasps. It’s drizzling. The undergrowth is steaming. It’s drizzling and twigs are drinking, it’s drizzling and club-moss is drinking | 655 and even leaves. All the undergrowth is drinking. Drinking and at the same time steaming. Even the river does the double-deed. Undergrowth, river, viz and flowers. And on the viz, its drizzling.
Translated by Toby Litt and Tomáš Míka. First published in Raut 2 (1993). Insteps upwards
Insteps upwards she’s twisting, limbs from soft wood whittled: fragile in silhouette, in volume lithe. Insteps upward along hips twisting in sweet pirouette, in volume lithe, fragile in silhouette. Insteps upwards along through the line of calf and thigh, along hips, along belly in a wave gliding, forehead plunging like a boat breasting with stern the beatingbillow. She though—insteps upwards along the line of calf, lazy as if following field flows, as if along the line which unifies the calves and hips, insteps up— sidesteps and in air carves with arm a curve.
Translated by Toby Litt and Tomáš Míka.
656 | Night on itself choking
Night on itself choking, with its thirsting, its heat, with that which I sit facing, smooth from hips upwards, hair combed backwards. Sitting I face the heat, shedding sweat and almost myself shedding, despite soaking in sweat, still, between my lips a cigarette as if it had been screwed there, smooth from hips upwards, head. Night on itself choking, with its thirsting, its heat, with that which I sit facing, from hips upwards, head smooth as astrid, as oyster. Night on itself choking, oyster strokes the sea-shell, it sheds sweat and almost itself sheds, pleases the eye, with its tail whips the beach, strokes the oyster, from hips upwards randy, random.
Translated by Toby Litt and Tomáš Míka.
| 657 658 |
Photo: Jiří Zavadil Magdaléna Platzová from Salt, Sheep, and Stone
Arnošt bought the house on the Dalmatian island at a good price, on the understanding that we’d see how it went. We’ll put it in order, spend a summer there, and if we like it we’ll hang on to it a couple of years before selling it again. If we don’t like it we’ll sell it immediately. Nothing to get worked up about, said Arnošt. By the end of the summer, which we spent mostly as labourers, it was possible to sleep in the house. It was even habitable. I’m alone in Prague, Arnošt has gone to work abroad, spending a few long weeks away like a sailor. It’s still cold, even though the apricot trees are in blossom and their twigs against the blue sky remind me of Chinese paintings on silk. | 659 I think of that little patch of island a thousand kilometres from here, of the foundations more than five hundred years old on which the house stands, the three floors, one hundred and twenty square metres. Over the door, on the lintel of white stone from which the house is built, is a sign. No one in the little town knows what it means. It’s made up of Hebrew or Arabic letters and obviously comes from the workshop of the Renaissance stonemason and architect Jura Dalmantinac. I open the door, pass under the sign, take a corridor around the kitchen to the back, and climb the red-varnished stairs. They creak under my feet. They are narrow, and twist at such sharp angles that not one stick of furniture can be carried up them, everything must be taken to pieces downstairs, carried up in pieces and put together again in the rooms. When someone dies in one of these old houses, they have to be wrapped in a sheet while still warm, carried down to the ground floor and only there placed in the coffin. If a body were to stiffen upstairs, it would never be possible to wind it down the stairs. There are two little rooms on the first floor. In one, under the window, there is an old sink made from a piece of stone. This used to be the kitchen, whilst the ground floor, which is relatively cool in the summer, was used for storing oil, wine, honey, dried and salted meat and fish, wood and various tools. This is because the town stands on a bog and not one of its houses has a cellar. I discovered pink paint under the white plaster in the first room, the other was blue. On the next floor is a large bedroom and under the roof yet another room, panelled in wood. A door leads from here onto a terrace. I walk through the freshly painted, half-empty house from top to bottom. Not a single cranny is strange to me, I have touched every centimetre of this house. I am in Prague thinking about my house. I say to myself: I have a house. It doesn’t matter that I’m not there. I’m slow to penetrate it, long after Arnošt. I imagine how it’s standing there, locked up, quiet, prepared at any time to have us settled there. I stand alone in front of its door, I open it, go in, and quietly sit inside. The floor is resistant to my feet, the ceiling rises over my head. I sense how my restless, insecure soul materialises as the house, with relief lets itself be bound by its walls.
*
The house has three floors and steep, worn down stairs. I dragged upstairs a bucket and a bottle with some kind of caustic, a rice brush and another bucket with clean water. I lean over the balustrades. From here the street resembles a rift in a cliff face, I am higher than most of the surrounding roofs. Beyond them stretches a parched hillside, and when I stand on tiptoe, I can see the gold ribbon of the bay. The walls of the houses enfold the noonday heat, the silence. Even Fábe has rolled over to the other side of the threshold, he probably snores in the dark of the locked-up house. Wolfgang wheels a 660 | bicycle out of his door, loaded with swimsuits and suntan creams and sets out for the beach, Bosanka the Bosnian is hard on his heels. I watch her broad bottom disappearing into the distance, at every step it spills from side to side under the polka-dot fabric and I say to myself that something will come of that, perhaps, as Berna claims, she really does want to be rid of him. I am alone in the house. Arnošt has gone to hunt up one of those craftsmen who are supposed to come and don’t come, one of them is drinking and the other doesn’t have the material. When we arrive the carpenter is sitting in a garage converted into a workshop, nice and cool, doesn’t bother to get up, just says: “I’ve no wood. Find yourselves some wood and then come again.” The painter similarly took a deposit for the paint and from that time we haven’t seen him. We stand under the window of his house where he lives with a gang of other craftsmen and shout: “Vlada!” No one answers. Then someone tells us he’ll be on the tourist boat The Seagull which shuttles between the town and the mainland. The owner is a distant relative who lets Vlada stay on board as long as he can pay for his beer. Vlada drinks, leans on the ship’s railings, his sparse hair ruffled by the wind, peeps at some foreign girl exhilarated by the crossing, the water sparkles before his eyes, the white rough-and-tumble of the waves. He’s happy. He’s already forgotten what he has promised to whom, he’s not thinking about the paints he took in the shop on credit and which are now drying up under our stairs because he didn’t even put the lids on the tins, so sudden and strong was his longing. We are waiting at the landing stage. We see him from a distance, we recognise his white T-shirt with lilac stripes on the deck of The Seagull, propped up on the railings on his elbows, a beer in one hand held over the sea. He is the size of a twelve-year-old child and so thin no grown-up would ever hit him. “Vlada!” He starts in panic to see who is calling him. We’re not the only ones he’s promised something to and from whom he’s taken a deposit. He crosses the gangplank from the ship to the shore, already staggering, head lowered, trying to hide behind a popcorn seller. We winkle him out of his hidey-place, he gets a scolding and has a sulk because he always keeps his word. The next day he shows up and then disappears again. He leads us by the nose, one week, two. After three weeks Arnošt threatens him with the death penalty, he’ll strangle him with his own hands. It’s evening and the light is on in the kitchen of Vlada’s house. I can see Arnošt’s angry gestures through the glass panel of the door. “It’s because he doesn’t have a woman,” one of the painter’s mates explains to me. He’s come outside and is sitting next to me on the stone step. Together we follow the drama within. Vlada’s small, spectacled shadow crouches over the table, over it Arnošt’s furious shadow runs here and there, wringing its hands and roaring. “The gentleman shouldn’t get so angry,” says Vlada’s pal and lights a cigarette. | 661 When Arnošt finally comes out, he says to him: “I’ll keep an eyeon him, sir. Vlada is terribly small, so he doesn’t have a woman, so he gets sad and drinks. Don’t hurt him, I’ll take care of him, and in a week you’ll have everything right as rain, I promise you.” The next day Vlada really did show up, and for the next two days. The fourth day sorrow overcame him again and everything was back to the start.
I stuff things accumulated over the last ten years into big plastic sacks. I remove deposits of dirt from the corners of the terrace and sweep two dried fish carcasses from under the black grill coated in soot and grease. I pour caustic over the tiles and scour them with a brush. Buckets and buckets of water up and down the steep staircase, my feet are aching and my head pleasantly empty. The second sloping wall begins to throw a shadow, the sun is sinking and softening, in the rift below me doors and windows are opening, people crossing their thresholds. I hear a child’s voice calling my name. Mario, Berna’s youngest grandson. He’s looking for me and if he finds me he’ll want to help and fall into the caustic. Better not to answer. I spot Berna’s two older grandsons in the street as well, in the town people say they steal, and their mother as well. Bad blood, they say. Nothing against Fábe, he’s from a decent family, but what can he do. Poor old thing, he doesn’t even know about it. Not only Bosanka, not even the local people have a good thing to say about Berna. She sows misfortune, they say. “Berna is an interloper,” says Aunt Draga. In the eyes of our neighbours, to be an interloper is bad enough in itself. Berna was born somewhere in France. Her father died when she was still young and her mother moved here with the children. She was quite well- off, bought a few houses in the town, with vineyards and pastures. She left everything to Berna because the only brother had fallen in love with a Greek woman, married her, moved to Greece, and died soon afterwards. He fell from a ship, a yard arm hit him on the head and swept him into the sea. “Berna says it was an unfortunate accident,” Draga told me, “but people here say that the young man was mixed up with the Mafia. Berna got everything, but because she can’t manage things she sold it bit by bit until all that was left to her was a single pasture, a few dozen sheep and two houses. They gave one to Nedo when he married. You know, Nedo, to Berna he was always a prince, the best and finest of all. The daughter didn’t get a thing. She and the children live with the old people. Berna goes around with her nose in the air, but she didn’t know how to keep an eye on her own daughter. She set the couple at odds, stuck her nose into everything, nagged away, until her husband, some Macedonian or other, couldn’t stand it any longer and took off. The girl went with him, what else could she do.” I can’t even remember the name of Berna’s daughter, I’ll call her Vlice 662 | the She-wolf. She has light grey eyes studded with yellow flecks, spiked in the middle with small black pupils. In the season she does the washing up in a restaurant, night shifts and day shifts. I don’t know what she does the nights she doesn’t work, but her free days she mostly spends sitting on the step in front of her parents’ home, crouched up like her father, only her nose sticking out like a pointed muzzle, and her knees. I’ve never seen her cook or clean, Berna looks after that. Sometimes Vlice gets up and slowly walks down the street, looking into the open windows of the kitchens, which are low enough for you to lean comfortably on the window sill and chat with those inside. We don’t chase her away, so she stops at our place, greets us in her masculine, husky voice, and looks to see what we’re doing. Then she asks for a cigarette or money. Her parents have forbidden her to beg from us, so she asks in a whisper and only when Berna isn’t watching. Her eldest son is twelve, the younger ten. The little one is four and his name is Mario. In the evenings Mario and I rinse the paving stones in front of the house. We like to sling water over the sun-warmed street and slosh it around with a broom, so that after the day the dust is washed away and the air freshened, and we can get ourselves nice and wet at the same time. He argue about who will sling and who will slosh, he wants to do both himself, and when I don’t let him he howls. In the evening he comes to say good night. In his flannel pyjamas, his hair wet, he walks with a dignified air down the street lit by orange lanterns.
Mario doesn’t resemble his brothers, who inherited their wolfish faces from their mother. He has a button nose, hair like straw pissed on by a cow, and freckles. Only his mother knows who he got them from. His father may have been a local guy, or some fly-by-night. He was born some three years after Vlice abandoned the father of her two older children somewhere in Macedonia and came home. They say in the town that she and her husband lived in a tent and trailed from town to town like gypsies. Apparently she returned dirty, bruised and hungry, with two malnourished boys. It’s said she gave birth to a daughter in that wilderness, but she died. The blood races into my lowered head, I straighten up. The roofs rise above the line of the balustrade whitened with lime, to the hill already turned pink. At last one can breathe. I scrape my side against the door. It’s falling apart and needs replacing. I think, we have to replace the terrace door, and the memory of a dream I had about ten years ago pops up, I even know where, in France, a little town on the Loire to which, at my mother’s wish, a kind, somewhat older, friend had driven me to get over my first unhappy love. We lived in a château and slept in an enormous bed in a room otherwise empty, with windows onto a park. I remember how I woke from a vivid dream. I had a house by the sea, with a terrace where the door needed replacing. “Where’s your husband?” | 663 I didn’t hear the steps on the stairs. Nedo is standing on the terrace, back from work. He makes perfumed bath salts here at Solana. It’s delicate work, entrusted only to those with some length of service once they show their competence. Nedo collects the crystals of white salt from enormous piles and pours them into special mixers into which he drips a precisely determined amount of perfumed essence. He makes lavender crystals, turquoise blue, then rosemary, then forest perfumes and rose-scented. Nedelko props himself against the wall by his shoulder blades and one bare foot, arms burnt red by the sun stick out from the white T-shirt, under his nose the little brush of a shining black moustache. He smoothes his forelock with his hand and swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Where’s your husband?” He looks at my bare shoulders, at my breasts in the summer dress, at my thighs soaked in dirty water. His ears turn red, he’s breathless, he has nothing more to say. He peels himself off the wall and belts downstairs. Nedelko has the idea that if two people are repairing a house together, they must be husband and wife.
Translated by Barbara Day. From Salt, Sheep, and Stone (Prague: One Woman Press 2003). 664 | Paul Polansky A Child’s Job
Everyone at Lety had to work, even us children.
Every morning we were taken to the forest to pick up dry wood.
We had to stack this wood next to the dead bodies | 665 so they could be burned.
Behind the camp a deep trench was dug so when Gypsies escaped they would fall in.
If a prisoner was found in the trench he was shot. Then we had to bring wood to burn his body too.
We also had to bring wood to burn the naked bodies of the women the guards used, and those who died of typhus, and those the guards drowned in the rain barrel and in the lake.
When children got sick the doctor gave them an injection over the heart, and we had to burn their bodies too.
I remember when I had to bring kindling to burn the body of my baby brother.
I gave him my bread, but it wasn’t enough.
From Living Through it Twice (Prague: GplusG, 1998).
666 | My Father Told Me
My father was a prisoner in Auschwitz, Mauthausen, Ravensbruck and Dachau. He told me the worst place was in Lety by Písek.
I know it was terrible there because after the war my father tried to find one of the guards to kill him.
He saw a Czech guard hold children’s heads in a pail of water until they died. | 667 The same guard also drowned the bigger children in the rain barrels or in the lake.
On cold winter nights, this guard locked small children outside their barracks with no clothes on.
When the children howled like wolves, many mothers went crazy clawing at the bolted doors, trying to save them.
Before an officer from Prague came to inspect the camp, the guards warned my father to say that they were treated well, that they had enough to eat. When the war was over, my father went to Prague but he couldn’t find the guard he wanted to kill.
He stopped his search when he met my mother.
Then he was happy to be alive and didn’t want to go to prison for killing another human being.
From Living Through it Twice (Prague: GplusG, 1998).
668 | I Thought I Had Survived
I survived Hitler’s youth gangs by escaping to Prague.
After they put me in Lety, I survived: starvation, shootings, lethal injections, work gangs, beatings rapes typhus and drownings in the rain barrel.
After the war | 669 I wanted a better life so I married a white man.
Only one of my eight children inherited my dark Gypsy skin.
He’s now in hospital recuperating from two operations after the skinheads impaled him on a metal pole.
I don’t know if I’m living in 1939 or 1995.
I thought I had survived, but I guess I’ve only been staggering around in circles.
From Living Through it Twice (Prague: GplusG, 1998). Z-2012
Look at my purple tattoo Here On my left forearm Z-2012.
Our government says I tattooed this on myself To get compensation
That’s what our politicians think About us holocaust survivors.
That we all lie Like they do.
670 | From The River Killed My Brother (Prague: Jejune, 2001). Disturbing the Peace
The only time I was ever late To pick up my daughter From school The skinheads got her.
I was only five minutes late, But they had already stuffed her Into a garbage can And were pouring petrol over it.
Then I saw In one of their hands The cigarette lighter.
I’m only a small woman, But I still charged in, | 671 Kicking, biting, beating.
I screamed for help. Passers-by stopped. Only stared.
These skinheads Broke my nose, Pulled out most of my hair Ripped off my dress.
They only ran away When someone shouted The police were coming.
My daughter was saved But I was fined A month’s wages
For disturbing the peace.
From The River Killed My Brother (Prague: Jejune, 2001). 672 |
Photo: Michal Mecner Justin Quinn Prague Elegies
I Snow comes swirling in across the plain. The river slows then stalls with icy splinters that lock its waters to the land. The window was locked weeks back and small flaws in its pane send exaggerations through the cold terrain: the houses waver, branches are suddenly printed in black letter, hills ripple slightly. This winter there is no limit to the price of grain. | 673 Odd glints of black, a flurry, a spreading blot, then swarming from the line of the horizon come seventy thousand men with sword and blazon.
They are marching on the city that forgot its proper place and thought that it could tamper with God’s law in the Holy Roman Empire.
II They flow like molten rock, their flesh and bone engaged in grand manoeuvres through the landscape with millions of small adjustments and quick answers to every contour, before they turn to stone as Victory on a plinth, high and alone except for the other allegorical stances arranged in lines about the park, advancing and retreating, solid but still flown as much as these large snowflakes that descend out of the soft grey spaces of the heavens, out of treaty, reparation, settled grievance
(the villages of both enemy and friend torched, their people sprawling in the loam), and light upon a still extended limb.
III The citizens lie in the waving grass abandoned here and there. All round, the humming of heavy insects on the wing. Midsummer and the heat stands like thicknesses of glass.
The couples shift and move as slowly as flies through honey. Each sweet ache is a summons for unimaginable faces, the strangers coming to share the day, as these young lovers pass
and stream off smoothly through the centuries in both directions from this burning hour. High noon. Today the sun will climb no higher
and they’ll mix with the shadows of the trees as evening takes the city, and their sighing will segue to the bickering of bird-song. 674 | IV Adulthood. Its labyrinthine halls that draw you further in to denser details— the growing boredom, your childhood retreating so quickly back into the distance, like squalls
over the horizon—and echoing calls that lead back to long nights that could be sweetened by fairy-tales alone, stories repeated of strange things out beyond the city walls
across the plains with rivers locked in them, where devils trick men out of their wergild, and fields are frozen white that once were gold,
where moles go churning through the chernozem, and wolves range through the woods, hungry and chilled, and a woodman hefts his axe above his child.
V The forest draws back and a woodcut shows an older hand illuminating letters for younger eyes against an urban setting. The Glagolitic characters disclose for the first time in old Slavonic prose the Word of God. The Franks thought this no better than heresy because translation threatened to muddy Scripture, and might help their foes.
So word arrives here from Byzantium. Which is Rome—whose city limits are, they say, the very rondeur of the earth and sea, and all our works and days till kingdom come are held between the pillars of its halls and the lengthening shadows of its seven hills.
VI The black and white forms lock in place like ice against the banks of a quick-flowing river. They stipple, swerve and scrape, the chisel driven into a block held tightly in a vice.
Like letters lock up sounds. Lined-up, precise the chase comes down and at the impact shivers against the page, which is suddenly vivid | 675 with the text, the woodcut and a small device.
Most wars are arguments of Rome with Rome. The ink sinks deep into the grain of the wood and armies wander fighting far and wide righteously laying waste to every farm and home for thirty years. Sweet God, the letters skew so many bodies underneath the sky.
VII The river cuts the land in two and glides. Its cluttered silver courses through the city, a multitude of tiny mirrors glittering hectically back and forth between the sides.
The stone goes deep into the current and slides nine massive adzes through it, the water splitting around the bulwarks of the bridge, then knitted again before it slakes the North Sea tides.
When Petrarch met its maker, Charles IV, who was travelling south from Prague to be cast as Romanorum imperator Augustus, he told him how Aeneas travelled north to found another Troy, and in a rhyme how Prague would soon become another Rome.
VIII They rush into the room, made brave with wine, to assasinate the man who out of nowhere stepped into Europe’s turmoil, fully knowing his strength, his means, and with a grand design
to change things from the Vistula to the Rhine, in love with war and its violent heroics, its massive panoplies of soldiers flowing in answer to the will of Wallenstein.
The palace and its gardens cool and set as he falls headlong from the labyrinth. Nymphs turn to stone. They dream of amaranth
and of the god’s force moving through them yet, a marvellous fury gathering them up whole, 676 | before he put them down here for a while. IX The forest is a strip of serried murk between river and sky, gradually misted on the facing shore, dissolving in the distance. To cross this water is to meet the Turk.
The features shift from gloom to rage to smirk. He is legion and has swarmed into existence out of nowhere with his armies and his mystics. He cuts down children. He watches their limbs jerk.
For two weeks there’s a deckled icy ridge that creeps from either bank, until a burn is all that’s left to mark the Empire’s bourne.
When it freezes over, there’s suddenly a bridge as wide as Europe across the current’s path and the land is locked for war, commerce or both. X After long centuries of embarrassment that painters had about the individual likeness when kings and emperors were crouched like tykes or worse, well in the background of some event in the life of Christ or of a sacrament, denied their worldly powers, their figures striking for being so stylised, nothing of their psyche caught in a single tone or lineament, the human face turns suddenly to us with all the Cinquecento’s skill, and lives. Its bravery, its pride, its griefs and loves come flaming forth with petard and blunderbuss, the town-walls pierced, the mercenaries in spate, and the orchestra going full tilt in the pit.
XI Richelieu kneels before God. Louis kneels before the Cardinal, whose modest chambers | 677 contain the calculations and the payments for France’s larger international deals.
The heavy drapery shifts an inch. Appeals flow outwards from here countered with disclaimers, phalanxes, edicts, edges and examens, some held tight with ecclesiastical seals, unfolding slyly over the continent like weather. And though it’s long years since the Cardinal himself has joined the saints clouds build and break up in the firmament, rain gives way to sun hour after hour, and tiny winds of change float through the air.
XII Up in the flies, above the stage’s glare the director’s quietly sorting through the bunches of cables and loose ropes, while they have luncheon below on an estate in Russia somewhere, or so The Sea-Gull has it. With slow care he secures the knot and tenses for the punch-line. At the very moment of the final gun-shot he quickly steps off into the dark air.
Outside, it’s night-time. The river is black ink. Up on the hill, the Castle’s brightly lit and the traffic’s stuck although it’s getting late.
People rushing by or having a drink in costumes and with incidental props. The city tilts gently on blocks and ropes.
XIII He drifts through the grand chambers late at night, late in his reign, long years since he went whoring. Instead he has some trusted men—raptores— who sweep down from the Castle’s sovereign height
and bring back virgins shivering with fright whom he treats with elaborate decorum. 678 | Around the streets go rumours and dark stories. They put on different costumes then take flight
and soar out from a quill across the score in wild glissandos of demisemiquavers: one night for the overture, Mozart discovers,
so he has fairy-tales read out till four to stay awake. When the messengers come at dawn, he’s asleep on the sheets, and the deed done.
XIV “Whenever I return from some foreign part to my homeland and gradually come nearer the town of Prague, that I am travel-weary is not why I am always sick at heart.
It is as though I feel the city thwart and hold up as the wildest of chimeras all pleasantness of life, all that’s endearing, all freedom of the spirit, mind and art.
I step into a black and bitter sea that flows around the whole mediaeval ruin rotting its foundations, and enter in the circles of those warped so violently— a lie in every word, the script for clowns, a deliberate insult in every glance.”
XV Decaying in its nineteenth-century gloom beside a filthy stream stands this old brewery. Here and there the mouldings and the murals persist—heavy ripe hops, some flowers in bloom, and the odd pilaster left with half a plume. The roof is gone and the shadows’ dense gravure is frightening for its blackness, faintly sulphurous, and breezes idle through room after room.
Some twelve years back, we’re talking near this place with so much still to say that we don’t take about four trams, and yet have to stop the talk so that my face comes close up to your face. From there, we dwindle to a distant source beyond the suburbs, beyond their twisting sewers. | 679 XVI They come out of nothing—a few Coke cans, a jingle, a forwarded email, graffiti, a few stones picked up on the way, some meetings, demurrals that grow into loud demands to change the World Bank’s aid-investment plans. and all at once a dragon, its wings beating, rides up into the air like marvellous street theatre, angles and information flooding the bands.
But then it folds into itself again, the source dried back up quickly to those stones. People come out of doors to take a stance.
The scales start tilting in the shops and then the buildings and billboards slip back in place as well as the city’s older families. XVII Tall windows in the bookshop. Light comes through and turns the drifting motes to specks of pewter. A girl sits here who has the kind of beauty that makes the city disappear from view,
a makeshift background against which she grew from child to this, her intellect acutest between two languages, in one more rooted, a coolness off her skin, a kind of blue
that’s focused most intensely in her eyes that read a book held open on her lap that is in English. Gradually they slip
and she’s translated. The very language sighs at the sweetness of her body, its every line held forth in it for praise, for praise alone.
XVIII The whole baroque façade edges its way 680 | across the windows on the facing building, the metal-work and mouldings intensely gilded for minutes at a time by the odd sun-ray.
A fascia board picks up this brilliant play and throws it on a passing tram, which tilts it into dark rooms so that they’re suddenly filled with gold for one brief moment of the day.
Translations, replies. The rumours moving out in waves across the ailing Empire, pages, events unfolding in preserved dispatches
five centuries after the foray and the rout, or in a letter, say, from France, left on the desk as yet unanswered in the gathering dusk.
XIX Flowing in their thousands past the displays of T-shirts, complex crystal, cards and relics, past menus listing local food in cellars which angle from both sides into their gaze,
the tourists take their time. They slowly graze its surfaces unfolding towards them, selling themselves along one street that’s so embellished with thousands of transactions and affrays up to the castle standing in the hills. In total silence, for half an hour to Prague, pines stifle everything except the odd brook and birds repeating ancient runs and trills, the forest rippling out in vast longueurs from the sudden, whirling backdrafts of cars.
XX A flagstone of old ice pulls and then lets go. The river sweeps it turning through the country unlocked with thousands more and rapidly shunted away as all the rivers start to flow.
The buildings stand for this. Some years ago a revolution swept through them, the junta folded away with its acres of red bunting. Another change rippled across the tableau | 681 and rearranged those sleeping in the ground with tiny landslides of record and surmise. I walk to work and back through the city’s maze, the sun comes out and millions of ghosts turn round, suddenly able to breathe if I can translate the words: I was in Prague. I was flooded with light. Musílkova
1. The man was shot two bridges up the river, an NKVD spy at work in Prague, the German occupation hardly over. His job was propaganda and intrigue
and contact with the local Communists. It’s hard to say exactly just what turn events will now take, what the larger costs of his corpse on the pavement in this yarn
I’m reading in a café two bridges down. The novel unfolds brilliantly across the entire continent, Prague merely one small detail worked into the larger canvass.
682 | The characters reduce themselves to print when I shut the book and put it on the table. Their world though is right here. I could walk round to where this Russian bunked before the trouble.
They leave the oddest gaps within my day. The coffee on the table has gone cold and mails keep coming with more work to do in the town where this man was never killed.
2. One August evening out with you. Clear sky. An art-house film theatre in a courtyard. Apartments from the ’30s stacked up high. We had a glass outside before the start.
My smoke went floating up into the air. A man came out onto his balcony and lit a cigarette and drank a beer, his cat beside him waiting patiently. The pleasure of the evening was intense— a sweetness of the air, the light, the glass, light-headed in the sky’s expanse. Incredible to think that this would pass.
3. On Saturday evening, I ride the bus from our burb into town in rainy weather. My nose in a book, completely oblivious, one dream distracting me from the other, from this, from what you might call public life: hip to hip, eyes staring straight ahead, the loners, lovers, the quiet man and wife, alive with glances and small shifts of body weight.
A TV actor gets on at one stop and everyone tries and fails not to look at his real skin and hair, his clothes, his cap, the obvious script he takes from his back-pack | 683 that will project him on so many screens— an hour’s distraction from all this right here. The bus swings down Musílkova and rounds onto to the home straight. Two minutes we’re there.
4. Named for a local doctor, executed in 1940 for his work in resistance. Whether he was recruiter or recruited, whether he placed bombs or just gave assistance, is hard to find out now, or why he joined when most other people were dragging their feet. Suddenly no options left. A single point. Led out into a yard. Became a street. 684 |
Photo: Christopher Felver James Ragan The Hunger Wall
After walking to the bridge at Karlova, we found the river where at dusk the swans dipped their beaks into the falls for sanctuary. The trees closed in for shade. We gazed through willows to the opposite hill, a single light from a room growing thick with sadness. Solemn smoke now cooked the evening meal.
We were just about to treat our hunger well | 685 when, out of sunlight, undeclared, a shaded mass of stone began to stretch its neck along the slope. It would scan the water for a quarter hour before the foliage rubbed its throat, some internal hunger now assuaged for only moments, then again, the impulse thumbed like whalebone on a drum. The poplars began to rustle. A hawk spiraling, like an aspen deep in chatter, betrayed its nest to block the sun. The dam below rose up to boulder water as if to show how easily wars are won.
They feed the hunger wall, the waitress points, the fingers in her skirt rubbing coins her hands are shoring up to feed the past. I don’t want the poor to endure me, she says King Charles said to those he paid, as he watched their faces, building borders, hunger for a wall, as she faced the smoldering Vltava, watching hunger well. 686 |
Photo: Petr Merta Martin Reiner Catherine Deneuve’s Fate
John watched Catherine Deneuve and he liked her. He married Lucy Smith and had two children with her, drove too fast and broke himself against a tree.
Lucy Smith got married again. Time and troubles were stealing her beauty and the abyss between her and Catherine Deneuve was ever wider. However, John, who would be the only one to judge, was already playing chess with his Maker. And Henry O’Malley, Lucy’s second husband, had never even caught a glimpse | 687 of Catherine Deneuve or at least, he had no idea whether he’d ever seen her or not.
Translated by Andrew Oakland. […]
The land of cannibals in bloom.
The leaf-horned beetle Euoniticellus fulvus is—so we believe—extinct in Bohemia, yet it lives on in South Moravia.
The history of wild mammals, wild belches, ecstatic sobs of panegyric …
Translated by Andrew Oakland.
688 | The Same Day
What else but to smoke; in the lungs, in the fingers the dust of lightly bullet-brushed walls.
What else but the organ of street calm; in golden rings of melody and syllable the air shimmers.
I step out of the stream, whatever this means.
I am John, bathed, smelling of pine needles and the blood of local game. | 689 I am the way to those mysterious victims of peace.
Translated by Andrew Oakland. 690 |
Mimi Fronczak Rogers & Tim Rogers. Photo: Julie Ashley. Tim Rogers No Thy Self (An Exercise in Diet)
Loss takes place: a map gains what is wanting a sense of what was unforetold An orb or other surface self -contained Consider the simple & all it has / to say then slice across a cabbage to reveal its vitamin: C | 691 the lines we sometimes greet the cold with
*
Plato in the kitchen pined for phyllo dough—ready made
*
Movement begins just after it ends
*
There are models to refer to.
*
There are detours
* There are roundabouts though this road leads / inevitably though we see lines that read sea lions.
*
Begin at the beginning “The monster struggled with Milton”
*
See: the waves break / inalterability is awash / with rocks
692 | veined in spray: the way erodes to be seen
obscene
*
Begin again
*
The flesh holds many savors taste in two dimensions then / inquire
*
Behold, the path has been foretold What is lacking crashes / between the soldier’s teeth
*
Suite the meat is
*
A taste without smell A space without
Accident
*
God knows | 693 *
God knows what seems
What sewing together of meaning
means.
*
The red sea & Capostrano
The desire for desert & coffee with a Cuban apparatus pulling pork as it steams beside banana leaves *
Pendulous & white the end
comes
crying
or coughing over tobacco rolled behind the scenes
*
Describe the meanness of a cabbage leaf
or precious bride 694 | lost at sea
no lines
tied
to lifesaver or otherwise
*
& love… this too is loss
as addiction is or trees.
*
We may never know what barque carries our destiny what lobed leaves steep leaving us / to seek again
*
Note: the puppy chases as the dog does not.
Note: the world revolves about alternating bonds
Count from 1 to 2 inside then out
* | 695 One side can cover all
*
Consider the milk in a cup of tea the way the leaves repeat a personal future in the cloud like seeds
* these lines bark back like sea lions arguing over the right / road on a map
veined in blue & beforehand
*
The circuitry lapses sending messages of seared flesh
the hunger never ends except to taste
sip
Say:
Maybe Freud was right!
Maybe.
* 696 | And maybe Maybelline ran out of gas
*
Too many beans these mean lines
*
Too many scenes to act upon
*
Stale cigarettes & this:
eggs: cracquelure
woof & weave
* Drop the hemline & what is seen?
*
Did they smoke? Did they know?
* see this ocean full of fish feeds
* and no, no blowing smoke | 697 the mouth rings in begin again
First published in Optimism Monthly 17 (January 1997). 698 |
Photo: Wolfgang Kühn Kateřina Rudčenková Rubble
It started with schizophrenia. Slanting light woke them daily. The house shook with the throb of trams. This, since childhood.
We made ourselves at home, hour by hour. Here, in this heap, I lived with my brother. Here, noise woke us up. Here stood the Christmas tree and through in the kitchen lived Grandma. | 699 Where steps sounded, the jingle of cutlery, running water, laughter, the hairbrush being laid in its place by the mirror. You used to have long hair.
That you pulled from the rubble, books, photographs, letters and jewellery. That there, you found your childish hands, your head, your sleep and fear.
To what do we cling. To a ruin like always. To what do we return. To the walls.
Dust can’t hurt it anymore, you can stop sweeping now.
Translated by Christopher Crawford. White Shield
I am able to hang around all day without going outside. I am able to think all day of lost things and speak with no one.
In the evening snow started to fall and at night the courtyard, and even the cars, were covered. A few hours later, appearing in the snow, footprints, once the voices had died away. Morning, still snowing but the sun rose, and after a while water pattered into the gutter. And my fear, that if I were ill or dead, no one would come to my sickbed. For I drove them away on purpose so I’d never lose anyone ever again.
700 | Translated by Christopher Crawford. Never-Ending Conversation
I still wonder, when it happens, as the door frame flies with a strange doubleword. Soft fish roam pond bottoms, do I have to decide, do I have time?
Eyes are shielded, cross the head, chime. Marble is our vigil, our never-ending conversation.
Translated by Stephan Delbos.
| 701 Tower
We’ve been climbing stairs all day, already many years. Windows on four sides, north facing the sea.
Always I walked faster, then even passed you. Alone inside curved walls, I keep looking back like you might catch up with me.
Translated by Stephan Delbos.
702 | Of Words
What if he looks from behind different eyes? What if time flows faster inside his body, and he has the spine of an old man?
The scalding sea washes him, he no longer laments, just clings onto the night clasped inside him. Made of words hammered together, ho goes on hammering.
Translated by Alexandra Büchler.
| 703 704 |
Jaroslav Rudiš & Jaromír 99. Photo: Miro Švolík. Jaroslav Rudiš Splinters
“I’m thinking about something I don’t remember,” says Ulrike, when the barman puts down a second glass of rosé and another Cat Power song peels off the CD. She sits in Cantona, slumped into the slow summer evening, her legs crossed, her right arm stretched out across the old chair beside her as if around someone, though there is nobody there. She takes a sip. “My dad had a white Wartburg. The cheapest model, but just right for our trips from Stendal to the Baltic to Rennsteig, where my grandma lives. I realize now that he loved that car more than my mother, more than me. A couple of times I caught him talking to it in the garage while he was polishing it. I’m not kidding.” | 705 Ulrike drives the smoke out of her lungs up high towards the ceiling, the grey column is even slimmer than her fingers. As always, she stubs out the cigarette at exactly halfway, because she thinks that means she has her smoking under control and isn’t addicted. The barman says that his father used to call Wartburgs Honneckers, but she’s not listening at all, she’s looking out of the window, stroking a craggy green vase with summer flowers as Cat Power pines on. “Dad bought these tiny little pillows for the inside, but he didn’t do it for us, he did it for the Eisenach car. He always used to say that the two-stroke engine’s got soul. He kept a diary of this love affair, he used to keep a record of how much petrol it had used, how many kilometers we had travelled, and all the towns and castles we had visited, what we ate there and, most importantly, what our trusty little Wartburg had eaten. He called the car Karl after his granddad, who also smoked like a two-stroke engine and drowned in the Elbe not far from Stendal.” The barman wipes the formica tables, Ulrike lights another cigarette and Rita floats in through the door. Inconspicuous, as if she wasn’t there, she looks at the barman, who can’t recall if anything ever went on between them or not. She sits down at the bar and the barman knows that she’ll want to talk, too. Back to Ulrike first though, for the moment. “We could only open the windows going downhill, never uphill, because that used up more petrol and ruined the engine. So in the summer we’d sweat like idiots on those climbs in the Thuringian forest, but dad was happy with how Karl went. Then it happened.” Old, half-empty Czechoslovak trams rumble past the windows of Cantona, the ones that the barman’s father used to call Husák’s revenge, because they were so heavy that they ruined all the tracks in Liepzig. The city softens in the sudden, quick rain and the yellow streetlights. Three rockers in the corner have ordered vodka, to make sure they don’t go completely soft too. “It was in August ’88. There was a holiday mood, that moment, if you know what I mean, when you wish that time would get stuck, so things would be like that forever. We were racing downhill, our car as light as a little boat. I was looking out of the window, at the clouds in the sky, the woods, rocks, an old mill and suddenly there was a jolt and everything was still. Only the clouds still sailed by above, I can still see them. Another trusty little Wartburg hadn’t given way to our trusty Wartburg, the same white model with the same East German family inside, I found out later in the hospital. My mum still has splinters of glass in her elbow from the accident. She says that these splinters, which she can’t get rid of and sometimes sting, are the German Democratic Republic. Her life in it. “And your dad? What does your dad say?” asks the barman, when he brings her next glass of rosé. He picks up an ashtray full of half-smoked cigarettes and looks into her big grey-blue eyes, which sparkle like two deep 706 | Baltic seas, which the barman’s father used to call the Lardy Sea because of all those fat Czechs who used to go there. Ulrike doesn’t say anything. She lights a cigarette, the smoky column shoots up to the ceiling, breaks up and disperses, and she runs her fingers through her long, soft hair. Extremely slowly. A Grenade in the Lap
“Nobody at school could do maths and physics like Mario. And nobody fucked as many girls,” Andreas tells the barman. Andreas had at one point tried to go out with Ulrike, but it was as useless as it always had been and always would be, because Andreas is just too nice to girls. He drinks up his beer and notices his old classmate, who is sitting on a bench in front of Liepzig’s Café Cantona, scrounging change and cigarettes. “In September ’89 our teacher chose ten boys to go and see how East German anti-aircraft defence worked. A trip as a reward, or more likely as a punishment. They showed us grenades, machine guns and Russian rockets, which they said were faster than American ones. They plied us with vodka and wanted to break us so we’d sign up for military training. Nobody signed up. Mario lights up a cigarette outside, surveys the long boulevard with his tired eyes, looks off in the direction of the Bayerischer Bahnhof, towards the crane towers, which a moment ago had been sliced up by the setting sun and begun to bleed. We were coming back on the bus, a clapped-out old Hungarian Icarus, | 707 you could smell the exhaust fumes inside. Then Mario pulled out a grenade that he’d swiped from the base and passed it around. It ended up on our teacher’s lap. When the cops questioned him that evening, he told them he wanted to blow up a Russian plane on the Berlin-Moscow route. Ulrike walks past. Andreas smiles at her, a little nervously and a little idiotically. He watches her small boyish behind as it disappears in the direction of the toilets. The cops really laid into him. He ended up in the nick, but only for a couple of weeks, because then the wall came down. They took him back at school, but he packed it in. His own decision. He stopped going, speaking, he stopped doing absolutely everything. I always say hello to him, but he doesn’t have a clue who I am.” A gaunt Mario gets up, fastens his threadbare military jacket with a small German flag and a Bundeswehr label on the shoulder. As he does every evening after ten, he takes his sleeping bag and slowly crosses the street and the tram tracks to the underpass in the Stalin-era block of flats, which connects the main avenue with the next street along. He unpacks his sleeping bag in the passageway, climbs in, zips it up and for eight hours disappears from the world. He sleeps there all year round. “Why there exactly?” the barman asks Andreas, whose beer-drinking is taking its toll on his face, not his stomach. “He used to live there. But three floors up.” The Night that Michael Died
“To him,” says the tattooed barman with the black choppy quiff who used to play bass in the band Lost in Leipzig. Rita went to two of their concerts, because she liked him, but never managed to tell him. He parks a shot glass of jägermeister in front of her. “Who?” she asks. “Michael Jackson’s dead” “Is he just dead here in Liepzig, or in other places too?” Rita taps the ash off the end of her cigarette. “Other places, too.” It’s long after midnight, there are only a couple of people in Café Cantona, a couple of intellectual types, a couple of artists, two art students in red and orange tights, three lone rockers with greying manes and memories. Really? He’s really gone? The boy from another, non-existant world, who wanted to be immortal, he’s done for in a normal, ordinary, human way? “Heart attack or something,” nods the barman, and pours everyone another shot, on the house, in light of the state of pop mourning. He smiles at 708 | Rita, he still doesn’t know if there was anything going on between them, and she looks at him for a moment longer. The barman fishes around for Thriller in the CD player. People start to argue a little, get restless and eventually moved, too. He was artificial. You yourself are artificial. He was crazy. Everybody is. He had everything bleached and replaced, apart from his heart. You can’t replace your heart. He was the soundtrack to my childhood. A puppet. A legend. Discoshit. By the way, Thriller is an amazing album. Then the Moonwalk, that really got the juices flowing. Something has died with him. “I used to copy him at the club,” the barman admits to Rita “And I used to call myself Michael” “Really?” “Yeah. A bit embarrassing, eh?” “Not really. I wanted to go out with him,” she smiles at him. A moment of silence. The barman looks at Rita and Rita looks at him, then one of the rockers says that he also used to listen to Michael and copy him, so he could know his musical enemy, he says. The barman turns down the music and says “Your attention, please!” and asks if there’s anyone here who copied Michael Jackson, and everyone slowly raises their hand. Some are embarrassed, others aren’t. The barman decides it’s time to dust down the moonwalk. Thriller blasts out, he jumps up on the bar and a couple of girls join him and begin to try it, to move their feet, to go somewhere, pretend to be moving yet all the while remaining on the spot, just like you need to in life sometimes. Just like it is in life. Eventually everyone ends up on the bar. Everyone drinks to the boy who wanted to be god and bids him farewell. The rockers, Ulrike and Andreas dance with abandon, Rita most of all, her hair flies, twirls around her head and falls down on her chest, which is squeezed into a tight grey t-shirt. She looks at the barman, at the tattoo on his forearm, and has an urge to touch it. She strokes his tattoo, the barman notices, but he is looking away. Towards the door. Then Rita sees it too. Michael Jackson floats through the door of Cantona, shining like a comet in silver clothes. He sings along with them, but with every step of the moonwalk he fades, goes out, disintegrates, until eventually he disappears. The street outside Cantona is quiet and empty, the cracked asphalt skin glistens from the rain. Rita walks down the middle of the street along the tram tracks. She sings Billie Jean is not my lover, balances with a cigarette in her hand, thinks about the barman’s Lost in Leipzig tattoo, which she can still slightly feel in her fingers, and slowly moves her long legs in tatty jeans and black trainers as if she were stepping on a balancing beam. The most beautiful moonwalk. A real moonwalk. Here. And elsewhere. Nobody sees.
Translated by Anna Lordan. | 709 710 | Šimon Šafránek Gas Station Blues
XX Tom sits on a rusty barrel, a gas station in flames behind him. Fingers shaking, XX Tom rolls a cigarette, lights up and smokes nervously. Enter a soaking-wet man wearing green jacket with CHAMPION emblazoned in big letters on its back.
Champion stands with almost his entire back to the audience. He takes a drag off XX Tom’s cigarette, with his eyebrows furrowing he watches the fire. XX Tom watches the cigarette with a tinge of regret.
Champion is about to give the cigarette back to XX Tom. He is about to go | 711 back, back to fighting the fire, when an explosion booms out. And another and another. The entire horizon shines red.
Champion reconsiders his next move. XX Tom rolls up a new cigarette. Sorrowfully they both smoke on.
The Moon above them starts to burn.
Jeanne d’Arc au rivière du Styx
An ancient fishing boat in the midst of a black polythene river. The light beam illuminates the bow where an utterly beautiful young maiden stands, poling the boat, her fingers smeared with blood and shallow scars entirely crisscrossing her white, almost naked body. She pushes on. In the night- damp stern huddles a senile old man. Darkness squalls around, it is cold and weather generally usual for the underworld borderline. There is no doubt the girl is Charon while the old man is on his final pilgrimage. Still he cannot resist and gives the girl a slimy once-over. Froth bubbles and flows from his mouth. Charon does her best to overcome the loneliness by keeping silent but your hidden presence soon seduces her: “Folks, my cunt is freezing.” The old man takes advantage of the situation and he crawls closer. “This cold water makes me moldy, I’ve had the flu since I was born, and those never-ending slavers- they only corrode my skin off. I wish I had a clean white rag, warm food…” 712 | The old man touches her thighs and Charon tumbles down. Among her sobbings, the rockings of the boat and the affectionate sighs of the old man: “I would like…I want…a man…a young one… A living one.” The FRAME vanishes. The CRY remains. Bad Day
Darkened attic room full of pornographic shots. Windows covered with WANTED FOR CRIME posters, some of the faces crossed out. Overhead a wrecking ball broke through and took out a chunk of the roof. In the center of the room is the God, startled, running around, his halo shining with a dim scentless neon. The God bemoans: “Where I got dem wings?” Moaning and groping about the room, the God stumbles midst his hunnert’-year-old rusted fuck-junk. He is panting among the caved-in joists, he steps on the wreck of his wings. He is stumbling forth and back, back and forth, lurching about- blind simple. The wrecking ball swings back. “Where the hell dey are? Where dem wings are?”
From Ohnivá kola / Fiery Wheels (Prague: Vyrezly Ven, 2000). | 713 714 |
Photo: Virginia Schendler Revan Schendler Night Watchman
A production of Julius Caesar is in rehearsal. There are loose parallels with contemporary politics: tyrants overthrown by idealists are in turn overthrown by technocrats. The western director has received a generous grant from an organization that spreads democracy to travel across the collapsed empire. This month he is in a provincial mining city with 14 percent unemployment. He tells the actors through the interpreter that he is humbled to be working with them. Jesus and Mary, Cassius mumbles under his breath, arms crossed, I should be so humbled. The interpreter is an expatriate who has returned with some ambivalence to his native land. For protection he has brought his little dog and prepares | 715 special meals for her, to the amusement of the cast and crew. The interpreter prefers company to solitude, so he joins the actors in the pub. They tell jokes about cunts and gypsies, and occasionally he laughs. He doesn’t laugh at the fag jokes. Brutus, leader of the conspirators against Caesar, has not had a major role in some time. He starts drinking early in the morning and disappears into the theater’s labyrinth for a smoke after he’s finished a scene. Sometimes the stage manager joins him. Once or twice she lets him kiss her. Brutus’s main ally, Cassius, hates him and won’t follow the director’s blocking, so when Brutus turns to Cassius he’s not there. At the back of the theater, the night watchman laughs. He attends all the evening rehearsals and has learned some of the lines, which he recites to his wife in bed on his nights off. He is suspicious of Mark Anthony, who reminds him of a former boss. The night watchman retired after twenty-five years in the mines. It’s in his lungs. The abandoned mine shafts are collapsing. His daughter just received notice to evacuate her apartment before the street caves in. At forty-two, the night watchman has outlived many of his school friends, fellow miners. He thinks of them when he sees the bodies piled up on the stage at the end of the play. Every night he weeps for them. Souvenir Cards
A head of broccoli costs a day’s wages. Disposable razors arrive and all the beautiful hair of the unshaven women in the Metro vanishes in a few months. A male shrink in the women’s ward treating the growing number of suicides consults the topless calendar on his wall. The first multinational chain restaurant replaces a cafeteria that until last week served creamed spinach and tripe soup to a clientele whose great uncles fought in World War I for the empire and brought home to their sweethearts souvenir cards of Bosnian shepherds.
716 | Mother’s Teapot
Over the marigolds on prefabricated balconies that have hung suspended twenty years longer than intended, two women confer about husbands and horticulture, why prices are so high and the place overrun with foreigners, what their children, and their children’s children earn, what made the president quit, why the country will break apart.
The sweetness of their blame drifts down like jasmine through the rusted playground, as a neighbor, crossing from the bus stop with three kilos of mandarins— now we can buy them out of season, like they do in the west— sees in the stained cracks where the balconies abut the building those spreading from the handle of her mother’s porcelain teapot. | 717
I must visit her, she decides, the day’s moisture running down her thighs, free hand fumbling for the keys. Harvest
The lines for potatoes still stretch far beyond those for firm indigo plums (domestic ones, for a few weeks in the autumn): potatoes sell year round for five crowns a kilo. Plums are seventeen. Men and women hasten into the four o’clock dusk bearing fifty or a hundred eggs on their outstretched arms. Now with just a table, a small industrial scale, kilo weights, a crossroads, perhaps a wagon, or a friend’s car, you can start a modest business. 718 | Those in line discuss new forms of enterprise, old recipes, potatoes roasted, boiled, or fried. Potato soup, with caraway and eggs. A man stands with a half-week’s supply at the end of each arm, staring with one wandering eye at whatever it is, a touch above the seller’s shoulder, in the space beyond that crane. A woman approaching the stalls observes him at the median, pausing for the traffic to pass. How much older he seems in just a few years. Did he once say he loved potatoes? The ones beneath her sink are full of eyes.
First published in Salmagundi. Return
They lived at the source of the river and they’d been there so long maybe soon they would’ve started marrying their brothers and sisters.
There wasn’t enough work so they’d go to nearby fields, or the other side of the river, and they’d meet strangers.
I was afraid to go out. Even for a walk.
They heard there’d be cheap housing here—all those people expelled after the war— and a job in the porcelain mine. | 719
Everyone would look at me like it was a disgrace.
So they moved everything, their livestock, wagons with all their furniture, and they moved in to the empty houses. But it wasn’t like they said it would be.
I couldn’t go anywhere, I thought they’d say,
Look at her, she’s alone. I’d never been anywhere alone.
I was born on the way here. There wasn’t much land but we had a greenhouse and plum trees. Never had a cow, but goats, and geese, lots of geese, because mama made duvets and all the relatives would come— she had four sisters— to pluck feathers together.
Never for a beer, or even a coffee, after the divorce.
Now I see young women out on their own.
They’d sell the duvets to get money for things like for sugar and shoes. And they couldn’t leave us at home so all us kids were there,
eating šišky with nuts or poppy seeds, and they’d always have tea with rum and we’d have sips.
It doesn’t bother them, 720 | but it was different for us.
We weren’t used to it, when a woman was out
on her own, men would think she was on the prowl.
People were closer back then, there was no TV.
Now I walk around, even have a beer by myself.
People are more for themselves now, They even burn plastic in their gardens. An Unobstructed View
Near the museum of the police a large bridge spans the valley, overlooking the red and green tiled roofs. In the valley is a gas station. The manager is divorced, sees his children once a month. Every eight or ten weeks someone, usually a woman, throws herself from the bridge onto the tram tracks below. When he sees a dark speck moving over the barbed wire, the manager of the gas station knows that the street will be closed for some time. He shuts up shop and buys a bottle of rum next door. Two blocks closer to the bridge live an elderly sister and brother with an unobstructed view of the bridge. He goes to visit them. They have lived there since before the bridge was built, and even tried to move after the first incident, when she became so agitated she stopped cooking and was tormented by dreams of their long dead mother. Her brother lost weight, filled out the necessary applications and stood in the necessary lines, but the waiting list for apartments was twenty years long, his sister’s depression lifted, and they decided this was as good a place to die as any. They have grown accustomed to the manager’s visits. Maybe he is even | 721 a friend. The sister has usually prepared poppy cakes or apple strudel, or if apricots or plums are in season, tarts, and she brings them to the window with a gentle flurry of self-deprecating hospitality. Since their nephews moved from the city and many of their friends have died, they don’t often entertain. The elderly man produces three glasses and a bottle for the missus. He has a tremor, and forgets sometimes. As he pours his sister the plum brandy, like Mother used to drink, some of it splashes onto the floor. They toast one another’s health. None of them remarks on the spill, which she will clean up later. And so five or six times a year the three of them sit at the window with an unobstructed view and talk about the latest neighborhood gossip, or about the army, or an engine the proprietor is rebuilding, even their fears of death. The elderly woman tries to keep her attention on the bridge. Their conversation, though unhurried, is absorbing, and the slivovice slows everything down. Even so, she doesn’t always see the woman fall. 722 | Theodore Schwinke God’s Holsteins
God’s holsteins are sifting across God’s pasture. Their teeth are audibly uprooting new plants and conjugating mouthfuls of chlorophyll and cell walls. Orchard grass, hairy vetch, fescue, Lamb’s-quarter; volunteer alfalfa, wild onions and wild carrots. All grazing is equal in the eyes of God’s cows: thistles melt on their hot tongues, transubstantiate into protein, into blood, into milk. God’s cows swallow all plants, entire | 723 acres of heaven and Earth and scattered manure. The herd leaves the earth as trim and raptured as Eden, oscillating across the hoof-pocked field. Hymns will praise God’s wisdom and his cows. The milk will be thick and smell like onions.
First published in Optimism Monthly 17 (January 1997). God’s Heifers
God’s heifers are the color of unwashed sheets after rain. They are slender like primary teeth and brushed with butter-colored flags poured over their withers. Their hocks are narrow and sour. They are bawling to Heaven, they are crying for milk, making a sound like the calves of Pompeii, ankle deep in mud. God has weaned them and driven them into the pasture, but they do not drink water. They do not lie down. God brings them grain and bales of fescue. He scatters the books of hay like seeds of hay, but the heifers do not understand the language of God: when he drums the feed bucket on the trough, or slams the tailgate of his pickup, or sings out the cattle call of God, the heifers do not move, entertaining thoughts of thunder.
724 | First published in Optimism Monthly 17 (January 1997). God’s Cow
God’s cow got out last night, bellowing for the calf she lost, stillborn, in the pasture. She has returned to the place where she calved. God’s coyotes ran off with the sweet placenta. God dragged the calf to a distant ditch.
God’s cow is dying of milk fever, colostrum jetting from her chapped udder, marbled with streaks where the afterbirth swung, pendulum-like, a while before it unfisted the uterine walls and sank to earth. God’s flies feed on the smear.
God’s cow is perfumed with calving, with blood, with fever and escaping milk. She raises her curdling nostrils above these scents and catches the hooks of the calf’s smell, chained to that of God. | 725 So He Threw it in the Air
She holds a language in her mouth like bricks, or bricks of blackbirds: partially dissembled. Unglued, unflown pins and talons ruffle like bridges down; unpainted beak on tartan bricks, unfixed.
Pebbles unstreamed for the thirsty maw, the pitch of the caw. The mortar of migratory feathers blown south, or south in loose clattering gowns of block and hollow bone, drizzled and slick
with spoken sounds unfinished. Wing tips lick and crunch in her mouthbarrow; tip and frown into air, clatter coldly like wingbeats, crowns or coalsmoke. Tethered. Grounded. Consonants thick
in ditchside pyramids, capless stacks unhitched 726 | from flight or context. Brickbird blackened town careening with stone claw, crashing eye unknown in native tongues, in mud feather sharp and seasick.
But mainly bricks understand her partial language, dissembled and flocking like blackbirds mad, famished.
First published in Optimism Monthly 15 (October 1996). Heaven Buys Us Drinks
When we ran out of the real stuff, we took pseudoephedrine. It makes you bullet-proof. Leonard Bernstein would have killed for a night like this. The city is slicked back and sweet as Vitalis as we get out of the car. We’ll walk into downtown on Sixteenth. We’re a walking tango, the three of us. There’s me. There’s Colin. And then there’s Jason. We’re Ocean’s Eleven meets Charlie’s Angels. The street is pure profit, free and clear. It’s a fingersnap, like James Dean’s neck. Like the open hand of a preacher man on Patsy Cline’s face. She’s standing under the marquis of an old theater, in blue. The last of the rain is dripping off the broken letters and spreading through her soaked dress. Her song is running through the gutters, carrying bits of trash. Some- one hit her good. The bruise is elegant. We can still hear the car peeling away. We walk too fast and overtake some skatepunks. They shake us down for cigarettes and small change. “Can you spare a couple of bucks so we can get fucked up?” We give them smokes and let them know money is not a toy. The girls, Cinderella and Angelspit, give us presents. They carry plastic | 727 lunchboxes and very long knives. Angelspit gives me the number three. “From a church sign,” she explains. Colin gets a superball. Cinderella gives Jason a quiche. “I found it,” she says. We move on. My three is the size of a long-barrelled Smith & Wesson. like something Dirty Harry would pack. It’s a magic number, I’m told, so I try it out. I use it to demobilize a Buick. I take the square-root of a cat’s lives. Works like a charm. I cube the night. We’ve got all the time in the world. The quiche is warm and riddled with salmonella. “It’s a crying shame,” Jason says. “Kids are starving in Baja.” We stop at a FedEx drop and he slides it in. “Quiche to Baja!” he intones. We reply, “Quiche to Baja!” Colin’s girlfriend just terminated a pregnancy, An hour ago. He needs a drink, We amble into The Purple Martini like someone else owns the place. His name is Pepe. He’s Algerian. He doesn’t like me so much ever since he heard I was smoking hash in the liquor room with his girlfriend. Her name’s Jill, but we call her Melisande. We renamed all the waitresses, Marie was Inga. Tracy was Cloë, Racquel. Mi-Ling. Erika. Xanne. We had a problem with the one who became Colin’s girl. “What’s her name?” I asked, “Serendipity, in a black dress,” said Jason. “Heaven,” Colin said. It stuck. Heaven is the one who tells me Melisande has a thing for me. “But don’t talk to her now,” she advises. “Pepe just slapped her around a little in the back. Wait until he’s gone.” Pepe comes out of the back and rolls down his sleeves. We get our drinks. A Purple Martini is a gin martini with a drop each of blue curaçao and cherry sloe gin. It’s a nice drink, but a little fruity. So is Jason. Colin drinks a Watney’s Cream from the bottle. It’s the only beer aside from Stag he’ll drink. You can take the boy out of the trailer park. I’ve got a scotch old-fashioned. I can’t afford the good stuff, and I can’t stand the taste of the cheap stuff, so I dress it up. The sizzle in my head is slowing to a hum, so I take some more ephedrine. I’ve lost count, but of what, I’m not sure. On the television is a Godzilla movie. It’s one of them he’s the good guy in. The bad mutant or some empirical sonsofbitches have got him tied down in orange netting, like the kind you find around construction sights. His eyes start closing slowly and you can see the humiliation in him. I’m always amazed at how much emotion they can bring up with that clunky monster suit. Whoever’s inside is one hell of an actor. Maybe it’s Karl Malden. I start to get choked up, so I take a long drink of my old-fashioned while my eyes dry up, but I find that the lump in my throat is the tablets I forgot to swallow. Jason’s got his back to the bar and is watching a couple in the booth behind us. They’re from out of town. Probably somewhere east. They’re both drinking Budweiser from long-necks and peeling the labels like they’ve walked out of pop radio. “What are they saying?” I ask. “She wants to know 728 | if he’s having a good time. He says he is. He asks if she is. She says, yes, she is. He doesn’t believe her. She says no really. Does he like this place. He says it’s alright. What does she think.” A man in a priest’s get-up comes in with a small wicker basket. “Care to make a donation?” he asks everyone. Everyone says no and he shuffles to the next, muttering a blue streak. The surface of the bar is stainless-steel and spotted with irregular bumps. They remind me of be-bop. Colin thinks they are pimples and he’s trying to pop one. He’s really upset, I can tell. There’s a kind of goat that faints when it gets scared. We watched a show on Nova once where all these goats were in a goat corral and somebody blew up a paper sack full of air and popped it. All the goats fainted. Colin’s kind of like that sometimes. I feel like Godzilla wrapped up in orange webbing. But Godzilla never goes down for the count. He just has to get in touch with his own mortality. It’s like they say about Jesus, how God needed to make a sacrifice. But it goes back further than that. Sir James Frazier writes about it in The Golden Bough. The myth of the dying god. The ephedrine is holding a conference with my old-fashioned. They’re coming up with a plan that’s going to save us all. Jason is still watching the Punch’n’Judy show behind us. “She wants to know if he’s still mad. He says he isn’t. Then why doesn’t he look at her like he used to. Why is he always looking around. He says he feels funny. She asks why. He says it’s something about the music here. She says it’s John Zorn. He says it doesn’t sound right and why they can’t play something else is beyond him.” Colin drinks slow when he’s upset. I order another old- fashioned and tell the bartender to use the same glass. I hate wasting good fruit. Colin says he doesn’t want another. “I wish I had some weed,” he says, working at the steel pimple with his fingernails. He sells cosmetics uptown at The Body Shop, so you’d think he’d know better than to try to pop a pimple like that. It only makes it look worse and you run the risk of infection. They’ve got something for that. It’s called a Tea Tree Oil Blemish Stick. Colin stole one for me and I use it all the time. Colin got the job at The Body Shop by accident. He was looking for work after the garage he had been at got closed down by the DMV. He should have used the yellow pages. But it turns out he’s a natural. Gives the best facials and does the best makeovers. He’s got the sales record for the past four weeks. “But it’s not music he says. You’re too closed-minded she says. He isn’t either. He knows what he likes and it doesn’t sound like a rabbit caught in an escalator. It’s the sound of the city she says. It’s the sound of the collective subconscious, of the over-soul. He’ll make her make the sound of the collective subconscious here in a minute if she’s not careful.” The rain is starting up again outside, serious this time. It’s stripping the paint off the walls; big flaps of it are falling in the street like the wings of pterodactyls. Patsy Cline is still walking, still singing. The rain is starting to | 729 tear the dress from her shoulders. A car follows her slowly. Melisande goes home for the evening, tucked under Pepe’s arm. Heaven will close the place tonight, which is good. Heaven buys us drinks. “Why’d you do it?” Colin asks Heaven.
First published in Optimism Monthly 19: the backwards issue (May 1997). There’s No Love Like the Love of a Piano Player in a Whorehouse
There’s no love, there’s no love, there’s no love like the love of a piano player in a whorehouse, I always say. Look at me twice and if you’ve seen the like, you’re either a liar or someone else. Most people are. But then, look at me. Wasn’t it me the other night carried home the one-legged kid? So unimpressed by his only troubles, so many i’s to dot and t’s to cross. What makes a troupe of hooligans pick on a body, I’ll never know. And this one not even a whole body. Nevertheless there they were, poking at him with his own prosthesis. No, I can’t tolerate that kind of monkeyshingles, even less the forced abduction of limbs, the arm-twisting betrayal of a child’s body parts, aluminum or otherwise. Lucky me and my glass eye, I thought as the shenanikids mottled off down the street, showing up in the cones of street lights like a positive test. I shudder to think. That could have been me but for the grace of grace. This is the story I didn’t tell the whimperless man-cub as I picked him up 730 | off the pavement. He held together a little better than a newspaper might have in the same circumstances, that I’ll grant him. Oh, that he knew his address is a fine thing worthy of a congressional medal of honor. The story I didn’t tell him was this: Me oh my and my glass eye, we’re like this. It’s done me good service, looking at what not I don’t want to see but needs be seen. With my glass eye, I can witness what I can’t bear to look at, let the perpetrators know they’ve been spotted. My glass eye has purportedly halted three rapes, one mugging, umpteen unauthorized coffee refills, x incidents of self abuse and infidelity to the nth power. But I didn’t tell only-a-child this, of course. What I told Little Lord Hopalong was that memory was a thing tobe served hot with cream. “When you want to recall a thing, sahib,” I said, “you need to picture that thing. That picture brings the idea home to the little sepia farmhouse of your head, ruby slippers and all. “Take a statue. It’s a breadbox full of memory. You see Aphrodite bubbling up, all pearlesque and curlique, and you’ve got more than mere steak and potatoes. You’ve got the whole notion of Saturday turning into Sunday, Christ on the back of the prima materia, teeter-tottering into Jerusalem. And that, my littlerajneesh , is what makes the butter butter the butter bread.” My little logos and I took our time in the slick fizzle of street lights and radials. Don’t tell me I don’t recall the precise angle of air that night, thick with the perfume of city sweat and the audible peacock feathers of the street lamps. Don’t tell me I didn’t ponder like a cowpoke. “So when you see a graven image,” I continued, “that powdery rock does a thing in your head whether you know the words or not. Statues are pointing out things with their petrified eyes, keeping watch, oiling the clocks. Every statue is maintaining a certain sanity on the otherwise universe, making sure that one thing leads to another. Comprende?” Would you know that little sack of syrup and bones didn’t make a peep? He just kept nodding along, as I could see by the shadows of him and me in the wet street. Of course, my glass eye kept tabs on everything I couldn’t— which is a good thing, you’ll be happy to admit. Chances are, the lama on my shoulder was emitting the light of eternity. And here I missed it, but I’m still talking sense. I set him down in his daddy’s arms and made myself useful in the labor of coffee cups and the rubbing of hands over an electric space heater. That man’s hands were all stiff with gratitude. I tried to warm them with mine several times but, in the end, I had to go and empty my pockets of all the You’re welcome’s and Glad I could help’s that someone in my position accumulates. I.e. a piano player in a whorehouse. There’s no love. There’s no love.
| 731 732 | Patrick Seguin Kitten’s gone to London
Kitten’s gone to London. We’re all bored here, reading the side panels of cereal boxes. There was once something quite interesting in the air, way back in the day. Boys wrote love poetry to their pet salamanders and the girls carved vicious haiku into the latrine walls. The mirror is still kind. Kitten’s gone to London. Kitten’s gone to London. She said she always wanted to fall in love in a foreign country. I felt something like tiny claws strolling along the linoleum floors and up the skyscraper walls. There was silence. There is silence, even more now, since Kitten’s gone to London. Rent some flicks | 733 and eat and drink and breathe. It’s all so absent these days. We try and sit in church, end up thinking about whether or not we’re getting enough calcium and iron. Come to think of it, I have been feeling rather brittle lately. Friends call, talk, hang up the phone. Kitten’s gone to London. A new bar opened in the market, they play the latest hits there, and Kitten’s gone to London. Fucking hell, what I wouldn’t do for the right words. Just keep, that’s all, just keep. Maybe that’s not enough, more likely that’s too much. Kitten’s gone to London. Now the boys paint portraits of dogs and the girls have switched venues: their vicious haiku is carved into the flesh of boys instead of the walls of latrines. Kitten’s gone to London and she is never coming back again. I will not follow. two sheets
got home and he kicked off the guilt trip revved up and justified scratched the gut, the crotch, the cheek and chin cold, it was so goddamn cold and the cheque was in the mail but a lot of good that does when it should be in yr. hands
spaghetti mouth and onion eyes she was 40-proof going on ancient tired, so tired of looking at her and the goddamn tv, but there was no need to get into it 734 | the silence said it all and happily ever after was something your mother once fed you he would say if he weren’t two sheets going on three the purpose you hunt
the purpose you hunt without shame corrodes thought processes and circuits I could have seen this coming from all the highs & lows of our lives you follow it in empty streets it whispers new languages into yr veins at times you show it off like a trophy wife only to have it rob you blind after it sends you off to work a destination you construct without direction leads to hives of thugs & brides who could care less about your in-significance who can’t even trust themselves you’ll marry one and desire the rest laid out to sleep – you sleep for the sole purpose of forgetting | 735 the paths you’ve taken tighten 736 | Bethany Shaffer Happy Household
I’m all out of sugar and O’Hara’s in the bathtub with a Coke, Corso’s pouring gasoline down my throat and I’m swallowing.
I can’t find the dustpan. The bunnies are growing in corners As Breton reminds me of The Great Transparencies, “Maybe the bunnies are also a myth,” he says, Leaving imaginary cracker crumbs on the carpet.
The light’s gone out again | 737 And Blake’s in the backyard searching for combustible trees. Clare’s playing Aeolian Harp for Lucy Dancing in a pansy field While Samuel muses in a lime-tree bower, Nightingales tenderly singing nearby And no one knows where Wordsworth’s gone.
My cupboard’s empty but Pound’s demanding tea For the Bel Esprit, “We can’t save Tom without proper provisions” He insists, “the old man’s blind and consumed with epic.”
Meat is rotting on the cutting board But Ginsberg’s at the supermarket with Whitman again Playing in the produce aisle, I can’t get anything done.
All I want is a proper household, A five-year plan And band aids for my fingers.
All I want is a remedy for this mess. All I get are ghosts. Geometrics
Their bodies work the geometry A certain distance from gallery— A spoon, a horseshoe, a Rorschach print— What do you see now? A butterfly? A vagina? Your mother? Through a shared magnifying lens the gallery matches his rhythms with an undulating infinity, weaving in and out of her axis And hers -a bent parabola, touching the x only briefly before extending back within the reaches of her outer quadrants, the arrows of her curve shooting fast and infinite, away Two halves of a Venn diagram. A textbook case study of a stretching comparative. Shape and color give them away Turn this ankle here, that elbow there, 738 | Measure if you can, doctors, his robust spheres and disks, can the width of your lens even attempt to capture the perimeter of that thigh? That torso trunk doused in gold, rippling like a gladiator fresh with sweat from a recent conquest, His kill set B, Curved away, her top half a right angle, They are now a Rorschach pinecone, Be delicate with these measurements men, This one could break, Just peer through that translucent skin, It’s not a far view to the bones, Her alabaster angles jab at A’s solidity, The properties in C are forced, a stretch by the effort of A, but even his sanguine shading can’t paint over her inconsistencies, her running parabola, however weak denies any revelation of a formula. You see sirs, a plus and a minus always make a negative, Your studies will soon realize the limitations of our science. The Swans of the Vltava
In winter night uncovers itself with a sweep of 5 o’clock dusk, And the tourists scatter to the fluorescent lighting of restaurants and cafés. This is the time for the swans, Tripling their numbers on the Vltava, Proving that the multitude of beauty hides from dabbling eyes.
Seifert would’ve been pleased To know that the mascot of his great, filthy river Appear in greatest quantities To the fishermen Who line the cobblestone banks.
| 739 740 |
Photo: Martina Tesařová Joe Sherman
Day of the Burnt Toast
“Exactly twenty-nine years ago today, Roger, was the day that Gerhardt explained his vision to me. I knew nothing about Plato then, but I had always been optimistic. At least until I’d fallen in love with the count.” “What count?” “Juliet didn’t tell you about Count Zborowski?” “No, not that I recall. But my mind was fuzzy that morning.” Fingertips planted lightly on her cheekbones, eyes bright and excited, Elena said, “Count Lech Zborowski was a cad, a brute at times, and a charmer. | 741 But I loved him. I’ve loved all the men in my life. But I’ve never had another die as needlessly as Zboro. Nor benefited so much from their passing. “I was so naive in those days, Roger. I was swept off my feet by a foreign accent and an old Bugatti. I’d moved to Europe after 1967, you see. I left San Francisco after the summer of love and moved to London, then further east: Amsterdam, Copenhagen, Berlin. Zboro, Count Zborowski, lived in Berlin and he knew how to push E’s buttons. Oh, did he ever. And so many of them were just aching to be pushed. We were right out of a bad novel. The night I met the reprobate, he took me for a ride on empty East German roads at breakneck speed in his beautiful old car, a Bugatti with its pathetic little headlights and loud roar. After that, we were inseparable and insufferable. We were together for nine months, mostly in West Berlin, when Karol Wojtyla became the new Pope. Zborowski woke me from sleep one early afternoon and announced we were going to Krakow immediately. Wojtyla used to preach in the Zborowski family cathedral there, so a huge family celebration was called for. “Zboro had connections, papers. He went back and forth through the Iron Curtain like it was a revolving door emblazoned with the Zborowski coat of arms. So we threw some things in the car and off we roared, top down, of course, in the rain. But he drove so fast the windscreen took care of most of it. “We got to Krakow a day later and everything turned absurd. All that had been done was so Polish. A thousand, two thousand, bottles of vodka, had been bought. Everybody was a Zborowski, or a close relative, or something. And everybody had bottles of vodka in their hands. They were shooting vodka. I drank considerably more than I do now, so I tried to keep up. Forget it. You do not keep up with a bunch of Pollacks when the competition involves alcohol. Especially if you’re a thirty-four-year old dilettante. “Viva la papa!” I remember them shouting over and over, shot after shot, my head reeling. Then Zboro had an acute urinary attention event.” “No,” said Roger. “Yes,” said Elena. “The third night of our binge in the name of Christ, he suddenly couldn’t urinate. Jesus, what idiots we were! I had no idea what was going on. Zboro was bellowing and screaming, pounding the wall in the office of a physician friend. This friend of his, this quack, wouldn’t take Zboro to the hospital because it was staffed with Communist flunkies. He only located a catheter after I begged and begged him to do something besides keeping Zboro in a hot bath spiked with turpentine, assuring me it was an old folk remedy. This man had taken the Hippocratic Oath, Roger; he had certificates on the wall. He drank vodka and sang songs into his stethoscope as he inserted the catheter into Zboro’s penis, or tried to. It broke off. A catheter broke off 742 | in my lover’s penis because this doctor of stupidity was so clumsy, so inept, so drunk and callous about his dying friend that he had gotten the thing, antique, glass, out of a museum. It all happened like that.” Elena tried to snap her fingers, but they wouldn’t make a sound because she had just wiped her eyes with them. “I really…I really get sick remembering it so clearly. This was supposed to be a celebration, Roger. Pope John Paul was adored in Krakow. The Zborowski’s loved him, they loved Lech, they would have done anything to save him. I know they would have. “I so lost it over the catheter and the quack doctor that I managed to shoot an entire bottle of vodka, right there, in the office. I woke up with the worst hangover in my life and Zborowski was dead. His friend’s medical skills killed him, assisted by my neglect. Uremia, poisoned kidneys, systems failure, it was horrible. I was a wreck, Roger, let me tell you. A wealthy wreck, as it turned out. Zboro left me a small fortune and his villa in Brno. Lost and numb, I couldn’t return to Berlin. So I went to Brno with Ludek, our chauffeur, a Czech who had served the Zborowski family since he was a boy, in a big old Trabant sedan. The villa saved my life. I met Gerhardt there, in that romantic, derelict dwelling overlooking a hillside forest. And there, as fate would have it, with Olga, we started the Walnut Klub.” Hands flat on her desk, blue veins pumping, Elena gazed into the air of the room like she could see through it into the distant past. Suddenly at a loss for words, she remembered her greatest love: his melancholy face, his frail body, his soft voice, the way he would touch her ear and senda current throughout her body. She remembered how Gerhardt had drawn parallels between his once robust health and its collapse, and the collapse of seemingly indestructible empires. How he saw an alternative vision of empire, one in which men such as himself—ill, in pain, vulnerable, old— would not be banished to Siberia but honored with a series of clubs, clubs that would admit women as well. His vision had flourished like a hot house rose in the glassy confines of Communism, a rose seeded by Plato’s Politics, which imagined a world where the regeneration of people as they aged was the norm, not a fantasy. In Plato’s world, which Gerhardt had explained patiently to her, the older you became, the younger you were until, facing death, you were a child in a loose skin suit, ready to return to your basic nature, which was joyful, sexual, and erotic. “Is there more?” Roger asked, snapping Elena back into the present. “Oh dear, excuse me. Yes, there’s more. Lots more.” “If you’re not up to telling it today, we can continue tomorrow.” “No, today’s the day, Roger. Just give me another few moments.” Elena clasped her hands, centered herself and continued. “See, Gerhardt was Lech Zborowski’s antithesis. Physically frail, he was kind and slow and tender. He asked me what I thought, and gave me space to express it. The morning I’m alluding to, the morning twenty-nine years ago, | 743 was when we truly met. I’d seen him before, one of the bunch of dissidents that came to the villa most Sundays, kicked tires, and bitched about the Communists. But I’d never talked to him. “We’d only been in Brno for ten months or so. I was just thirty-five, living illegally with Ludek, who took few pains to conceal his activities from the authorities. But that Sunday, as the others complained about women and the Moravian weather in the garage, Gerhardt made his way upstairs, leaned on his cane and confided to me that he was not really a dissident, buta philosopher. And he thought it would be more fruitful to talk to a young woman than to the men below. “Well, I didn’t have a toaster in the villa. Only a large griddle. I usually stacked sliced rye beside it, the burner on, so that Ludek, Petr, Andreas, Gerhardt, all the regulars who came on Sundays, could toss a slice or two on the griddle. Usually they’d hang out in the kitchen, making sure the toast didn’t burn. Well, this morning, Gerhardt and I got so engrossed in talk after I put some toast on for him that we wandered out to the balcony and his toast burst into flames.” Elena laughed or shrieked—it was impossible to separate the sounds, a combination of joy and terror. “You should have seen him run, Roger! Off the balcony, through the dining room, and into the kitchen, like an old wind-up doll knocking a cane against chairs and the wall. It was then, watching this man put two hundred percent of what he was into getting to that burnt toast, that I knew he had a lot of life left in him. And I decided I wanted to know him. I wanted to spend time with him. And I did. “He was witty. Older. I was confused. About life, about existence. I was pondering the big question, what are you going to do with your life. And here came this fifty-five year old man with a cane and I let him in. Even now, more than twenty years after his death, I can still feel the way he would traipse his fingers along the rim of my ear. Always the left one. It still sends tingles down my neck and along my jaw bone and into my heart. Gerhardt gave me such pleasure, Roger. Such pleasure as a woman can ever imagine.” Then she burst into tears, hands to her face. And sobbed with her entire body shaking, hair down on the desk, tears splashing. “I’ll stop in a second. I will. I’m so emotional these days. Please forgive me. It’s so unprofessional.” “That’s okay. I don’t mind. Don’t worry about it.” Peeking through the hair like a girl through vines in a jungle, Elena said, “I really don’t know what’s gotten into me. The club has always been able to weather storms. The question now is, can I?” Roger shifted around, shoved a hand through his hair. “I think you’ll do fine.” “Yes, I will, won’t I? Thank you, Roger, for reminding me of that.” 744 | Elena wiped her brilliant blue eyes with her knuckles, lifted her chin, pushed her thick grey and brown hair back over her shoulders and smiled beatifically. “Now, where was I? Yes, we shaped the Walnut Klub that very morning, the morning of the burnt toast. Not that I was a great help, though maybe I was. Gerhard always said that I was a better muse than a cook. Anyway, the idea was beautiful in its simplicity. Even I could understand it. Pleasurable feelings can counter biological deterioration. That was it. And we would explore how to make that happen.” Listening to Elena’s recollections, Roger had felt his own worries dissipate. Her story of the club’s beginnings was even better than the massage she had given him. He wished that Gerhardt was still alive, so he could meet him. He said, “So the Walnut Klub was the dream of a young woman and a dying older man?” “A very alive dying man. Amazing, isn’t it, that a wide-eyed young woman besotted by a dying older philosopher could, almost out of the blue, imagine men being rejuvenated as they grew older? Becoming more passionate, more fiery in their appetites, more concerned for their partners even as they faced imminent death. When it came time to die you would be at the very zenith of manhood. That was the idea, one borrowed, I discovered later, from Plato. But so what? One philosopher helps another. The dream of sexual pleasure and erotic fulfillment peaking at death is a powerful one, don’t you agree? Gerhardt said that if such a thing was possible, the whole planet would be at peace because men would not mind growing old. On the contrary they would long for it. The sensuous rewards of age would counter biological deterioration. Give death a lovely pillow.” What a wild idea, Roger thought. A world in which no one would be afraid of growing old. “Of course, it was, as you said, Roger, the dream of a dying man. A very alive dying man who died just the same. And, I’m sorry to report, his death was no fun. Only tears, sorrow, and great pain. “But long before that, before his death, our villa of disgruntled dissidents and romantic philosophers became a small medical pleasure club whose number one patient was Gerhardt Paessler himself. And whose shape came from the wonderfully sordid mind of a madam, a former flame of Ludek’s father who appeared out of nowhere. “Her name was Olga. She was the adoring grandmother of two lovely little girls who came to the villa with her every day. Olga would untie her scarf, send the girls out to play in what she always referred to as the ‘magic forest,’ request a beer, flop in one of the villa’s Morris chairs, and recall the harlotry of the tragic days and nights of World War II, when Brno had been swept clean of young man. Its Nazi-patrolled streets knew little gaiety, only the shuffle and cane click of war survivors. Such men, many of whom were old, needed a different kind of erotic care, Olga told me. And she educated me on how to provide it. She had provided it with a brothel run like a tight | 745 ship. A secretive ship whose true purpose was never revealed to the Nazis nor their successors, the Soviets. A purpose well suited to the club Gerhardt imagined, a club that eased the wounds of time. A club that loved sensuality, was sensitive to the vulnerabilities of age, preferred the touch of hands to the technologies and drugs so popular today and, I must add, so threatening to our club’s future. “What a character Olga was! Such a raconteur. She savored one Dragon after another, each served in a tall pilsner glass brought from the kitchen by a fawning Ludek on a silver tray embossed with the Zborowski coat of arms. We sat there in the Morris chairs of the dead count, drinking and dissecting the most intimate details of erotic pleasure and how they could be adapted for the old, the ill, the dying. All the while Olga sipped at the white cumulonimbus head, her lips entering a cloud, and occasionally laughed like sex and everything to do with it was God’s biggest joke on human kind.” “Whatever happened to Olga?” Roger asked. “She disappeared.” “That’s terrible.” “True. But it saved the Walnut Klub. Olga’s disappearance made us cautious. We limited membership then to eight or ten men. Some of them survived, and so did we.”
746 |
Photo: Gwendolyn Albert Phil Shoenfelt The Train of History … Derailed
the face of the screen-goddess splits wide open the audience in horror watching… TALKOVER: it is too late for self-hatred mercy-killing is the only solution —everyone runs for the door marked EXIT but already the cops have arrived stay in your seats says the chief everything is under control… but no one is listening the dream image has disappeared | 747 and in its place a mass of cold green slime oozes from the screen covering the spectators when I try to move I come up against some immovable object like a big black wall which is THE WORD and moved by the word into action into allegiance to the flag into each “magicked moment” into the room where the murderer sits waiting into my clothes each day into arbitrary distinctions between TRUTH and ILLUSION into your arms softly into the lens of a camera into acceptance of the Holy Trinity into judgements which cloud the issue into the muzzle of the waiting gun into the movie theatre from which the audience has now fled finally into silence…
two worlds converge mesh then fall apart— for once the tape self-destructs before the assassin receives his instructions for once the microphone stays switched on while the politician betrays himself on national TV for once the missing person is not found dead in the football stadium or in the woods at the edge of the town for once the flock of seagulls really is a nuclear strike and for once the button really is pressed for once we get through an entire evening without a single fight for once it is better to live without hope for once I can look into your eyes with a clear conscience 748 | for once there is no truth to the rumours of betrayal
Throughout the city crowds scatter as nationalist death squads swing into action In small dark ante-rooms the ministers say let us agree to differ and from now on we shall move in different circles Fresh outbreaks of killing occur as guards turn vicious under the stress of fixed ideas The “political” prisoners are sat on school chairs— photographed— blindfolded— tortured and raped— then dispatched with due care But now as we move along the escalators of some famous department store we notice it is Christmas we notice the children come to visit Santa Claus we notice how easy it is to forget in the middle of such innocence and rejoicing we notice that laws are being made and words spoken we notice and forget the promises we made to each other how SAD it makes us feel to know | 749 that bodies can be torn apart that bombs can explode from shopping bags left beneath the counters of department stores in cities across the world
“…and driving down the road one day we came across a cottage pretty as a postcard old stone walls nearly a metre thick red tiles on the roof and an overhanging tree. How lovely it would be to raise our children here away from the poverty and filth the violence and decay that all our major cities seem to be succumbing to today. And to think that just fifty miles away the war zones proliferate (on a clear day you can hear the big guns pounding) the slaughter of the innocents the revenge attacks and the malice: depressing and recurrent themes of the television news each night. And those soldiers look like Rambo with their Malboros and bandanas cinematic fantasies of death and glory inform their every move. Don’t they know that this is real that the mayhem and death will not disappear at the end of the reel? Thank God 750 | we are safe here and all our friends too the economic facts of life are the best guarantee that the war will not spread across the border…”
as our bodies touch as skin erupts as eyelids peel away the night from the day as the room explodes in silence as roses bloom from my fingers as my head like a dark theatre overflows with dancers reeling as the assassin’s bullet finds its mark as the slaughtered child lies among the broken toys as the image of the slaughtered child is taken up and used by the state propaganda machine… how long can it last this fear of death this feeling of confinement? each day a staggering from one moment to the next each stain on the carpet a measure of despair
(as the contours of the room bend into a cell as the light begins to fade as the TV screen implodes as someone screams from the floor | 751 above as the record skips a groove as the door slams as the verb becomes a noun as the tree sheds its leaves as the hand becomes a fist as the voice becomes a tone as the act becomes a gesture as you bend your face ever closer to the floor I am not there but neither am I here I stare into darkness and darkness fills me like a wound the memory of your touch still burns me I am mountains of absence each day I disappear completely all thought of THE ETERNAL is laughable
layers close around me like a nightmare of suffocation images of hate 752 | bleeding deep into my brain information selected received and processed for mass consumption words merge into patterns of belief a pale logic of acceptance
To name the unnameable To speak the unspeakable To believe the unbelievable To refute the irrefutable
“In the name of Freedom all crimes shall be forgiven” “Repression feeds the engines of revolt”
(in an act of gross defiance the police chief sticks a flower up his arse) here in the theatre of impossible dreams where pornographic torture films play seven days a week
From The Green Hotel/Zelený Hotel (Prague: Mat’a Books, 1998).
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Jenny Smith & Gregory Linington, 1999. Jenny Smith from Egon for Ten Voices
III Egon is in an orange shirt, being missed by arrows Arms flung up. Because of Mexico he is standing In the ceasefire he will still be standing. There are singing and unsinging canaries Coalbins are filled with coal Egon can be seen in the pasture with his wild arms He is thinking of the things trains carry. He is thinking of the message that will be sent to his red-haired wife | 755 when he is discovered in this sepia murder of a field broken by the stalks of new wheat
IV Egon is stumbling home in bluing and rags. On his way he sees a hallway The hallway is singing in Greek Egon, like a soldier, investigates.
Once home, Egon begins to paint a picture of an anemone Its fingers are bay leaves. He applies a coat of brine and a coat of brine blue. He traces in lead. He carves his name into the anemone with a lead pencil.
The painting is finished. Egon goes to bed forgetting to wash his hands. When he wakes up, there are yellow handprints all over his wife and the sheets. V Egon is thin as a hinge Fences circle his houses and his streets. Fences circle his hands. His ribs circle nothing.
His ribs scrape against his shirt quiet as rust, starch white.
The wind will break the fences. Apples will fall into Egon’s yard which is feathery from chickens which are pecking… The wind has already broken some of the fences.
This red wind will turn Egon’s hair shark white, and his house ash white and his breath will scrape like a branch when he breaks the apple boxes for tinder.
756 | The insects are deafening.
A wild old man tells Egon, “You are half-blind. You have already painted everything…
VI The room is empty of everything but Egon, a shoebox of photographs, and a tar-covered shovel and a ladder.
Egon is sorting the photographs into two stacks-one that makes him cry and the other that doesn’t.
All pictures of the sea go into the first stack.
Don’t feel sorry for Egon. His eyes are all right, he is a little old, he has his meals delivered. VII Egon is having problems with his birds. He ties pans to a string, but the wind is still. He’s out of hay, so he fills a man with corn and that doesn’t work.
Turning up the radio helps not at all.
He could, he supposes, plant strange plants that would frighten the birds.
But he knows that any plant that would frighten a bird would also frighten him.
He tried a while to paint each stalk.
Then he saw the shadows of the birds | 757 sleeping on his windowsill. He went outside with a candle and saw the birds were sleeping with green beaks and yellow beaks and purple spots under their eyes.
“The last straw,” the next morning’s Egon chanted, “the last straw.”
VIII Egon has just exited the yard. The grass is springing back up from where his feet hit. Something near the saw moves.
Egon has left his hoe here. The hose drips. There is no dew.
Egon needs three more hedges to make a fence to keep the goats out. A goat is sniffing Egon’s hoe.
A woman’s shoe falls from the top of a tree.
Egon posthumously returns for his hoe.
X Egon is paying very careful attention to the bees. He is standing ankle-deep in a puddle, the water is seeping into his socks, and Egon is concentrating on the bees. It is very very late in the summer.
The bees visit thistles. Egon is staring at the little accurate machines of the bees, whose hearts are stuck to their stingers. 758 | The bees dip their faces into snapdragons.
Egon turns his wedding ring around and around on his finger . Egon wonders where the hive is.
XI My Egon wanders through the forest without anyone knowing. He doesn’t believe in moths. He doesn’t believe in the branches he can only half-see. He doesn’t believe that his own hair is as shoe-polish black as the trees.
The forest is as quiet as Tennessee.
Egon is saying, “It is possible to plant so much corn that even the crows won’t touch it. It is possible to paint your door such a black shade of red that visitors won’t be able to knock. It is possible to broadcast so much seed that nothing will grow, the roots will just knot up.” He can stand here in the forest and hear the unscientific sound of the weeds. Dogs barking. Children tricked by the light, unable to find their houses.
The schools are open. The churches are open. The sky is as black as black milk.
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Photo: Lacey (Eckl) McCormick Donna Stonecipher
Album
Anything seen through an arch is instantly picturesque. Why keep hoping things will speak for themselves, without your aid? The small wish for a tableau. The sunset might well bear you off on its pulleys of delight, the buildings are still strewn vacantly around the square. But you know what to frame. You know how to count. Arch flowing into arch flowing into arch, and through the last arch, what was dumb will speak. After all, it is the halos that tell us who the saints are. Rows of poplars: somewhere, a river, and workers bathing. Won’t it all be laid out for you in sequence in the end, what has truly | 761 fallen into your frame? And everything else, the ungroomed land, the dead tea-roses, the body moving out of the shot. Who wouldn’t be sentimental, given half the chance. The Reservoir
(1) Everyone’s obsessed with their own story. I was thinking about how her beautiful singing voice sits useless in her body like a folded bird as she goes about her day, arranging the implements in her bag, tightening her shoestrap. (how much of a letter is a self-portrait) Some secrets bear occasional telling. Others build jealously like storms, and when a day dawns wet and cups its moistness, all kinds of lesions are possible. In the white sky, a lesion of violet.
(2) The bee is more afraid of you than you of it, my father said. I am so tired of speaking, of the gears and levers to adjust and pedals asking for my feet and hands. If steam comes out my ears it is just the engine of the what- to-say overheating again. (to impress upon you the insignia of my distress) We are drawn to each other like sinners to cathedrals. Words come in many 762 | varieties of confession, but if you come too clean there is a danger of ending up empty.
(3) Cleanliness polishes American bodies to the smoothness of products. Not to be vulgar, but skin soaks up or reflects the wearer’s “inner beauty” the way that meadows tell too much about the weather—sometimes spoiling our picnic. (please, do not meet me outside the confessional) Ants stitch their black embroidery on the nectarines and the strawberries and the French bread, they do not mind ruining our plans, our afternoon.
(4) When the bee finally stung I was sipping in the blur of honeysuckle vines at dusk. My parents were not at home. The only word for bee Mme. Shakibniya knew was “mosquito” and she lay me down and gave me rock-candy from the jar in her kitchen. (I am telling you the truth as I see it—do I see it) My eye was fat the next day for school pictures. An American photographer, he called me “Peaches.” So for one night a mosquito conferred a sting. Misunderstanding I’d say has a venom it doesn’t know itself to possess. (5) In conversation, some words are dead-ends and others aqueducts. The flow must be regulated. Keep some water for the reservoir. Never spend it. (the heart is many-storied) Loose-lipped, I sometimes poured secrets into whatever vessel. From vessel to vessel, a burden displaced. I was anxious to tell my version of the story of what the world has done to me—but you must be careful how many times you ask to be rescued.
(6) Because confession is ruled by ecstasy and not forthrightness, which anyone can verify: the face rapt with the flowing forth of all that—houses swept downriver, walls separating from roofs—was held in place by gravity and the reliable open-and-shut of day. Of all that loves the body like disease. (of my passion whom can I convince) The willing ear held aloft like a lantern in the dark garden guides the confessor forth, the confessor who has become a seeker of the one shining thing buried in a puzzle of dark leaves.
(7) One’s own story fascinates such that others are only echoes. Where an aspect | 763 mirrors an aspect, where something I want to do or be you have done or are and then you reach me, you become part of my story. (the reservoir placid through the seasons, may save us) The cynic is speaking. She has seen the cycles of attraction and disillusion whirling through the charged expanse— thanks to sentences and their trestles, vaunting what in certain light appear to be bridges. Cantilever
(1) If grey clouds staining the night sky mean the firmament is in need of a cleaning, what does that say about the amour-propre of my mind? And if the iron wheels of the iron tram make a sound of guttural grief as they grind into meandering tracks,
(2) I’m talking about nighttime. Too much has been made of the “corporality” of silence—if I can cut it with a knife, why can’t I caress it. The guessed-at curve in the dark fathom of the bowl—and besides there is the clock ticking its teeth in the next room. Its face is choked with hour hands
(3) The books lie gentle around my room like circumstantial leaves. In November, the leaves’ ginger rust was seared in leaf-shapes onto sidewalks after rain. I 764 | followed the path once to see if the universe does beckon gingerly. Histrionics under the bridge require a river
(4) The darkness is closing ranks. The first little staircase of notes floats tentatively through emptied streets. Certain kinds of glass shatter quietly. The morning- glory was tightening its frail Victrolas around the tender new shoot. I repeat myself: the tender new shoot. I repeat myself:
(5) You can walk for miles before discovering what it was you really wanted to see. You can talk for hours before you realize you won’t say it. When balconies all over this city come raining down around us, I will ask, Is surrender enough? And what I’m really asking of course is
(6) It only dawned on me later, how at the magic show it was only the women’s hands that shot up to be sliced in half. His lovely assistant shimmered: fruition. It’s said the fox hunt is necessary to keep the fox alive, but days keep frothing up magically as the snowy fur of (7) It’s not easy living next to a church in a medieval city. If you’re suspicious often enough, now and then your suspicions will bear little glittering fruit. “The way to look at abstract paintings,” a man told me once, “is to pretend you are lying down and looking up at the night sky.” I was very young of course. Now no one can tell me how or where or when or who
(8) The mist clouded the vista . . . . What was it I was not supposed to be seeing? I eyed every alley for egress, I beheld every portal for return. In this city as in any you can see the damnedest things. Each toll of the church bell striking nine was aimed at me, like an angel’s finger damning me quietly from within its frothy sleeve
(9) If I want the evening locked up in a stone and held for dear life by the tiny silver claws of a mounting, who will disengage me? The restaurant opens. And at other times, in a landlocked place, I miss the sea so much I am the | 765 sailor in whose eyes the mistral churns. A forest of spires ought to be taken lying down
(10) Equal parts desire and yoke. Equal parts gossamer and dirt. This evening the city is strung with girls held aloft on balconies like half-notes floating over the cages of their staves. And now I begin making my way, on foot, to the river Silver Spoon
Du côté de chez Swann My grandfather was a barber, but he owned a full set of Proust. Do trees massed together consent to be called “forest” or is each tree chafing against the crowd—the ‘I’ voiced through the bird nestled reliably in its depths? In every bird’s chest sits a little mechanism chuffing out songs. I know the whole repertoire, chapter and verse. In the evening, I know the bittersweet of letting another speak through you.
A l’ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs Magnificent books not augured by his beginnings. Because my parents bought my sister a silver spoon in every country, I thought the word was “silvenir.” When the man I am in love with finally writes me a letter I fling all the objects from my room so it can glow untainted, enshrined on a pale shelf, and I its tear-stained penitent. Oh for a house with a honeycomb of rooms 766 | in which to slip each bit of proof my life has meant something to someone. Even if that someone is only me.
Le côté de Guermantes In other words, my grandfather wasn’t born with a “deep” book in his mouth. How much nicer it is to romanticize someone you’ve never known—how nice it is to romanticize. To know too much is to feel the portrait-gallery transmogrify into the shooting-gallery. The moon has a side it never shows us, and the romance of that is what I am after. The way the two sides of a spoon show you right-side-up or upside down.
Sodome et Gomorrhe No one else in the history of our family ever kept books. When the Music Hall was torn down to make room for a slim hotel, people came to buy a single finial, a bit of mirror, the escutcheon that framed a keyhole through which in the newer moon of this century a naive eye may have become wise. At Masada, we were each allowed to steal a small piece of rock. Even as we speak, deer are stepping gingerly as jewel-thieves among the dark masses of the trees. La Prisonnière The books left my grandmother’s house with my grandfather. Photographs fetishize. In every country, we let the souvenir stands bedazzle us, my brother chose a mug. A boot-shaped mug of glass, of course, in Italy. If windows are truly frozen, there are looks I have given the night sky that would have melted the dormer. In every house there is at least one girl with eyes of fire. In place of her heart a small box, when opened, incites a mechanical melody and a ballerina pirouetting in a stiff net skirt.
Albertine Disparue I never really knew my father, said my father. For he did something so deliciously bad he sweetened, sweetened the plot. And so a deer becomes venison. And so a grandfather becomes a romantic figure, a handsome barber with a set of magnificent books. Something we have too much or too little of, is culture. One house has rooms furred with books, while the house next door is smooth. Is culture in the blood? Is this thing between the moon and myself personal?
Le Temps retrouvé | 767 Though the barber learned to speak in a shack with a floor of earth, this is the great blind eye of America, and by the day he died he had read the collected works of Marcel Proust. In every country, I received a doll. For example, a Spanish dancer with castanets and a plastic mantilla. This was decided by powers high above me. Each Saturday for three years my parents courted the carpet-sellers in the bazaars, weighing, fingering, planning for the grand acquisition.
At the garage sale, my parents and aunts and uncles took turns making pleasantries and change from the tacklebox. The complete set of Proust fetched fifty cents. I was five. While I was packing in my little suitcase dolls from Egypt and Thailand, they were giving out “international” dolls at gas stations all across America. The Swiss miss if I recall was a smash hit. We left the country without any carpets. The dolls in their national costumes are straining their eyes through the dark of a cardboard morgue in my mother’s basement, even as we speak.
From The Reservoir (Atlanta: University of Georgia Press, 2002). 768 | Holly Tavel Ars Poetica
I. Violet first encounters the poem when, in pursuit of an errant shuttlecock, she nearly tramples upon it where it lies, curled into a tight ball beneath a dwarf rhododendron at the bottom of the garden. A dove-gray mass lightly furred and blurred, as if seen through a pair of smudged glasses, it pulses quietly under the rhododendron, in a little pile of leaves. Presuming it to have been dropped by someone, she glances about for signs of the poem’s owner, for the telltale leavings of an intruder in the garden, for footprints, for inky fingerprints, for a lingering echo she would | 769 follow to a gypsy caravan, or to the encampment of a wandering lunatic. A sunbeam creeps across the garden; sliding under the edge of the rhododendron, it just grazes the blurrily delineated edges of the poem. The poem recoils as if burned, though the sunbeam is quite pale and weak. The poem keens, sighs. It attempts a little dance, trying, Violet supposes, to gain her sympathy. She remains steadfast, arms folded. Supposing she had wanted a poem –which she had not—it certainly wouldn’t be this one, a cringing globule incapable of fending off the injurious advances of a weakly flickering sunbeam. Besides all that, where would she keep it? When, growing bolder, she extends one leg and lightly taps it with the toe of her shoe, the poem expels a fetid scent, accompanied by a soft aqueous burbling. (From a great blue distance: her brother Chadwick’s voice requesting, then imploring, the speedy return of the shuttlecock). A hard bean of revulsion lodges in Violet’s throat. While she is, to be sure, impressed by the poem’s stubborn insistence on corporeality, all the same she doubts whether she has ever come across a more disagreeable issuance. Tossing aside her racquet, she casts about for a spade with which to batter the ailing poem out of its misery. But! The poem, mustering its last bit of strength, scuttles off crablike towards the shelter of an ancient pear tree, and burrows down into the soft dirt there among the roots and toadstools, quite near to an old rusted pail she had filled with seashells two summers earlier. II. A month hence: the poem is spotted skulking around the garden, darting from its lair like a pursued animal, only to retreat just as suddenly into a latticework of shadows. Violet notes, with perfunctory attention, thatit seems to have made a miraculously speedy and thorough recovery. It has, in fact, grown quite large and solid, and has furthermore acquired a rumbling, plaintive, dark brown voice that, to Violet’s delicate, sensitive ear (or so it has been called by delicate, sensitive Mr. Voss, her bassoon teacher), possesses the particular tintinnabulation of a flock of translucent-winged fairies devouring a live bear. […] Violet is flying a kite in a local park, and here comes the poem, disguised as a wind; it dandles her kite for a time before tearing it quite to shreds. […] Violet, an avid philatelist, is placing an 1875 Black Jack into an album open on her lap when the poem comes humping up the walk bearing something on its back: discernible, upon closer inspection, as a large stack of hieroglyphs—cadged, no doubt, from the Egyptian wing of the History Museum. It is just like the poem, Violet thinks, to resort to such shady tactics: a thief in the night. 770 | […] On board a train, she glances up from her book to peer out the window (ransacked vegetation, dilapidated hamlet, bevy of dumbfounded cows, meadow, smokestack, shipyard, distant hill) and, lo, an incredible sight: the poem galumphing alongside, trying its best to keep up with the lumbering locomotive, signaling her with semaphore flags (yellow red, red yellow, yellow red, bright as summer beach parasols). The train speeds on ahead, and it occurs to her: she has forgotten to pack a toothbrush. A dry rattling against her ear. A buzzing. A fluttering of wings. She cannot help it, though: she feels tenderness towards the poem’s inchoate attempts at flight, its baby-bird curlicues, perched unsteadily on a branch of the pear tree.
IV. A dream: she has forgotten how to read and write. Primers mock her mercilessly, teachers castigate her, schoolyard whispers drift towards her in a soft breeze of opprobrium. Doctors are summoned,open your mouth and say ahhh, wring their hands, cluck their tongues, and declare a lost cause. There is nothing for it, she will have to go to work in the coal mines. Her belly swells, priests are summoned, wring their hands, cluck their tongues, and declare a lost cause. There is nothing for it, she will have to live as a scorned woman, selling rags to ragpickers. Violet cavewoman sits with caveman companion in cave stoking fire. She crawls through primordial ooze. And it is in this primitive, preverbal, presensical state that she finally understands the poem. But alas! When she awakens she has forgotten everything, breakfast (blueberry pancakes, strong black coffee, half a nectarine) is served on a china plate on the veranda, and Chaddy is there challenging her to a game of Tiddlywinks, cutthroat rules, winner take all.
V. The poet comes. Of course he does. She knew that he would; now that she thinks about it, it was only a matter of time. A silvery thread connects poem to poet, originating at the crown of the head or at the base of the spine; the poet has only to yank it gently to retrieve the poem, or, if the poem manages to slip free of the thread, snipping it with a prick of its teeth (Violet has so far only caught a glimpse of the teeth), the poet has only to retrace his steps in order to find it, has only to search the ocean floor or among the tops of trees, of course this may take years, or a lifetime; failing all else he may simply remove his hat, hold it upside down in front of him, and wait. Violet had expected him to be young and wan, handsome in a shipwrecked sort of way, thin certainly, a bit dusty perhaps, a sleepwalker spilling sleep from his pockets, all day long harassed by the voices of the dead asking for things (sandwiches, two-way radios, four-leaf clovers): a dazed, dazzled sort | 771 of person. Of course, she would fall in love with him—a snap of the fingers, a simple thing, like jumping off the top of the house—and together the two of them would tend the poem, tuck it into a warm bed at night, nourish it in whatever way one accomplishes such a thing (the poet declares a diet of wilted dandelions and sour mash; Violet rather thinks vats of summer wine, bricks of French cheese lugged in on wheelbarrows would do better; the poem, for its part, devours everything that is set before it). It will flourish, grow to an enormous size, it will frighten small children and animals until curiosity gets the better of them and they approach, tentatively, whiskers quivering, fingers outstretched (see, it won’t hurt you, Violet will say: she will be lying of course); it will pass through an extended rebellious phase, as all poems must, but come out the other end a responsible citizen of the world, will find gainful employment and, little by little, amass its wealth. Or! It will become an itinerant adventurer, turning up wherever anyone least expects it: in the Casbah, in the South Seas, appearing in newspapers, on television; or leading a rebellion in some shimmering mirage of a country, slicing through jungles, appearing to the baffled locals as a puff of steam on horseback, a cipher feasting on legend and myth, engendering new and complicated superstitions strictly adhered to by old women who lift their skirts to reveal entire villages of mud, thatch, straw, loinclothed natives, stacks of gold coins, market squares where old men hawk wood-carvings churned out for the tourist trade (a deposed king sitting with a goat upon his lap). At holidays and family gatherings the poem will make brief, swashbuckling appearances, busting down doors and shattering windows, swinging from the chandelier. Rumors will fly; gossip and hearsay will scatter after it like dropped rose petals. In time they—Violet and the poet—will see it less and less until one day, as they sit, old and fat and content, two damp marble pillars being slowly strangled by mosses and vines, in lawn chairs at the bottom of the garden, covered in lap robes and reading old movie magazines, they will see the poem one last time. They will wave to it as it sails over their heads, but the gods will only grant them a momentary reprieve: see how it disappears, pretending not to notice them, into a conveniently situated storm cloud. Violet and the poet cling to each other’s sodden bathrobes as the garden floats out to sea, upends, and begins to sink.
VI. Imagine, then, her crashing disappointment to find, beneath the smart bowler hat that casts its humped shadow onto a single peeling fencepost, an altogether different sort of gentleman, rather fat and harried, with soup stains on his tie and the pink hairy arms of a butcher. Her fantasy deflates with an audible hiss. The poet says nothing. Merely nods. Take it or leave it. 772 | He removes his hat and holds it upside down in front of him, and waits. From its tree branch, the poem swings to and fro. It waves the frayed end of its silver thread at the poet, taunting him. It unfurls itself and weaves itself among the branches. It shakes the tree violently, forcing them to duck the resulting cascade of overripe pears. It looks at the poet, then at Violet. The poet opens his mouth to say something, and—snap!—the poem drops into her arms, all fifty pounds of it. She reels backwards. The poem bounces from her arms and scuffles off towards the house. She sighs: she will never be rid of it now. She hopes the poet will excuse her, she must be off: the poem waits. Bending from the waist she chooses a round, soft, pale green, and only slightly bruised pear; then, straightening up and drawing back her arm, she lightly, and with perfect aim, tosses it into the poet’s waiting hat. All About the Swiss
We are, we don’t mind admitting, suspicious of the Swiss, of their promptitude and tidiness, their blue vistas full of sorrow and yearning, their snowcapped mountains, their ski lifts, their cantons crammed with chalets, their zithers and alpenhorns, their spotless white tablecloths snapped one-handed over carved oak tables. We have ample reason to believe that the Swiss are not what they seem. And yet: it is nigh impossible not to feel affection for the shiny pink knees of the Swiss, not to be thoroughly taken by the hearty can- do spirit of the Swiss, the dutiful, punctual Swiss, ever cheerful and obeisant; for is not Switzerland the very picture of a democratic idyll? Descensus Averno facilis est, say the Swiss, and who among us would dare dispute them? We would not turn down an opportunity to lick the chocolate from their eager fingertips. The Swiss perplex us in so many ways, yet always we return to them, to their mild and unassuming cheeses, their badges and emblems, their medallions glistening in morning sunlight. The Swiss would like nothing more than to be of service, jimmying your lock, popping your cork, unscrewing your rusty screws, whittling dowels at your behest (in a convenient array of | 773 diameters). The Swiss are light as air, collectively weighing no more than a medium- sized chaffinch, though considerably denser. Indeed, the power of flight once belonged to the Swiss, through the implementation of mechanical principles and engineering techniques recorded on ancient scrolls long ago secreted away in underground bunkers hidden beneath the charming cobblestone of Swiss boulevards. Switzerland, as a whole, has been carefully arranged for your pleasure and delight. The Swiss pride themselves on keeping it just so. Verily do the rocky slopes gleam, polished to a high sheen by tireless businessmen in smart Italian suits. O Switzerland, august realm of administrative promise, the tolling of the municipal bell rings diatonically, to favor you. We envy your comportment, the sturdiness of your bathyscaphe, your incremental inclinations up those mighty, unforgiving slopes. Zürich is the largest city in Switzerland, and is made entirely of pale yellow spires, half-open doors, and distant conversations borne away on plumes of smoke. Emerging from behind the scrim come the Swiss to smudge the virgin page; they step lightly into waiting taxicabs, clutching bank books and fresh new ledgers. From Alstadt and Wiedekon to Aussersihl and Riesbach, the plutocrats breathe a sigh of relief—the Swiss have run the numbers, plotted and graphed the empty territory. We run from the pavilion, through the soft green fields. Most Swiss nowadays speak Romansch or Italian or French or German; they have corrupted these languages irreparably, for which they are infinitely sorry. The real language of the Swiss, however, kept inside a golden locket by the bedstead of every Swiss man, woman and child, is a kind of birdsong linguistically related to that of the common alpine rock wren. This language has so far remained impenetrable to linguists, as the Swiss are disinclined to speak it except when alone among themselves. Indeed, the usually helpful and complacent Swiss will fix one with a withering gaze when asked about it, becoming strangely silent and withdrawn; or, at best, will shrug helplessly, then turn on a polished heel and flee. If you happen across a group of Swiss conversing under their breath in this strange and furtive tongue, please record, using the Fleger dual- mechanism model of syntactical analysis and computational phonology, as much as you can in a tiny notebook; should you later find yourself pursued through retreating moonlight by a relentlessly efficient regiment of the Swiss army in full ceremonial regalia, you can use this to bribe your way past the border guard. Deep in a foliate valley of the Bernese Oberland flows the sacred spring of Helveticus. The Swiss, making a walking tour of the area, do not linger long by its banks, stopping only to fill their canisters and canteens. Smiling 774 | down into the water’s invisible depths, they remove their shoes and lay their clothes neatly alongside a rock; then, retrieving pliers and tweezers and loupes from well-stocked knapsacks, they set about their work. As usual, they have thought of everything.
Opposite: Holly Tavel, “Untitled,” 2009. | 775 776 | Jeri Theriault Fox Heat (for Bara Spicaková, Prague 1999)
The girl who became a fox has red hair and wanted also to be an artist.
When they told her at The Institute of Fine Art that she had no talent for painting, she painted her bedroom windows black—
not because she disagreed | 777 with the man in the gray suit from the institute
not because she was depressed
not because her parents bought her beige and lavender paint.
The girl who is a fox painted her windows black
because foxes sleep in dark dens warmed by fox breath
because the blankets of foxes are other foxes
and when they curl themselves around the night there is no sound not no
or yes or maybe or you must understand.
She weaves pine and maple into her hair and makes her bed with stone and twigs.
She calls the spirit of other foxes. She kills chickens, eats them raw 778 | and paints the walls of her cave with their blood.
Trees grow near her bed, willow and oak mushrooming through the ceiling, surprising her parents.
The wind is just another fox dreaming fox dreams
in the dark cave of fox heat. | 779 780 |
Photo: Daniela Šafranková Alan Ward Thomas Dandelion (Scattered Reflections on Allen Ginsberg)
Fan the fruitcake flames, I’ve seen you in dreams: gray beard, by gray beard, by gray beard―Manson, Marx, and Whitman―avacado pinching, thigh tight dolphin squealing. I too got laid in Wichita! “Williams,” you said, “No ideas but in things. Puppy dog tails wagging. A speck of dust in the eternal carpet.” A bowl came my way and I passed it: you inhaled deep and coughed smoke- rings through round open mouth, through round open mouth, through round open mouth, tubercular and thick until I feared: My God I’ve killed him! Passed the bowl that killed the Pope of dope, the old | 781 gold mother of Moloch, famous for famous, fruitcake of fruitcakes―You could have narrated Moby Dick! Hambone vegetarian, King of May, freelicious doorstop, ticket to Cuba―an old leather boot with no laces and its tongue wagging out. Water boils, “Only in America!” Fruitcake for President! Legalize marijuana! Make Kindergarten More Fun! Circus in every home! Clown nose, white face, blood-red liver on a sliver plate.
Tip-toe, through the tulips, in the garden, high on Benzedrine … Today I planted a bathroom garden of marijuana in your honor; I’m gong to have to tear a hole in the ceiling to let the light in. And what moved me to do this? Your poems? Your challenge of the Law of Obscenity? Or the hours of anecdotes about you and your cast of misfit friends so much fun to tell? Or is it the idea that even a fruitcake can become an icon in America? Stories from the air and from the ass―I know more about your life than my own grandfather’s. With a jar of paste I could fashion your books into a chair; not for reading or sitting, but to stand on; a boost to see over the crowds of obstacle lips, naysayer noses and frigid loveless crustaceans; A launching pad into the sky of eternal canned peaches, whose brightness obscures their syrupy nature. What are you? Legend? Dead man? Puppy-dog tails in an eternal carpet? Last of the panda bears, dying rain forest, crabs on a beach, big toe prints in the sand―Your liver should be executed for character assassination! Yankee-Doodle Dandy for President of the Dead! A barn-red stage, a fruit and tie, a set of lungs that absorb critical farts and over-literary bad breath like sea breeze; the stage trembles under your heavy-toed ballet pom-pom line. You are the sixties with MTV, God’s denunciation of death, a trail of gray hair and ashes; Funny bone, tailbone, red dome of sky settles over your grave-head smiling; Gelatinous turds into the white noise of my brain like opium suppositories from Newt Gingrich’s private supply; Fat scarecrows in the dust with Peter Pan hats and chigger bites on their privates. Parody! Idiot-boxing! A satellite coming around for the millionth time! Things impossible to avoid.
How long can a liver last? Have you no spare? Or did you leave it at a bus stop in Harlem? Seventy years, I declare, is not enough! Where’s the warranty? Call the Maytag Repairman! 782 | When Monty Python knocked on your door with donor cards, were their demands outrageous? Did you say, “How can this be? There must be some mistake?” Did you ask them to come back later? Or did you throw wide the door and invite the white-coated butchers in with knives aflailing? Did it hurt? What were the last thoughts to enter your hipster sponge? Did you regret the mountains of liver-filtered dope? Or wish for one last bowl? Did you wish a replacement from outer space, a Buddhist-driven supertrain, a presidential pardon? Did you think, “Now it’s my turn not to be the griever? Now it’s other people’s turns to get asked the question, “What was he like?” Were you disappointed it was all over, or glad? Did you die in your sleep? Did it interrupt any good dreams? I’d like to know. Were you alone? Did you wish you’d done things differently? Did you consider the phrase “Thrown away lives”? Did you try and remember every place you’ve ever been? Trail of ashes, naked run with thick glasses and black sox, masturbating through clouds on the sunny side, baking Sunday cake, licking icing from fingers. Were you visited by a parade of sagging lobotomized mother-flesh? Cancer munched father-figure? Carl Solomon’s crazy soul flown, Jack at The Bulging Liver junkyard, Cassady’s ashes in a velvet bag? Did you join in at the front, sunflower scepter, parade through barefoot garbage, celebrate dancing? Did your shouts of “I am the King of May!” deny your shrunken old-man body and irreplaceable parts? Did you wish for a new pair of glasses, a trip to Amsterdam in the spring, a dope credit card with no limit, an exhilarating swim in the surf?
Where are you now? Have you seeped into the culture of the world? The path of my life? Were you on the Greyhound squirming in my seat, squealing, “Move to New York! Move to New York!” in my ear? By me on the 747, squeezing fists, red-cheeked with excitement, trying to act cool, mumbling, “I’m going to Prague. I’m going to Prague”? Were you the man who stood in the evening rowboat under the railroad bridge, catching fish in the gull-swirled sunset honey-storm, my first time on LSD? The man who removed the hooks, stroked their gills, kissed them on the mouth and tossed them back into the caustic black waters of the Vltava? Were you on Petřín in the misty rain, cherry blossom, acid-washed sheets of blood? Manson’s wolf-beard and your own Brillow-Pad in the bark of the budding brain-tree, saying, “been there, done that!” Were you there at the ruins when we left the girls below, climbed the rocks and stripped naked: seven posing Greek Adonai on amphitheater pedestals in summer fire-lit night? | 783 Ha! Silly question! We heard your flustered finger-chiming in open robes around the fire chanting, “La-di-dee. La-di-da. No ideas but in thingy dings. Thingy dingy dings, thingy dingy dongs. Ringy tiny things. Teeny weeny songs.” Was it mist from your lungs that lifted us down to the fire? Monarch butterflies, buttered angels on mindbreath wings and the flutter of“Oh my, Oh my!” Was that you trailing gray hair, jism and dandelion fuzz into the dark of trees budding with young green squeals?
Dead. Dead. Will you come back from the dead? Play ring-a-ring-a-rosy? Dance William Blake footprints in sun-baked circle sands shouting mantras of prepubescent rock’n’roll joy? Will you disappear down smoke-ring black-hole vortices to be crushed by infinite gravity into molecular pixie-dust? Will you wear Bermuda shorts, flip-flops and write poems when you are dead? Write better than when you were living? Wag your tail onthe beach? Will you fly over Wichita? Will you fly to meet me in Amsterdam? I’ll wait for you at the airport with a change of clothes, a new pair of glasses and a dope credit card with no limit. We’ll skip along the canals and make epic poems from little lost bits of thrown away lives. Ignoring Traffic Signs on the Genealogical Reel-to-Reel
On a neighborhood street near the edge of town, rubber belts and pulleys whine. Sunlight shines blue off the 220-volt, dyed-black hair of a woman in the window of a house with Baroque trim. She wears cellophane tape around her fingers. She taps them rhythmically, painfully, on the windowsill to the tune of prodigal snowflakes. Her early morning dreams were infiltrated by flocks of blackbirds that pecked tiny red holes in her fingers. Downstairs she passes through the dining room where logical tomes lie like insistent drunks on a large oak table. Their pages are moth-eaten parchment littered with engineering equations. Pressed somewhere between them is a grainy black-and-white headshot of a young man with a Hare Krishna haircut. The kitchen floor is littered with shredded onion skins, moldy lemon peels and empty yogurt containers. She wades knee-deep through the rubbish and takes a red leather leash from a hook on the wall by the door. In the corner 784 | she unhooks the latch to a silver cage and reaches in for her ferret. Outside, the sun is a thin yellow disk. On either side of the street rows of poplar trees waver like tissue paper in the breeze. Cars are glossy cut-outs from magazines. The ferret hops, arch-backed, down the steps in front of her. On the balcony overhead, two men in nylon jogging suits discuss Michelangelo’s David as they install her new satellite dish. One of them is going on about how he got the hands too big. This reminds the woman about her new thirty-two inch stereo TV, still in its cardboard crate. The crate is in the room where so long ago her son used to sleep. Her son, who was born with flippers for arms, stubs for legs and a face that glowed like an empty orbit.
In New York, a young man wearing a vest made from shards of green bottle-glass warns riders on the E train that books are molding in the public fountains. He propels himself along the floor of the car with an eight pound steel ball on a chain. Under his breath he mutters about the principle of inertia and the law of action and reaction. The stubs of his legs are raw to the quick. As he makes his way past knees and thighs, he measures trampled wads of gum with a broken ruler. He measures in inches and fractions of inches. He judges their compression in foot-pounds of force and records the results in a small notebook in neat, mechanical columns. In his back pocket are folded plans, drawn out in pencil, for a new, more efficient carburetor that mixes fuel with the blood of massacred ethnic populations. It is to be constructed from a silicon composite that contains a new kind of fibril matrix. The fibers are woven together in a pattern that came to him in a dream. Whenever he takes his visionary plans out and considers them, he thinks, Waste not, want not. In his shirt pocket are two brass finger-chimes from his Krishna days. They have extra-long flannel loops, specially fitted for his flipper hands. Whenever he imagines someone asking what he did after college, he sees himself pulling out the chimes and saying with a shrug, I was searching, you know. At night he sleeps in doorways and stairwells or crammed under theater seats where ushers can’t see him. He has dreams filled with naked fire- dancers, gypsy internment camps and tiny green spiders that descend curlicue playground slides. The spiders splash into sunset-tinted chrome reflections of his mother and father, neither of which he has seen for seven years.
In the low hills outside of town there is a man who’s jaw resembles that of a wolf. He has a basketball belly and lives in a shotgun shack by the side of a road. He stands with an aching back and stares at a piece of broken mirror | 785 propped on a plank against the wall. Light from a bare 40-watt bulb makes shadows in the wrinkles around his eyes. Once upon a time after he and his wife had retired from the ballet company, he rode his motorcycle with chrome mufflers to a desolate unguarded border crossing. He stood astride his bike and revved the engine. He tasted the wind. He wiped his forehead with a red bandanna and turned back. He left a stripe of burnt rubber and a melted plastic fork that fell from his lunch. When he got home he found a black Great Dane at his kitchen door courting his wife. She stood with her onion-breasts bared, and had drawn a green crossing- light between them with a ballpoint pen. Now, he is a lowly hired hand employed to mend the eternal lengths of a barbed-wire fence. A fence that finds its terminus only at the distant gates of the Empire State, which he thinks of as “owned by Jews.” His only company is a herd of cows that stoically chew their cud. His only workday joy is the upside-down music from the bells around their necks. What little money he makes goes to back payments on his long lost son’s student loans. He shakes some orange pills from a bottle for the pain in his back and pops them into his mouth. He sits down at an unvarnished table and opens a correspondence text with a green cover. He is studying to become a tree surgeon. His father’s face says from the piece of mirror on the plank, You must never cease to grow. Before bed, he closes the book and looks at the long unused ballet slippers that hang on a string from a rusty nail. Everything, he thinks, wears out sometime.
In the house with Baroque trim, the woman—still legally the man’s wife— dons her old ballet shoes, rises to her toes and dances listlessly among green and orange candles and jars of vitamins. As she lunges and pirouettes she tries desperately to ignore her mother’s lonely face, as it moves like a soap bubble, in the wall-sized practice mirror. Fumes from a nearby zinc smelter drift in through her window. At the conclusion of her dance she sinks, breathless, into an easy chair. She massages her calloused and bloody toes and thinks, It’s been a perfect division. Before bed she drinks a cool cup of Chinese tea that smells like mowed spring grass after rain. She dabs her fingers in streams of candle wax and thinks, It’s been a perfect blending.
During the night the man and woman share a dream. Two wooden sailing ships are being lifted up opposite sides of a mountain through a series of locks. One of the ships has pirate sails and whales imprisoned in its hull. The other is manned by sailors with red Celtic tattoos who are all asleep in the afternoon heat. At the top of the mountain a black stallion stands on a glacier, 786 | its eyes wild under a heavy gray sky.
In the morning the woman shoves her calloused toes into her house shoes and sweeps cactus bones and tiny green spiders from the dining room floor. Static comes from the new TV and the misaligned satellite dish. She turns up the volume until the entire house is filled with the hiss. The man scrapes prickly gray stubble from his chin with a dull, disposable razor, and sets out along the barbed wire fence to mail his correspondence lesson. He listens to the cowbell music and watches his boots kick through the tall dewy grass along the side of the road. The mailbox door is an ancient drawbridge, it rises shut like a castle under siege. In New York, Adam’s-appled vultures circle high above a spiral stone staircase that glistens with a fresh coat of blood. At the base of the stairs a legless man with flippers for hands lies, kicked, beaten and bleeding in the snow. A stray Irish setter dog sniffs the limp mound of dying flesh, and begins to run, whining, in circles. Green Life Hydrogen Fusion (A Meditation on the Diva and Her Clown)
She is an ebullient game of checkers, a cut-out painting, A naked mannequin with no arms. She is organized by numbers and turtledoves, Her lumbar vertebrae find Napoleon lost from a lack of conviction. In the nape of her neck, flags of every color are trapped in still life. When she arrives saxophones lose themselves in limestone caverns.
Her misused words are window bars and rusty pipes. She is the bane of language, a tortured catwalk, Vietnam love. Troubadours disguise themselves as sinister clowns and hide behind hills. Muslim men sit with saltshakers and margaritas in deck chairs. At the entrance to the Metro at five p.m.: Let the misty rain pray towards Mecca.
The court jester plays cards—the salt among condiments, the Holy Mother. He is drunk at 3 a.m. on a lost island among volcanic palm trees. | 787 He is a money clown, an irradiated tortoise in the arms of God. He hides in the Grand Canyon, in cracked eggs, in old men’s beards. His attaché case holds Easter Island in a virginal embrace. Under the clock he is stone-faced, a thing to be forgotten.
She is fifteen minutes late in a seaworthy canoe with a cranberry navel. She is a chump-maker, a stowaway, an incense cone. She is a rowboat, a five-minute eternity, A steady stream of sandalwood smoke. Her hair is a Jack-of-hearts tear-jerk reaction. Her sinuous column arrives at eleven o’clock sharp.
Jubilant onion domes drift away. Gallstone letter-openers ruffle the sheets. The pasty surgeon brings disturbing news: Young leaves, girl-talk, and referential light. He describes an African violet, synth music, a blue silk ribbon— Silk plain and simple, a silver cardiac scalpel.
Tumbleweeds change the tune of all Saints. The postman arrives to an untouched nipple. He’s had a flat tire; he’s run out of gas; There is dust in his Oklahoma heart. The arrested clock hands describe his red blood cells’ listless directive. His reflection is a pawn with red tufts of hair and grease paint.
The checkerboard is squares of corpuscular light, held in an eternal present. She bites her lip, makes a double jump and says, “King me.”
788 | | 789 790 |
Photo: Michaela Freeman Anthony Tognazzini 86 Things That Happened Between 2:35 and 2:38 This Afternoon While I Was Lying On My Bed Trying To Take a Nap
1) At 2:35 I lay down on my bed to take a quick nap. 2) The minute my head hit the pillow I started thinking about “achievement.” 3) Things were not right. The disorderliness of my one-room, sparely furnished, low rent apartment distracted me. 4) A large, black fly buzzed over the bed, then vibrated against the window screen. 5) The Buddhists say everything exists inside the mind but that’s ridiculous because I knew for a fact that the fly, which at that moment was roaring | 791 around the room like a hairy-legged jet plane—going zzzt to the desk, zzzt to the kitchen counter, zzzt to the ceiling above me—was not in my mind. My mind might have been quiet, calm and peaceful if not for the goddamn buzzing. 6) I sniffled some against the pillow and shut my eyes. Sometimes life exhausts me. Also, I was unemployed, and getting older. Why else a nap at 2:35 on a Tuesday afternoon? 7) My father, I felt fairly certain, would not be proud. 8) The fly settled on an old bowl of cereal. 9) I counted One Mississippi. 10) I looked at the window, scanned my desktop, glanced at the stereo until finally in the corner of the room on the ceiling I saw it: hairy as Kong and big as a 747. 10) The fly nose-dove from the ceiling, reconnoitering over my shoulders with a roar. 11) I turned on my side, annoyed—All I wanted was a nap. Are the simplest things most difficult to achieve? 12) I shifted the quilt, sniffing a rivulet of mucus. 13) Weird sounds were coming through the wall. Like every night Walter was next door, hobbling to his toaster oven. He’s old, and in worse shape even than me. 14) I followed the fly’s course with my eyes and watched it frizzle in circles near the refrigerator. 15) I imagined the words “Delta Airlines” written on its side. 16) I thought of my father, who was a jet plane pilot. 17) I remembered once, when I was about five, my father returned from a flight in the Philippines and gave me a carved wooden mask he’d bought there, saying, “Son, I just want you to know you’re going to die one day. Don’t worry about it too much now. But you should know that one day you’ll be dead for good and I just want you to be comfortable with that.” The night he gave me that mask, and every night since, I’ve lain awake wondering how soon I’d shuffle off this mortal coil. 18) I tried to envision, exactly, what a mortal coil might look like. 19) With my head on the cold, lumpy pillow I started to think how even thoughts are things that happen, how mental activity can constitute an event, how a thought is an occurrence that consumes time the same as washing dishes, for example, or building a garage. 20) I felt pleased with the postulation. 21) I saw myself recumbent upon the orange and brown quilt, thinking: a bed-prone idler, philosophical and relaxed. 22) The fly came back, loud as a lawnmower. 23) Not everything is in the mind, I thought. 24) If I had a sawed-off shotgun, I said to myself, I’d take care of his number. 25) Okay, I said, nap. 26) I tried to shut my eyes, but realized they were shut. 27) I remembered I’d shut them back when I’d tried to envision what a mortal coil might look like. 28) With deliberation, I began to breathe deeply. 29) In a half-hearted 792 | fashion, I started counting sheep. 30) I counted six sheep jumping over the Chrysler building. 31) The sun I envisioned was a dripping amber coin. 32) The sheep wore day-glo togas and sunglasses. 33) People were filing out of the Chrysler building in business suits, eating yogurt with long spoons. 34) My father was there, emerging from foggy dream visualization in a jacket and tie, wearing the Philippine death mask, saying, “Good to see you; son; good to see you’re still around.” My father told me I’d better do something with my life soon because I was going to die someday. “Start now,” he said. “Take my advice.” 35) I decided that to follow one’s father’s advice is suicidal. 36) I decided we all have our own footsteps to follow in. 38) Trouble was, I had to admit, I wasn’t doing much. Some thinking, sure, which passed the time, but that was the extent of it. 39) I rearranged the pillow beneath my head. 41) I told myself I should be out looking for a job. 40) Just then I heard what sounded like gasps leaking through the apartment wall. 41) When I lifted my head, the mucus rivulet made a break for my upper lip, 42) but I whipped it back with a sharp sniff. 43) The guy who lives next door, Walter, is seventy-five years old and until last week went to work everyday at the garage he opened in the ‘40s. Every evening for two years I watched him hobble down the hall in his grease-stained coveralls, wrenches and ratchet-clamps rattling his utility belt. When I asked him why he was retiring, he grunted. I thought: Wouldn’t it be awful if Walter really was dying over there? 44) I thought of him sitting alone, eating his heated up T.V. dinner—pepper steak and peach cobbler— watching reruns of game shows on television. What if he suddenly had a heart attack and is gasping out with no one to help him? I thought. Should I call an ambulance? 45) The fly made a great Dopplering arc past my ass. 46) I remembered how the last girl I’d dated told me how her father, a successful businessman, had died while driving to an out-of-town convention. He was supposed to be gone for a week, so no one knew anything was wrong until eight days later. “That’s terrible,” I’d said. “Well,” she’d said, “at least he’d done pretty well for himself up to that point.” That girl’s name was Marjorie. 47) Opening my eyes, I saw on the ceiling a familiar, diffuse crack on the verge of becoming two cracks. 48) I glanced at the clock and noticed it was 2:37. 49) I wondered: Is my clock slow? 50) I met Marjorie at the Laundromat while she was waiting for me to finish using the dryer. She helped me find my other sock. I noticed her black hair and glasses. She was skinny, and her chin went straight to her throat, but she folded her clothes so neatly that I was intrigued and asked her on a date, which was a disaster. Over dinner she asked me what I did, and the conversation went downhill from there. “I’m sure you’ll do something soon,” she said. When we kissed at the end of the night it made a sound like a cricket. “Will I see you again?” she asked. “Sure,” I said, “soon.” | 793 51) I experienced a pang like the bang of a garbage can lid. 52) The thought bubbled and popped in my mind: I am unlucky in love. 53) The Buddhists have not considered certain phenomena, I thought. The monks of Tibet, with their orange robes and bowls of rice, don’t have to worry about unemployment or Freudian-coded phobias of one’s father. Life is pushing on and I am going to die one day. Is loneliness only in the mind as well? 54) A quick sniff of the mucoid trickle. 55) The covers scraped stiff and itchy beneath me; the pillow bunched and shapeless as my day. 56) I closed my eyes to conjure sleep, but sleep, the idea and the actuality, was in another century. 57) Suddenly, with a deafening bzzzzt, the fly landed on my forehead. 58) Reaching my hand up to brush it away, I accidentally slapped myself in the eye. 59) The fly flew off. 60) My father always told me to take careful notice of flies because they existed, he said, to symbolize decay, to feed on the waste and excrement of our daily living, our garbage cans and piles of filth. That to be aware of them was to be aware of how death is always about us. “Death in the form of the wily black insect,” he explained, “scanning with its prismatic eye to find a death source to steal from, rubbing its crooked forelegs together in the manner of malicious scheming, wondering which refuse to suck up next.” Rushing off to work in the morning, adjusting his tie, my father would inevitably shout, “No flies on me!” At the dinner table, to show he was cultured, he would quote that Emily Dickinson poem “I heard a fly buzz.” 61) My eye stung nastily from the accidental slap. 62) I imagined Walter’s corpse next door, stiffening at his dinner table for weeks, undiscovered like Marjorie’s father in his car, turning colors. The body of Walter, slumped over his peach cobbler, the scotch tape on his Mercedes posters peeling from the wall. 63) I imagined a colony of flies burrowing through the wall, coming into my apartment through the crack in my ceiling. 64) I imagined hordes of flies swarming over the death mask of my father’s face, which is also my face. 65) I thought: I am not like him, despite the fact that I look, talk, walk, and act like him. 66) I shifted my weight and the bedsprings eked beneath me like an underworld. 67) The fly bzzzted to the windowsill. 68) In the then calming quiet of the room, I heard my stomach rumble. 69) There was a feeling in my belly I could only define as hunger. If Marjorie could see me now, would she feel disgust or pity? A hungry, unemployed man lying on his bed in the middle of the day in what she would call an unclean room? I would deny it—“It’s clean,” I’d say. “Then why is there a fly in it?” she’d ask. She’d probably say: “How can you lie there dreaming of decay? Don’t you see the death mask, hovering over your face, waiting to affix itself?” 70) I could see Marjorie’s eyes, studying me through her prismatic glasses. 794 | 71) Right there, on the orange and brown quilt, I felt a sudden rush of self- affirmation. 72) I decided I was not myself, despite the fact that I look, talk, walk and act like myself. 73) By not being myself, I am all the more myself!, I thought. Multi-dimensional and free! While one me seems to lie here, the other is solving problems! 74) This kind of logic occasionally makes sense. The realization made me feel immediately better. 75) Realizations are a type of work, I auto-didactized. I’ve been working the whole time I’ve been lying here. Time has been passing in a productive and positive manner! 76) It occurred to me I was so hungry I could eat the future. 77) I sat up on the bed and blew the rivulet of mucus from my nose into a clean Kleenex. 78) I made mental preparations for going into the kitchen to make myself a cheese sandwich. 79) Just then there was a knock at the door. 80) I imagined for a moment it might be the fly, asking if I would please let him out—a request I would be happy to accommodate. 81) I got off the bed and moved to the door with zest and alacrity. There were no flies on me! 82) When I opened the door I saw the stooped, crusty frame of Walter from next door, wearing his greasy overalls. He wanted to know if he could borrow some sugar. 83) I leapt forward and embraced him warmly. 84) The fly flew into the corridor with a sonicwhoosh , free at last. 85) “What the hell is your problem?” Walter croaked. 86) “Nothing,” I said. “Why?” Teresa’s Second Dream
This year, in a brightly lit living room, Teresa will stand up from the couch, smooth her silk pleated skirt, fluff hair with hands, check long dangling earrings, purse lips to a lipsticked pucker and cross to the door. Painted nails and a light summer blouse become her. She will have gotten up to answer the doorbell. Shrill ring of the doorbell in the brightly lit living room. Never, not once in her nineteen years of life, has Teresa been with a man. She’ll see the deep pillows on the divan. She’ll eye the brown shag carpet, considering. She’ll open the door. It’s a man. The man comes in and kisses her on the cheek in a socially acceptable way. They marry. They live together for many years, the chandelier in the living room elegantly tinkling, the toaster most modern. There will be a Mitsubishi in the two-car garage and a child named Maximillian whose grades in arithmetic are not up to par. Midwestern winters will be cold, mufflers and gloves will be required at all times. Occasionally they will turn on the television. They will see a show about a secret agent named Jack Yammer who can change himself into any manufactured metal at will. In this episode Jack Yammer is being chased by a gang of pimps through a downtown shopping | 795 district and turns himself into a ball of aluminum foil. They will turn the television off. The man and Teresa, Teresa and the man. White wine on the couch and desultory conversation will be the tenor of their evenings, after Max has been put to bed. One night they’ll be discussing first memories. The husband will tell Teresa the story of when he was four and playing with his mother on the living room carpet. Carried away by the sense of play, he’d reached up, grabbed hold of his mother’s shiny earrings and yanked them through her lobes. Blood, screams, handfuls of cotton. “That’s horrible,” Teresa will say. Suddenly, without warning, the man will reach up and pull the earrings out of Teresa’s ears. Blood, screams, handfuls of cotton in the brightly lit living room. Teresa will think how we can never really know that which we think we know. She’ll call the police, who’ll come and cart the husband away: raving, face tear-streaked, hands still clutching the gleaming earrings. Teresa will decide to take a short walk to think about the nature of things. The nature of things, by and large, is not so good, she thinks, fingering her shredded lobes. She’ll decide to move to Mexico with Max and get a job in an office. Her Spanish is pretty good, excepting irregular verbs. She will be happy there, planted in the noisy rush of the second world city—Buying dresses, eating sopapillas, sending faxes for her job at the office. In the late afternoons, she’ll lie down on the terrace of their hacienda and doze while Max goes to play with his amigos down the street. In the evenings they’ll watch television, action shows about banditos with hearts of gold. In one episode the banditos rob an orphanage, but decide, after some deliberation, to stay there and be counselors for a few months. Teresa will turn the television off and several years will pass. The bright, stirring blur of passing years. Max will grow a beard and enormous pectorals. Max will begin to deal narcotics and traffic in child pornography. When Teresa visits him in his filthy Mexican prison cell she’ll ask him, “How did this happen?” “What did you expect?” he’ll reply. The summers will be sticky. Teresa will be transferred to a neighboring firm with a new boss, a beady-eyed man named Jorge who obsessively shines his shoes all day. The smell of black Kiwi polish will pollute the small office. This will go on for months. Finally, Teresa will ask him to open a window. He’ll refuse, they’ll quarrel violently, and Teresa will accidentally stab him repeatedly with a letter opener. Then she will look at what she’s done in disgust and repent her misliving. She’ll flee to New York, her son Max a lost cause now. In a dismal one-room in Morningside Heights, Teresa will conclude that late- middle age is unkind. She will notice how her hair sticks up in strange ways, how her skin is pale and blotchy. She’ll notice dandruff littering the 796 | shoulders of her black jacket: White scattered flake-fall of dandruff on the black jacket. Several desperate years will pass in a parade of odd jobs and long walks. She’ll buy a kitten which, in her depression, she’ll name Misery. At the employment agency she will meet a 50-ish man with salt and pepper hair and green eyes. Very striking. She will eye his kind mouth, considering. They’ll sit on pillows in an Ethiopian restaurant, scraping up lentils with flat bread. The man will speak in a solid baritone and want to discuss first memories. Teresa will say she doesn’t think that is a very good idea. In the restaurant the television plays a made-for-television adaptation of an H.G. Wells story starring actors from a popular action series. The two talk about what they would do with a time machine. The man will clamor about going to the future, Teresa will disagree. She thinks, however, that she’d like to get to know this man, grow old with him, to stay together even when the recession has cost them both their jobs and they are forced to donate limbs to survive and will have to prop their amputated torsos up with a complicated system of wires and pulleys and smile at each other across the room. Wait, Teresa will think to herself, that’s horrible. Teresa will suddenly drop her chapati and rush from the restaurant, hailing a cab in the mean November street. She’ll hurry to her room and pack. She will buy a used car with the returned deposit of her apartment and, with Misery stuffed in a wicker basket, begin to drive west, robbing liquor stores along the way. Teresa will turn 52 in Kentucky and Kansas, living on Fritos and microwaved chilidogs. She’ll speed her red Chevy through cornfields, highways evaporating behind her. She’ll sit in a grease-spattered canvas of clothes, a moving utopian chilidog dream. State troopers will screech tires around swamp-logged back roads behind her. Misery will get bigger, sharpen her claws on the dash, shed yellow fur on the vinyl upholstery. In Laramie, Wyoming, Teresa will bury the gun beneath an oleander bush, change the color of her hair, sell the Nova and continue to hitchhike West. Between rides, she’ll pore over seminal Buddhist texts, ruminate on the nature of existence, change her cat’s name to Bodhisattva. “That’s a weird name for a cat,” truckers will say. She will waitress, she’ll swish brushes over dirty dishes; dry hands scrubbing fiercely in several different sinks. At 59, she’ll arrive in Oregon and get a job picking lemons. The air will be clean and Teresa will live on seeds and fresh spring water, lunching glorious and carefree in the green Western orchards. Willows will brush her untroubled face. She will close her eyes and dream about the vast immeasurable universe and all that is about to happen there, of the secret future spread before her that nothing, no matter how true, can undo.
| 797
Working Out with Kafka
One day Kafka was riding his bicycle over a bridge. Tires bumped softly along the old cobblestones. His insect-like ears sucked sound from the city. On the far side of the bridge, Kafka met his other self, also riding a bike. “Well, hello!” said the other Kafka. “Fine day for a ride, don’t you think?” The first Kafka—impervious, alert, and convinced this world was prison— made no noise at all and continued on his way. Jane and I at Home One Sunday
For starters, you see, there’s Jane and me. It’s a fact solid as a parked car, plain as a piece of bread, unshakable as your own skin though some facts are harder to remember than others. We stay home weekends. Every morning I look up to see our cardboard cut-out desk, paper forks and spoons, plastic shirts red, green, gray, and Jane in a dress. Our room is very small, especially when it rains. The clean light on the window is slapped away in gusts. It goes like this: We wake up in the morning and Jane says hello. I wait for a minute before saying, “Hello.” I try to stand up. Jane tries to stand up.
Ever seen a room too tiny to stand in, too small even to draw the blinds? The kind of place you spend all day picking lint from the bedspread? We’ve got it. We look out on the rain and stay mum. It’s a divided world where some people have it better, some worse. We leave well enough alone and drink our 798 | coffee. Jane’s eyes are flat. I don’t complain because I am a waiter. There’s a restaurant ten blocks from our house that serves chicken sandwiches and soup, and that’s where I work, waiting. In the afternoons I walk, put on an apron, pick up a tray, and wait. I bring pastramis and tossed salads while waiting. Thank you, I say, and enjoy yourself. I get so used to waiting that at home the habit is difficult to break. I wait while Jane is in the kitchen. Sometimes she’s gone for a few days and I stare intently at the telephone, expecting shrill rings to fill the room like a flock of injured birds. When Jane is here, I can’t even get up for coffee. I hear her in there dropping spoons, breaking cups. Flat Jane is a sharp coffeepot woman in the kitchen.
Jane wears dresses and gestures with her eyes. Green dresses, black eyes. While I wait, I take notes. At the desk in the notebook is me with my pen. I write everything down there. Happy birthday: wrote it down. We’re out of butter: wrote it down. Every page in the notebook is scratched out, inked over in X’s, cancelled for good. I imagine Jane asking what are you writing? Scribble, scratch. We’re lucky.
Jane was married once to a man named Arnold Metcalf Miller. He was an engineer in some capacity I don’t understand. It was recent. Better not to talk about it. Jane says she preferred him to me because he was consistent. “Don’t go back to him!” I beg. “I need you.” She says she doesn’t think she will. Besides, he beat her. You think you know trouble?
It’s the weekend and it’s raining for an ark outside. The roof of the house is getting crushed. Our room grows smaller and twice as humid. “Go for a walk?” I joke. “Don’t be an ass, my dress will get wet.” I wear a T-shirt. This is Jane and I at home.
At least it’s a good building with plumbing, we tell ourselves. Some people have worse. We try not to mention it. Our room is too small for even bugs to live there. We’d like to look for some, but who has time? Jane goes in the kitchen with a hairbrush, eyes like raisins. She squishes up her eyes when she looks in the mirror, wrinkles her nose. She’s interesting looking for a woman her age. I told her so once. We keep quiet. No one knocks except the landlord. Name of Fred Dominick with breath like living torture. He told us this was once a good neighborhood, one of the few affordable. We felt lucky. The grocery has pickles, milk, butter. The grocery has sacks of old potatoes. Up five flights we climb with bags. We call our landlord Sewermouth. Rent is $575 with a two-burner hotplate. “Did you pay Sewermouth this month?” I ask Jane. | 799 “No, I thought you were paying Sewermouth,” she says. Our conversations go on like this. What is there to do? The bugs all left because there was no room to crawl. Our bathroom mirror is in the kitchen.
While Jane makes the coffee, I wear undershirts, waiting. Dressy Jane, T- shirted me. “Don’t mention it,” she says. It’s Sunday. On some days the quiet is hurricane-like. There’s only breathing to be heard and the air gets stiff as cardboard. I know to leave well enough alone. In the kitchen, Jane drops a spoon. “For God’s sake!” I yell, “I’ve never heard such a racket! Jane lets out a little strangled laugh like a horse. She drops a drawerful of cutlery on the white tiled floor; it sounds like an exploding factory. She stands there and laughs, her face gleaming like a tooth. I run into the kitchen, screaming, “Get out of here with your factory!” I try to flex my skinny arms over Jane’s small horse laughs. Pony laughs. My undershirt is dirty. We stop to look at each other and our eyeballs lock and won’t come undone. We shiver a minute in the tension. As far as I can tell, Jane is upset. “Why?” she asks aloud. I wait expectantly. Rain pounds the house. For a minute Jane says nothing and then says, “Empty, empty.” “Bad as with Arnold Metcalf Miller?” I ask. She shakes her head. “Bad as with punches in the gut?” Jane unbuttons her dress to show off her shiny welts. There are dozens of brownish-blue contusions, puckered as puffed-up mouths. I avert my eyes. The bruises are the color of liver and shine like little signs. All this in the notebook. The letters bleed onto the page, big glaring X’s to show where I’ve been. I want so much to go outside. “Nothing’s perfect,” I say. She knows I’m right and begins to cry. “I’m no Mister Make Everything A-OK,” I admit. “I know, I know,” she sobs. Her raisin eyes squeeze water through thin flesh slits. I go back to the desk and sit. She knows, and I appreciate that. “Jane,” I say. She tells me she needs to go to the hospital. I jump up, appreciating the excuse. “Why?” I ask suddenly, “Appendicitis? Tonsillitis? Some-kind-of-itis?” A scream escapes Jane’s teeth. “Shhhhh,” I say, “the neighbors!” She knows as well as I our walls are made 800 | of balsa. The neighborhood’s old and feeble. Our quiet has kept our contract. Sewermouth thinks we’re good, happy kids. It’s nothing to mention. “Jane,” I say, “I’m going outside.” Jane screams shrill arrows. I sit fearfully to put on socks. Her dress is still around her waist, mealy chest spilling out all over. Of course, the telephone rings. Jane picks it up, yelling, “Who is it?” In one sock I watch Jane’s face go placid as jelly. She holds a hand over the receiver saying, “You know who it is.” “No, I don’t,” I say, not knowing. “Yes, yes you do,” she says. I say, “Who?” “It’s Arnold Metcalf Miller.” My stomach rolls like a grind mill. Of course. “What does he want?” I ask. “He says he loves me.” Jane’s voice is very small. I sit on the bed by the window while rain beats the house like a fist. “I’m in love with you,” I tell her. “I know you are but what am I,” she says. “I’m in love with you,” I say again. “I know you are but what am I?” Jane’s voice sounds like it’s coming from another century. I look down at my feet. My socks are not clean. “That’s better?” I ask. “You want with punches in the gut?” I make trick fists, holding up two string-limp arms. Jane’s face is dead as plaster; her hair hangs over in wiry loops. “Let me talk,” she says. “You want an engineer in a better neighborhood? If you want we can find a better house, you know.” She says for me to go for a walk, go down six blocks with the apron, tray and sandwiches, start waiting, and when I come back she’ll make toast. “Just hang up,” I say. “No,” she says, “toast.” I put on my shoes and go to the door. She yells at me to go to the store while I’m out. “Pickles and bread,” she says, “take an umbrella.” I walk outside and rest my skull on the door. I can hear her talking. Her murmurs sweep after me like the ghost of fingers.
In the street I feel worse. I am shivering T-shirted in the downpour and the streetlamps are snapped in half. Rain and tears get all mixed up. I open the umbrella whose fabric hangs in tatters from a bent metal frame. I decide to throw it away, only there are no garbage cans in sight. I imagine myself spending the day curled in a garbage can, tidy cylindrical mausoleum, burning T-shirt and jeans for fuel. Today had started off as Sunday. Who | 801 knew? Get a cab, I tell myself. I flap my arms and stagger in the rain, singing songs about taxis in a high, whirring voice. One hunches to the curb, its motor turning over. I duck in head-first with my streaming umbrella. The cab driver’s face is like a plate of eggs. “Just drive me around the city,” I say to him. He doesn’t respond. Again, “Just drive me around the city.” The cab driver only blinks slowly, his black moustache full as a mop. The inside of the cab is decorated with pinwheels and children’s drawings. I take hold of the driver’s head and shout my instructions in his ear. I continue shouting until I realize he is deaf. I sit back in the seat and say nothing. He accelerates away from the curb and begins driving me around the city.
Three hours pass. I take notes. The pinwheels in the cab turn and I compose writerly lines like, Whither goes the love-struck fool: a-field, a-far, to mossy, blackened depths, etc. “Ugh,” I say and scratch them out in my mind. I console myself with the thought of my job waiting, a good building with plumbing, Sewermouth’s affordable rent, love’s always ragged disequilibrium. “Better off than a lot,” I say. Buildings streak around us in the rain. It’s spring, only there are no flowers and the bare branches of trees close in on themselves like fans. You’ve heard of emptiness? I smile anyway, holding up the corners of my mouth with two fingers. When we get back to the building, Egg-Face tells me the fare is one thousand dollars. I get out my thin, floppy wallet. I remember that I have no money and hold up my hands in good-natured helplessness. I apologize. I dissemble. The driver laughs into his moustache. He smiles, nods and shakes my hand. I embrace him warmly, feeling a surge of immanent brotherhood. He gives me a pinwheel, I give him the warped, useless umbrella. We part the best of friends.
On the curb I see Sewermouth. His plastic slicker is red and blue; the rain makes mist on his thick bifocals. “Got the rent?” he asks. I tell him to come and knock tomorrow. I say, “Come and knock,” beaming. He thinks we’re good, happy kids. Better not to mention. “How’s the Mrs.?” he asks, friendly. I avert my nose. 802 | “Just fine,” I say. He thinks we’re married too. Tomorrow if he comes I’ll tell him the wife has the money and isn’t in at the moment. Little lies are okay. We’ll get it eventually and keep our quiet contract. Worry is my middle name. “Such good kids,” he bubbles, rotten-mouthed. “Well,” I add for good measure, “be seeing you.” “Be seeing you,” he says. I give him the pinwheel. We part the best of friends.
I climb the stairs of my building, searching for my keys. I know I put them in my pocket, only I cannot find my pocket. I am here in the hall imagining bare walls and no one responding to hello, thinking for starters there should be Jane and me. I fall through the door without groceries. “Hello?” I ask. In the kitchen I see a note saying I went to the hospital be back soon love jane. You can imagine encouraging? This could mean an end to the overtures of Arnold Metcalf Miller. I am thrilled to the point of confusion. In the bathroom/kitchen mirror there are large, dark circles under my eyes. Black caves, hollow holes. Need to sleep, I tell myself, throwing open cupboards. In the baking dish I put toast. The oven’s an inferno. I sling my wet T-shirt on a hook above the stove. When I go to the bed I try to straighten myself out but keep curling into a spring. I turn there, wiry and wound, trying to relax. The phone rings bloody murder. This is my job, listening and waiting. Have I brought the right thing? In my fingers and toes, anxiety blossoms like tiny flowers. I put it out of my mind. Rain crushes the roof so it comes down around me, cozy as an envelope. My brain is full of bric-a-brac: Hairs in the carpet, moments of impurity, living in a bad neighborhood—there are worse things. I think: Jane. The darkness has teeth. Shadows smother me to sleep.
Later, I hear her voice, not too distorted by whispers, say she is there. I see her in the room, standing, walls around her like a jacket. I sit up and say, “Hello.” Her breath cuts warm gullies in the air. I stay very silent. Finally I ask, “What about you know who?” We don’t have to say his name. Do we have to repeat everything? She says that’s nothing. “You’re staying?” She says, “Shhhhhh, the neighbors.” I say, “Shhhhhh, the neighbors.” We were right with each other. “What about the phone?” I ask. | 803 “Don’t answer.” “The hospital?” She unlatches her dress and shows me bandages. White gauze held in place by X’s of surgical tape. We gape. You think you’ve understood something after forever of trying to figure it out? We were lucky. The toast is done and the smell of brown bread paints a spell on the house. She comes to the bed in her undone dress and I hold her in my stringy arms like a piece of crumpled paper. We say love. We say need. We say we get the picture. “Do you promise?” I ask. “What?” “What?” I whisper for her to forget it, crossing out lines in my mind. Some things are better not to mention. The telephone rings and rings. We ignore it. We tell each other, then, it is safe to cry until we run out of tears, even if we never run out of tears. Our bodies crack like static in the growling dark. 804 |
Photo: Marek Tomin Lukáš Tomin Kye Too
When he dealt with his dreams, it was good. Kye sat next to me, hanging his head low, saying. When I dealt with my dreams, it was good. When I was becoming a preacher, for instance. Or later a priest. I had visions then, too. He had visions and they were not all of becoming. Even though mostly. Sometimes they were visions simply contemplated. Meditated rarely upon. | 805 Not enough patience. There seemed to be a life to live then, too. Up ahead. Smells and such. Sights. Touches. Even hearing a little though not much talent for. Mother said. Ah, mother. Mother was good to him. Mother was a woman. At first only she was that. Later of course and so on. Touches of a different kind. There seemed to be a life to live. Oh, yes. But father’s touches. Oh, no. Were not so pleasant. Portended what was to come. Portended death. And yet, oh boy, and yet. Love?
Dark was about to fall when Kye alighted from the hitched car that went on to the island of Anglesea, in the dark Welsh mountains of Snowdonia. The sun, surprisingly enough in those cloudy regions, set visibly. He turned his back upon it and went east, a direction long scorned. The path on the ground responded to the path on the map. A creek running from the nearby ridges bubbled a discreet welcome. Kye walked up against the stream, heavy with the burden of canned meats. Sheep on the valley slopes, mainly to the left. Also a couple of shepherds. Or perhaps a shepherd and a shepherdess, hard to tell in the increasing dusk. Kye had an irrational fear of dogs at the time, and was therefore more afraid of the sheepdogs than of the shepherds. Even though the shepherds hollered. Whether they hollered at Kye or at the sheep or at the dogs was hard to tell in the increasing dusk. To be on the safe side, Kye waved. At the dogs, the shepherds, the sheep. A waving from the shepherds came back and a barking from the dogs. Fear assuaged. Now possible to concentrate on the rocky path and on the tips of boots. Necessary to concentrate on the rocky path and on the tips of boots for the weight of the rucksack. Apart from the canned meats a sleeping bag and a tent and 806 | a book. And a torch to read the book in the dark. And a little gas stove to warm the meats on when no firewood in sight. The lack of it very probable heather being the only population of fixed growth in these parts. Also tea to warm for nightly vigils but tea was not heavy. Suddenly the path was no longer a path but a river of rocks. Boulders to climb. Necessary to use both hands now and to foot firmly. The valley ending. The stream was a trickle now visible only sporadically as it wedged its way back to its source. Kye was tired now, oblivious of the brightening stars and the obscuring sky. With a last effort he heaved up his upper body over a stone and his hands and his face and his neck felt moss. He lay like that, breathing hard, legs dangling in the air. Then, snakelike, he brought his lower body in line with his upper and lay there again, breathing hard, his hands and his face and his neck stung by gravel. He rolled over on one side, wriggled out of the straps. He lay again on his belly, breathing less hard, hearing his heart less. He doubled up like a muslim praying, not looking up. He knelt heels still touching bum ecumenically and saw walls of mountains rising sharp above him. He had arrived. Sitting in front of his flimsy tent he thought of possible storms. Blown off like a rag at night when powerless over pastures and towerless villages into the cold north-western sea. Perhaps somewhere off the coast of Anglesea his kind driver would fish him out. Warming his hands clutching a cup of hot tea Kye thought this would not be so bad. To be rescued. But then again no catastrophe yet in sight so hardly likely. He thought nevertheless that it would be nice to be rescued from this darkness. From this loneliness he had imposed on himself. From this fear. From this silence. The year was 1963. A year of killings. Like 1993 or 1994. Or any of the years in between. He plomped out of his mother’s belly and pissed on the Universe. Then he started to cry. Remembering his past he composed himself and fell asleep. Did he dream. Towards midday he woke up and looked at the cots around him. Not a single soul to talk to. Shutting his eyes again he reflected. Must this be? Then he started to cry. Remembering his past he composed himself and opened his eyes. It must? Still unsure he shat on it to add a concrete proof. The stench and the warmth told him it had to be. And the nurse’s spank and the nurse’s curse. Oh but the question why was high on the agenda. Oh but so low on the answers. In the past, he remembered, he had asked the same question. This question is low on answers, my boy, he was told then, by another mother. Don’t bother. Why, he said then, when I have to lie here and cry and piss and shit without a soul to talk to? Don’t bother, she said to him then and was kind to him and made him suck her breast. He was glad of this and didn’t bother for then. For the length of the sucking. And then when he’d sucked enough she told him you’ll see you’ll forget once you get out of here and have souls | 807 to talk to. Until you have to suck again. But maybe she didn’t tell him that last thing maybe he just knew when it started to suck. With the first changed nappies he began to lose lucidity. Independence of thought soon followed. He became a baby. Life as a baby wasn’t too bad. Judging at least from what they told him about it. Grinning mostly. Grinning with mummy mostly in the photos, with auntie, with grandma. Not grinning mostly with daddy, with grandpa. Grinning or not grinning by the sea, in the fields, in the woods. With or without other babies. When with other babies an embarrassed expression the norm. If not downright hostile. When for example a bucket of blueberries between him and the other. With the other with an out-stretched hand offering peace. Later he was a child, of course. The year was 1968. The grinning had stopped.
Kye is a retard, Christian said to Samuel, he can’t even speak Czech. This was when the tanks had ceased to be amusing. He’s an American retard and a hippy. This was when long hair had to be cut. This was when long hair became imperialist. And the teacher became our comrade. Long sandy beaches. Hawaii. Happiness in clean warm blue seas. Sharks behind reefs. Father away lecturing. Cute baby brother safe in pram. Playing Spadla lžička do kafíčka with beautiful young mother. /Spadla lžička do kafíčka, udělala žbluňk, is a Czech game involving mother and son holding hands, jumping up and down in shallow water, then suddenly squatting, thereby immersing themselves totally or almost. It can be great fun./ The envy of the shores. Then off to eat pistachio icecream. Then off to eat pineapple pizza. He was able to eat then no problem. Driving in a white impala off to eat all that. With mother beautiful at the wheel and with brother cute in his pram at the back. Life was no problem then and you didn’t have to wear any seatbelts either. You could just drive around like that smiling at people. Or you could pop over to the jungle for a while and impress people by swinging on the lianas. And you could have Hawaiian friends and you could have Italian American friends and you could have a black American nurse. Kye didn’t have a black American nurse but he knew he could have one if he’d wanted to. And you went to school and the teacher was called Mrs. Appau and it was fun and the teacher was not a comrade but she was almost a friend. And you could run around the class and paint pictures on the walls. Even if you couldn’t paint you could do it. And you could lie down on the floor and kick the air. And you could sing. He liked a girl called Sonia. But Sonia was the daughter of comrade deputy directress. On the way to lunch one day he sang her a song called Beautiful Lotty. Everybody laughed. Sonia turned purple and ran off to tell comrade 808 | mother. Sonia was blonde. Lotty in the song was black as boots. Perhaps that’s why. Kye cried. Grand Canyon. Kye cried in front on everyone and was laughed at. He was not tough. He ran from the classroom and from the school building into the park. He wished he was a dog. A little dog like the one with a loving mistress who would give him sweets. But he was just a little guy alone in the world and it was windy and dust got into his eyes and made him cry. And the loving mistress came up and shook him by the shoulders and kicked him in the ankle and told him he should be in school at this time of the day and not bother decent old folk like her with little dogs on walks at this hour of the day on the park can they never get any peace. And Kye ran from the mistress deep into the park and found a hollow tree and hid in it. Everything was huge and awesome, and golden and full of promise. The Colorado river was a trickle. Father was handsome in his white cowboy hat and in his denim jacket and in his denim trousers and in his boots. He carried mother from rock to rock. He was the perfect cowboy gentleman with the perfect cowboy lady. Mother had a lovely cowboy hat made of straw. Mother had long long hair that reached to her bum and shone in the sun. Mother didn’t have boots. Mother wore hippy jeans. She was not the perfect cowboy lady then, after all. But then father wore glasses. Did cowboys wear glasses I doubt it. Certainly not this shape. Kye didn’t wear glasses. But he wore a white cowboy hat like his father. He was the most perfect of them all. Sing a song in the hollow tree. Up by the entrance to the Grand Canyon National Monument other nationals danced behind bars. Feathered. These were the aboriginal peoples. These were the original inhabitants of the North American continent. People threw them money. Sing a sad one. Everything was huge and hot and awesome, and golden and full of promise. New York. Too young to remember much from that. The Empire State Building and ants down below. The Buffalo Bill restaurant and his birthday and father screaming for the cost. Or was that Frisco? No, Frisco was the Wooden Indian and the Wooden Sailor. And the cold wind and the new blue hooded windproof jacket he liked so much and was later ashamed of. And the black sand on the beach with Maldoror too close for comfort. Or was that. He was too young. Too young to sing a sad song in a hollow tree.
He left America in the tree, peeled her off snakelike, left her there to rot. He practised remembering his Czech and forgetting his English. He practised his accent, hardened it, udded the a’s and egged the e’s. Rolled the r’s like an opera singer, shortened everything, flattened everything. Changed his skin. Became a Pioneer. Red scarf round neck and Sonia in heart. Learned | 809 Russian. Was good at it. Began to charm comrade deputy directress. Comrade deputy directress was also the Russian teacher. At least as far as I could tell. Then. He spoke to her in Russian to charm her. To charm her to charm her daughter. It worked. Until. Until father the philosopher was proclaimed an imperialist agent and went to work at the turbines. Aristotle and Plato were imperialist agents. Father was an imperialist agent, too. Then Sonia stopped talking to him stopped seeing him stopped listening to his songs. Hey, Sonia, but I am a Red Pioneer, like you are. I wear a red scarf and I know Russian and I stand guard by the monuments to our glorious dead. Yeah, but your father is an imperialist agent. But Sonia. Mummy says so. And mummy knows. And mummy says we oughtn’t see each other any more. See? Father, why are you an imperialist agent? I mean I am a Red Pioneer, I wear a red scarf and a badge, see? Why do you work at the turbines, dad? Why do you read Aristotle and Plato when you work at the turbines, dad? Don’t hit me, dad. Are you a bad man, dad? I mean why do you have all those books in English and Greek and Latin, dad? Comrade deputy directress says that. And Sonia. Sonia is her daughter. I like Sonia very much. Don’t hit me. Why do you work at the turbines, dad? Why did we go to America? Where are you going, dad, say something, hit me. Dad. Father went out for a walk, banging shut the door behind him. He did that when he needed to calm his nerves, or to think. He did it several times a day. He did it in the night, too. He walked with hands clasped behind his back, leaning forward. With eyes firmly set on the path ahead he never looked around to see. With ears blocked by inner humming he never turned around to hear. With a frown that frightened children and disconcerted adults he ploughed his way to the river.
First published as a pamphlet in the x-poezie series (Prague, 1999); reprinted in the PLR 2.3 (May 2004).
810 | | 811
Lukáš Tomin reading at the launch of The Doll at Café Kandinsky, 15 June 1992. Photo: Jan Wűnsch 812 | Nicole Tomlinson Untitled [Gielard]
Gielard from Cardiff thinks God is left handed seems probable, yes for Gielard, singing piously his 38th psalm “thy right hand shall save me,” knows that his God knocks him leftways every time. And Gielard is singing, I’m a goat on a tether, | 813 travelling the blank circumference of my stake And Gielard is singing, my soul is like a little fish it moves behind glass, shitting in the water it breathes. And Gielard is singing, the orbit is internal and golden like the sun. And Gielard is singing, hold my hand, hold my hand hold my hand hold my hand hold my hand hold my hand hold my hand hold my hand hold my hand hold my hand hold me
First published in Semtext 6 (2000).
814 | Double A
Finally one has to admit a sort of truth In the way you put it all together I use a AA battery To hold My window Open don’t you hate A CONFESSION? I do Which sees itself within us A certain manner that is itself A cipher A mirror An unwelcome connectivity Charged with A putrefying signification What do you make of this | 815 fusion, A coincidence: because my eyes Open my everything in two The things which pass A A problem somewhere between rationality and Another thing Body Simulations
a single mote the suspension the fact of refraction and and there the sun for a moment slants the room this closed a restriction a tightness in the throat 5:15pm To the sun: I am a surface receptivity the field expands dilates an opening and 2) contracting a gravitational susceptibility a blunt circulation I am searching for signs of life despite the blood in my mouth I can see the air moves can open it up spit it out y = y∅ + v∅.t – 1/2 .g.t2 all things yield To force: I understand already final velocity the brute intractability of physics that describing a reddish arc descending a calculable speed across the beam a certain madness is implied in each particle the reflected glory of the sun
My passivity within being These events are more At the frontier When coming 816 | To the incarnate The true philosophy = apprehend The chiasm The visibility of my body To touch Dream. Are undeceived Were a good substitute for bread A few pieces Tell it from the white ice of the river channel. Such are the sources A single gentle rain enough. There may be nothing lofty Blasts of ages after that mistyeather w soon walked away This keeper remarked The greatest virtuosity Of course, A similar notion of transcendence Its three dimensions of ontology
But a harmful pleasure
The order-word does not only Refer It was far down Ultimately inside and outside cease to be discernible a mock contract a diastolic force passes an older flower In the mammalian heart Strictly arboreal Having stopped Acquires a bilateral symmetry and (b) The most noticeable point about this cleavage Cavity. Its roof a feature of all the first enters the blood transference from host to host there are no birds here I’ll explain when there is no horizon there is no singing when I have no pen I shout inside my head so that the memory will stay this is important in transit the view has an unexpected curvature that coming with speed only the failure to see is surprising at an angle of 57° everything is a blur I had an assignation with destiny whispering in my ear I could not conceive it did not penetrate I had an electron revelation a question of quantity repetition and as an example I can’t pass a bar without focus this is important in transit the repetition has an unexpected curvature that coming with longing as though only the disappearance has weight though only the disappearance has weight I’ll explain when I have no pen there is no horizon when the birds sing I shout inside my head so that the memory will stay here only the failure to conceive is surprising at an angle of 75° everything is accelerated I had an assignation with disappearance whispering in my ear a question I could not penetrate a macro revelation of particularity proximity and as an example I can’t pass a bar without focus this is important in transit the curvature has an unexpected rectitude at an angle of 90° everything looks the same I’ll explain when there is no shouting there is no memory when the birds stay the horizon sings in my head
Yes I remember the urgency To abstract and reify I want to focus on works | 817 the patience The monstrance This is an excellent question I want now— Within the framing apparatus— perspective Something cuts by the mirror stage There are innumerable planes Speaking of the enemy inscribes fatigue it is habit What makes death possible And what is states implicitly And that close reading In what sense, then, does it change? The question of knowing To take possession of them? We see the things themselves Mind upon the world his situation, his body other also is pure vision, how “pure” another paradox is the practice of this measure They are the armature Whence the impossibility qua sensible cosmologists are able to simulate the effects of gravity upon the motion of tens of thousands of masses something I am not capable of processing every time I cut my hair I consign each one to the air the birds can pick them up again they fall at the same speed to grow again with the birds I love
it was the other one that blew my cover but then a perpetual state of expansion necessitates the eradication of all irregularities O but the uniqueness of the universe is in effect a tautology which poses a fundamental difficulty only the actual science rhymes if there are laws which govern the behaviour of the universe as a whole but which do not have any application to the behaviour of objects within it then the ground is a furnace cover intrinsically bright galaxies are more easily seen than faint ones and when I was young my limbs were longer the bones themselves embraced as for you
you could be in Mexico before anyone realises you’re annoyed
First published in the PLR 1.5 (November, 2003). 818 | Again
These small repeated things These atoms These crossing the water I am going to go on until it all stops because each time I cannot remember that there is anything else at all “How is that?” the one who Everyone Don’t waste any tears anyone he’s still warm As they left the church they would bring him Rabelais the educator and it was to be sure a conquest
| 819 820 |
Photo: Josef Jan Kopecký Jáchym Topol About 500 Diary Pages
Colored statues crawling over each other in the park by the train station in the greenery of summer some with parasols others holding books or puppy dogs the Americans had come too. Mother divvied out bread to no end even insects and tiny birds got theirs some guy asked for help and took in 200 everyone was tolerant. And as always the day got underway in its inertia and there was hardly time for anything. | 821 Goods had their weight and some were for free and sects shared even Saturday fairly towards evening I found someone’s head in the bushes like a soccer ball afterwards some stray kids harassed me home and just as I slammed my door in their faces the sceneshifters started changing it “don’t forget the moon!” I say the one holding a beer asked if I wanted it whole again “yup” I said finally not thinking twice and quickly killed the lights
Translated by Alex Zucker. First published in Trafika 2 (1994). but now
scrappy news about your life I only learn accidentally from mutual friends when they are gossiping about everything about everybody often now I go calling on people on stupid pretexts some examples of which being books lectures borrowing and returning things I don’t need scrappy news about my life you can learn for example from this stuff I’m writing but it’s all invented and so I dread the picture 822 | you have formed of me
I have never concealed anything from you except for one single thing the last time I saw you home at night through deserted Smíchov on the long street uphill I saw through the window of a basement flat a hanged man and you didn’t thanks to your small stature it was an old man every time I saw you home at night his light was on perhaps he was reading or drinking or crying now he was hanging from the ceiling feet off the floor about the height of a chair I couldn’t see his face his back was turned towards me you were talking about something life or death and were angry that I hadn’t been listening to you the hanged man didn’t hear you either I pretended I was lighting a cigarette to convince myself but he was still hanging there unmoving dead we walked along because you wouldn’t have believed me and would have wanted to see him I would have had to lift you up on my shoulders so you could see the idea didn’t appeal to me at that moment I preferred to be alone with him and also with you but now I regret that I didn’t show you him
Translated by Toby Litt and Eva Klimentová. First published in Yazzyk 1 (1992).
| 823 and there is this spider and
still there are children’s books and thieves at merry-go-rounds and paper dogs buoyant in the autumn sky still sniffing up to each other in the same old way and vampires and rivers and soldiers and wombs keep functioning in exactly the same way as last year and legendary heroes have a get together in various clubs and climb the factory chimneys cathedrals glitter prettily in the sun and young women study foreign languages and I keep losing them in the world and at the world’s end there is a strange light as in a stove and if you are naughty your family will lock you up in the closet where there is a spider where there are moths as big 824 | as crocodiles if you are naughty you’ll have your family breathing down your back your motherland breathing down your back violence breeds violence and that’s as certain as anything else can possibly be the genre-painting something like statue of woman and astronaut and something like a small picture of a spider really nothing lots to drink and addled fear and pure insanity the gentle poison of eternal love it was all in vain to die tenfold it’s still the same and of course it doesn’t have any sense to it but now it’s all the same in time you realised you were stuck but you don’t want to leave neither did I want to get out with all those unforgettably sweet dreams from the journey into life so this would be a red genre-painting a message from the globe of the glowing city ghostly lyric and my inner voice tells me it isn’t good enough but I don’t care for now it is morning and your cough sounds like shots it’s well known that the devil has a map of the world and that you know there is no way out because you have it also
Translated by Eva Klimentová and Toby Litt.
| 825 Rhythm
The first time I did those driving school drills clutch brake gas was in the soft shine of autumn sun November 1990 when I’m sitting all happy in my office job I’ll tell Alice about it now I’m thinking of woods and ‘shrooms of all those woods and colors behind the wheel I remember Dr Petráček falling asleep at his computer he knows Haile Mengistu sent an ambassador to the Congo and he knows when it happened I’d like to give it all I’ve got and I’m getting old and reeky I smell it when I breathe how are you? that’s the greatest mystery the most amazing one of all 826 | I drove through a hailstorm of bullets someone else paid for it it’s always someone else who pays that’s war I tell myself bravely. What do I care about war? says D the wiseass. War is: I come home in boots look in the mirror let a fart I’m holding the wheel now I drive in a circle and down and around the high-rises and whether that’s how it is or not life is constantly vanishing running quickly away.
Translated by Alex Zucker. First published in Trafika 2 (1994). Meanwhile it’s Nighttime
The Mrs in the apartment above me is probably painting her nails right now breathing on them, the lioness painting her nails and looking into the mirror tidying herself up. I’m going to watch her walk the stairs. I’m going to look into her eye. The fire lights all by itself you get a light from a mutant. There’s an island here in the river. That’s how it’s always been and you’ll get it in the teeth. That’s just how it is. The door-to-door man stares at me through the unhinged window the driver lights up an actress tosses her mane I close the window then open it. Or not I’ll leave it as is. The guy from the pump sells me cigarettes he wanted to sell me a watch. We look | 827 at each other. I ask him the way there we get to know each other. Then I’m going to study gas get to know the bomb going to get a taste of every beauty out there and then maybe I’ll steer by the lightning-filled sky. It’s evening for now I’m standing among the buildings on the square by the barracks a phone booth my money clenched tightly in hand tonight I want to get drunk I need some people to talk with lots of people I want ghosts there scenes relatives today in the drone of the tram now in the drone of the sea meanwhile it’s nighttime some of it’s real and some scenery.
Translated by Alex Zucker. First published in Trafika 2 (1994). 828 |
Photo: Apolena Typltová JAROMÍR TYPLT from When You
One secret: to turn on. The second one: to hold on. The third one: not to leave out. The fourth one: that it isn’t.
Does the trap say—“I am taut for you,” or “taut to see who comes“?
It can’t even be seen I’m not looking. Not even in the last moment, because what else would it be but a last moment, when it’s no longer necessary to see anything at all, because of how terribly close and huge it is, fast and laid for me. I divine the dreadful precision of what is to come. Motionless, so far. All | 829 has frozen. From all the countless movements that ever raced by me, there remains only this waiting. Fateful. Unbanishable. Wherever I glance back.
“When all traps have sprung, the world will come to its end”—if that’s what someone is trying to cram into your head, wait for nothing more! Nowhere is far enough from them! Perhaps only where the voice sounds so close behind your neck that you turn around in surprise: “Four cardinal points? And for how long?”
The biggest trap is to demarcate a space for a trap.
Where is perfection—whether in a trap that has caught and thereby run a full circle, or in a trap lying in wait… Sorry, but I won’t be dragged into that. This dispute has lasted for centuries, has no solution, and what is worst— you don’t even realize that you side with either view. Best not to think about it at all. But you rid yourself of that advantage when you began to announce that—no small wonder!—traps aren’t actually interested in us, it is we who foist ourselves on them, we ourselves keep wandering around them, trying out whether they might loosen, after all…
That it isn’t: aren’t you confounded?
Translated by David Vichnar. 830 | Lawrence Wells Godzilla vs Stalin
1. Godzilla had long lain dormant on Monster Island, sleeping like some imitation Tyranassaurus Rex/Rip van Winkle dreaming of his battles with Megalon and Rodan (with whom he was actually madly in love—he loved her best when she was angry). There was really no reason for him to rise from his hibernation, but just as with the thawing of the Cold War, this long winter of discontent which we would like to just as soon forget, so too did the warmth of spring and light of the real world pierce through the rubber hide of our misunderstood friend and begin to rouse him from his slumbers. | 831 Besides, his popularity as a film star was seriously waning. Try as he might, he could not avoid admitting to himself any longer that it was true. So rather than sleep forever dreaming away his career, he knew in his heart it was time to go out and wreak havoc. You could tell by the gleam in his eyes which on this particular day, perhaps because he was so refreshed from his gargantuan nap, were unusually alert and active, quite unlike the foggy distracted look which had charmed countless fans a few decades before. In order to stretch out a bit, he played a few games of tag-team football, monster style, with a few of those nameless triceratops that just hang out on Monster Island with nothing better to do. Needy for adventure, Godzilla plunged into the sparkling Pacific, his head bobbing like some sculpted cork, as he plowed westward. As luck would have it (so to speak), in another part of the world far far away, a foe worthy of Godzilla is about to be unleashed. A group of Japanese tourists are traveling in France. Quickly, scenes of their stay in Paris flash by. The observant viewer soon notices one attractive couple is given more attention, the other tourists hanging back from the foreground—their dialogue pared down to a minimum—to be used later for breathy shrieking or to look on, in horrified amazement, as someone points and shouts: “Look, Godzilla!” The attractive couple are introduced. Kikko is fetching inher leather jacket waving a tricolor before the Eiffel Tower, and Hiroshi stands proudly in his Beatle boots, wearing a turtleneck and matching brown jacket and slacks. He looks like he could have stepped right out of a classic Godzilla film, but in fact he’s retro and that’s cool. One half-expects them to drive off in a sporty white convertible with the top down, and they probably will later, but for now they are in a tour group and it’s time for everyone to get back on the bus. As they near their mid-afternoon stop to see the Neolithic paintings at Lascaux on their way to Nice, the bus is obviously struggling up the steep winding road. “It’s so hot,” Kikko complains, trying to open the window for the tenth time. Fans flutter like dozens of butterflies in the stifling heat. As the bus tops a ridge, its gears grinding noisily, everyone is suddenly thrown forward as the engine lets out an explosive noise and steam begins to pour out from under the hood. For a moment everything is still, and as the bus slowly lurches forward, someone from the front suddenly shouts, “The driver is unconscious! He’s hit his head against the wheel!” Everyone cries out in horror, and Hiroshi dashes forward, still wearing his turtleneck despite the awful heat. He and another man struggle with the heavy Frenchman’s body, pulling him from the seat as the bright landscape careens behind them out the window looking slightly abstracted as if it might be a film projected on a wall. Hiroshi leaps over the prostrate driver and grabs the steering wheel. He jerks the wheel left and right, staring with intense concentration at the road ahead. Everyone is bouncing in their seats, shrieking and crying. The 832 | rear wheels of the bus fly dangerously close to the steep sides of the narrow road, as dust and rocks obscures the view. After a little more jerking left and right, left and right, his hair disheveled and sweaty, Hiroshi successfully maneuvers the bus to safety as they come to a dusty stop in front of the Lascaux Cave Museum. “Oh Hiroshi,” Kikko cries lovingly as she grabs his arm. All the tourists climb over the Frenchman and get off the bus as fast as they can, happy to feel solid ground under their feet. “Mon dieux!” the Frenchmen exclaims, rubbing his forehead. Apparently unaffected by their near death experience, the tourists all don long overcoats and mining helmets to enter the historic caverns. Kikko pauses by the entrance, practicing her French reading a sign posted there. “Hmmph,” she says, crossing her arms and walking away. “What?” everyone says at once, turning to Kikko for an explanation. “It says this is just a reconstruction. The actual cave is under restoration a few kilometers to the west. Well,” she continues, “I’ve already seen the reconstruction outside Tokyo, so what’s the point? You just go ahead, and I’ll wait in the café out front.” “I’ll wait with you,” Hiroshi says predictably. He knows it would be improper for her to be left alone, especially in a foreign country. After a couple of hours, the other Japanese file out of the museum, hands above their eyes, shielding them from the harsh sunlight. Hiroshi and Kikko motion to a few of their friends, and they gather at the table talking in hushed voices. Later in the evening a group of five shadowy figures are walking in the woods. One stops to light a cigarette, it’s Hiroshi—handsome as ever in his matching brown jacket and slacks. Kikko is speaking. “I’m really happy you all agreed to come. It would be such a shame to travel all this way and not see the original caverns. Besides, since the bus is out of commission and we have to stay the night here, why not have a little adventure. When I saw the reconstruction outside Tokyo, I thought to myself, ‘Well, is this what it’s really…’” “SSSHH!” Hiroshi motions with his index finger to his lips. “We’re almost there, and there might be a guard.” They come to a gate with a massive lock. Luckily there doesn’t seem to be a guard. “Here Eikoh, hold the flashlight,” Hiroshi says as he takes out his Swiss Army knife. A moment later the headstrong group stride toward the dark cavern mouth, unaware of the video camera mounted above the entrance. “They are entering the complex, your Excellency, a guard says, turning towards a shadowy figure behind a screen. “Just as planned,” the monotone voice replies menacingly.
2. Michael J. Fox is running through the streets of Prague. He is running back and forth across Charles Bridge. Jesus has a hard-on. The angels weep. The Russian Mafia is overstepping its bounds. Rejoice! Rejoice! Stalin has returned. The statue of Jan Hus is weeping but no one can see. There is a mound of garbage in Staroměstská Náměstí. I don’t care. It is one. A fish head is choking on an old radish. Jan Hus is weeping. Jesus has a hard-on. | 833 Michael J. Fox is running through the streets of Prague. Rejoice! Rejoice! Stalin is coming. The wall has been rebuilt. Skinheads are living with gypsies in paneláky, riding horses on lifts, drinking beer through straws. We are all happy Bolsheviks. Stand up. Look sharp. Wipe your ass. Clean your ears. Button your coat. Look sharp. Go to work. Be happy. I want to seeyou smiling. Stand up straight. Put your back into it. An enemy to the party is an enemy to the people. If you aren’t with us, you’re against us. Smile when you say it. We are all happy Bolsheviks. Raise your hand so I can call on you. Don’t speak out of turn. Václav Havel is staring in disbelief. The black ice won’t melt. The fish head is staring in disbelief. It is choking on a radish. I am choking on my party pin. Havel is staring at his sleeve in disbelief. He has lost one of his hammer & sickle cufflinks. We are dying. Where is Godzilla? Havel’s eyes look like fish eyes. He needs to cut his nostril hairs. It is none of our business. His fishy eyes are rolling like a rabbit’s. Like a rabbit in a rabbit cage, he is afraid. “I must look sharp,” he thinks to himself, “I will be on television today at the rally for His Excellency.” The Spartakiad is being held early, all is prepared for Stalin’s arrival. But Havel can’t find his cufflink. He’s down on all fours, the fool, searching for it. “I must look sharp,” he mutters. If he only knew what Stalin was actually planning. But who can read that poker face, that red devil raised from the dead, as strong as one hundred men. One thousand men! Stalin laughs as he knocks his pipe ash into Pope John Paul the Second’s mouth. Lech Wałęsa is playing the fool, running in circles. The aliens from Space Hunter 3M Nebulae are dressed in black, head to toe, manning the controls of Stalin’s command/media center. They look Japanese, but this is not their actual form. Stalin is at his human size, rising from his throne, his muscles ripple as he strides toward the window. His body of the reddest red, a well-known golden yellow insignia emblazoned on his chest, he looks something like a cartoon character come to life. He proudly surveys Berlin. “Mine. All mine,” he grins, turning, “and today I go to Prague for a revenge I’ve been looking forward to for quite some time.” “What ya gonna do boss? What ya gonna do?” Wałęsa garbles, choking on his spit, grinning like an idiot. Stalin holds Wałęsa’s head in his hands and speaks softly. “Havel thinks he can take a place as my puppet. That I can forgive and forget and rejoice in his supplication. But I never forget, and I refuse to forgive. I will hang him like I hanged Slánský and his bunch, those dirty Jews. I will hang him before his own people, just as I should have hanged you.” Stalin pushes him away and sinks into his throne, using the Pope as a foot rest. From beside the throne he lifts a small bust of Havel and addresses it. “Oh yes, Mr. Havel, Mr. Ex-dissident-turned-slave, Mr. Beloved-of-the-people, Mr Humanist Playwright,” he slurs the words bitterly. “Yes, today you will breathe your 834 | last.” He opens his mouth wide, and swallows the bust whole. “What’s this?!” Havel exclaims in excitement, knocking his head by accident on the underside of his desk in his hurry to straighten up. “Ouch,” he mutters rubbing the tender spot as he holds up what appears to be a shoe box wrapped with a green bow. “A present? For me?” “What’s this card?” He tears open the small envelope. He reads aloud: “Open Me.” He looks at the back of the card. He looks again at the front. “The signature—it seems odd,” he thinks to himself, still rubbing his head, “and under my desk too—what if it is a bomb?” But such thoughts do not deter him for long and he greedily pulls off the green bow and snatches off the lid. Two tiny identical women stand up in the box and smile benevolently at Havel’s shocked face. “Hello President Havel,” the two women speak simultaneously in a beautiful, musical way, “We are the twin faeries of Mothra Island. We have traveled a very long way to give you a warning. You are in great danger. You must come with us.” “What danger?” he stammers, “Today is the Spartakiad. Stalin will…” The twin faeries interrupt. “Stalin is in league with aliens from Space Hunter 3M Nebulae. He has evil plans.” At the word “evil,” Havel is thrown into a mad rage and lunges forward to grab the twins and crush them. But just then a beautiful sound is heard as the faeries sing, “Mothra,” and again, “Mothra.” Mothra itself is too far away to hear the clarion call, but Havel is stopped in mid-motion by the eerie sound of the song as it dispels Stalin’s mind control. He falls forward on his knees, staring towards the ceiling as if in a religious fervor, the twin faeries looking down on him from their shoebox on his desk. The sky is blue. The blue is sky. It is infinite, almost transparent blue. I am Havel. Havel is I. We are one but we are not the same. We are floating. I am dying. I am being born. We are falling. The blue is sky. What is that? There was oneness, infinite blue, but now there is that, that which is not this. What is that?! Is it a speck? Is there something on the film? That is a speck, but it is growing, it is moving. There is some smoke. Is it a bird? But there is some smoke. Is it a plane? It has a tail. Is it Superman? No, it looks reptilian. That which is not this is—Godzilla! Godzilla is up close now; I can see every crevice. His dull yellow eyes stare forward without moving, either blankly or with intense concentration, it is hard to say. He is holding on to a missile, more exactly a SCUD missile that he took from Saddam Hussein, but that is another story. He is straddling the missile, moving very quickly, with his tail lifted erect to avoid the exhaust. It is a rather embarrassing position for him, so let us take one last look at his noble profile, staring forward over the sleek nose cone. Michael J. Fox is running through the streets of Prague. The streets are practically deserted, everyone is up at Strahov for the big event. Michael J. Fox is dashing in his turtleneck, matching brown jacket and slacks. He has dyed his hair black for this role. He is playing Hiroshi, but it is hard to remember. Why can’t they let a Japanese play a Japanese? And didn’t you | 835 notice William Hurt is playing Havel? Why can’t they let a Czech play a Czech? We are dying. Jesus has a hard-on. Jan Hus is weeping. Michael J. Fox is Hiroshi. I can’t believe it—what a stupid idea! Whose dumb idea was this?! Anyway there is Kikko, at least she is actually Japanese. She is so lovely. She has on a headscarf. She is leaning over a table in a dark room lit only by a candle, cutting vegetables. She is cooking for the small group of resisters who somehow were unaffected by Stalin’s mind control. She is tired. She is pausing to wipe her brow. Oh Kikko, don’t cry. Suddenly the door opens and she turns, startled and frightened, toward the bright light coming in from outside. She grasps the knife more firmly. She smiles in relief, it is Michael J.—I mean—it is Hiroshi, handsome as ever in his matching brown jacket and slacks. “Oh Hiroshi,” she says, “I was so worried. Did you…” “Yes,” he says. “We can only hope that the twin faeries of Mothra Island can convince Havel to help us. Where are the others?” “Oh they are at the Spartakiad. You know, Plan B.” “Oh yes, Plan B. Look what I have.” Hiroshi puts his hand in his pocket and takes out Havel’s second hammer & sickle cufflink and hands it to Kikko. She wipes her eyes, looks at the cufflink with a thoughtful expression and says, “I hope one day soon again this will be just a souvenir for tourists.” She looks at Hiroshi. Hiroshi looks at her. “Are you hungry?,” she asks. Suddenly the door opens, they both turn startled toward the bright light. It is the Space Hunter KGB police agents. Hiroshi jumps up, but it is too late. They are both immobilized by the agents’ special weapons. What is happening? I am staring in disbelief. I rewound the video and watched this part again, and it happened exactly the same way. The fish head is choking on a radish. We are dying. Michael J. Fox is Hiroshi. Jan Hus is weeping. Skinheads are living with gypsies in paneláky, riding horses on lifts, drinking beer through straws. Where is Godzilla?
3. The red banners are snapping in the summer breeze over the throng of the packed stadium at Strahov. The Spartakiad has begun. The field undulates like a human carpet as thousands of young girl gymnasts move in unison. Stalin is watching from the reviewing stand, but he isn’t paying much attention. He is boiling with anger, which heightens his red coloring to that of a freshly cooked lobster. He turns to Václav Klaus who is seated to his right. Klaus is trying to curl up and hide behind his brightly colored tie. “Where is Havel?” Stalin hisses in Klaus’s face, searing his moustache. The music ends and the thousands of girls dressed in yellow exit the field, each carrying a white hula-hoop. After standing and clapping for a while, everyone sits down and Stalin leans over to Klaus and hisses again. Klaus mumbles meekly, adjusting his glasses and shifting in his chair, “I am so sorry, your Excellency. But at 836 | least we have captured the resisters. I am sure we will find Havel soon.” The field is filled with women in blue and orange body suits holding batons. They are walking in circular patterns. “Yes,” Stalin says, “the resisters, at least.” He snaps his fingers and a man dressed in black from head to toe steps forward from the shadows. “Is everything prepared?,” Stalin asks. “Yes, Your Excellency,” the man says. The man looks Japanese, but this is not his actual form, for he is an alien from Space Hunter 3M Nebulae. As the women finish, Klaus, now visibly alone, stands and applauds and waits for the spectacle of the final performance. The bright summer sun shines down on the bronzed bodies of the men of the Czechoslovak Peoples Army. From the gymnastic point of view their exercise is very difficult because it involves many original elements. At the climax a clearing opens in the center of the field as the men crowd into the periphery. Stalin strides boldly into the center of the clearing. As the soldier’s movements become more rhythmic and frenzied in an almost sexual adulation of this returned mad demigod who controls their minds, Stalin, the very one, begins to grow in size incrementally until he towers above the crowded stadium. He is huge, muscular, without blemish and red as hell, the hammer and sickle flashing golden yellow across his broad chest. He gestures to the ground as an elite corps of ninja Space Hunter 3M KGB agents file onto the field. The gymnastic prowess of the aliens surpasses the soldiers despite the fact that the aliens are hampered by the earth’s gravitational field. A tall rectangular scaffold covered with black cloth is rolled out onto the field. While at the same tine, ten hooded, bound figures are carried bodily to the center of the clearing and come to a stop before the scaffold under Stalin’s legs. Stalin is gloating from above. At his signal a rope is pulled and the black cloth falls away from the scaffold revealing a stand supporting a guillotine. “We are going to do it the French way,” Stalin bellows at the filled-to-capacity stadium. Under his mind control, the Czech people leap to their feet as their bloodlust and hysteria rise. They are purple with rage, screaming for the deaths of the resisters, punching each other and cutting at themselves with forks and spoons. The hoods are lifted from each resister, and there they stand, Hiroshi, Kikko, and the others in a small semi-circle beneath the scaffold. The volume of the hateful crowd is deafening, but Stalin silences every voice with one quick gesture. Save for the distant sound of the banners snapping in the wind all is deathly quiet. The cruel sun blazes down and the glare from the guillotine blade etches white hot on the retina. Stalin is speaking of the new Soviet Empire, of his power, but Hiroshi doesn’t hear a word as he stares intently at Kikko. Although she feels his gaze she continues to look downward. Such is the Japanese way. “If only I could tell her,” Hiroshi is thinking, “If only I could tell her that Yes their efforts were not in vain. That Stalin, no matter how far his influence spreads, will not prevail. Thank goodness…” But Hiroshi’s thoughts are quickly interrupted by the firm grip of two alien agents as they | 837 lift him towards the scaffold. But his eyes are still firmly set on Kikko and she looks up. She is afraid of death, but their eyes meet, and she knows. The crowd is roaring again, like a train or a tornado. Stalin has raised his arms high into the sky in a dramatic gesture. Hiroshi tries to make eye contact one last time with Kikko, but she is looking past him, past Stalin, into the sky. What is she looking at? He tries to turn, but the aliens push him down, his head toward the stock. Stalin notices a disturbance in the crowd’s behavior. The half-naked soldiers are running and pointing. He glances over his shoulder just as Godzilla, riding on a SCUD missile, slams into him from above at full speed. The impact sends both of them smashing into a section of the stadium. The detonation of the missile causes a huge explosion as rubble and debris fly in every direction. Godzilla and Stalin are lost in a hazy blur as the crowd disperses in a crazed panic. Taking advantage of the confusion, Hiroshi pushes into the alien KGB agent with his shoulder and, catching him off-balance, sends him hurtling down from the scaffold. Thinking quickly, he kicks the switch with his foot, and the guillotine blade swiftly plummets, striking through only open air at its final destination. He leans down and uses the sharp edge to cut through his bonds. He watches in horror as the human maelstrom, like a torrent of ants, swarms around the scaffold. In the distance, through the dust and smoke, he can make out the silhouettes of the two behemoths, Godzilla and Stalin, as they begin their mortal combat. He looks intently at the crowd searching for Kikko and the others. There they are surrounded by a group of Space Hunter 3M Nebulae agents dressed in black. Hiroshi leaps into the crowd and pushes against a current of women dressed in blue and orange body suits towards his friends. As he reaches them, he furiously attacks the nearest aliens. There is a whirl of activity, fists and kicks and breathy grunting noises. Repeatedly the sharp crack and dull thwack of landed blows is heard, and yet, even for Hiroshi, there are too many opponents and he is immobilized. At that moment, as if by magic, Václav Klaus steps out of the flux of the crowd and directs the aliens to bring the resisters and follow him. They step over to an abandoned section of the complex. Klaus takes a pistol from a boot holster and holds it on the resisters. His face hardly ever changes expression. He tells the aliens to return to their posts and as they disperse he forces the resisters to file into the men’s lavatory. The small room is very crowded and Hiroshi tries to push Klaus against the wall. But Klaus quickly holds up the pistol, forcing them to stand back. Then he presses a square white tile and a secret panel opens in the wall. “Where are you taking us?” Kikko asks, begging. “Don’t worry, my friends,” Klaus says, “because I am not as I appear.” Still holding the pistol, he turns his face away and grabbing his cheek there is a loud ripping sound as he tears off his face—and there stands Havel instead. “President Havel,” Hiroshi exclaims, falling to his knees. “Oh, 838 | get up,” Havel says, “and let me undo your bonds.” Soon they are all free, standing and rubbing their wrists. “We must hurry,” Havel says, “Follow me.” As the last person passes through the panel, the tile wall closes leaving no sign of the hidden door. Godzilla’s head is bobbing to and fro as he kicks the ground in a clear challenge to Stalin, who is standing above Godzilla on the wall near Strahov. Stalin has been hurt a bit by the SCUD missile, and he is shocked by the appearance of this unexpected assailant, but he is fighting-mad now and he curses at Godzilla in Russian. Godzilla makes mocking gestures with his upper body, and as he swings around he knocks aside dozens of cars with his tail. Finally, in a very dramatic moment, Stalin leaps in slow motion at Godzilla from the wall and they both topple into a pyramid-shaped hotel. Power lines are snapping with bright blue electric sparks and trams are jumping out of their tracks and flipping end over end for no reason. There is a long shot of the scene and people are running in terror from the giants as they struggle in the rubble. I know this part of Prague well and I think they did a pretty good job on the model. You can tell they are pleased with it because they keep showing little parts of it, and the same electric sparks popping again and again. There’s lots of smoke and dust and explosions. Godzilla and Stalin are throwing a rock back and forth. What is going on? Are they fighting or playing—I can’t tell for sure. There is a real long part that’s all grey-green with smoke drifting over it. It looks a little craggy. I thought about it and I think it’s a real close up view of some part of Godzilla’s body. Havel, Hiroshi, Kikko, and the twin faeries of Mothra Island are riding in a secret elevator shaft that leads to the top of St Vitus Cathedral. Its a little crowded in the small elevator, but not because of the twin faeries whom, as you may know, are only about a hand-breadth tall and live in what looks like a shoe box which President Havel is now carrying. Havel describes his strategy as they rise from the depths of Hradčany. “Well, as luck would have it, we have a special Medusa Generator in the bunker below the metronome in Letná. If we can lure Stalin to stand on that spot, all I have to do is press this little button,” he holds up a little black box with a red button mounted on top, “and,” he continues, “Stalin will be turned to stone and we can save our lovely city.” Just then the elevator doors open and they climb out up a small staircase into the bright sunlight. “Oh,” Kikko exclaims, noticing the wonderful view of the city from the small circular balcony. There is a microphone stand with a cord running down into the depths of the cathedral. Hiroshi, handsome as ever in his turtleneck, matching brown jacket and slacks, leans against the balustrade and lights a cigarette. Havel takes the lid off the shoe box, and the twin faeries of Mothra Island stand up attentively. “Are you ready?” Havel queries. “Yes President Havel,” the faeries answer together, smiling. Havel holds them up towards the microphone. Godzilla and Stalin, it seems, are still playing, now some sort of demented | 839 version of hide-and-seek in a large panelák complex. It is hard to tell which one. The giant figures are stealthily moving around the complex. Just as one of them rounds the corner, the other one disappears behind an adjacent building. It would be intelligent of Stalin to shrink to his human size and surprise Godzilla from behind, but he hasn’t thought of this strategy. Just when they are standing at opposite ends of the sídliště, carried on the wind comes the beautiful melodious song of the twin faeries. Both combatants pause and cock their heads, Stalin uncomprehendingly, but Godzilla, familiar with the South Sea phrasings, nods his head up and down in agreement with Havel’s plan. Finally, Godzilla stops nodding and takes action, pushing against the nearest paneláky with all his might. After a short moment, the building tears free from its foundations and begins to fall away. The large rectangular paneláky, all in a row, begin to fall like giant dominoes towards Stalin. Inside as the floor begins to slant and gravity turns sideways, everything and everybody falls toward one wall and out the window. Books fly off shelves, cupboards crash open and pots and pans smash into falling potted plants and exploding television tubes. One man gets struck inthe face with a beer coaster, and on the 13th floor the elevator door opens and out pours, sliding down the floor all intermingled, gypsies and their horses, skinheads headfirst with their boots flying up in the air, loaves of bread, young girls from the Spartakiad still dressed in their yellow outfits, dogs of every variety, shape and size, brown-haired people, blond-haired people, people wearing white sandals, people wearing dark sandals, people without clothes, clothes without people, white hula-hoops and more dogs falling through them. The horses are sliding upside down on their backs down and out the window, winnowing in terror, flipping end over end. The windows are bursting open, everything is crashing down, crushing down in a big heap of prefab concrete, twisted metal and broken glass. The last paneláky falls and knocks Stalin over, pinning him to the earth. From the high tower above St Vitus Cathedral, Havel and the others watch in horror as the paneláky are destroyed. They watch as Godzilla turns and starts running with his loping gait towards the center of the city, towards Letná Plain. For the moment, they cannot see Stalin under the last fallen building, but this is also because he has shrunk to human size in order to free himself from the carnage and broken concrete. But there he is now, growing in size until he stands like a tall red tower on the horizon. Godzilla is waiting for Stalin in Letná when he notices some movement out of the corner of his eye. He looks over and sees the metronome, it’s red arc moving back and forth, back and forth. He is mesmerized by the constant notion and can’t stop watching it. Back and forth. Back and forth. His head is moving with the arm as if he were watching a slow game of tennis. He has completely forgotten about Stalin, who is coming up behind him. Godzilla is even starting to get 840 | a bit drowsy, and he is oblivious to the amplified voices of Havel, Hiroshi and Kikko trying to warn him. Suddenly, Stalin grabs Godzilla firmly by his tail and spins him around and around about three times and then hurls him directly at the metronome. Both Godzilla and the metronome go flying over the embankment, smashing onto the bridge. Havel, Hiroshi, Kikko and the twin faeries are stunned at this new turn of events. Godzilla lies in the middle of the bridge, unmoving. Is he dead? It can’t be. But wait, this might be their chance, for Stalin is walking toward the pedestal. (Unbeknownst to the group in the tower, a small group of ninja Space Hunter 3M Nebulae agents, dressed in black, have been scaling the outside of St Vitus Cathedral.) Just as Stalin is about to step on the spot above the Medusa Generator, just as Havel is holding up his little black box with the red button, the alien KGB leap up from below onto the balcony and with the first blow, Havel drops to the floor unconscious and the little black box lands right-side up in the corner. Hiroshi comes alive as a fighting machine. He puts out his cigarette in the face of one assailant who plummets with a long scream from the tower. Then he turns, elbowing another, kicking and punching. But somehow the ninja, or ninjii, just keep coming—more and more of them. Kikko has taken off her shoes which she is using as primitive clubs. Repeatedly is heard the sound of fists hitting flesh and the aggressive shouts of the ninjii. The battle must continue for quite some time for the following events to occur and coincide as perfectly as they must. Godzilla and Havel’s brains are struggling to regain consciousness. It is as if we ran the footage of the destruction of the paneláky backwards in slow motion. The stones and broken concrete are leaping into the air; the buildings are quickly coalescing and moving backwards into an upright position. The hula hoops, girls in yellow outfits, red trousers and nylon shirts, dogs and horses, loaves of bread, are jumping into the air, rising like bubbles from the depths of the ocean. Everything is flying into its proper place. The windows re-form behind the last horse, a shiny surface reflecting the world anew. Everything slides up the floor intermingled into the elevator, the door closes and goes up up up towards the light. Stalin is standing over Godzilla, bending down over his seemingly vanquished foe. But no, Godzilla’s eyes fly open. He is aware and his brow furrows as he stares into Stalin’s red mustached face. Stalin is startled and hesitates for a second. Long enough for Godzilla to let loose from his mouth a hot white beam of light, like a steamy breath which knocks Stalin into the embankment. Godzilla struggles to an upright position and breathes again on Stalin sending him flying into the air and crashing down in the plain above. An expansive cloud of dust hovers around his prostrate form. Godzilla is in a mad rage and he rushes into the old City, carelessly smashing the baroque towers and breaking down houses like oversized gingerbread cookies. He comes to the Old Town Square, his eyes attracted by the gothic spires of the Týn Cathedral. He firmly grabs one tower and begins to wrest it from its foundations. Rocks and bricks are | 841 raining down like an avalanche around him, but finally the tower comes free and Godzilla raises it above his head and carries it like a mighty spike back towards Stalin. “Ungh” “Ha” “Hiyah”—the battle continues back above Hradčany. Finally a figure in black steps up from the secret elevator shaft to the balcony. He is carrying a gun. “The game is over Hiroshi. Put your hands up.” Hiroshi and Kikko spin around and there is Václav Klaus gesturing menacingly with his pistol. “What?!” Hiroshi and Kikko both exclaim in alarm. “Yes,” Klaus continues as the Japanese couple stand with their arms up, Havel prostrate on the floor beside them. “I am from Space Hunter 3M Nebulae also. I am the mastermind behind this whole operation. It is I who raised Stalin from the dead. It is I who control the fate of this nation. But I’m not worried because you won’t live long enough to reveal my secret.” Meanwhile, Godzilla is quickly carrying the tower from Týn Cathedral up the stairs towards Stalin who is still lying unconscious in the park above. Kikko, holding her shoes above her head—one in each hand, glances nervously at the little black box in the corner. Klaus notices her look and, still holding the pistol on them, bends down and picks up the device. “What’s this?” he says. “Oh yes, the Medusa Generator. Havel’s secret plan. I already know all about it.” He looks down across the city as Godzilla comes to the top of the stairs. “Yes,” Klaus continues. “This will be useful.” Stalin is struggling to lift himself up, but Godzilla doesn’t give him another chance. He runs forward dealing a mortal blow to Stalin. There is a sickening sound as Godzilla impales Stalin into the earth with the top of Tyn Cathedral. Stalin’s body briefly contracts, but then loosens as his limbs fall to the ground and he breaths out a slow death rattle. Godzilla wheels around in triumph and walks toward the pedestal to look down on the city he has saved. Above St Vitus, Hiroshi and Kikko are trembling in fear as they watch Godzilla step onto the pedestal. Klaus’s face has a look of dark revenge as he prepares to turn Godzilla to stone. Suddenly a shot rings out and the pistol goes flying from Klaus’s hand. They had forgotten about Havel who is still on the floor leaning on one arm, his gun pointed at Klaus. “Give me the box. Now,” Havel says softly but firmly. “Never!” Klaus screams and presses the button. As the electrical Medusa energy flows up around Godzilla, Havel shoots Klaus who falls flipping over the balcony, smashing into the roof of the cathedral. Godzilla is rooted to the spot, the Medusa Generator transforming his flesh into stone. A line flows up the length of his body as his skin changes from green to grey. Hiroshi and Kikko help Havel to his feet and they stand, with the twin faeries of Mothra Island also in their shoe box, and look out over the changed city of Prague ready to rebuild itself once again. The sky is blue and Godzilla’s stone head glares from the screen. Large red Japanese script appears in front of his face, and a dramatic chord is struck. Underneath at the 842 | bottom of the screen, the white subtitle reads— “KONEC” (THE END) | 843 844 |
Alice Whittenburg & G.S. Evans Alice Whittenburg The Last Elephant
Today, as always, when I give a lecture at the school, I bring the last elephant with me. Her eyes are small and rheumy; her ears are thin and dry and finely veined as a grape leaf in the autumn; her tail is withered like burnt paper; and her haunches sag as if a sail were furling. Yet, when she wears a ceremonial howdah made of tooled, red leather, and is garlanded with wildflowers, she is still magnificent. I used to enter the auditorium on her back, but now, as she is very old, she rides on a motorized platform, and I follow close behind. This still makes for a very dramatic entrance. | 845 After the lecture the children jump up. They want to touch her, but I do not permit it. “She is the last of her kind,” I warn them. “Give her the respect she deserves.” So they go back to their seats, and I allow each of them to ask a question. “Can she swim?” asks the first girl. “She churns the water like a paddleboat.” “Does she eat peanuts?” asks the first boy. “She is a gourmet and a vegetarian.” “Why are her ears so large?” asks the second girl. “For the acoustical advantage, as well as the majesty of it.” “Will she make dung here?” asks the second boy. Children do not say dung, as you know, but this is what he means. All the children laugh at this and turn from side to side, looking at each other in a sly, silly way. “Only on my command,” I shout in order to recapture their attention. “Where did she come from?” asks the third girl. “For many years she danced for me in the circus.” “Has she ever killed a man?” asks the third boy. “She is gentle as a memory of childhood.” “Is it true that she never forgets?” asks the fourth girl. “She will know your voice in an instant though you’ve grown as old as she is now.” “Is she frightened by mice?” asks the fourth boy. “She is fearless as a great general in a hopeless siege.” “Does she miss others of her own kind?” asks the fifth girl. “There is dignity in being the last member of a proud race.” When it is the fifth boy’s turn to ask a question he crouches like a track star, and before I can stop him, he scampers to the front of the auditorium and up onto the platform. He runs right up to the last elephant, tugging her trunk as though it were a bell pull. He leans close to her mouth and listens intently. “Is she really breathing?” he asks at last. “If not,” I say, drawing myself up proudly, “you have witnessed an event both tragic and monumental.” I take no more questions after that, but climb onto the motorized platform and ride out of the auditorium. This is largely an attempt to preserve the feelings of the last elephant. She is a most sensitive creature despite the thickness of 846 | her venerable gray hide.
First published in Optimism Monthly 24 (December 1997). Under a Rock
Kim stood at the kitchen window watching her daughter, Rita, who was playing by herself in the backyard. It was an almost too warm afternoon in late May. Rita had just lifted a large, flat rock near the chain link fence and was now looking intently at what lay beneath it. Kim remembered that when she was small, she also liked to lift rocks to see what she could find underneath: worms would struggle convulsively to pull themselves out of the way, sowbugs would roll up to avoid the perceived threat of sudden light, and, sometimes, if she happened upon the cross-section of an ant colony that was using the rock as its roof, she would see the workers begin to shuttle eggs to a less vulnerable place. But whatever she saw, it was always scuttling, always frantic, always so eager to get away. She had liked that. It gave her a feeling of power—benign power because, of course, she never squashed those ants or plucked those worms for fishing—but a feeling of power nonetheless. | 847 Kim was distracted from her thoughts by Rita’s sudden move to grab a smaller stone and begin to pound the ground that lay exposed beside the upended rock. Kim was surprised because usually Rita was a gentle observer, just as she herself had once been. “Rita!” she yelled through the window screen. “Don’t be mean!” Rita kept up her pounding. “Rita!” Kim yelled and then decided to go out into the yard to see what Rita had found—maybe a small snake or a loathsome mass of wriggling grubs. She walked quickly out the back door and over to Rita’s side, intending a quiet lecture on helpless creatures. “Rita!” she said firmly and then looked down at the ground where Rita was pounding. Instead of a damp hollow where the rock had lain, she saw an oddly blurred patch of ground. It looked as though a tiny power loom was at work there, weaving earth-toned strands into a careful, if inscrutable, pattern. Kim had never seen anything like it under any of the rocks she had lifted as a child. “What is it, Rita?” she asked sharply. Rita just kept pounding. Kim watched what she could see of the weaving beyond the rise and fall of the solid pink piece of granite Rita held in her small fist. There was certainly something unsettling about this weaving, if not, to be honest, disgusting. Not in the way that a boiling up of termites from the ground is disgusting or in the way that a mess of heaving maggots is. It was just that the dizzying weaving, in and out, over and under, through and through was enough to make you wonder what peace could ever be found if it spread. She tried to imagine the pages of a book, the car’s steering wheel, the sides of a glass jar in constant restless motion. Weaving. The in and out of it, over and under. Disgusting. She looked at the stone in Rita’s hand again. It was a reassuring piece of granite, its molecules moving imperceptibly, without any striving, almost breathing, weaving. She gazed for another long minute at that small spot of shuttling, boiling energy and then picked up a stone to join Rita. They pounded and pounded, making small, dry grunting noises from time to time, breaking a sweat under the warm yellow sun. They pounded, mother and daughter, as though they could somehow crush anxiety at its source.
First published in Obšťastník 12 (2006).
848 | Hedgehog
On her way home from a party in Prague’s Lesser Quarter, walking along Karmelitská Street on a night dense with fog, under a full moon that shone soggily like a flashlight underwater, Ellen saw her first hedgehog. Though there are none in New Jersey, she recognized the small, shy animal by the bristling spines along its back, without which she would have mistaken it for a rat and quickly walked on. The hedgehog had wandered into a doorway and seemed unable to decide to come back out into the street; it just made ineffectual burrowing motions against the scarred wooden door in front of it. Ellen decided that if she could carry the hedgehog up onto Petřín Hill a little ways, it would be safe from marauding dogs, and because she was wearing gloves, she reached down and touched it tentatively. It curled reflexively into a spiny and uneven sphere. Grasping it, she stood and began to walk through the fog toward the dark shape of the hill that rose nearby. | 849 After a few minutes a woman came out of one of the other doorways along the street and fell into step beside Ellen; she began to crane her neck to look at the hedgehog. Ellen walked faster and held the hedgehog closer to herself, feeling the pressure of its spines despite her gloves. The woman half-turned and, without breaking her stride, tried to wrest the hedgehog from Ellen’s hands. Ellen walked more quickly, held on more fiercely, but did not speak a word. Suddenly the woman succeeded in pulling the small animal away and, in her hands, it became a large, many-branched yellow crystal with myriad facets that caught even the watery light of the fog-bound moon and began to glow; but quickly and deftly, Ellen grasped the crystal by one of its branching protrusions and pulled it to herself again and found herself grappling with a massive battle helmet with several large, sharp spikes and a coat-of-arms crest that showed a horned animal rampant on a field whose color the moon was too dim to show; and then the woman tore this helmet from her hands and held a pin cushion, large and plump and made of pink satin with hundreds of straight pins neatly impaling it; and, glad she was wearing gloves, Ellen circled around to seize the cushion which, in her hands, became a pineapple with spiny leaves and hard, pointed outgrowths along its curved sides, which smelled sharply, pungently and sweetly of its own very ripe self; but the woman hurried forward, turned quickly and, gracefully as a dancer, pulled the pineapple from Ellen’s hands, and it became an antique hand grenade with hard knobs and coruscations along its sides and a black, evil gleam that even the fog and moonlight could not soften, and Ellen did not want to grasp this ugly thing and was not sure that it might not explode and destroy them all, and she hovered and feinted for a minute; but then she thought about the hedgehog and its need to find safe haven, and she grabbed the harsh piece of metal—after which she found the warm inert mass ofthe hedgehog lying in her hands again. The woman said something in Czech and drifted off into the fog. Only after she had found a spot between two trees and behind a moss- covered boulder on Petřín and had released the hedgehog there did Ellen realize that the woman had said, “A good game, well-played.”
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Photo: Troy Giunipero Clare Wigfall Norway
On winter mornings, the sky was still dark when Enid Tythe pulled back the curtains. She liked it that way; Enid Tythe never truly felt comfortable waking to find that daylight had stolen upon her while she slept. By the time she closed the front door behind her and set off across the field the sky had bleached just clear enough to see the way. It hung a bruised grey-blue now in the quiet half-light of dawn, a mantle of mist clinging to the edges of the horizon, the air still chill enough to cloud with her breath. In one gloved hand Enid carried a fabric holdall containing her indoor shoes, the book she was reading at that moment, her purse, keys, an apple, and her sandwiches wrapped in grease-proof paper. She walked at a good pace | 853 for a woman of her age, her stride unwavering, moving purposefully away from her solitary house, across the wide field and towards the line of trees that hemmed the distant periphery. Her own feet had beaten the path she followed; the footsteps of years of mornings before having trodden the earth so gradually and unassumingly until finally it was plain that the land itself had cleaved to accommodate her journey. Under the trees, the thicket was less submissive; she wore stout wellingtons and still the brambles tormented, plucking curses as they snagged at her woollen stockings. A car crossed before her as Enid came out onto the road. Its driver raised his hand in greeting and she nodded in return. The houses she passed as she walked up into the village were fenced back from the street; unremarkable post-war bungalows mainly, not unlike her own. There were lights still on in several of the front windows, the rooms beyond showing indistinctly behind the net curtains. Many of the shopfronts stood empty, the windows papered over with dusty newsprint, their painted signs peeling—butcher, greengrocer, baker. Only the neon sign of the Costcutter remained, and Green’s Hardware Store, and the post office cum sweet shop cum stationer’s on the corner, and then the Hare and Billet pub and an Indian takeaway that had opened a year before in the old fishmonger’s premises. The sky by now had quite cleared. There was little colour to it any more, only a chalky grey hinting at late-morning rain. A figure was standing on the steps to the library. Enid noticed her from a distance. A young woman, it looked like, her body tensed rigid with the cold as if she’d been waiting there a while. Enid frowned, unable to make out who it could be. It didn’t look like anyone from the area. Enid disliked it when visitors arrived before opening hours. It happened rarely, but always left her feeling vaguely affronted when it did. That time was her own, the moments of quiet before the day began were hers alone to relish. Her time to set everything in order, to turn on all the lights, warm up the computer system, and select the day’s books for the display shelf, the only sound the ticking of the boiler in the store-cupboard and the rush and chug of water coursing through the radiators as the heating system got itself working. When all was ready she’d prepare her second cup of tea of the day, and sit down at her desk with her book, reading until the minute hand on the wall clicked vertical and it was time to unlock the door. “We don’t open till nine,” Enid said curtly as she approached the girl on the stairs, glancing downwards to fish in her holdall for the keys. The girl moved forward slightly but without quite transferring all her weight, as if her body were still somewhat unwilling. “Auntie Enid?” she said tentatively. Enid Tythe looked up, surprised, and the girl drew her lips together in a 854 | sort of tight clipped smile. Her eyes were cheerless, ringed with black liner. She was a skinny girl, younger than she’d looked from a distance. Only sixteen or so, barely that perhaps. She stood huddled in a cheap-looking coat with a fake fur collar and cuffs, her hands dug deeply into the pockets, arms pressed tight against her sides to keep herself warmer. She wore a short grey skirt and high shoes with chunky heels. Her tights were very thin, thin enough to see the goose-bumps on her skin. She had a lean plain face, the sort of face that would grow quite forgettable as she became older, elongated like a young greyhound’s, the complexion pallid. Her fine light-brown hair hung straight, a little oily close to the scalp, with a long fringe that brushed across her right eye. “It’s Tara, Auntie Enid,” she said, and forced another smile. Her lips spread wider this time revealing for a brief second a row of teeth hillocked by the metal glimmer of orthodontic braces. Only now did Enid recognise her. Identifying in that reluctant smile the school-uniformed child from the photographs she received each year clipped inside a Christmas card; her brother’s girl. “Tara?” said Enid, her voice still edged with irritation. “What’re you doin’ here?” “Just came to say hello, didn’t I?” said Tara tersely, her weight shifting backwards again with sullen rebuff. Her gaze drifted to the concrete of the library steps and she gave a blunt sniff then wiped the back of her hand quickly against her nose before digging it back into her pocket. “No warning or nothing?” said Enid. And then, her voice softening a little, for there was, she could see, a brittle current underlying the girl’s demeanour, as if she might cry or become angry at any moment, neither of which Enid had any desire to deal with that early in the morning, “Well, you’d better come in, then. I’ll make us a cup of tea. Daresay you’re half perished waiting out here on the doorstep.”
When she’d finally closed up for the day, and turned out all but the strip of lights before the door, Enid changed her shoes and buttoned up her coat, then she reached for Tara’s coat still hanging in the cupboard. In the silence of the closed library, she held it up before her as if it were something very strange and a little repellent. She felt the cheap thinness of the fabric between her fingers, observed the matted synthetic tufts in the straggling fur trim. She tilted her head towards the lit glass panel in the door to the back room, listened a moment for any sound, then slipped her hand quickly inside each pocket, pulling out the contents: old bus tickets, a few coins, a promotional flyer for a nightclub, cinema stubs, strawberry lip balm. Enid slipped the things back into the pockets and draping the coat over her arm turned to fetch her niece. The girl was lying across the seats of the two black plastic-leather easy- chairs, knees pulled up by her chest and her back curving towards Enid, the ridge of her spine pressing faintly through the ribbing of her sweater. | 855 A sliver of pale skin was visible between the sweater hem and her skirt’s waistband. She’d slipped off her shoes and they stood neatly in wait now on the grey carpet beside her magazine. Several times that day, Enid had almost reached for the telephone receiver as she wondered whether to call her brother. It was curiosity that eventually held her back; she wanted to know why Tara was there. Why she’d turned up out of the blue, forwarding no explanations when she asked offhandedly— her lack of propriety patently failing, Enid noticed, to disguise her anxiety as she awaited an answer—if she could stay with Enid for just a couple of days. If she called her brother, Enid suspected, she might never find out why the girl had come. “Tara,” said Enid. And then again, when there was no response. A little louder this time, “Tara. Come on now, wake up. It’s time to get home.” The girl started, then twisted self-consciously round and slid her feet to the floor. Her left cheek was pressed pink where it had rested against the chair seat, the mark of an upholstery button denting the flesh beside her ear. “Here, I’ve your coat.” “Thanks,” muttered Tara. She stood and slipped her arms into the sleeves, then angled her feet into her shoes, losing her balance slightly as she put on the second one, her attention distracted by the darkness beyond the window. “It’s night out already,” she said, sounding surprised. Outside, it was cold, the air damp still from the afternoon rain. Tara pulled her coat tighter around herself and stood on the library porch looking at the row of buildings across from them. “What about school? Won’t they mind if you don’t turn up?” Enid asked while locking the door. She knew the row of locks from habit even though the keyholes were lost in shadow. “Teacher-training week, isn’t it?” said Tara, glad her aunt’s back was turned to her. She was watching a scene framed in the bright shape of a kitchen window opposite. A woman’s back, with an apron tied at her waist. She was stirring at something on the stove. “If you say so,” said Enid. Tara shrugged absently, watching the woman move across from the stove to the worktop then back again. “And your parents do know you’re here, don’t they, Tara?” “Yeah,” said Tara lightly. “Course.” She bit on her lower lip, and finally lifted her eyes away from the woman in her kitchen to the blank sky above the roofline. Enid dropped the keys in her bag and, turning, studied the girl in profile a moment, then followed her eye-line up to the dark sky also. “Well, you can phone them when we get back, just to let them know you’re safe.” 856 | “Thanks,” said Tara tonelessly, giving a sudden shiver as she felt the cold bite into her. “Come on, then. Don’t want you catching a chill.” Enid started down the steps. “I take the road home in the evenings, ’cause it’s too dark to see the way across the fields.” “Is it far?” “Half hour or so. You’re not afraid of a walk, are you?” “No,” said Tara, following after her aunt, her tone defensive. The streetlamps ended at the edge of the village, and thereon they walked in near-darkness, the early moonlight silvery on the wet road. The surrounding landscape was almost completely flat, with only a few clusters of trees to break up the fields and one slight rise, over the top of which the road disappeared. There were few houses out here, just the odd one or two, their windows glowing yellow in the distance. Occasionally a car would pass, the headlights swaying across the two women as the wheels made a wet sound on the dark tarmac. “You still doing well at school?” asked Enid. “Doing GCSEs this summer.” “Yer teachers think you’ll do well, do they?” “S’pose so,” Tara responded without much enthusiasm. “Bs and Cs they think I’ll get mostly. A for geography maybe.” “Yer dad always did say you were bright,” said Enid, giving the girl a quick glance but without any affection. Tara gave a shrug of her shoulders. She was looking away from her aunt across the fields, her hands still thrust deep in her pockets. The tall grass was swaying in the cold wind, and the moonlit surface of the field looked curiously like the surface of a body of water, like wavelets tossing in a squall. “Think you’ll be taking A-levels, then, will yer?” “Probably.” “Wanting to go up to university after, like your father?” Tara shrugged again. The tall grass still swayed in the wind, its surface undulating like water. They fell back into silence, each more comfortable not having to speak with the other, until eventually they rounded a bend and Enid stopped. “See that ditch, there?” she said, pointing to the side of the road. “Must be two years ago now, Morgan Saunders gets a knock at his door one evening— you see his house over there? It’s just dropped dark, and there’s a young chap on his doorstep, a town fella. Says his car is stuck in a ditch and he needs help. Morgan asks if he wants a cup of tea ’fore they get started but the lad just wants to get on. “Year later, Morgan saw the police notices on the Safeway message board. Turned out the fella had buried a body in the woods up there. You see the clump of trees up on the hillcrest? Buried it just before he drove his car in that ditch. Cut up in pieces it was, in two black bin liners. Only a kiddie.” | 857 “God,” said Tara, giving her aunt an odd look. Enid didn’t notice. She was staring at the ditch, unsmiling. “Can’t help meself thinking of it each time I pass here,” she said quietly, no longer speaking to Tara. Still watching her aunt, Tara frowned. She felt a prickling at the back of her neck. Her legs were cold. “Did they catch him?” She was very conscious of the expanse of space surrounding them, how small they were within it. “Aye, that they did, thank God.” Enid turned back to her niece, “Don’t you be fretting though, girl. We don’t get much trouble round here.” “No,” said Tara, as if in agreement. They started walking again, the girl glancing once back to the ditch then across again to the distant clump of trees.
In her kitchen, Enid flicked the light switch and the fluorescent strip-light at the ceiling blinked a moment then hummed bright in the dark window’s reflection of a small room lined with brown melamine-fronted cabinets. Enid set the kettle on the hob. “We’ll have a cup of tea, then I’ll start the supper. You can go and ring your folks, why don’t you? Phone’s in the hall,” said Enid, setting out two cups next to the teapot. Beside the telephone, Tara paused. She considered whether she should shut the door, then decided to leave it open. She could hear her aunt through in the kitchen. The phone was made of beige plastic, the old-fashioned type with a dial and her aunt’s number typed on a disc of paper in the centre below the code for the emergency services printed in red. She lifted the receiver and began to dial, listening to the clicking as each number took its turn to scroll back into place. “Mum?” she said into the receiver. “It’s me.” She turned so her back was facing the open doorway in case her aunt should happen to look through. Spoke just a little more quietly. “Yeah, Mum, I’m here. Yeah, she’s fine. No. No, it’s all right, she doesn’t mind. Just a few days.” In the kitchen, Enid stood poised with the milk jug in hand, listening. “Yeah. Yeah, I will. I’ll be fine, Mum. All right. I said all right, Mum. Yeah, love you, too. Love to Dad. ’Night.” Tara waited just a moment longer, feeling the still silence of the house, then lifted the tip of her finger from where it had been holding down the cradle switch for the length of the call. The empty sound of the dial tone echoed in her ear as she set the receiver back down.
Standing in the spare room that evening after supper, Tara pressed her 858 | forehead against the cold pane of glass at the window and looked out past her own reflection, faint in the shallow light of the bedside lamp, across the dark fields to that silhouette shape of the dense clump of trees on the hillcrest that she’d seen earlier from the road. The room was cold from disuse and the air smelt stale. She’d turned on the electric heater, twisting its dial to “max,” and the smell of burning dust now puffed out through the metal grille and began to filter through her nostrils. She found the silence of her aunt’s house oppressive. It had the dead silence of a place that nobody lived in. Turning finally, leaving an oval-shaped print on the glass where her forehead had rested, Tara pulled the curtain cord and let the drapes hide the outside world from view. She’d hoped for the succour of television after supper to drown the quiet, but had hardly felt surprised when Enid announced that she didn’t have one. Tara hadn’t even seen a radio in the house. Only bookshelves lined with the tired plastic-wrapped spines of ex-library volumes, their alphabetised titles redolent with lack of appeal. Her aunt had suggested she pick one out to read, but Tara had declined, saying she had a magazine in her bag. “That’s all the young want these days, magazines,” Enid had said, pronouncing the word with enough antipathy to leave Tara unsure how to respond. She had no interest now in reading her magazine, and crossed instead to the bed. There was a layer of clear plastic over the bedspread, and she pushed it to one side, letting it slither to the floor in transparent folds, and crawled, still fully dressed, between the cold bedsheets. The travel alarm clock on the bedside table showed half past seven. She sat a while, her eyes focused on nothing, then leant suddenly over the edge of the mattress and pulled her bag up onto the cover, groping within it until her fingers felt the hard shape of her mobile. She switched it on at the top corner, her fingers clumsy, and waited for the blue-lit screen to illuminate. The indicator was blank. No reception. “No,” Tara said hopelessly, throwing the phone down onto the patterned bedspread. She felt her throat tighten, a burning pressure rise behind her eyes. She looked about herself desperately. The room was silent. “Mum,” she said quietly, then shut her eyes tight and pressed her fingertips hard against them.
Enid Tythe had been brought up in a household where the family bathed once a week, one after another, in a tin bath of lukewarm water. If she thought about it, she could remember the little tub, placed square on the flagstones before the kitchen hearth, the windowpanes steamed opaque; having to step from the water with a shiver to grab for the towel and then sitting before the fire in your pyjamas so as your hair might dry before bed. That was Sunday evening for you, and if you cared to make yourself absent, to go to the pictures | 859 or a dance hall, then you’d bloody well just have to wait till the next week before you could take a bath again. She retained the habit of bathing only on Sundays into later life. During the week she’d flick the switch of the two- bar heater each morning and run a sink of water for a stand-up bath while the tight coils glowed slowly into life. She had a shallow plastic bucket, a little larger than a tea tray—the same plastic bucket in which she soaked her smalls each week—which she’d stand in to catch the drips. Enid sat now in her armchair, her book open in her lap, unsettled still since her niece’s quiet request that she might run a bath, and listened to the water coursing from the tap. For the fourth time in as many minutes she read the same sentence on the page before her, still not taking in its meaning. Why, the girl was going to use all the hot water in the tank, she worried, feeling irritation at her brother for having brought up a child so wasteful. She set back to her attempt at reading, and still the water didn’t stop. Surely the tub was going to run over any minute, her mind was thinking. The carpet would be ruined. Was the girl foolish or merely thoughtless? Could she have nodded off in there? Should Enid go and bang on the door? Tara was used to having baths that allowed her to submerge herself completely in water so hot it almost hurt. She was used to pouring foambath under the tap and watching the pearlescent liquid swirling in the rush of water and the scented bubbles forming until they puffed right above the edge of the tub. So all she thought now, when she finally turned off the tap, was how mean this bath looked without any bubbles, how less inviting the water. The pallid green of it, and there at the bottom of the tub a rust and turquoise stain trailing to the plughole where the steady drip of the tap had marked the enamel over the years. Her flesh was dull and goose-bumped from the cold of the bathroom. She dipped a toe in the water gingerly, expecting heat, but instead groaned to find the water temperature only just above tepid. She must have outrun the hot water supply without noticing. With a shiver, Tara shrugged off her towel and quickly slipped her unclothed body beneath the surface of the water. In the living room, Enid still couldn’t concentrate on the words before her. Each splash of water from behind the bathroom door, each shush of the girl’s skin against the sides of the tub, impacted upon her with an almost physical jolt. So much did it bother her to have another presence in the house that in the end she simply slapped her book shut, placing it on the armrest, feeling impelled to movement, desirous of being outside suddenly. In the cold of the night air, Enid set off across the field automatically, but then, as if on second thought, doubled back on herself so her path circled the house from a distance. She walked briskly, letting the fresh air clear her head, but her eyes kept flicking back to the bungalow. She saw the glare of the bathroom light behind the stippled glass, but no sign of her niece’s subverted 860 | silhouette, which meant she must still be lying down in the tub. Slowly, unconsciously, Enid’s pace began to slacken, until she came finally to a halt. She stood alone in her wellingtons in the field of tall grass, very still, her hands in the pockets of her overcoat, just observing the house. The curtains were drawn to the spare room, so she couldn’t see inside, but she was able to look right into her own bedroom, or at least see through it to the lit hallway beyond the doorframe; there was an oddness to it, a sense of detachment to watching her home from such a distance, like looking through the tiny windows of a dolls’ house. She had never stood outside her own house before while anyone was inside it and lights were on, and realised only now that it wasn’t a welcoming-looking house at all. The electric light at the windows was cold. Grey almost.
Tara had come to her aunt on an impulse, out of desperation, out of a foolish belief that things would turn out differently. She certainly hadn’t reckoned on her aunt’s taciturnity. A girl still mired in the taciturn teenage years herself, she couldn’t have imagined she’d find similar in one so old. She had expected the aunt she hardly knew to show her sympathy and concern. To tease the information gently out of Tara. Instead it took the vomiting of her breakfast toast and marmalade for her aunt to understand. “So that’s what all this is about, then,” said Enid gravely, but with a very slight tremor to her voice it seemed. She stood with her arms crossed over her chest, looking down on her niece as she knelt on the white tiles of the library toilet’s floor, her face pale as the ceramic bowl she crouched over. Tara closed her eyes tight and dug her fingernails into her palms to stop herself from crying. There was a block of blue chemical fixed beneath the rim of the seat. The synthetic stench hurt her nostrils. She felt another wave of nausea. That unavoidable wave of nausea that had already begun to hit her each morning now. “Oh, you silly, silly girl,” said Enid, a hint of anger in her voice. Pulling her lips tightly together she lifted her head and took in a deep breath. She looked around at the tiled walls. Below her Tara stifled a sob, the sound echoing against the porcelain. A sigh escaped Enid’s lips. “You silly, silly girl,” she said again, her tone a little gentler this time. Bracing one arm against the wall, she lowered herself to the floor beside Tara, the two of them crushed in the small space, and reached a hand awkwardly over her niece’s shoulder to pull her long hair back from her face. “How far gone are you, Tara?” For a moment the girl didn’t answer. “Only a month or two.” “And the father?” Tara gulped, then drew in a shaky breath. Her eyes were closed, mascara smudged beneath them. “He’s in Norway. He doesn’t know.” Her voice was | 861 very quiet. Enid made a tired sound. “I s’pose your parents don’t know either, do they?” Tara shook her head, then let out a violent sob, her whole body shaking. Enid gazed, unseeing, at the bent head of the girl beside her and thought about the library beyond the door, left untended. She wondered if anybody had come in, surprised to see the front desk empty, if they were out there now, needing her help. She felt a discomfort in her joints from kneeling down like this on the cold floor and tried to shift her position slightly. Her hand still held Tara’s thin hair loosely at the nape of her neck. The sound of the young girl’s sobs reverberating in the small tiled room sounded like the keening of a tiny animal in pain. “Come on now, girl,” said Enid softly. “Come on now, girl.”
*
“You’re all right, you are,” he had said when he’d finished. “Thanks,” Tara responded wanly, but his compliment did nothing for her. She’d spent the best part of the evening buoyed on the false exuberance of alcohol, feeling cocky and flirtatious and excited by herself. Around eleven o’clock she’d teetered over the edge of being in control of her actions—it wasn’t the first time she’d been this way, and the truth was that even if she could have stopped herself she didn’t want to. Only now, cut off from the noise and press of warm bodies in the club, did she feel the sudden deflation of that propulsion that earlier had fuelled her. All that remained was the sweet lurch of bile-ridden Bacardi Breezer rising at the back of her throat. She lowered herself from her perch on the toilet cistern, feeling the cold of the concrete floor press against the soles of her feet. Her tights were gathered around one knee, the empty leg trailing like a withered limb. When she went to pull them up she found they’d laddered at the thigh, so instead she simply slipped them off and bundled them in her hand, feeling the flimsy nothingness of the nylon gauze against her fingers. Reaching behind her, she lowered the plastic rim of the toilet seat so she could sit. “Going to bloody Norway on Tuesday, else I’d take your number,” he said. “Norway?” she said with a slight frown. “Working in a slaughterhouse, aren’t I?” “Fuckin’ hell,” Tara said, shaking her fringe from her eyes as she looked up to him, squinting against the light from the bare bulb above, “what you doing that for?” “Get out of this dump.” He gave a sort of laugh, but then seemed to gulp it back again almost immediately. Self-conscious suddenly in her gaze, he 862 | lifted his hands to smooth his hair back in place, then wiped them against his trouser legs, leaving a faint dull stain of hair-gel on the denim. There was graffiti on the wall behind her. He slid the fingers of his hands in each pocket and just stood there, ready to leave now. Tara felt herself gag slightly and lifted one hand to her mouth, curving her shoulders inwards. “You all right?” he asked, glancing down. She nodded. “So …” he gave a little ducking with his chin, “shall we go back out then, get another drink in?” Again she nodded. “I’ll be out in a minute, okay?” “Suit yerself.” He touched her shoulder quickly, then pulled his fingers back again. “I’ll see yer out there then, yeah?” To open the stall door he had to turn and crush against the wall. As his legs brushed against her bare knees she felt another pitch of nausea. There was a rush of loud music and voices as he opened the main door and then the beat muffled again as it swung shut. Tara closed her eyes, then opened them again to stop the spinning. She took in an unsteady breath, swallowing back the desire to vomit. It was bloody cold in Norway, that was all she knew.
*
A book had been left open on one of the desks. A hard-backed, plastic- covered art book, the edges of each page deckle-edged from past fingers flicking through them. Enid reached for it, and as she did, paused a moment, looking at the coloured reproduction printed on the open page: A young woman in profile, standing alone in a room reading a letter, the scene lit softly by daylight falling through a tall window. She stood before a cluttered tabletop, with a string of pearls spread across it and an open wooden box such as one might keep jewellery and mementoes in. On the white washed wall behind her hung a large sepia-coloured map; like a window onto distant lands, somewhere far away. The woman wore a blue silk housecoat, tied at the front with ribbons, and an ochre dress beneath, the skirts full. Her hair was pulled back from her face, secured at the back of her head with a pink sash winding round the thickness of it. Her head was lowered as she read, and the eyes were slightly in shadow beneath her brows, the lids low. She was concentrating on the letter; not smiling, but her face didn’t show sadness either. It could be a letter she’d just received, delivered to her by a servant girl, or it might have been something treasured that she took out now and again to re-read. She was in the late months of a pregnancy and the lower section of her letter, below the bottom crease, rested lightly on her distended stomach. Such a simple scene, so human. So redolent of a life once lived, a day once experienced. There was no grandeur to it, it appeared almost uncomposed. | 863 Like a snapshot taken unobserved. One could imagine that at any moment the woman would finish the letter and fold it back again. Any moment the light might change as a cloud passed before the sun. Or she might turn, and smile or frown or give a look of surprise to realise she was observed. “Vermeer, Miss Tythe?” asked a congenial voice. Enid started and gave a slight gasp. Her eyes were still lost, still hanging back somewhere. “Oh, Miss Tythe, I’m sorry,” said the voice, concerned now. “I disturbed you.” A small hand reached to touch her lightly on the arm. “Not at all, Mr Matthews,” she said quietly, turning to acknowledge the elderly gentleman at her elbow. She’d used his name but looked at him now as if she didn’t fully recognise him. “Are you all right, Miss Tythe?” he asked, frowning because something about her seemed strange. “You’re not unwell, are you?” She gave a shake of her head, and as she did so her eyes appeared to swim back into focus. He returned with a faint slow nod, his face still concerned. “I was looking for …” he broke off. He was a small man, Mr Matthews, active inthe committee fighting to save the library from the council’s threatened closure. His hair, once very dark but now greying, still swept from a neat side-parting across his forehead. He had dark eyebrows, a straight nose, and a thin upper lip. His eyes were a light grey in colour. He was dressed in a brown tweed jacket with a white shirt buttoned to the neck and secured with a woollen tie. He had a handkerchief in his breast pocket. “Saw you had a young girl here with you last week,” he said. “My brother’s girl,” Enid nodded. “Oh,” he said, cocking his head like a starling, “I didn’t know you had a niece, Miss Tythe.” “She’s gone again now,” said Enid. “Had a problem needed solving.” “Oh, I see. And you helped her, did you?” “Yes,” Enid said after a moment, “I did.” She stood silent for a few seconds, then looked up to him plainly and shook her head as if to dismiss the matter. “It’s all over with now, anyway. She took the bus home yesterday morning.” There’d been an incident a few years before with Mr Matthews. She’d caught him writing lines of poetry in the margins of the library books. Poetry of a romantic nature. Bookmarking them specifically so she would find them. She’d at first assumed that someone was having a joke at her expense until she narrowed down Mr Matthews as the culprit. “You are responsible for this defacing of library property, are you not, Mr Matthews?” she had asked, her finger pointing sharply to a neatly scripted stanza running down the white edge of a page. He had looked at her, and said nothing. 864 | “Mr Matthews?” she said again, watching him. Very slightly did his chest rise and fall with the slow movement of his breath. Rise and fall. Rise and fall. And she realised she was breathing almost in time with the man. “Mr Matthews,” she had said, “if you commit such an offence again, I’m afraid I will be forced to remove your borrowing privileges. Do you understand me, Mr Matthews? Please don’t be writing in the library books.” “Of course, Miss Tythe. I quite understand.” And with a slow nod, he had walked calmly away. It was the last time he had ever left a message for her in library property; she’d been glad the incident had resolved itself with so little bother. Enid Tythe looked back down now to the printed image she’d been staring at before, and for a second again she was there, standing in the room, on bare floorboards, watching the young pregnant woman reading her letter in the soft light from the window. “Mr Matthews,” she said, without looking up, “can you imagine a life beyond this?” He stood paused. Watching her. Frowning. “I … I don’t understand, Miss Tythe.” And now she turned to look at him. Her eyes were very clear. He’d noticed that before, what clear eyes she had, especially for a woman of her age. The irises so pale a blue as to be almost ice-like. “This is all I know,” she said to him. He had no words to answer her. Instead the two of them just stood a while, between the rows of bookshelves, until Enid Tythe gave a slight smile and shook her head. She closed the book in her hands and turned to slide it into place on a shelf. “How can I help you, Mr Matthews?” she said, her voice reassuming the brisk tone of habit. “What is it you were looking for?”
| 865 866 |
Laura Zam in Stupid Frailty. Photo: Bruce McNeil. Laura Zam from Collaterally Damaged
Scene Five: Auschwitz
LAURA The next morning, Alex and I visit Auschwitz.
As we approach the main gates, Alex tells me that Arnošt Lustig, a famous Czech writer and Holocaust survivor, when asked if one should visit Auschwitz, said: “Absolutely not. They sell hot dogs there.”
And it’s true. Outside the gates, inside the gates, there is food for sale. And | 867 though the phrase is ridiculous, I will say it anyway: The food at Auschwitz is actually quite good.
As well is should be. It takes a long time to visit Auschwitz, and it’s very draining, So why shouldn’t people be able to eat?
That’s why we immediately start shooting, with our cameras of course:
Pierogies and gas chambers Barracks and mushroom soup Watch towers and cheese sandwiched between 20,000 pairs of shoes and 7 tons of human hair.
I take a bus to Birkenau, otherwise known as Auschwitz II. There I encounter another kind of food entirely: it’s the Cranberries, on the radio (singing):
But I’ll miss you when you’re g—o—ne That is what I do Hey, Hey, Hey…
After viewing the remnants of countless crematoria, I’m back on thebus. This time I’m accompanied by Cher (singing): Oh, Oh, Oh. Love him Squeeze him tight Find out what you want to know….
I’m… confused. Am I expected to spit in the driver’s face or sing along? I decide to sing along (singing and snapping):
Gypsies Tramps and Thieves We hear it from the people of the town They call us Gypsies Tramps and Thieves
When I arrive back at the main building, I inquire about a book I saw at the Oswiecim Jewish Center. “We don’t have it,” says the women in the book stall. But I can see it right behind her. “It’s right there!!!!”
When I meet up with Alex, I say:
“I just don’t understand how they can have such insensitivity in this camp where millions of Jews were persecuted in cahoots with Polish anti- 868 | Semitism.”
And what about Cher? Huh? Can somebody please talk to me about Cher?”
We leave the concentration camp now, crossing the street to catch the bus. Using my best, mangled, Polish I go up to the woman selling bus tickets.
“Prose pani. Potrebuje autobus do Krakovie. Gje jest autobus?”
The woman, who is on the phone, just flicks her hand.
Meaning, she won’t get off the phone to tell me. Consequently, we stand in the wrong place, miss the bus, and miss our train to the next town
Back inside the gates, Alex kept saying: “I don’t understand. I don’t understand how it happened.” But what I don’t understand is what he’s talking about. Because it happens all the time. It’s happening right now…because that Buss- stop Bitch, that Bookstore Bimbo, and Sonny over there with his Cher are beginning to merge into one hateful entity. One hateful ethnic…Polish…
INSECT, and I want to hurt these people. I do. I want to squash them under my shiny black boots – boots made from an animal that has already been slaughtered for my personal convenience.
And I am happy about that. I am happy about that slaughter. I think it’s time to visit another concentration camp.
Scene Six: Stutthof
LAURA After a seven-hour train ride, we find ourselves in Gdansk at the home of Pani Trapp, a woman who rents out rooms to tourists.
pani trapp Look here, no hot water. Little boiler.
LAURA My hair is filthy. My clothes are filthy. And we have completely run out of money. I can’t even afford shampoo!
I do have money though for the Internet café where I retrieve an erotic email from my lover back in the States. The subject line reads: “I Could Have Gdansked All Night.” You get it? We’re in Gdansk…Anyway, he’s right.
I AM Gdansking today because I’ve taken some time again to be by myself. | 869 And you know what I do with my free days, don’t you?
I visit concentration camps.
This camp is called Stutthof and it’s the camp my mother was sent to after Auschwitz. And, compared to Auschwitz, it’s pretty small.
On the day I arrive, they’re showing two films. The first one, done in the 50s, tells me that WWII was actually a pissing contest between Hitler and Stalin. And Stalin—that is, communism—won. Forever.
In the second film, made more recently, communism has disappeared and been replaced by Jesus. What happened was several nuns and priests were killed in this camp, were martyred like their Lord Jesus Christ, who, in the end, was victorious. So Jesus won the war. Huh…
But…did you hear the one about the Jews who came here in ‘44 and sustained some of the most horrendous conditions of the war? Me neither.
Of course, all this stuff is in Polish so who knows what the hell they’re saying?
I am reminded of a conversation I had with a theater professor back in Krakow. Alex and I went to her apartment one night for coffee where she told us she was trying to wean her entire theater department from its dependence on narrative.
theatre professor If we want to create a contemporary theatre, we must murder story.
LAURA And why not? This has certainly been the philosophical trend in the West – for decades! Some say it’s the very heart of postmodernism: that we must deconstruct the stories that people tell us because stories, all stories, are manipulative. Stories are just a ploy to maintain and seize power. It strikes me that tragic stories of persecution are some the most manipulative stories you can tell…
I think of the reasons I am here now telling you my mother’s story…I think of the reasons I tell my own story, the story of my abuse.
Back in Brooklyn in 1967, a man who lived three doors down would lure me into his paint-filled garage and place me on a tall barrel. Then he would pull down my pants and pull up my top so that I would be, for his purposes, naked. At this point, he would take out his penis and stare at me, while 870 | masturbating. These episodes happened about five times. After they stopped I had extremely violent fantasies that lasted about a year. I was four years old.
I don’t like this story but I feel I need to bring it up out of the blue so I can make people uncomfortable.
Just kidding.
No, I tell this story because it saved my life.
After spending most of my childhood convincing myself the abuse never happened, I suddenly started talking about it when I was 16. There I was riding the bus with my friend Susan when it just flew out of my mouth. No one was more surprised than me: I hadn’t talked – or even thought – about it in years! But once I started talking, I knew with absolute certainty that the only way I was going to heal myself was by telling this story. And I was right. This storytelling has healed me, over and over again.
But this tale has also scared me, mostly because of its potential… for abuse.
voice of conscience (sounds like BOOMING Dan Rather) Abuse of Abuse Example Number One: LAURA Oh my GOD. I am sooooo sorry I missed your birthday and didn’t return any of your phone calls but it’s been really crazy. A lahhhhht of stuff has been coming up around my abuse lately.
same conscience Abuse of Abuse Example Number Two:
LAURA Yeah…I hear what you’re saying, I do…but as a person who’s been MOLESTED, as a person who’s close family was MURDERED, I find your opinion to be naïve and, essentially, banal.
conscience again Abuse of Abuse Example Number Three:
LAURA I’ve been hurt—badly. And now I get to hurt you. That’s my license. I have a license, right here, to hurt you.
conscience again Abuse of Abuse Example Number Four: | 871
LAURA When I told my mother about my abuse soon after it happened, she said:
mother That’s what men are like. Don’t go near him.
LAURA My mother thought abuse was normal so she couldn’t do anything to stop its perpetuation. (She steps up on an imaginary, very tacky soapbox):
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, these days people on both sides of the gun are treated for post-traumatic stress disorder, but don’t believe it!! Because, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, there IS NO TREATMENT FOR TRAUMA because TRAUMA IS you—IT CREATES THE PERSON YOU BECOME.
(She steps down, terribly disoriented.) (She steps back up as if in a daze.)
What I mean to say is, if there is no healing—not completely—then how is a lasting peace possible? People continue to act out their trauma, over and over again. Look at the Middle East! There is no lasting peace this way. And if there is no lasting peace, then there is no play.
That’s my play… (She steps down again and starts wandering aimlessly.)
On the way back from Stutthof to Gdansk, I miss my bus and so I’m very late meeting Alex, and now here he is on the street waiting for me.
Alex Laura! Where were you? I waited here for an hour?
LAURA You’ve been standing on the street for an hour?
Alex More. I was at the bus station for also an hour.
LAURA You waited at the bus stop for an hour? That was stupid.
Alex Laura, it’s dark outside.
LAURA 872 | I told you I would just meet you back here.
Alex Laura, we have one key!
LAURA I don’t care. I don’t want you waiting for me all the time. It’s creepy. And it’s stupid.
Alex Stop it!
LAURA No, you stop it!
Alex Stop it.
LAURA No, you stop it!!!
Alex Laura, Stop. It. LAURA That’s right, stop it. Stop the whole project. It’s over now. It’s over because I can’t wait to leave you, Alex. I can’t wait to leave you.
Scene Seven: Neustadt in Holstein
LAURA And that’s exactly what I do. What WE do. We leave and go Germany.
But you know what? Germany is better.
Better trains Better recycling Better cars.
Germany is not just better; Germany is a relief!
After another 12 hour train ride, we arrive in Nuestadt in Holstein, the town where my mother was liberated. I won’t write the play, but I will still see the | 873 town.
We go to a historical museum but I don’t see anything there about the Nazis.
“Excuse me, bitte, Ich bin Jude. Grandmama, Grandpapa kaput. Mama Liberace here—in Neustadt in Holstein. Liberace from—the Germans….I mean…uh…you guys…”
“Ya. Ya,” the receptionist says. “Her Lange. There.”
There?…She means: right next door. (Knocking):
Herr Lange?…Oh hello. Do you speak English?…Great. My name is LAURA and this is Alex Novak. We were told to talk to you about what happened in this town on May 3, 1945.
herr lange Yes, I will talk to you. Come upstairs. Please.
LAURA Herr Lange is a historian and, it turns out, an expert on the death march my mother was taken on which brought her from Stutthof to Neustadt in Holstein. Here’s what happened.
In the middle of 1944, Hitler was losing the war but he didn’t want his prisoners falling into Russian hands so he started sending these people to his strongholds. That’s why my mother was sent from Auschwitz to Stutthof. Stutthof, however, couldn’t accommodate these thousands of Jews. The commandant of the camp tells Hitler, “We don’t have the facilities.” Hitler says, “I don’t care. There’s nowhere else for them to go.” So these Jews, most of them young women, are packed like sardines into tiny barracks in a camp that has the latitude of southern Alaska. The weather turns very cold and the women have to sit all day long with their legs spread apart and someone sitting between their legs. They sit on a stone floor, covered with mud and excrement. There is no clean water for bathing or drinking, and everyone is covered in fistfuls of lice. In December a typhus epidemic breaks out, killing thousands. The commanders of the camp won’t go near these barracks because of the disease, so the dead are not being removed promptly. The women are still sitting on the floor, but now they are also covered by the decomposing dead. My mother also contracts typhus and begins a slow descent into death. One day though she rouses herself from the fever and literally wills herself to live. Still in a stupor, she takes a lice-invested blanket from a fresh corpse and wraps it around her naked body. She finds a bowl, dips it into a barrel 874 | filled with soup and human waste, and she eats… At the end of April, the inmates are evacuated on a death march; that is, they are being marched to Germany, which is hundreds of miles away. If they have difficulty walking, they are shot down on the spot. Eventually, the prisoners are put on barges that are taken out to the Baltic Sea. All these boats are marked as German. The hope is that the English will mistakenly kill these people. And they do. One of the barges is bombed, as is a large ship called the Cap Arcona that has 5,000 concentration camp survivors on it, most of whom drown. After 8 days without food or water, my mother’s barge comes to the Bay in this very town—Neustadt in Holstein. The prisoners, who have been deserted by the S.S., disembark. But just then, the S.S. come out of nowhere, go onto the boats, and massacre all the prisoners who are left, including many who were too sick to get off quickly or those who went back to help. Suddenly, the English arrive. They surround the town and the Germans flee for their lives. Word spreads among the prisoners quickly, but so strangely. “Hurray. The war is over. We’re free. The war is over. We’re free.”
When I hear Herr Lange, I realize for the first time why I actually came to Europe: I wanted to put my hand on history, close my sweaty fingers around it.
No. Not history But Henia No, not Henia… but something else…
I’m standing now down the road from Herr Lange’s office, looking out onto the bay where my mother, dying of typhus, swam to shore. I realize that for my mother to have survived, she needed a miracle. A miracle of strength. I know in that moment that I am descended from this miracle.
And I am proud.
More than proud. I feel strong.
For the first time in my life.
As Alex and I ride a train back to Prague, I feel strong. I mean strong, like Spiderman and Robert Downy Jr. —post rehab. I feel strongly strong and even powerful. And then I have a powerful idea: I will use my strength to seek reconciliation…reconciliation with…anyone, basically… anyone willing to reconcile with me.
No. Not anyone, but Alex…if he’s willing. I have to apologize for the terrible | 875 way I’ve been treating him.
“I’m so sorry…”
“It’s OK,” he says. “This Holocaust is making me act stupid too!”
I am so grateful for this gesture, and for his friendship, because I will need it as I take on what I finally have the power to take on:
It’s time
40,000 people have been murdered
It’s time
2 million people have been displaced
It’s time…
It’s time To stop The Genocide in Darfur 876 | Lucien Zell Wind to Wind
When I say wind, I mean breath. When I say breath, I mean word. When I say word, I mean meaning. When I say meaning, I mean depth. When I say depth, I mean feeling. When I say feeling, I mean passion.
| 877 When I say passion, I mean streaks of soul across the air of night. When I say streaks of soul across the air of night, I mean extensions beyond the rooms we live in. When I say extensions beyond the rooms we live in, I mean balconies.
And when I say balconies— I mean a place to watch the wind.
From Bright Secrets (Prague: Dharmagaia, 2006). Contributors
Michal Ajvaz was born in 1949 in Prague. He is a writer, philosopher and translator currently working at the Centre for Theoretical Study, in the Czech Academy of Sciences. His fiction has appeared in English in Yazzyk, Trafika and Café Irreal. “Two Compositions” is an excerpt from his novel Empty Streets (Prázdné ulice; Brno, 2004), which was awarded the Jaroslav Seifert Prize (2005). His other novels include The Other City (Dalkey Archive, 2009) and The Golden Age (Dalkey Archive, 2010)
Jorn Ake is a poet and photographer. He lived in Prague between 2001 and 2004. In 2003 he had a solo photographic exhibition at Prague’s NoD Gallery. His first collection of poems, Asleep in the Lightning Fields, won the 2001 X.J. Kennedy Poetry Prize and was published by Texas Review Press. A chapbook of his work, All About the Blind Spot and Other Poems, is available from Popular Ink, and his second full-length collection, The Circle Line, was published by The Backwaters Press as an editor’s choice in 2009. His most recent book, Boys Whistling like Canaries, won the 2008 Blue Lynx Prize for Poetry and was published by EWU Press in 2009. He currently lives in New York City.
Gwendolyn Albert was born in Oakland, California, USA in 1967. In 1989 she was awarded a Fulbright grant to visit Czechoslovakia, where she participated 878 | in the Velvet Revolution as a translator. Her first collection of poetry, Dogs, was published by Norton Coker in 1991. Other publications include Der Fährmann (1996) and Going in Circles (with Vincent Farnsworth; 2000). In 1993, while living in the Bay Area, she founded the magazine JEJUNE: america eats its young with Vincent Farnsworth, with whom she returned to the Czech Republic in 1994. In addition to her own writing, she has translated Eva Švankmajerová’s novella Baradla Cave (Twisted Spoon, 2000). Albert is also a human rights activist who has worked with the Roma minority in the Czech Republic and Kosovo, and is currently an independent consultant to the Council of Europe, the European Roma Rights Center, and is a translator into English of material published by the ROMEA news server (http//:romea.cz/english/).
Hana Androniková, born in Zlin (1967), studied English and Czech literature at Charles University in Prague. Her first novel, Zvuk slunecních hodin (The Sound of the Sundial; Knižní klub, 2001), was awarded both The Book Club Literary Award and a Magnesia Litera Award. Srdce na udici (Heart on the Hook), a collection of short stories, appeared in 2002 from Petrov. Her fiction has appeared in World Literature Today and Words Without Borders. Her play, “Dance Through the Fence,” based on refugee stories, was performed at Divadlo Archa in 2008; her recently completed “Caterans and Footsloggers” was premiered at Archa in March 2010. She lives in Prague.
LOUIS ARMAND has lived in Prague since 1994 and directs of the Centre for Critical and Cultural Theory, in the Philosophy Faculty of Charles University. He has served as an editor of The Prague Revue, The Prague Literary Review and Litteraria Pragensia. His work has appeared in Literární Noviny, TriQuarterly, Sulfur and Stand, and has been anthologised in the Penguin Anthology of Australian Poetry and Calyx: 30 Australian Poets. His collections of poetry include Séances (Twisted Spoon, 1998), Inexorable Weather (Arc, 2001), Land Partition (Textbase, 2001), Strange Attractors (Salt, 2003), Malice in Underland (Textbase, 2003), Picture Primitive (Antigen, 2006), and Synopticon (with John Kinsella; LPB, 2010). He has published two volumes of prose fiction: The Garden (Salt, 2001) and Menudo (Antigen, 2006). His critical works include Incendiary Devices (Karolinum, 2006), Event States: Discourse, Time, Mediality (LPB, 2007) and, as editor, Contemporary Poetics (Northwestern, 2007).
Julie Ashley was born in Omaha, Nebraska. While based in Prague, from 1993 to 1998, she founded a long-running writers’ workshop linked to the Beef Stew reading series at Radost/FX, while working at the Barrandov film studies and teaching English. Her writing appeared in Gristle Floss, Optimism Monthly and The Prague Post. Currently, she resides in Tempe, Arizona, where she directs the Student Success Centre at Arizona State University.
ALEXANDER JOSEPH BARBER (1971-2002) worked in Prague for several years as a senior contributor to Think magazine and was a regular participant at the Beef Stew readings at Radost/FX.
Kip Alan Bauersfeld was born in Washington D.C. in 1967 and moved to Prague in 1991. Beginning with the English-language newspaper, Prognosis, he worked for 12 years in print media journalism in Prague, before retiring to devote himself full- time to visual arts.
KEVIN BLAHUT was a co-founder of Twisted Spoon Press in 1991. His translation of Kafka’s Contemplation was published by Twisted Spoon in 1992, followed in 1993 by a translation of Paul Leppin’s classic novel Severin’s Journey into the Dark. His work appeared in X-Ink magazine and in the anthology Bohemian Verses | 879 (Modrá Músa, 1993). A short collection of poetry, A Petrified Head, was published by William Aloysius Books (New York, 1993). His published translations include Franz Kafka’s A Hunger Artist (1996) and A Country Doctor (1997), and Hermann Ungar’s The Maimed (2002).
PETR BORKOVEC was born in 1970 in Louňovice pod Blaníkem. Since 1992 he has been an editor of the literary and cultural review, Souvislosti, in Prague. He has also worked as proofreader for the daily newspaper Dnes, as an editor for Lidové noviny (1995–2001). His work has appeared in Trafika, Metre and the Prague Literary Review, as well as the anthology Six Czech Poets (Arc, 2007). His poetry collections include Prostírání do tichého (Pražská imaginace, 1990); Poustevna, věštírna, loutkárna (Mladá fronta, 1991); Ochoz (Mladá fronta, 1994) for which he was awarded the 1994 Jiří Orten Prize; Mezi oknem, stolem a postelí (Český spisovatel, 1996); Polní práce (Mladá fronta 1998); and Needle-Book (Paseka, 2003). His selected poems appeared in English translation as From the Interior (Seren, 2008). He currently curates the reading series at Café Fra.
Sarah Borufka was born in Erlangen, Germany. In 2003, she represented her hometown at the German International Poetry Slam. She earned a B.A. in Film Production from the University of New Orleans in 2006. She moved to Prague in early 2009 and currently works as a reporter for Radio Prague. Her poems have been published in Grasp, Rotbuch’s Poetry Slam 2004/2005, Rakish Angel 1, and in various anthologies of Edition Kulturbremse and Wort ab: das Magazin zum Erlanger Poetry Slam.
Michael Brennan was born in Sydney in 1973. His first collection of poetry,The Imageless World (Salt, 2003) was short-listed for the Victorian Premier’s Award for Poetry and won the Mary Gilmour Award. His second collection, Unanimous Night, was published by Salt in 2008. Other publications include Language Habits (2006), Sky was Sky (with Akiko Muto; 2007) and Atopia (with Kay Orchison; 2007). In 2000 he co-edited, with Peter Minter, Calyx: 30 Contemporary Australian Poets. He has been a guest editor of Southerly and The Prague Revue, and is the publisher of Vagabond Press. He currently lives in Tokyo, where he lectures in the Faculty of Policy Studies, Chuo University.
bil brown is a poet, photographer, graphic artist, former micro-press publisher, teacher and editor. A graduate of The Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics, Brown was co-founder of the Pražská škola poetiky/Prague School of Poetics, a pre- cursor to Naropa University’s Spring program abroad in Prague. Along with Jameson Welch, he was responsible for publishing Jenny Smith’s Egon, and the little magazine The Vernalist, as well as his own Gris-Gris Press. The poems contained here are part of the 3:15 Experiment, initiated by Danika Dinsmore and Bernadette Mayer.
Isobelle Carmody (1958) is a writer of science fiction, fantasy, children’s literature, and young adult literature. Her novels include Scatterlings (1991), The Gathering (1993), The Red Shoes (1996), Greylands (1997), The Landlord (2000), Angel Fever (2004), Alyzon Whitestarr (2005) and The Cat Dreamer (2005). She has lived in Prague intermittently since 1993.
Věra Chase was born in Prague in 1971. A graduate of the Faculty of Arts at Charles University, her writing has appeared in various magazines and newspapers, including Yazzyk, Grasp, Optimism, and Café Irreal. She is formerly an editor of One Eye Open/Jedním Okem. Her novel, Vášeň pro broskve (Passion for Peaches; Knižní 880 | Klub, 1998), was the winner of the Czech Book Award. A short story collection, Hypnoskop, was published by Prostor in 1999). She has also published three bilingual books of poetry: Eyeberries/Bobule (Sanskriti Prathisthan, 1999), Bodypainting/ Tělokresba (Protis, 1997) and Šťáva (Juice; Labyrint, 2001).
Louis Charbonneau is a graduate of the University of Michigan and Columbia University. He moved to Prague in September 1992, working for the English-language newspaper Prognosis as a columnist, reporter and editor. He left Prague in late 1999. In 2001 he joined Reuters and has been a diplomatic correspondent for the British news agency ever since. He is the recipient of several awards, including the U.N. Correspondents Association’s Elizabeth Neuffer Memorial Prize for his coverage of the United Nations, and was nominated by Reuters along with several colleagues for a 2010 Pulitzer Prize for his reporting on Iran.
Julie Chibbaro studied writing at The New School, and with Gordon Lish, and is the author of the novel Redemption (Simon & Schuster/Atheneum, 2004), which received the American Book Award in 2005. Her fiction has appeared inThe Prague Revue, Catalyst Magazine, and Slingshot, and her articles have appeared in The Prague Post, The Montreal Gazette, and Central Europe Online. She served as a semi- finalist judge for the AWP’s Novel contest, and has volunteered her time to teach writing online to women in Afghanistan. She teaches fiction and creative writing at the Gotham Writers Workshop in New York City. Her second novel, Deadly: The Hunt for Typhoid Mary, will be published by Simon & Schuster in 2011.
Joshua Cohen was born in 1980 in New Jersey. He lived in Prague between 2001 and 2006, working as a journalist, essayist and editor for the Prague Pill, Prague Literary Review, BLATT, and Aufbau. His fiction has appeared in Sleeping Fish, Fiction Warehouse, Zeek and in the anthology, Text:UR—The New Book of Masks (Raw Dog Screaming Press, 2007). A recipient of The Modern Word’s 2003 Short Story Prize, and short-listed for the Koret Foundation’s 2005 Young Writer on Jewish Themes Award, Cohen now resides in New York, where he is a regular contributor to The Forward. He is the author of The Quorum (Twisted Spoon, 2005), Cadenza for the Schneidermann Violin Concerto (Fugue State Press, 2007), Aleph- Bet, An Alphabet for the Perplexed (Six Gallery Press, 2007), and A Heaven of Others (Starcherone Books, 2008). His novel Witz is published by Dalkey Archive (2010).
LaUra Conway is a writer, editor and publisher who has lived in Prague since 1994. Her collections of poetry include To Knock Something Hard in the Dark (Bench, 1981), My Mama Pinned a Rose on Me (Red Flower Ink, 1986), The Cities of Madame Curie (Zeitgeist, 1989), The Ministry of Strange Obsessions (2000), and The Alphabet of Trees (with Kateřina Piňosová; Concordia, 2001). She edited Optimism Monthly from 1999-2000 and was the founder of Prague’s “Alchemy” reading series. In 2005 her work was anthologised in The New American Underground: Vol. 1. San Fransisco—Poets from Hell (edited by David Lerner, Julia Vinograd and Alan Allen).
Christopher Cook grew up along the Texas-Louisiana border in the USA. He is the author of Robbers (Carroll & Graf, 2000) and Screen Door Jesus & Other Stories (Host, 2001). Since 1994, he has lived in France, Mexico and the Czech Republic, where he has worked as a journalist and human rights activist. His short story “The Pickpocket” was included in the Houghton Mifflin anthology The Best American Mystery Stories 2003. His memoir essay “Full Moon Over Bohemia,” set in Prague, was selected for The Best Travel Writing anthology in 2006.
Christopher Crawford was born in Glasgow in 1974. He studied Mechanical | 881 and Offshore Engineering, and has worked on various oil rigs and seismic vessels in the Gulf of Mexico. His poems, fiction and reviews have appeared in Rakish Angel 1, Evergreen Review, Blatt, The Prague Revue, Grasp, The Literateur and OVS Magazine. His work has also featured alongside the work of Prague photographer Dana Wilson at the annual Contact Toronto photography festival. In the 2008 he participated in the Evropský Sen festival, Prague. He has lived in the Czech Republic since 2002.
Lewis Crofts was born in 1977 in Blackburn, UK. He moved to Prague in 2001 to take up a lecturing post at the English and American Studies Department of Charles University. While in Prague, he also worked at the Organisation for Security and Co- operation in Europe. It was during a weekend trip to Český Krumov that Lewis had his first real exposure to Egon Schiele, which subsequently gave birth to the novel The Pornographer of Vienna (Old Street Publishing, 2007). In 2003, he left Prague for Brussels where he now lives and works as a journalist.
Pierre Daguin was born in 1967 in Paris, where he lives and works as a photographer. He has had eight solo exhibitions, including at La terrasse de Gutenberg (Paris), Václav Špála Gallery (Prague), and Home Gallery (Prague). His books include 33 (Divus, 1994), The Nude (Divus, 1998) and French Connection (with Marketa Othová; Divus, 2001).
Stephan Delbos is a New England-born poet living in Prague, where he teaches at Charles University and Anglo-American University. He is the editor of the Rakish Angel Poetry Pamphlet Series and managing editor of The Prague Revue. His poetry and essays have appeared in New Letters, Atlanta Review, Poetry International, Poetry Salzburg Review and Zoland Poetry. Danika Dinsmore is a graduate of the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics. In 1993, she and NY poet Bernadette Mayer launched an annual collaborative writing project called The 3:15 Experiment, during which participants wake up in the middle of the night to write. In 1996, she co-founded the Northwest Spokenword LAB and in 2001-2002 produced the Seattle Poetry Festival. Her work has appeared in Bombay Gin, Chain, 13th Moon, and Short Fuse: A Global Anthology of New Fusion Poetry. Other publications include traffic(1996), all over the road (spokenword CD; 2000), and every day angels and other near-death experiences (2002).
David Doubek, aka Ventolin, is a poet and performer living near Prague. He collaborates with actress Johana Švarcová in the electronic music ensemble Kazety, releasing a self-titled debut album from XProduction in 2009. The two pieces included here were originally published in Literární Noviny, in 1997.
Daniela DraZanová was born in Czechoslovakia and emigrated to the United States with her family in 1968. She graduated from New York University with a Master’s degree in English Literature. She returned to Prague in 1993 and was a frequent contributor to Prognosis. Her fiction has appeared in Bohemian Verses, Prairie Schooner, Kenyon Review, Trafika, Central Europe Review, The Prague Revue, Yazzyk and Revolver Revue. Her translations include Arnošt Lustig’s The Flood (1996).
Vít Erban was born in České Budějovice in 1974. He graduated with a degree in dramaturgy and screenwriting from FAMU in 1995, and completed a dissertation on the poet Gary Snyder at Charles University, Prague, where he has lectured in cultural 882 | studies since 2006. His work has appeared in Lidové noviny, Host, Vesmír, Prostor, and Literární Noviny. In 1999 his first book of prose, Velký vítr, was published by Větrné Mlýny in Brno. He currently lives in Prague.
G.S. Evans has been dividing his time between the Czech Republic and the United States since 1993. His books include the novels The Secret Czech Diary of Frederick Baron and other works (Tajný [český] deník Fredericka Barona a jiné texty; Aequitas, 2007) and its sequel, A Week in the Quiet Country (Týden v tiché zemi; David&Shoel, 2009). His fiction and essays have appeared in Host, Labyrint, Listy, and Britské listy, and his translations of the work of Arnošt Lustig have appeared in The Kenyon Review, New England Review, and New Orleans Review. He is also coeditor of the internet journal The Café Irreal.
ROBERT EVERSZ is the author of six novels, including Gypsy Hearts (Grove, 1997), Shooting Elvis (Grove, 1997), Killing Paparazzi (St Martins, 2001), Digging James Dean (Simon & Schuster, 2005), and Zero to the Bone (Simon & Schuster, 2006). He helped found the Prague Summer Program at Charles University, where he teaches a workshop in the novel every summer, and has maintained at least part-time residence in Prague since 1992. Currently, he teaches at UCLA Writers’ Program.
Vincent Farnsworth was born in rural Las Vegas, Nevada, USA in 1962 and moved to the Czech Republic in 1994. With Gwendolyn Albert he founded the magazine Jejune: amerika eats its young in 1993. His poetry has appeared in Exquisite Corpse, RealPoetik, the Prague Literary Review, Room Temperature, and Big Bridge. His books include Little Twirly Things (Norton Coker, 1992) and Immortal Whistleblower (Lavender Ink, 2001). His other works include a screenplay based on the life of Nikola Tesla commissioned by the Czech film director David Ondříček. Farnsworth also performs as “Reverend Feedback” in the band Blaq Mummy. He has been active in anti-war and human rights activities in Central and Eastern Europe. Sylva Fischerová was born in 1963 in Prague. She grew up in the Moravian town of Olomouc as a daughter of non-Marxist philosopher whose works were banned under communist rule. She returned to Prague to study philosophy and physics, and later Classics, at Charles University where she now teaches ancient Greek literature and philosophy. She has published six volumes of poetry in Czech. A selection of her early poems, The Tremor of Racehorses, translated by Ian and Jarmila Milner, was published by Bloodaxe in 1990. A book of short stories, Zázrak (Miracle) appeared in 2005 from Torst. The Swing in the Middle of Chaos: Selected Poems, co-translated with Stuart Friebert, is published by Bloodaxe in 2010.
David Freeling studied poetry and fiction at Columbia University from 1987 to 1992. From 1992 to 1996 he lived in Prague, where he founded the first English language poetry reading in Prague, Beef Stew. His work has appeared in Bohemian Verses, Yazzyk, Prognosis, Watchword and Velvet. His play, Two Can Live As Cheaply, was produced by Misery Loves Company in 1996. He presently lives in San Francisco where he directs Insight Tutoring.
JIM FREEMAN is a poet, novelist and political commentator who arrived in Prague from Chicago in January 1993. During the nineties he was a regular contributor to Optimism Monthly and was the publisher of Freeman Press, including chapbooks by Stuart Horwitz and Jay Godwin. His work has been anthologised in Prague Tales: New Europe Writers (2007). His op-ed pieces have appeared in The New York Times, Chicago Tribune, International Herald-Tribune, The New York Review, the Progressive Populist, and on CNN and The Jon Stewart Daily Show in the US. For many years he hosted Prague’s Beef Stew readings at Radost/FX. He is married to Michaela Freeman and lives in Prague. | 883
Róbert Gál was born in 1968 in Bratislava, Slovakia. Having resided in various cities as a student (Brno, New York, Jerusalem, Berlin), he now lives in Prague. His work has appeared in 3A.M. magazine, Exquisite Corpse, Optimism and the Prague Literary Review. He is the author of several books of philosophical aphorisms— including Signs and Symptoms (Twisted Spoon, 2003)—and two novels, On Wing (Agite/Fra, 2006) and Agnomia (Agite/Fra, 2008).
Thor Garcia was born in Long Beach, California, and is a graduate of the University of California, Santa Barbara. He first visited Prague in the summer of 1992. From 1994 to 1995 he was managing editor of the English-language newspaper Prognosis. He was also a frequent contributor to the Prague Pill (under the name Jill Kushman). His first collection of short stories, Smell, appeared in 1998, and was followed by another story collection, Tund, in 2001 (both from Adam Moss). His novel, The News Clown, is awaiting publication.
Myla Goldberg lived in Prague from 1993 to 1994. Her books include a novel, Bee Season (Random House, 2001), and a collection of essays, Time’s Magpie (Crown, 2004). The False Friend, will be published by Random House in October 2010. She currently lives and teaches in Brooklyn, New York.
Elizabeth Gross was born in New Orleans, Louisiana. She lived in Prague from 2007 to 2008, participating in readings at the Globe, Shakespeare and Sons, and the Anglo-American University library. In July 2008, the Common Space Gallery exhibited “I would be happier if I let everything be true at once,” an installation that combined poetry and visual art. In November of the same year she collaborated with artist and curator Benjamin Tallis on “What I never had is being torn from me. What I did not live, I will miss forever”—an exhibit, concert, poetry reading, and discussion on the politics of memory. Her poems have appeared in the New Orleans Review, The Prague Revue, and Versal. She currently studies at Hunter College in New York.
Stuart Horwitz lived in Prague for several years during the early nineties. He was a frequent contributor to Optimism Monthly and regularly appeared at the Beef Stew readings. His chapbook, 123 Thoughts on Writing and Aesthetics, was published by Freeman Press in 1993. He is the founder of Book Architecture, a manuscript- assistance firm. His most recent publication is “The Act You’ve Known for All These Years,” in The Good Men Project (2009).
Howard Hunt is the author of the novels The Bishop (Random House, 1999) and Young Men on Fire (Simon & Schuster, 2003), and the short story collection The Ministry of Strange Affairs. He came to Prague in 2001 and is completing a doctorate at Charles University.
Travis Jeppesen was born in 1979 in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. His work has appeared in Artforum, Bookforum, Flash Art, New York Press, Umělec, Dazed & Confused, Zoo Magazine, and Provokator. Between 2002 and 2006, Jeppesen lived in Prague, where he co-edited the Prague Pill (2002-2003), the Prague Literary Review (2005), and BLATT (2006-2007). His first novel, Victims, was selected by Dennis Cooper to debut his Little House on the Bowery series for Akashic Books in 2003. His second novel, Wolf at the Door, appeared in 2007 from Twisted Spoon. He has published two volumes of poetry, Poems I Wrote While Watching TV (BLATT, 2006) and Dicklung & Others (BLATT, 2009). Disorientations: Art on the 884 | Margins of the “Contemporary,” appeared from Social Disease in the UK in 2009. His play, Daddy, premiered in June 2009 in Berlin at the HAU Theater, directed by Ron Athey. A contributing editor to the online literary journal 3ammagazine.com, Jeppesen currently lives and works in Berlin.
Ivan Martin Jirous (1944) is a Czech poet, best known for being the artistic director of the Czech psychedelic rock group The Plastic People of the Universe. He is the author of numerous poetry collections (first published in samizdat in the 1970s and 1980s), including Rok krysy (Year of the Rat; Torst, 2008), Magor dětem (Magor’s Children; Inversion, 1991), Magorova Summa (Magor’s Summa; Guerilla Records, 2009) and Magorovy dopisy (Magor’s Letters; Torst, 2006). In 2006 he was awarded the Jaroslav Seifert prize.
Alexander Jorgensen was born and raised along the foothills of Western Massachusetts. His visual poetry and writings have appeared in Van Gogh’s Ear, Noon, Moria, Drunken Boat, The Last Vispo Anthology, and Kabita Pakshik (translations into Bengali by poet and translator Subhashis Gangopadhyay). He was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2008.
Richard Katrovas was born in 1953, in Norfolk, Virginia, and first came to Prague in the months preceding the Velvet Revolution. He has taught at the University of New Orleans since 1983 and directs Western Michigan University’s Prague Summer Program. His work has appeared in Antioch Review, Contemporary Fiction, Crazyhorse, Denver Quarterly, Iowa Review, Missouri Review, and New England Review. His collections of poetry include Green Dragons (Wesleyan, 1983), The Public Mirror (Wesleyan, 1990), and Prague Winter (Carnegie Mellon, 2005). A book of short stories, Prague USA, appeared in 1996 (Portals Press). A novel, The Mystic Pig, was published by Smallmouth in 2001. The Disenfranchised: New and Selected Poems is forthcoming from Carnegie Mellon in 2010. Jane Kirwan was born in Northampton, England into an Irish community, and has lived for the last ten years in the Czech Republic. In the 1980s she worked with “Women in Entertainment’ setting up projects connected to feminism. Her work has appeared in The Rialto, The Shop, Coffee-House and Prague Tales: New Europe Writers (2007). Her first poetry collection Stealing the Eiffel Tower was published in 1997 and her second The Man Who Sold Mirrors in 2003, both by Rockingham Press in the UK.
Vít Kremlička (1962) was born in Prague. In 1985 he co-founded the journal Jednou nohou (One Leg) and later Revolver Revue and Respekt. During the 1980s his work appeared only in samizdat, initially in the underground journal Violit. After 1989 his work appeared in Babylon, Iniciály, Literární noviny, and in translation in Optimism, Prague Revue and the PLR. His novella Lodní deník was awarded the 1991Jiří Orten prize. His collections of poetry include Cizarna (Torst, 1995), Starý zpěvy (Revolver Revue, 1997), Prozatím (Petrov, 2001) and Země Noc (Clinamen, 2006).
Maya Květný moved to Prague from San Francisco, in 1992. In 1996 she founded the boutique, Myrnyx Tyrnyx and in 1998, a talent and casting agency by the same name. Her poetry has appeared in One Eye Open, Optimism Monthly and Gristle Floss. A chapbook of her work, entitled Nestled Indecorous, appeared in 1994.
Toby Litt was born in 1968. He is the author of two books of short stories, Adventures in Capitalism (Minerva, 1997) and Exhibitionism (Penguin, 2002), and nine novels, including Beatniks (Secker & Warburg, 1997), Corpsing (Hamish Hamilton, 2000), Ghost Story (Penguin, 2004), Hospital (Hamish Hamilton, 2007), | 885 and King Death (Penguin, 2010). He edited Henry James’s last novel The Outcry for Penguin Modern Classics. He was also the co-editor, with Ali Smith, of the British Council/Picador New Writing 13 anthology (2005).
ChRistopher Lord (1958) lived in Prague from 1991 to 2000, working for the Czech Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Charles University, and was active in the local theatre scene. He served as editor of Perspectives: The Central European Review of International Affairs, published by the Institute of International Relations in Prague. He is the author of several critical studies, including Politics (Karolinum, 1999) and Parallel Cultures (Ashgate, 2001), and two volumes of prose fiction, The Book of Amuwapi (Twisted Spoon, 2000) and Family Values (Xlibris, 2000). “3 Women of Spain” was written and first performed in Prague as a puppet show in English and Czech. Lord currently resides in France.
Paul Martia was born on Chicago He has worked as a film actor in Egypt, and throughout the 1990s in spoken word and musical performance in Prague. His book Poems: Circa Somewhere was published in 2001. He currently lives in Chicago area making steel sculpture and functional home arts under the name Cherry Metal Designs.
Jason Mashak (1973) was born in Michigan and moved to Prague in 2006. His poetry and prose have appeared in Rakish Angel, GRASP, Gently Read Literature, Turntable & Blue Light, Willows Wept Review, Heavy Bear, and Venereal Kittens. His first book of poetry, Salty As a Lip, is published by Haggard & Halloo/Effing Press (2010).
Tom McCarthy (1969) is an English novelist and conceptual artist. His work has appeared in The Observer, The Times Literary Supplement, The London Review of Books, Artforum and The New York Times, as well as in anthologies such as London from Punk to Blair (Reaktion Books), Theology and the Political (Duke University Press), The Milgram Experiment (Jan van Eyck Press) and The Empty Page: Fiction Inspired by Sonic Youth (Serpent’s Tail). McCarthy’s debut novel Remainder was first published in 2005 by Paris-based art publisher Metronome Press. Tintin and the Secret of Literature was released by Granta Books in June 2006. In 2007 Alma Books published McCarthy’s second novel, Men in Space. In 2010, McCarthy wrote the script for Johan Grimonprez’s feature film Double Take. His third novel, C, is published by Jonathan Cape (2010).
John McKeown was born in Liverpool in 1959. He lived in Prague between 1994 and 2000, working as an English language teacher and freelance journalist, contributing regularly to The Prague Post, New Presence, and Prager Zeitung. He moved to Ireland in 2000 becoming a columnist for the Irish Examiner, and arts feature writer for the Irish Times. He was theatre critic for the Irish Daily Mail from 2006 to 2008 and is currently reviews theatre for the Irish Independent His poems have appeared in Orbis, The London Magazine, Cyphers, The Shop, and Southword. His collections of poetry include Looking Toward Inis Oirr (South Tipperary Arts, 2004), Amour Improper (Hub Editions, 2004), and Sea of Leaves (Wateloo Press 2009).
Maureen McManus has been living in Prague since 2006. Her first play Shoe Fishing, was part of the Oval House Theatre, First Bites Season in 2002. The Ladies Cage was produced at the Finborough Theatre in London (2007). Most recently, Irish Dancing Among Czechs (co-written with Julek Neumann), was produced by 886 | Divadlo Cheb (2009). Her poetry has appeared in Tall Lighthouse Review, Poetry Nottingham, Orbis, Chanticleer, and The Shop.
Joshua Saul Mensch was born in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and grew up in Nova Scotia, Canada. He has lived in Prague since 2003, and since then has worked as a freelance reviewer, English teacher, and ghost-writer. His writing has appeared in Grasp, Rakish Angel 2, Bordercrossing Berlin, Four Minutes to Midnight, Poetry Miscellany, and the Prague Post.
Tomáš Míka was born in 1959 in Prague. He studied English and Czech at Charles University and later worked as a teacher and translator. His books include two collections of poetry, Nucený výsek (Destruction of Animals; Argo, 2003) and Deník rychlého člověka (Journal of a Fast Man; Argo, 2007), and a collection of short stories, Und (Argo, 2005). He lives in Prague.
EWALD MURRER was born in 1964, the son of poet Ivan Wernisch and painter Helena Wernischová. He published his first works in the samizdat magazineGaráž in the early 80’s. His work has appeared in the anthologies Child of Europe (Penguin, 1991), This Side of Reality (Serpent’s Tail, 1996) and Daylight in Nightclub Inferno (Catbird, 1997). Since the Velvet Revolution he has been active in a number of literary journals, and was founding editor of Iniciály. His first book-length poetry collection appeared in 1992 as Fog Behind the Wall (Mlha za zdí) from Mlada Fronta. The Diary of Mr Pinke (1995) and Dreams at the End of the Night (1999) were both published in English by Twisted Spoon Press. Nouzové zastavení času (Emergency Halt of Time) appeared in 2007 from Host.
Ken Nash was born in Hudson, Massachusetts. He is a freelance illustrator, animator, cartoonist, graphic designer, musician and songwriter. He lived in Prague from 1992-94, and again since 2001. Since 2002 he has organized the Alchemy Reading & Performance Series. His writing has appeared in Bordercrossing Berlin, Prague Revue, Prague Literary Review, Optimism and the short fiction anthology, X-24: unclassified.
Scott Jonathan Nixon was born in Los Angeles. In 1998 he began participating in The National Poetry Slams. His work has appeared in Byline Magazine, Di-Verse- City, Grasp, and the 2003 Austin International Poetry Festival anthology. His collections of poetry include The Aesthetic Experience (1999), Sheep, Rabbits, Snails and Other Genetic Anomalies (2001) and Soft and Chewy (2004). He currently lives in the Czech Republic, teaching English as a foreign language.
Peter Orner was born in Chicago and is the author of the novel, The Second Coming of Mavala Shikongo (Little, Brown, 2006), and the story collection, Esther Stories (Houghton Mifflin, 2001)—which was awarded the Rome Prize from the American Academy of Arts and Letters, the Goldberg Prize for Jewish Fiction, and was a Finalist for the PEN Hemingway Award. His fiction has appeared in theAtlantic Monthly, The Paris Review, McSweeney’s, and The Southern Review, and has been anthologized in Best American Stories and the Pushcart Prize Annual.
Tony Ozuna was born in California and has lived in Prague since 1990. He was a founding editor of Yazzyk magazine. His art and music reviews have appeared in Umělec, Provokátor, Central Europe Review, The Prague Post, and the New Presence. Since 1995 he has worked as a lecturer and administrator at Anglo- American University, Prague, where he is currently Associate Dean of the School of Humanities & Social Sciences. In 2009 he curated Freak Show at the Califia Gallery in Horazdovice. | 887
IVA PEKárková was born in 1963 in Prague. In 1985 she went into exile, living for eleven year in the U.S. where she worked as a social worker, waitress and taxi-driver. Her novels include Pera a perutě, 1989 (Truck Stop Rainbows; Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1992), The World Is Round (Farrar Straus & Giroux, 1994), and Dej mi ty prachy, 1996 (Gimme the Money; Serpent’s Tail, 2000). In 1996 she returned to Prague, where she worked for the Czech daily Mladá Fronta Dnes. At the beginning of 1997 she completed a fourth novel, The Scarz, her first written in English (appearing in Czech as Gang zjizvených). Subsequent novels include Třicet dva chwanů (Thirty-two Khwan; Maťa, 2000), and Sloni v soumraku (Elephants in the Dusk; Millennium, 2009). She is also the author of several non-fiction books, including: Do Indie - kam jinam? (To India - Where Else?), Najdža hvězdy v srdci (Naija, Stars In My Heart) and Šest miliard Amerik (Six Billion Americas), and of the novella Moj I.Q. (My I.Q.; Maťa, 2002). Since 2005 she has lived in London.
Kateřina Piňosová was born in 1973 in Prostějov. A member of the Group of Czech and Slovak Surrealists since 1996, she draws, makes sculptures and writes both in Czech and in English. Kateřina has had solo exhibitions in the Czech Republic, France and USA. Her poetry and essays have appeared in Optimism, Analogon, Intervenc, and in Surrealist Women: An International Anthology (University of Texas Press, 1998). Her books include a collection of poetry, Housenka smrtihlava (Analogon, 2000), and—with Laura Conway—The Alphabet of Trees (Concordia, 2002).
Jaroslav PÍžl was born in 1961. In the 1980s he studied acting at the Theatre and Music Conservatory in Prague, completing his studies in art history at Charles University in 1993. In the early nineties he worked in radio and television, and since 1995 he has taught speech technique at the Jaroslav Ježek Conservatory. His books include Exteriéry (Exteriors; Bonaventura, 1994) and Svět zvířat (Animal World; Torst, 2001). His novel, Book Collectors / Sběratelé knih, was published by Petrov in 2006.
Magdaléna Platzová was born in 1972 in Prague. She studied philosophy at Charles University and worked as freelance translator and journalist until 2001 when she became the literary editor of the Czech cultural weekly Literární noviny. Since 2008, she has worked as a literary and cultural editor at the weekly journal Respekt. Her novels include Návrat přítelkyně (The Return of a Friend; One Woman Press, 2004) and Aaronův skok (Aaron´s Dive; Torst, 2006). She has also published two collections of short stories: Sůl, ovce a kamení (Salt, Sheep and Stones; One Woman Press, 2003), and Recyklovaný muž (The Recycled Man; Torst, 2008). Her plays include Na útěku (On Flight)— nominated for the Alfred Radok Award for Best Czech and Slovak Play—and Sayang—staged at Theatre Na Zábradlí, Prague, 2002.
Paul Polansky lived in Prague for much of the nineties. His books included a novel, The Storm (GplusG, 1998), and a collection of oral histories of Czech Roma Holocaust survivors, called Black Silence (GplusG, 1998). His collections of poetry include Living Through it Twice: Poems Of The Romany Holocaust (GplusG, 1999) and Stray Dog (GplusG, 1999). His selected poems, 1991-2008, entitled Undefeated appeared in 2009 from the Italian publisher Multimedia Edizioni. In 2004, he received the City Council of Weimar’s Human Rights Award. From July 1999 until September 2009 he was head of mission for the Society for Threatened Peoples in Kosovo and Serbia.
888 | JUSTIN QUINN was born in Dublin in 1968 and moved to Prague in 1992, where he currently directs the graduate programme in American Literature at Charles University. He has published four collections of poetry, including The O’o’a’a’ Bird (Carcanet, 1995) and Waves & Trees (Gallery Press, 2006). His critical work includes Gathered Beneath the Storm: Wallace Stevens, Nature and Community (UCD, 2002) and American Errancy: Empire, Sublimity and Modern Poetry (UCD, 2005). His Cambridge Introduction to Modern Irish Poetry, 1800-2000 appeared in 2008. He has translated the work of J.H. Krchovský, Ivan Blatný and K.J. Erben. From 1995-2005 he was a co-editor of the Irish poetry magazine Metre.
James Ragan is the former director of the Graduate Professional Writing Program at the University of Southern California. His poetry collections include In the Talking Hours (1979), Womb-Weary (1990), The Hunger Wall (1996), Lusions (1997), Too Long a Solitude (2009), and Shouldering the World (2010). He currently teaches in the summer writing programme at Charles University, Prague.
MARTIN REINER (PLUHÁČEK) was born in 1964 in Brno. After the Velvet Revolution he was a co-founder of the political and cultural review Proglas, and was editor-in- chief of the Petrov publishing house. From 1996 to 2000 he organised (together with Jiří Kuběna) the annual poetry convention at the Bítov castle. In 1999 he founded the literary journal Neon, and from 2001 to 2004 organised an international poetry festival of in Olomouc “Poezie bez hranic” (Poetry without Borders). His books of poetry include Relata refero (Homér, 1991), Poslední rok (Český spisovatel, 1995), Decimy (Torst, 1997), Tání chůze (Petrov, 1998), and Staré a jiné časy (Petrov, 2002). A novella, Lázně, appeared in 1998 from Petrov, ands in 2009 a novel, Lucka, Maceška a já.
Tim Rogers was, with his wife Mimi Fronczak Rogers, active in the Prague literary scene for many years before moving to the village of Loužnice. A former student of Allen Ginsberg, his reviews and poetry have appeared in The Prague Post, Book Magazine, and Optimism Monthly.
KateŘina RudČenková was born in 1976. Her writing has appeared in Convorbiri literare, Dum, Host, Lidové noviny, Manuskripte, Mladá fronta Dnes, and Tvar, and has been anthologised in A Fine Line: New Poetry from Eastern and Central Europe (Arc, 2004), Six Czech Poets (Arc, 2007) and Rakish Angel 1 (2009). In 2003 she was awarded the Hubert Burda Prize for young Eastern European poets. She has published three books of poetry and a book of stories, including ...neni nutne, abyste me navstevoval /...nicht nötig, mich zu besuchen (Edition Zwei/Wieser Verlag, 2002) and Noci, noci (Torst, 2004). In 2004, her play Frau in Blau premiered in Cinoherní studio Ústí nad Labem. She lives in Prague.
JAROSLAV RUDIŠ was born in 1972. His debut novel, Nebe pod Berlínem (Sky Under Berlin; 2002), won the Jiří Orten prize. His graphic novel trilogy Alois Nebel (2003–2005; with painter Jaromírem 99) was published in one volume in 2006 by Labyrint. In 2006 his second novel, Grandhotel appeared with the screenplay version being filmed by David Ondříček the same year. The novel was awared the Kanzelsberger readers’ prize as part of the Magnesia Litera award. His third novel, Quietly, was published in 2007. Jaroslav Rudiš lives in Prague where, together with poet Igor Malijevský, he organizes the monthly literary cabaret “EKG” at Divadlo Archa and occasionally performs with the bands U-Bahn and The Bombers.
Šimon Šafránek was born in Prague in 1977. He is a novelist, filmmaker, movie and music journalist, DJ, VJ, actor, poet, graphic designer. His books include Ohnivá kola / Fiery Wheels, a collection of short stories (Vyrezly Ven, 2000), a novella, 23 | 889 (Labyrint, 2005) and Fleischerei 36, short stories (Labyrint, 2008)
Revan Schendler taught at the Department of English and American Studies, Charles University, between 1992 and 1994, and served as a founding editor of Grasp magazine. She was one of the original staffers of The Prague Post and worked for a period in a blanket factory in southern Bohemia. She is currently a research associate in the Department of History, Smith College. Her poetry has appeared in Poetry, The Village Voice, Raritan, The Times Literary Supplement, The New Yorker, The New York Review of Books, Poetry Magazine, and The Best America Poetry 1999.
THEODORE SCHWINKE emigrated to Prague in 1996. In 1998 he initiated a twice- monthly poetry reading at Kavarna GplusG in Vinohrady before becoming features editor of the Prague Post in 1999. His poetry and fiction appeared regularly in Optimism and Jejune: Amerika Eats its Young. He is the author of Prague (DK Travel, 2003). He currently works as a film critic forScreen Daily and Cineuropa.
PATRICK SEGUIN has been living in the Czech Republic since 1996. A former host of the “Alchemy” reading series, his poetry has appeared in Optimism and RASH. He performs in the “word of mouth and music” act, Drift.
Bethany Shaffer lived in Prague from 2004 to 2007, where she worked as an arts contributor for The Prague Post and Provokátor magazine. From 2005-7, with Christopher Crawford, she organized and hosted “Poezie a Provokace,” a bimonthly poetry and music open-mic series at Villa Incognito. She currently lives in Washington, DC, working as the communications lead for a post-disaster environmental advisory team at World Wildlife Fund. Joe Sherman has lived for much of the last decade in Prague, Brno, and Olomouc. His work has appeared in The New England Review, Audubon, Yankee, Smithsonian, Automobile, Vis-à-Vis, Vermont Magazine and The Prague Literary Review. His books include Fast Lane on a Dirt Road (Chelsea Green, 1991), In the Rings of Saturn (Oxford, 1993; nominated for a Pulitzer Prize for nonfiction), and Gasp: The Swift and Terrible Beauty of Air (Shoemaker & Hoard, 2004).
Phil Shoenfelt was born in Bradford in 1952, and graduated from Manchetser Polytechnic with an honours degree in American Literature and International Relations. During the early 1980’s was frontman and principle songwriter for the New York band Khmer Rouge. He has released 13 CDs on various independent record labels and currently performs with Southern Cross. His writing has appeared in Gargoyle, Optimism, Apple Of The Eye, Morgana, Prague Literary Review, and Erotika: Drogen und Sexualita (ed. Wolfgang Sterneck). His books include a novel, Junkie Love (Twisted Spoon, 2001; first published in Czech asFeťácká Láska (Maťa, 1997), and a collection of poetry and song lyrics, The Green Hotel (Maťa, 1988). He has lived in Prague since 1995.
Jenny Smith was a co-founder of the Pražská škola poetiky/Prague School of Poetics in 1998. Her poetry has appeared in Jejune, Optimism, The New Orleans Review and Exquisite Corpse. Her books include Egon (involute press, 1998) and Wait a Minute (BoogLit, 2000). She currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, where she works as a physical therapist and performs with the Rude Mechanical Orchestra.
Donna Stonecipher grew up in Seattle and Teheran. She lived in Prague from 1994 890 | to 1998, and currently lives in Berlin. Her work has appeared in Denver Quarterly, New American Writing, Web Conjunctions, Field, Coconut, and The Canary. She is the author of three books of poetry: The Reservoir (University of Georgia, 2002), Souvenir de Constantinople (Instance Press, 2007) and The Cosmopolitan (Coffee House Press, 2008). Her translations of French and German poets have appeared in Circumference, Mantis, Action Yes, LIT, and Two Lines, and in the anthology New European Poets (Graywolf, 2008). She is currently completing a doctorate in English from the University of Georgia.
Holly Tavel moved to Prague in September 2009 as the recipient of a Fulbright Scholarship. Her work has appeared in Torpedo, Elimae, McSweeney’s, and Diagram. She is formerly editor of Neuroscape Journal, and a co-curator of Psy.Geo.Conflux, an annual New York-based psychogeographic project. Her visual/conceptual art has featured in group shows at the Participant Gallery in New York, and at Art Interactive in Cambridge, MA. She currently lives in Prague.
Jeri Theriault spent 1998-99 in Prague on a Fulbright exchange at Gymnázium Arabská, and in 2002 she began teaching at the International School of Prague (Nebušice). Her poetry has appeared in Optimism, Rattle, The Patterson Literary Review, The Beloit Journal and the Prague Literary Review. She has published three chapbooks, including East of Monhegan / Na východ od Monheganu (s IŽ, 1999). Since 2008 she has been working as a visual artist in the United States.
Alan Ward Thomas was born in Atlanta, Georgia. He moved to Prague in 1993 and made regular appearances at Beef Stew and other readings. From 1995 to 1998 he was the editor of Optimism Monthly and publisher of Presidential Press. He currently teaches mathematics at the Riverside School in Prague. Anthony Tognazzini lived in Prague for much of the 1990s where he was a frequent participant in the Beef Stew readings. His work appeared in Optimism, Gristle Floss, and The Jáma Revue. Three of his books were published by local micro-presses: Introductions from the Execution Stand (1993), Everybody’s Book (1994) and Eight Microfictions (Presidential Press, 1997). I Carry A Hammer in My Pocket for Occasions Such As These, a collection of short fictions, was published by BOA Editions in 2007. He lives in Brooklyn, New York. lukÁŠ tomin was born in Prague in 1963. Denied access to secondary education at age fifteen, his first works published insamizdat. In 1980 his family emigrated to England. From 1985 to 1987 Tomin alternately lived in London, Montreal and Paris, where he wrote his first novelThe Doll (Twisted Spoon, 1992). In 1991 he returned to Prague where he resided until his death in 1995. His work appeared in Poetry Magazine, The New Statesman, Literární Noviny, Iniciály, and Host. Two further novels were published by Twisted Spoon: Ashtrays (1995) and Kye (1997).
NICOLE TOMLINSON was born in Melbourne. Her poetry, essays and reviews have appeared in Meanjin, Moria, Frieze, the Prague Literary Review and Contemporary Poetics (ed. Louis Armand; Northwestern, 2007). She is the author of Liquid City (Textbase, 2002) and N-body Simulations (Textbase, 2009). With Kristi Monfries and Veronika Drahotová, she curated “Southern,” a survey exhibition of 20 contemporary Australian artists at Prague’s HOME Gallery, in 2004.
Jáchym Topol (1962) was born in Prague, the son of Czech playwright Josef Topol. Because of his father’s dissident activities, he was excluded from university education. In 1982 he co-founded the samizdat magazine Violit, and in 1985 Revolver | 891 Revue. He was a signatory of Charter 77 and during the 1989 Velvet Revolution wrote for the independent newsletter Informační servis (which later became the investigative weekly Respekt). He currently writes for the daily Lidové noviny. His work has appeared widely in translation, including in Trafika, Yazzyk, the Prague Literary Review and Prague Tales. His first collection of poetry,Miluju tě k zbláznění (I Love you Madly), received the Tom Stoppard Prize for Unofficial Literature. His second collection, V úterý bude válka (The War will be on Tuesday) was published by Edice 13x18 in 1992. Topol’s novels include Sestra (Atlantis, 1994—translated as City Sister Silver by Alex Zucker; Catbird Press, 2000), Anděl (Angel; Hynek, 1995), Noční práce (Nightwork; Hynek, 2001) and Kloktat dehet (Gargling Tar; Torst, 2005).
Jaromír Typlt (1973) was born in Nová Paka and graduated from the Philosophy Faculty of Charles University, Prague. He has collaborated on short film (Viktor Kopasz: Shadowplay, 2002), radio composition (Michal Rataj: that-the-unstuck, 2006) and art exhibitions. His poetry collections include Concerto Grosso (1990) and Lost Inferno (1994)—which was awarded the Jiří Orten prize. His (often collaborative) text/art books include that-the-unstuck (together with Jan Měřička, 2003) and Squeeze (2007). A collection of critical writings, Red-Hot Ice Floe, was published in 1996.
Lawrence Wells (1965) came to Prague in 1992 after graduating from the University of Mississippi. An early participant in the Beef Stew readings, he also helped organize the Gristle Floss zine and the exhibition/performance space at the Asylum squat café. His recent activities include the music project, Monolithic Dome, teaching watercolour in North Bohemia, and a residency at the Meet Factory Art Space. Alice Whittenburg is co-editor of The Café Irreal, an online literary magazine specializing in irreal fiction, for which she was nominated for a World Fantasy Award in 2008. Her work has appeared in Pif Magazine, Locus Novus, and Pindeldyboz. She currently divides her time between Prague and Tucson, Arizona.
Clare Wigfall was born in Greenwich, London, in 1976. Since graduating from Manchester University, she has lived in Prague, Granada, Norwich, and currently Berlin. Her work has been published in Prospect, New Writing 10, Dublin Review, and A Public Space. She has also written for BBC Radio 4 and NPR Berlin. Her book of stories The Loudest Sound and Nothing was published in the UK by Faber and Faber in 2007.
Laura Zam is a writer, performer, and educator active in Prague during the mid- 1990s. Her one-person shows—Circles, Holes & Arches; Stupid Frailty; Thursday Morning—have been presented at venues including Divadlo v Celetné (Prague), Woolly Mammoth, Theater J, The Kennedy Center, and The National Theatre (in the U.S.). Through her play Collaterally Damaged, she raises money for genocide survivors throughout the world.
Lucien Zell was born in California and has lived for 17 years in Europe. His work has appeared in [Unpronounceable Symbol], Café Irreal, the Prague Literary Review, and BLATT. His collections of poetry include The Sad Cliffs of Light (1999), Eden’s Midnight Playground (2003), and Bright Secrets (2006)—all from Dharmagaia. Currently based in Prague, Zell is the lead singer of the alternative rock band The Wavemen. 892 | Bibliography PRAGUE PUBLICATIONS
1. BOOKS
Radu Andriescu, Iustin Panta and Cristian Popescu, Memory Glyphs, ed. and trans. Adam J. Sorkin, et al. (Prague: Twisted Spoon Press, 2009).
Louis Armand, Séances (Prague: Twisted Spoon Press, 1998).
Louis Armand, The Viconian Paramour (Prague/New York: Twisted Spoon/x- poezie, 1998).
Louis Armand, Anatomy Lessons (Prague/New York: Twisted Spoon/x- poezie, 1999). | 893
Louis Armand, Erosions (Prague: Vagabond Press, 1999).
Louis Armand, Land Partition (Prague: Antigen Press, 2000).
Louis Armand, 8 Poems for October (Prague: Semtext, 2000).
Louis Armand, 10 Dances Morbides (Prague: Semtext, 2000).
Louis Armand, Base Materialism (New York/Prague: x-poezie/Semtext, 2001).
Louis Armand and John Kinsella, Synopticon (Prague: Litteraria Pragensia, 2009/2010).
Pavel Brycz, I, City, trans. Joshua Cohen and Markéta Hofmeisterová (Prague: Twisted Spoon Press, 2006). Jeff Buehler and Martin Zet, The Animal and the City and Flowers (Prague: Divus, 2003).
Věra Chase, Tělokresba / Bodypainting (Prague: Protis, 1997).
Karin Michele Cintron, Waiting out the Night (Prague, 1994).
Joshua Cohen, The Quorum (Prague: Twisted Spoon Press, 2005).
D. László Conhaim, Autumn Serenade (Prague: Prague Revue, 1999).
894 | Laura Conway and Kateřina Piňosová, The Alphabet of Trees: A Field Guide (Prague: Concordia, 2001).
Nichita Danilov, Secondhand Souls: Selected Writing, trans. Sean Cotter (Prague: Twisted Spoon Press, 2003).
Gene Deitch, For the Love of Prague: The True Love Story of the Only Free American in Prague During 30 Years of Communism (Prague: Baset, 2000).
Róbert Gál, Signs and Symptoms (Prague: Twisted Spoon Press, 2003).
Thor Garcia, Smell (Prague: Adam Moss, 1998). Thor Garcia, Tund (Prague: Adam Moss, 2001).
Søren A. Gauger, Hymns to Millionaires (Prague; Twisted Spoon Press, 2004).
Natasza Goerke, Farewells to Plasma, trans. W. Martin (Prague: Twisted Spoon Press, 2001).
Bohumil Hrabal, Total Fears: Letters to Dubenka, trans. James Naughton (Prague: Twisted Spoon Press, 1998).
Eva Hudečková, The Little Brother Golem, trans. George J. Grosman (Prague: Ikar, 2004). | 895
Jason (Jay) Godwin, Priceless Poems from Worthless Words (Prague: Freeman Press, 1994).
Jason (Jay) Godwin, D-Day: A Short Story (Prague: Freeman Press, 1995).
Jason (Jay) Godwin, Defining Thoughts (Prague: Freeman Press, 1995).
Jason (Jay) Godwin, Gulash: Poems from Prague (Prague: Freeman Press, 1995).
Emil Hakl, Of Kids & Parents, trans. Marek Tomin (Prague: Twisted Spoon, 2008). Kerry Shawn Keys, Krajina Supu / Vultures’ Country, trans. Petr Mikeš, intro. Hana Waisserová (Olomouc: Votobia 1996).
Samuel Königgratz, I’m Still Alive with a Coat Rack, a Cap and a Signal Disc, trans. English by Alex Zucker (Prague: Theatre Institute, 2004).
Michael Heny, Lo Inesperado (Jeseník, 1992).
Bryn Howarth, Phil Jones, Dan Morgan, S. Sacks and R.B. Amacker, One Stop Stories (Prague: Fra, 2004).
896 | Stuart Horwitz, 123 Thoughts on Writing and Aesthetics (Prague: Freeman Press, 1993/4).
Travis Jeppesen, Poems I Wrote while Watching TV (Prague: Blatt, 2005).
Travis Jeppesen, Wolf at the Door (Prague: Twisted Spoon Press, 2007).
John Kinsella, Alterity: Poems without Tom Raworth (Prague/New York: Twisted Spoon/x-poezie, 1998).
Maya Znera Květný, Nestled Indecorous (Prague, 1994). Christopher Lord, The Poison Chalice: A Novella (Prague: Threshold, 1996).
Christopher Lord, The Book of Amawapi (Prague: Twisted Spoon Press, 2000).
Randall Lyman, Fragile Vessels: Short Stories (Prague, 1995).
Jana Máchalová and Todd Morimoto, X Poezie (Prague: Klub X, 1996).
Ryan Mergen, Rhymes Per Minute (Prague, 2003).
Ewald Murrer, Dreams at the End of the Night (Prague: Twisted Spoon | 897 Press, 1999).
Ewald Murrer, The Diary of Mr Pinke, trans. Alice Pistková (Prague: Twisted Spoon Press, 1995).
Péter Nádas, A Lovely Tale of Photography, trans. Imre Goldstein (Prague: Twisted Spoon Press, 1999).
Ken Nash, Palaver & Other forms of Intercourse: Stories & Novelties (Prague: Pipsqueek Press, 1993).
Ken Nash, Prague on 13 Beers a Day (Prague: Pipsqueek Press, 1996). Kateřina Piňosová, Caterpillar of the Dead Moth (Prague: Analogon, 2000).
Kateřina Piňosová (ed.), Život Fungoval a Nakonec Skončil/Life Went on and Finally Ended (Prague: Magalhaes- Cano, 2003).
Paul Polansky, Living Through It Twice: Poems of the Romany Holocaust (1940-1997) / Dvakrát Tím Samým, Básně o romském holocaustu (1940- 1997), trans. Miluš Kotišová (Prague: GplusG, Prague, 1998).
Paul Polansky (ed.), Black Silence: The Lety Survivors Speak (Prague: GplusG, 1998).
Paul Polansky, Stray Dog: Poems of a 898 | Fighting Freak / Toulavej Pes, Básně podivnýho boxera, trans. Petr Mikeš (Prague: GplusG, 1999).
Paul Polansky, The Storm, a novel (Prague: GplusG, 1999).
Paul Polansky, The River Killed My Brother (Prague: Jejune, 2001).
Paul Polansky, To UNHCR With Love (Prague: Divus, 2003).
Pavel Reisenauer, Death After Life (Prague: Divus, 1995).
Šimon Šafránek, Fiery Wheels / Ohnivá kola (Prague: Vyrezly ven, 2000).
Tomaž Šalamun, A Ballad for Metka Krasovec, trans. Michael Biggins (Prague: Twisted Spoon Press, 2001). Susan M. Schultz, Memory Cards (Prague/New York: Twisted Spoon/x- poezie, 1999).
Phil Shoenfelt, The Green Hotel/Zelený Hotel, trans. Luboš Snížek (Prague: Maťa Books, 1998).
Phil Shoenfelt, Junkie Love (Prague: Twisted Spoon Press, 2001).
Milan Šimečka, Letters from Prison, trans. Gerald Turner (Prague: Twisted Spoon Press, 2002).
Jenny Smith, Egon (Prague/Louisville: involute press, 1998).
| 899 Andrzej Stasiuk, Tales of Galicia, trans. Margarita Nafpaktitis (Prague: Twisted Spoon Press, 2003).
Donna Stonecipher, Allegory of Vanity (Prague: Allegoryofa Press, 1996).
Eva Švankmajerová, Baradla Cave, trans. Gwendolyn Albert (Prague: Twisted Spoon Press, 2003).
Jeri Theriault, East of Monhegan / Na východ od Monheganu, trans. Lída Sasková (Prague: s IŽ, 1999).
Alan Ward Thomas, Dandelion: Scattered Reflections on Allen Ginsberg (Prague: Presidential Press, 1997). Anthony Tognazzini, Introductions from the Execution Stand (Prague, 1993).
Anthony Tognazzini, Everybody’s Book (Prague: samizdat, 1994).
Anthony Tognazzini, Eight Microfictions (Prague: Presidential Press, 1997).
Miles Lewis, Batman’s Hill (Prague: Divus, 1993).
Lukáš Tomin, The Doll (Prague: Twisted Spoon Press, 1992).
Lukáš Tomin, Ashtrays (Prague: Twisted Spoon Press, 1993).
Lukáš Tomin, Kye (Prague: Twisted 900 | Spoon Press, 1997).
Lukáš Tomin, Kye Too (Prague/New York: Twisted Spoon Press/x-poezie, 1999).
Iva Volánková, Minach Trilogy, trans. Alex Zucker (Prague: Theatre Institute, 2004).
Darren Waters, Notes on the Second Coming (Prague, 1993).
Darren Waters, Cuckoo Universe (Prague, 1994).
Willie Watson, Poems from Prague: A Collection of Poems from the Beef Stew Poetry Readings, November 1999 to April 2001 (Prague, 2001). Willie Watson, The Laughing Giraffe (Prague, 2002).
Willie Watson, The Guru Kalehuru and other Poems (Prague, 2003).
Willie Watson, Four Syllables on Water (Prague, 2004).
Willie Watson, The Alchemist’s Notebook (Prague, 2005).
Willie Watson, Tarot Poems, trans. Marie Brožová (Prague, 2009).
Willie Watson, Perfectomundo (Prague, 2010).
Stephen Watts, Gramsci & Caruso (Prague: Periplum, 2003). | 901
Pavel Z., Time is a Mid-Night Scream, trans. Marek Tomin (Prague: Twisted Spoon Press, 2006).
Petr Zelenka, Tales of Common Insanity (Příběhy obyčejného šílenství), trans. Robert Russell (Prague: Theatre Institute, 2002).
Lucien Zell, The Sad Cliffs of Light (Prague: Dharmagaia, 1999).
Lucien Zell, Eden’s Midnight Playground (Prague: Dharmagaia, 2003).
Lucien Zell, Bright Secrets (Prague: Dharmagaia, 2006).
Lucien Zell, The Road of Wind / Kudy vane vítr (Prague: 2008). 2. LITERARY JOURNALS
YAZZYK [1992-1995]
Yazzyk 1 (Summer 1992) Publishers/editors: Doug Hajek, Laura Busheikin, Anthony Ozuna Translation copy editor: Farimah Daftary Art director: Veronika Bromová Contributors: Jáchym Topol, Michal Ajvaz, Marilyn McCune, Jennifer Blowdryer, Chris Hurford, Egon Bondy, Derevo, Hakim Bey, Otto Orbán, Angus Reid, Tomek Kitlinski, Malgorzata Staniewska, Arthur Przystupa, Jackson D’Hosmer, Věra (Mejstříková) Chase, Steve Johnson, Fred Abrahams, Andy Haupert, Hilary Liftin, Sharon Swingle.
Yazzyk 2 (1993) Publishers/editors: Doug Hajek, Laura Busheikin, Anthony Ozuna Translation copy editor: Farimah Daftary Art director: Veronika Bromová Poetry editors: Laura Busheikin, Vijai Maheshwari, Michael Szporluk, James Thurlow Contributors: Iva Pekárková, Tom Bridle, Milan Milišić, Anitka Lynn Forgach, Tereza Boučková, Christine Stucky, Susan Anton, Casey McNamara, Eva Hauserová, Václav Bauman, Věra Chase, Anthomy Ozuna, Mark Cunningham, Scott Rogers, Jindřich Štyrský, Jana Krejcarová. 902 | Yazzyk 3 (1994) Editor: Anthony Ozuna Publisher: Douglas Hajek Art director: Veronika Bromová Associate editor: Laura Busheikin Translations editor: Alex Zucker Managing editor: Dana Stiffler Staff: Paddy Marcotte, Marketa Othová, Antonin Kopp, Anitka Forgach, Justin Sparks, James Thurlow Contributors: Michal Ajvaz, Randall Lyman, Ivan Jirous, Jakub Horák, Alexandra Berková, Ladislav Klíma, Vladimír Merta, Rémi Diligent, Jana Červenková, David Freeling, Carola Biedermann, Shoshana Berger, Colin Hamilton, Jiří Daníček.
Yazzyk 4 (1995) Editor: Anthony Ozuna Publisher: Douglas Hajek Art director: Veronika Bromová Translations editor: Alex Zucker Editors-at-large: Dana Stiffler, Laura Busheikin ISSN 1210-5430 Contributors: Ludvík Vaculík, Daniela Dražanová, Anthony Ozuna, Jáchym Topol, Sylvie Richter, Karel Hynek Mácha, Alena Bláhová, Eva Hauserová, Jaroslav Vejvoda, Vijai Maheshwari, Egon Bondy.
ONE EYE OPEN / JEDNÍM OKEM [1993-8; 2002; 2006]
One Eye Open / Jedním Okem vol.1, no.1 (Winter 1993) Editor: Deborah E. Dubois Managing editor: Alice Fothergill Cover Art: Corey Danson Contributors: Izabela Filipiak, David Hoffman, Eva Hauserová, Jana Hradilková, Iveta Jusová, Shana Berger, Yvettta Bechyňová, Věra Chase, Corey Danson, Deborah E. Dubois, Saša Kuchařová, Maya Zhera Květný, Magdaléna Lubiejewska, Peter Needham, Petra Šestková, Dar Tavernier.
One Eye Open / Jedním Okem vol.1, no.2 (Summer 1993) Editor: Deborah E. Dubois Assistant editors: Kathleen Sullivan, Marta Plášilová Contributing advisor: Alice Fothergill Cover Art: Magdaléna Cubrová, Koza Nostra Contributors: Mimi Ross deMars, Eva Hauserová, Izabela Filipiak, Tonya Cook, Randall Lyman, Lucy Hooker, Shoshana Berger, Věra Chase, Šárka Kalusová, Pavel Kukal, Aněžka Latová, Magdaléna Lubiejewska, Sabrina Starnaman, Suzy Ort, Kate Griffiths.
One Eye Open / Jedním Okem vol.1, no.3 (Winter 1994) Editor: Deborah E. Dubois Contributing editor: Eva Věšínová Cover Art: Ulí Brahmst Publisher: The Gender Studies Centre Contributors: Beth Zonderman, Andrew Pressburger, Deborah E. Dubois, Eva Hauserová, Helen Faller, Uli Brahmst, Katja Zigerlig, Jakub Zahradník, Erika Levy, Magdaléna Lubiejewska, Věra Chase, | 903 Randall Lyman, Antonín Nový, Brigitte Silná.
One Eye Open / Jedním Okem no.4 (Summer 1996) Editors: Věra Chase, Eva Věšínová Contributing editor: Kate Shaw Cover Art: Lena Knilli Publisher: Oči dokořán / Both Eyes Open Contributors: Jane Bradey, Jana Outratá, Radka Štefaňáková, Marci Shore, Nina Ascoly, Eva Hauserová, Judith Harris, Liz Gonzalez, Hana Hájková, Věra Chase, Christina Kelly, revvy hope, Pavla (Slabá) Jonssonová, Eva Věšínová, Lena Knilli, Pavel Hartl, Pierre Heymans.
One Eye Open / Jedním Okem no.5 (Summer 1997) Editors: Věra Chase, Eva Věšínová, Clare Wallace Cover Art: Natalie Prevot Publisher: Oči dokořán / Both Eyes Open Contributors: Věra Chase, Sylva Fischerová, Rebecca Floyd, Kirsten Lodge, James Marvel, M.E. Roughley, Louis Armand, Jana Bodnárová, Eva Hauserová, Líba Heczková, Nathalie Prevot, Kateřina Hilská, Jean-Marc Sovák.
One Eye Open / Jedním Okem special issue (Spring 1998) Editors: Marci Shore, Jacqui True, Eva Věšínová Publisher: Oči dokořán / Both Eyes Open ISSN 1211-9148 Contributors: H. Gordon Skilling, Marci Shore, Jana Hradilková, Markéta Rulíková, Petra Jedličková, Eva Hauserová, Iva Popovičová, Dagmar Bromová. *The 2002/2006 issues were primarily conference proceedings. GRASP [1993, 2009-]
Grasp (1993) Editors: Michal Bareš, Petr Bílek, David Čaněk, Klára Koblížková, Barbora Štefanová, Dan Trubač Managing editor: Ondřej Pilný Advisors: Revan Schendler, Richard Haas Publisher: Philosophy Faculty, Charles University Contents: Magdaléna Ljubiejewska, Ondřej Pilný, Jana Šecová, Eva Adamová, Mark Corner, Bruce Solomon, Anna Ponomareva, Ray Mingle, Dan Trubač, Jan Čáp, Revan Schendler.
Grasp: Culture and Aesthetics Quarterly (September 2009) Editor: Andreas Patenidis Poetry editor: Iliya Ansky Book reviews: Martina Šimová, Johana Petra Poncarová Cover: Jaroslav Novotný Publisher: Students Union, Philosophy Faculty, Charles University Contributors: Benjamin Kuras, Gordon Carrega, Dunstan Clarke, Christopher Crawford, Stephan Delbos, Jason Mashak, Scott Nixon, Jerome Tovey, Iliya Ansky, Martina Šimová, Johana Petra Poncarová, Matouš Turek, Ian Borotovski.
Grasp: Culture and Aesthetics Quarterly (December 2009) Editor: Andreas Patenidis Poetry editor: Iliya Ansky 904 | Book reviews: Martina Šimová, Johana Petra Poncarová Cover Art: Pavel Horák Publisher: Students Union, Philosophy Faculty, Charles University Contributors: Pavel Horák, Věra Chase, Shaindel Beers, Dunstan Clarke, Stephan Delbos, Gil Fleischman, Alexander Kolya Maksik, Chris Mansell, Jason Mashak, Joshua Saul Mensch, Alistair Noon, Justin Quinn, Mark Terrill, Gregory Vincent St Thomasino, Tyler Williams, Cyril Wong, Iliya Ansky, David Derrico, James Walling, Liam Billingham, Matouš Turek, Jitka Verdan Štollová.
Grasp: Culture and Aesthetics Quarterly (March 2010) Editor: Andreas Patenidis Poetry editor: Iliya Ansky Book reviews: Martina Šimová, Johana Petra Poncarová Cover Art: Jaroslav Novotný Publisher: Students Union, Philosophy Faculty, Charles University Contributors:, Louis Armand, Michael Begnal, Sarah Borufka, Pam Brown, Christopher Crawford, John Dorsey, Carrie Etter, Heather Fowler, Christopher (Kit) Kelen, Alan King, Natasha Kirshina, Quincy Lehr, Jane Lewty, Alan Moore, Sheila Murphy, David E. Oprava, Douglas Piccinnini, Shawn Sturgeon, Gene Tanta, Jerome Tovey, Abe Young, Sophie Cooke, Kristin Fouquet, Igal Sarna.
Raut [1992-4]
Raut 1 (June, 1992) Editors: Aleš Najbrt and Tono Stano Contributors: Jíří Kolař, Jurij Mamlejev, Alexandra Randáčková, Regula Pragensis. Raut 2 (February, 1993) Editors: Aleš Najbrt and Tono Stano Contributors: Václav Havel, David Černý, Toby Litt, Tomáš Míka, Jaroslav Pížl.
Raut 3 (January, 1994) Editors: Aleš Najbrt and Tono Stano Contributors: Josef Spejbl, Michal Sirik.
Gristle Floss [1993-4]
Gristle Floss 1 (1993) Editors: Lacey Eckl (McCormick), David Freeling, Ken Ganfield Art: Phil Bárta, Ken Nash, Lawrence Wells, Danette Winston Contributors: Eve Bridberg, Ken Nash, Anthony Tognazzini, David Freeling, Chris Beneke, Lawrence Wells, Myla Goldberg.
Gristle Floss 2 (1993) Editors: Lacey Eckl (McCormick), David Freeling, Ken Ganfield Art: Ken Nash, Chris Beneke Contributors: Eve Bridberg, Ken Nash, Anthony Tognazzini, Erick Vickland, Jim Beam, Lindsey East, Ian Green, Maya Květný, David Freeling, S. Mitchell Anderson, Alan Ward (Thomas).
Gristle Floss 3 (1994) Editors: Lacey Eckl (McCormick), David Freeling, Ken Ganfield | 905 Contributors: Anthony Tognazzini, William Latent, Edna, Ken Nash, Raymond J.
Gristle Floss 4 (1994) Editors: Lacey Eckl (McCormick), David Freeling, Ken Ganfield Contributors: Louis Charbonneau, George Henry, Maya Květný, Ken Nash, Anthony Tognazzini, Julie Ashley.
Gristle Floss 5 (1994) Editors: Lacey Eckl (McCormick), David Freeling, Ken Ganfield Contributors: Nancy Walker, Rex Kuba, Anthony Tognazzini, D.J. Levitt, Michael Carter, Tony Mullen.
TRAFIKA [1993-9]
Trafika 1 (Autumn 1993) Editors: Michael Lee, Alfredo Sánchez, Jeffrey Young Managing editor: Scott Rogers Assistant editor: Marta Miklušáková Cover: David Marvan Contributors: Luis Cabalquinto, Stephen Dixon, Bo Carpelan, Josef Škvorecký, Myra Sklarew, Zbigniew Machej, Tobias Hill, Jiřina Hauková, Nayantara Sahgal, Ricardo Pau-Llosa, Ivan Diviš, Don DeLillo, Alexis Gómez-Rosa, Katia Fodor, Lukáš Tomin, Shiv K. Kumar, Anne Ranasinghe, Roberto G. Fernández, Albert Cook, Alejandrino Hufana, Garry Kilworth, Alurista, James Ragan, Morislav Holub, Arnošt Lustig, Barry Silensky. Trafika 2 (Spring 1994) Editors: Michael Lee, Alfredo Sánchez, Jeffrey Young Managing editor: Scott Rogers Assistant editors: Marta Miklušáková, Dorsey Evans Dunn Editorial assistants: Ariane Conrad, Kevin Smith Contributing editors: Lori Carlson, Don Paul, Anne Petrov, Lee Smith Cover Art: Jaroslav Fišer Publisher: Trafika, Inc (New York), Modrá Músa Publishers and the World Literature Society (Prague) ISSN 1210-6488, ISBN 80-901515-2-3 Contributors: Yu Hua, Katarzyna Boruń-Jagodzińska, Jorge Torres Zavaleta, Milan Milišić, Joyce Carol Oates, Michal Ajvaz, Dargo Jančar, Herminio Martínez, Ursula Heinze, Karin Bellman, György Konrád, Jáchym Topol, Guido Rodríguez Alcala, Mary Gordon, Lennart Sjögren, Aldo Beri, Iván Mándy, Ilona Lcková, Czesław Miłosz, Anna Swir, Leonard Nathan, Gilbert Sorrentino.
Trafika 3 (Summer 1994) Editors: Michael Lee, Alfredo Sánchez, Jeffrey Young Managing editor: Scott Rogers Assistant editors: Marta Miklušáková, Dorsey Evans Dunn Associate editors: Tobias Hill, Christopher Morris, Krister Swarz Editorial assistants: Ariane Julie, Brian Rosenblum Contributing editors: Giorgio Amitrano, Lori Carlson, Bernhard Fetz, Don Paul, Anne Petrov 906 | Cover Art: Sharon Core Publisher: Trafika, Inc (New York), Modrá Músa Publishers and the World Literature Society (Prague) ISSN 1210-6488, ISBN 1-885304-02-1 Contributors: Aleš Debeljak, Do Phuoc Tien, Yves Simon, Norma Cole, Ludvík Vaculík, Victor Hugo Vásquez Rentería, Petr Borkovec, Feride Çiçekoğlu, Shuntarō Tanikawa, Yiriy Tarnawsky, Tran Trung Chinh, Sylva Fischerová, Yang Lian, Yan Li, Zhang Er, Leonard Schwartz, Julia Kisina, Marvin Bell, Jim Krusoe, Magnus Dahlström, Camila de la Mora.
Trafika 4 (Winter 1994) Editors: Michael Lee, Alfredo Sánchez, Jeffrey Young Managing editor: Scott Rogers New York editor: Dorsey Evans Dunn Managing editor: Krister Swarz Associate editors: Tobias Hill, Anne Petrov, Richard Zenith Assistant editors: Iván Gutiérrez, Marta Miklušáková, Christopher Morris Editorial assistant: Rachel Carpenter Contributing editors: Esther Allen, Lori Carlson, Bernhard Fetz Cover Art: ash … Publisher: Trafika, Inc (New York), Modrá Músa Publishers and the World Literature Society (Prague) ISSN 1210-6488, ISBN 1-885304-03-X Contributors: Lars Jakobson, Denis Johnson, Luis Leante, José Eduardo Agualusa, Mia Couto, Eduardo Albinati, Tereza Boučková, Xiao Kaiyu, Elena Sazanovich, Paul Bowles, Douglas O’Connor, Klaus Johannes Thies, Kristien Hemmerrechts, Roberto Tejada, John Barth, András Csejdy. Trafika 5 (Autumn 1995) Editors: Dorsey Evans Dunn, Michael Lee, Jeffrey Young Associate editors: Krister Swarz, Richard Zenith Assistant editors: Iván Gutiérrez, Nancy Isensen Editorial staff: Rachel Carpenter, Anaga Dalal, Ariene Julie, Christopher Morris, Donna Stonecipher Contributing editors: Esther Allen, Tariq Ali, Lori Carlson, Aleš Debeljak, Bernhard Fetz, Güneli Gün, Tobias Hill, Margitt Lehbert, Anne Petrov, Henry Y.H. Zhao Managing editor: Katharine L. Kimberly Publisher: Trafika, Inc (New York) ISSN 1210-6488, ISBN 1-885304-04-8 Contributors: Zafer Şenocak, Javier Marías, Jáchym Topol, Joaquim Magalhães, Terje Holtet Larsen, Mira Magen, Stephan Eibel, Tomaž Šalamun, Aamer Hussein, Benny Barabash, Do Kh., Joost Zwagerman, Pierre Martory, Hong Ying, Bear Kirkpatrick, Tor Ulven.
Trafika 6 (Autumn, 1997) Editors: Scott Lewis, Krister Swartz, Jeffrey Young Managing editor: Joy Turner Assistance: Iván Gutiérrez, Donna Stonecipher Contributing editors: Esther Allen, Aleš Debeljak, Richard Zenith Publisher: Trafika, Inc (New York) ISSN 1210-6488, ISBN 1-885304-05-6 Contributors: Stuart Krusee, Johann Burton, Slobodan Selenić, Ignacio Martínez, Khaled Mattawa, Nina Bouraoui, Martin M. Šimečka, Dana Ranga, Gabriel Levin, Yusef Komunakaa, Steve Sem- | 907 Sandberg, Kathrin Röggla, Hatif Janabi, Hanoch Levin.
Trafika 7 (Autumn 1999) Editor: Jeffrey Young Managing editor: Melissa Cliver Editorial assistant: Caroline Kelley Contributing editors: Aleš Debeljak, Richard Zenith, Esther Allen Cover Art: Hana Hunčovská Publisher: Trafika, Inc (New York) ISSN 1210-6488 Contributors: Natasza Goerke, Tomaž Šalamun, Herberto Helder, Marcin Świetlicki, Sharon Hass, Eleni Sikelianos, António Franco Alexandre, Mohammed Choukri, Uche Nduka, Aleš Debeljak, Amir Or, Michael Loutzenhiser, Miłosz Biedrzycki, Péter Nádas.
X-Ink [1994]
X-Ink (February, 1994) Editor: Mathew Salt Art director: Antonín Hlas Manager: David Šuman Graphics: Tomáš Horák Staff: Amy R. Nestor, Sean Fuller, Bryn Haworth, Gavin Stewart, Kateřina Benadová, Leigh Allen Publisher: Design Atelier UP Contributors: Scot Farquar, Michael Halstead, Susan Reynolds, Randall Lyman, Marek Tichý, Tomáš Dydunik, Olga Martinez, Chris Beneke, Jan Kačer, Lucie Landové X-Ink (March, 1994) Editor: Mathew Salt Art director: Antonín Hlas Manager: David Šuman Graphics: Tomáš Horák Czech editor: Zuzana Paulusová Photography: Jim Fassinger Staff: Amy R. Nestor, Sean Fuller, Gavin Stewart, Kateřina Benadová, Antonín Holubec, Jan Stehlík Publisher: Design Atelier UP ISSN: 1210-7484 Contributors: Daniela Šafrániková, Keith Gruchala, Tomáš Vystrčil, Filip Šlapal, Jana Strachová, Petr Eben, Michael Halstead, Gavin Stewart, Antonín Holubec, Kateřina Bendová, Alex Gammie, Jan Piňos, Jeff Crane, Zuzana Paulusová, Jan Stehlík, Amy R. Nestor.
X-Ink (April, 1994) Editor: Mathew Salt Art director: Antonín Hlas Manager: David Šuman Graphics: Tomáš Horák Czech editor: Zuzana Paulusová Photography: Jim Fassinger Publisher: Design Atelier UP ISSN: 1210-7484 Contributors: Helena Šlesingerová, Ariane Julie, Milan Tomeš, 908 | Stephan O’Day, Eric Gelehrter, R.W.J. Synowits, Nancy Bishop, Zuzana Paulusová, Jeff Crane, Chris Beneke, Myla Goldberg, Robert Kozar, Jan Píst, Luce Ryntová, Ron Synovitz.
X-Ink (May, 1994) Editor: Mathew Salt Art director: Antonín Hlas Manager: David Šuman Graphics: Tomáš Horák Czech editor: Zuzana Paulusová Photography: Jim Fassinger Publisher: Design Atelier UP ISSN: 1210-7484 Contributors: Kevin Blahut, Ivo Hucl, Jiří Orner, Mark Rayner, Kateřina Simerová, Adam Holý, Lucie Ryntová, Alex Gammie, Gavin Stewart, Elke Schultz-Bisping, Philip O‘Neal.
X-Ink (June, 1994) Editor: Mathew Salt Art director: Antonín Hlas Manager: David Šuman Graphics: Tomáš Horák Czech editor: Zuzana Paulusová Photography: Jim Fassinger Publisher: Design Atelier UP ISSN: 1210-7484 Contributors: Philip O’Neal, Lukáš Máslo, Daniel Micka, Daniela Šafrániková, Lucie Barborková, Peter Dubois, Amy R. Nestor, Gavin Stewart, Lucie Ryntová. X-Ink (July, 1994) Editor: Mathew Salt Art director: Antonín Hlas Manager: David Šuman Graphics: Tomáš Horák Czech editor: Zuzana Paulusová Photography: Jim Fassinger Publisher: Design Atelier UP ISSN: 1210-7484 Contributors: Pavel Micka, Tomáš Vystrčil, Brian Howell, Ivo Hucl, Zdeněk Jecelín, I.F. Dokoupil, Matyáš Sedlák, Kerstin Hacker, Gavin Stewart, William Hollister, Alicia Kozine.
JENUNE: AMERICA EATS ITS YOUNG [1993-9] *issues 1-3 produced in Oakland, California, USA
Jejune 4 (Winter 1995) Editor: Gwendolyn Albert Managing editor: Vincent Farnsworth Cover art: Mark Neville Contributors: Hilary Binder, Gwendolyn Albert, William Talcott, David Plouhar, Mike Hansel, Vincent Farnsworth, Rebekah Alessi, Dylan Brie Ducey, Mark Neville, Jon O. Smith, Alva Svoboda, Robert Vandermolen, Lisa Zelinski.
Jejune 5 (Winter 1996) | 909 Editor: Gwendolyn Albert Managing editor: Vincent Farnsworth Cover art: Mark Neville Contributors: Gwendolyn Albert, Vladimir Bolotnikov, Andrew Swartz, Jonathan Zimmerman, Vincent Farnsworth, Eva Nowotny, R. Collette Dalton, Parker Forsell, Brian Hill, Eileen Myles, Sal Salasin, William Talcott, Magdaléna Vlková, Paul Weinman.
Jejune 6 (Winter 1996/7) Editor: Gwendolyn Albert Managing editor: Vincent Farnsworth Cover art: Mark Neville Contributors: John David Gifford, Eileen Myles, Lydia Lunch, Gwendolyn Albert, Honza Volf, John Brooks, Vincent Farnsworth, Jack Hirschman, Jules Mann, Ed Mycue, B.Z. Niditch, Michael Price.
Jejune 7 (Winter 1997/8) Editor: Gwendolyn Albert Managing editor: Vincent Farnsworth Cover art: Mark Neville Contributors: Robert Bly, Sergei Myasayedov, Miluš Kotišová, Radovan Polanský, Jules Mann, Robert Bové, Celia Leckey, Nina Lindsay, John McKeown, Robert Salasin, Mark Salerno, A.D. Winans.
Jejune 8 (Winter 1998/9) Editor: Gwendolyn Albert Managing editor: Vincent Farnsworth Cover art: Mark Neville Contributors: Paul Polansky, Lubo Zubák, Petr Uhl, Karl Bielik, Leanne Grabel, Billy Stanley, Theodore Schwinke, Don Chase, John Wall Barger, Dave Brinks, John Terry Cooper, Dennis Formento, Christopher Jones, Jason Lynn, Jenny Smith.
Jejune 9 (Summer 1999) Editor: Gwendolyn Albert Managing editor: Vincent Farnsworth Cover art: Igor Tschai Contributors: Gwendolyn Albert, Natalya Boyko, Igor Tschai, Norman Lock, Theodore Schwinke, Christian Burgaud, Tony Nipravda, Vincent Farnsworth, Bill Berkson, Tom Clark, Mesfin Gedlu, Jeremy Hurewitz, John McKeown, Paul Polansky, Alberto Rizzi, Sapphire, Spencer Selby, Alexander Zaitchik.
OPTIMISM MONTHLY [1995-2000]
Optimism Monthly 1 (May 1995) Editor/publisher: Tim Otis Translator: Markéta Konrádová Contributors: Anthony Tognazzini, Manulito Biag, William Becker, Aliotia Horpentine, David Vavra.
Optimism Monthly 2 (June 1995) Editor/publisher: Tim Otis 910 | Translators: Jesse Lynch, Suzana Dudic, Šárka Jeřábková Contributing writers: Linda LaRosa, Herda Pekna, Daniel Kenney, Prokop Buben, William Becker, Dr. Milena Klabová, James Freeman, Michael Ventura, Aliotia Horpentine, Lorene Lybbert, Jan Kratinoha, Thomas Alan Ward, Tomas Kellner, Allison Gaertner, Joseph Curcio.
Optimism Monthly 3 (July 1995) Editor/publisher: Tim Otis Graphics: D.A. Siruble, Gerald D. Golf Photography: Denis Baptiste, Jacki McSweeney Technical support: Jari Lindgren Contributing writers: Herda Pekna, Daniel Kenny, Laura Conway, William Becker, Michael Ventura, Jan Kratinoha, Thomas Alan Ward, Paul Martia, Donna Stoneceipher, Karel Skarstein, Anthony Jones.
Optimism Monthly 4 (August 1995) Editor/publisher: Tim Otis Contributing writers: Thomas Alan Ward, Anthony Tognazzini, David Freeling, Linda LaRosa, Alberto Molina, Judd Nirenburg, Bri Hurley, Malachy O’Neill, Laura Conway.
Optimism Monthly 5 (September 1995) Editor/publisher: Tim Otis Associate editor: Thomas Alan Ward Photography: (Lucy) Jana Bělohradská, Sibyla Binarová Illustration: Lily Lambert Production: Mirek Kordula Photographs: Jana Bělohradská, Sibyla Binarová Contributing writers: Constance Carter, Neil Danziger, Julie Ashley, Scot Farquhar, Laura Conway, Anthony Tognazzini, Linda LaRosa, William Becker, Thomas Alan Ward, Alan Baird Jr., Jud Niremberg.
Optimism Monthly 6 (November 1995) Editor/publisher: Tim Otis Associate editor: Thomas Alan Ward Art director and design: Karl Bielik Production: Mirek Kordula Production support: Tim Rogers and Mimi Fronczak Rogers Contributing writers: Julie Ashley, William Becker, Constance Carter, Scot Farquhar, Jeremy Saxon, Eric William Schramm, Donna Stoneceipher, Anthony Tognazzini, Thomas Alan Ward.
Optimism Monthly 7 (December/Janurary 1995-6) Publisher: Tim Otis Editor: Thomas Alan Ward Art director and design: Karl Bielik Production: Mirek Kordula Production support: Tim Rogers and Mimi Fronczak Rogers Cover: Pierluigi Di Todaro Contributing writers: Laura Conway, Maya Květný, Stevieanna DeSaille, Scot Farquhar, Jeremy Saxon, Alan Baird Jr, Thomas Alan Ward, David Freeling, James Freeman, Ken Nash.
Optimism Monthly 8 (February 1996) Publisher: Tim Otis Editor: Thomas Alan Ward Art director and design: Karl Bielik | 911 Production: Mirek Kordula Production support: Tim Rogers and Mimi Fronczak Rogers Cover: Karl Bielik Contributing writers: Ira Cohen, Joie Cook, Scot Farquhar, David Freeling, Jill Carol Maggs, Shannon McCormick, Ken Nash, Harold Norse, Jeremy Saxon, Anthony Tognazzini.
Optimism Monthly 9 (March 1996) Publisher: Tim Otis Editor: Thomas Alan Ward Copy Editor: Max Farr Production: Mirek Kordula Layout and Design, Tim Otis Production support: Tim Rogers and Mimi Fronczak Rogers Contributing writers: Julie Ashley, Alan Baird, Jr., Marion Blackburn, Constance M. Carter, Joie Cook, David Freeling, Jim Freeman, Maya Květný, Jill Carol Maggs, Ken Nash, Tim Rogers, Karl Skarstein, Thomas Alan Ward.
Optimism Monthly 10 (April 1996) Publisher: Tim Otis Editor: Thomas Alan Ward Copy Editor: Max Farr Production: Mirek Kordula Production support: Tim Rogers and Mimi Fronczak Rogers Computer assistance: Geoffrey McCaleb Cover: Magdaléna Pechová Photograhs: Sibyla Binarová, Martin Hurlimann, Frank Weideman, Bill Davis Illustration: Fran Weideman Contributing writers: Buck Bradford, Laura Conway, David Freeling, Maya Květný, Harold Norse, Jeremy Saxon, Jenny Smith, Donna Stonecipher, Anthony Tognazzini.
Optimism Monthly 11 (May 1996) Publisher: Tim Otis Editor: Thomas Alan Ward Copy Editor: Max Farr Production: Mirek Kordula Production support: Tim Rogers and Mimi Fronczak Rogers Cover and internal art: Engravings by Sibyla Binarová Illustrations: Lily Lambert Contributing writers: Scott Bellefeuille, Buck Bradford, Constance M. Carter, Laura Conway, Stuart Horwitz, Rachel Ingrams, Maya Květný, jill carol maggs, Michaela Molová, Andrey Pounov, Jenny Smith, Anthony Tognazzini, Thomas Alan Ward, Paul Martia.
Optimism Monthly 12 (June 1996) Publisher: Tim Otis Editor: Thomas Alan Ward Copy Editor: Max Farr Production: Mirek Kordula Production support: Tim Rogers and Mimi Fronczak Rogers Cover: Michael Pritchett Illustrations: Sibyla Binarová, Lily Lambert Contributing writers: Steve Chilson, Laura Conway, Stuart Horwitz, 912 | Maya Květný, Ann Lysek, Shannon McCormick, Tim Rogers, Jenny Smith, Donna Stonecipher, Anthony Tognazzini, Thomas Alan Ward, Daniel Williams, Sibyla Binarová.
Optimism Monthly 13 (August 1996) Publisher: Tim Otis Editor: Thomas Alan Ward Copy Editor: Max Farr Production: Mirek Kordula Production support: Tim Rogers and Mimi Fronczak Rogers, Pavel Kostronek and frim SOLID Cover: Living Drums, by Deanna Augsburger Illustrations: Deanna Augsburger, Ken Nash Contributing writers: Nicole R. Achs, Julie Ashley, Marion Blackburn, Julie Chibbaro, Laura Conway, Stuart Horwitz, Ann Lysek, Ken Nash, Tim Rogers, Theodore Schwinke, Jenny Smith, Donna Stonecipher, Anthony Tognazzini, E.J. Vega.
Optimism Monthly 14 (September 1996) Publisher: Tim Otis Editor: Thomas Alan Ward Copy Editor: Max Farr Production: Mirek Kordula Production support: Tim Rogers and Mimi Fronczak Rogers, Pavel Kostronek and frim SOLID Cover: Eye of the Earth, by Deanna Augsurger Photo art: Pierluigi DiTorado Contributing writers: Stuart Horwitz, Ken Nash, Julie Chibbaro, Genya Turovsky, Nicole R. Achs, Theodore Schwinke, E.J. Vega, Jenny Smith, Tim Rogers, Karl Skarstein, Laura Conway, Scot Farquhar. Optimism Monthly 15 (October 1996) Publisher: Tim Otis Editor: Thomas Alan Ward Copy Editor: Max Farr Production: Mirek Kordula Production support: Tim Rogers and Mimi Fronczak Rogers, Pavel Kostronek and frim SOLID Cover: Miša Nováčková Photographs: Michaela Češpivová Contributing writers: Julie Ashley, Beth Belinky, Julie Chibbaro, Neil Danziger, David Freeling, Jim Freeman, Kate Massey, Shannon McCormick, Jeremy Saxon, Theodore Schwinke, Jenny Smith, Anthony Tognazzini, Thomas Alan Ward.
Optimism Monthly 16 (December 1996) Publisher: Tim Otis Editor: Thomas Alan Ward Production: Mirek Kordula Production support: Beth Belinky, Tim Rogers and Mimi Fronczak Rogers, Pavel Kostronek and frim SOLID s.r.o. Cover: Radka Chlebcová Drawings: Jean-Mark Superville Sovak Photographs: Antonin Streit Contributing writers: Laura Conway, Jenny Smith, Anthony Tognazzini, Genya Turovsky, Peter Svobodný, E.J.Vega, Nikos Kavadhias, Terry Eleftherios Volanis, Kate Massey, Shannon, Theodore Schwinke, Jeff Herzbach, Ken Nash. | 913 Optimism Monthly 17 (January 1997) Publisher: Tim Otis Editor: Thomas Alan Ward Copy Editor: Max Farr Production: Mirek Kordula Production support: Tim Rogers and Mimi Fronczak Rogers, and frim SOLID s.r.o. Cover: Tal Shpantzer Drawings: Jean-Mark Superville Sovak Photographs: Petr Brejcha, Eva Lysáková Contributing writers: Julie Chibbaro, David Freeling, Peter Svobodny, Genya Turovsky, Tim Rogers, Theodore Schwinke, Jenny Smith, Scott Farquhar, Anthony Tognazzini, Laura Conway.
Optimism Monthly 18 (March 1997) Publisher: Tim Otis Editor: Thomas Alan Ward Copy Editor: Max Farr Production: Mirek Kordula Production support: Tim Rogers and Mimi Fronczak Rogers, and frim SOLID s.r.o. Cover: Adam Trachtman Drawings: Adam Trachtman Contributing writers: Marion Blackburn, Jim Freeman, Ann Henry, Stuart Horwitz, Kate Massey, Genya Turovsky, Theodore Schwinke, Karel Skarstein, S.A. Stevens, Peter Svobodny, Thomas Alan Ward. Optimism Monthly 19: the backwards issue (May 1997) Publisher: Timothy C. Otis Editor: Thomas Alan Ward Copy Editor: Max Farr Production: Mirek Kordula Production support: Tim Rogers and Mimi Fronczak Rogers, Pavel Kostronek and frim SOLID, Jason Godwin at Terminal Bar. Cover: Enkidu, by Anne-Marie Svobodny Photographs: Eva Lysáková, Mimi Fronczak-Rogers. Included booklet, Dandelion, Scattered Reflections on Allen Ginsberg, by Thomas Alan Ward, on Presidential Press, Prague. Contributing writers: Julie Ashley, Věra Chase, Julie Chibbaro, Miriam Fitting, Jim Freeman, Stuart Horwitz, Harold Norse, Theodore Schwinke, Tim Rogers, Peter Svobodný, Anthony Tognazzini.
Optimism Monthly 20 (June 1997) Publisher: Timothy C. Otis Editor: Thomas Alan Ward Copy Editor: Max Farr Production: Mirek Kordula Production support: Tim Rogers and Mimi Fronczak Rogers, Pavel Kostronek and frim SOLID, Jason Godwin at Terminal Bar. Cover: Jay Meany Photographs: Thomas Alan Ward. Contributing writers: James Freeman, Anthony Tognazzini, Jenny Smith, Robert Cooper, David Freeling, Isobelle Carmody. 914 | Optimism Monthly 21 (July 1997) Publisher: Timothy C. Otis Editor: Thomas Alan Ward Copy Editor: Nancy Braun Production: Mirek Kordula Production support: Tim Rogers and Mimi Fronczak Rogers, Pavel Kostronek and frim SOLID, Jason Godwin at Terminal Bar Cover: Anne-Marie Svobodny Photographs: Jan Branc, Eva Lysáková Contributing writers: Christopher Lord, Peter Svobodný, Shannon McCormick, Stuart Horwitz, Kevin Kearny, David Freeling, Simon Jackson, Nikos Kavandhias (translated by Terry Volanis), Russel Pontone.
Optimism Monthly 22 (September 1997) Publisher: Timothy C. Otis Editor: Thomas Alan Ward Copy Editor: Max Farr Production: Mirek Kordula Production support: Tim Rogers and Mimi Fronczak Rogers, Pavel Kostronek and frim SOLID, Jason Godwin at Terminal Bar Cover: Stanislav Lahoda Art: Andrea Zemal Photographs: Eva Lysáková, Mimi Fronczak-Rogers Included booklet, Eight Microfictions, by Anthony Tognazzini, Presidential Press, Prague. Contributing writers: Marion Blackburn, Isobelle Carmody, Nikos Kavandhias (translated by Terry Volanis), Christopher Lord, Karel Skarstein, E.J.Vega, Thomas Alan Ward. Optimism Monthly 23 (October 1997) Publisher: Timothy C. Otis Editor: Thomas Alan Ward Copy Editor: Nancy Braun, Laura Conway Production: Mirek Kordula Production support: Charles P. Thomas, and frim SOLID Cover: Jay Meany Photographs and Art: Richard Giles, Andrea Zemal, Eva Lysáková, Josef Vachal Photographs: Eva Lysáková, Mimi Fronczak-Rogers Included booklet, Eight Microfictions, by Anthony Tognazzini, Presidential Press, Prague. Contributing writers: Marion Blackburn, Miriam Fitting, David Freeling, Tim Gaze, John McKeown, Jeremy Saxon, Karel Skarstein, Peter Svobodný, Anthony Tognazzini, E.J.Vega.
Optimism Monthly 24 (December 1997) Publisher: Timothy C. Otis Editor: Thomas Alan Ward Copy Editor: Laura Conway, Mimi Fronczak-Rogers Production: Mirek Kordula Production support: Charles P. Thomas, and frim SOLID. Cover: Adam Trachtman Photographs and Art: Eva Lysáková, Adam Trachtman Contributing writers: Theodore Schwinke, Anthony Tognazzini, daniel ahearn, Thomas Alan Ward, Julie Ashley, Ken Nash, Alice Whittenburg, Tibi Jakkel, E.J.Vega, Philip O’Neil. | 915 Optimism Monthly 25 (April 1998) Publisher: Timothy C. Otis Editor: Thomas Alan Ward Copy editors: Nancy Braun and Laura Conway Production: Mirek Kordula Production support: Charles P. Thomas, Tim Rogers and Mimi Fronczak Rogers, Pavel Kostronek and frim SOLID. Cover: Fredrick Malouf ISSN: 1212-0820 Art: Jean-Marc Superville Sovak, Vendula Perchalová, Earl Bradbury Photographs: Eva Lysáková Contributing writers: E.J. Vega, Peter Svobodný, A. Lysek, Kirsten Lodge, John McKeown, Daniel Ahearn, Phillip O’Neal, Isobelle Carmody, Laura Conway, Jack Micheline.
Optimism Monthly 26 (May 1998), Publisher: Timothy C. Otis Editor: Thomas Alan Ward Copy editors: Nancy Braun and Laura Conway Production: Mirek Kordula Production support: Charles P. Thomas, Tim Rogers and Mimi Fronczak Rogers, Pavel Kostronek and frim SOLID. Cover: Don Demauro ISSN: 1212-0820 Art: Jean Marc Superville, Julie Ashley, Ken Nash, Jay Meany. Contributing writers: Philip O’Neil, David P. Gollub, Kirsten Lodge, Ken Nash, T.F. Shaw, daniel ahearn, Stuart Horwitz, Thomas Alan Ward, David Freeling, Julie Chibbaro, Patrick Seguin, Richard Stone, Laura Conway. Optimism Monthly 27 (July 1998) Publisher: Timothy C. Otis Editor: Thomas Alan Ward Copy editors: Nancy Braun and Laura Conway Production: Mirek Kordula Production support: Charles P. Thomas, Tim Rogers and Mimi Fronczak Rogers Cover: Adam Trachtman ISSN 1212-0820 Art: Jay Meany, Ken Nash Photographs: Heather Marquess, Gynthia Mosser Contributing writers: Daniel Ahearn, John Wall Barger, Vera Chase, Julie Chibbaro, Marcus Green, Velimir Khlebnikov, Kirsten Lodge, John McKeown, Susan Nichols, Philip O’Neil, Brent Robillard, T.F. Shaw, Andrean Zwinski, Stuart Horwitz, Thomas Alan Ward, David Freeling, Julie Chibbaro, Patrick Seguin, Richard Stone, Laura Conway.
Optimism Monthly 28 (April 1999) Publisher: Timothy C. Otis Editor: Laura Conway Production director: Jan Kalvoda Cover: Graham Allen ISSN 1212-0820 Photographs: Eva Lysáková Contributors: Grahm Allen, Phil Shoenfelt, Jim Freeman, Barbara 916 | Plichtová, Theresa Whitehill, Róbert Gál. Optimism Monthly 29 (May-June 1999) Publisher: Timothy C. Otis Editor: Laura Conway Production director: Martin Gibas Cover: Lucie Nimcová ISSN 1212-0820 Photographs: Eva Lysáková, Vaugh Oliver, Daria Krejčířová Contributors: Stevianna deSaille, Lucia Nimcová, Ruth Weiss, Eva Lysáková, Nikos Kavadhios (translated by Terry Volanis).
Optimism Monthly 30 (August 1999) Publisher: Timothy C. Otis Editor: Laura Conway Production director: Martin Gibas Cover: Andre Silva ISSN 1212-0820 Photographs: Keith Gruchala Contributors: Laura Conway, Josua B. Spector, Dan Machlin, Maya Květný, Mevlana Jalaluddin Rumi.
Optimism Monthly 31 (October 1999) Publisher: Timothy C. Otis Editor: Laura Conway Production director: Martin Gibas Cover: Casey Mahon ISSN 1212-0820 Art: Peter Bill, Casey Mahon Photographs: Petra Lipavská, Tim Otis, Lucia Nimcová, Bill Davis Contributors: Anne Waldman, Věra Chase, Vít Kremlička, Laura Conway, Róbert Gál.
Optimism Monthly 32 (August 1999) Publisher: Timothy C. Otis Editor: Laura Conway Production director: Martin Gibas ISSN 1212-0820 Art: Peter Bill, Simon Needham Photographs: Kevin Mitchell Martin, Mimi Fronczak-Rogers, Petra Lipavská, Tim Otis, Lucia Nimcová, Bill Davis Contributors: Bina Sharif, Snezana Zabic, Martha King.
Optimism Monthly 33 (December 1999) Publisher: Timothy C. Otis Editor: Laura Conway Production director: Martin Gibas Cover: Simon Dixon ISSN 1212-0820 Art: Peter Bill, Ken Nash, Gene Deitch, The Attik Design Group Photographs: Elsa Lambert, Petra Lipavska Contributors: Greg Bogaerts, Rick Pryll, Laura Conway, John Linland, Kateřina Piňosová, Christina Cernusca.
Optimism Monthly 34 (February 2000) Publisher: Timothy C. Otis Editor: Laura Conway | 917 Production director: Martin Gibas Art: Keith Gruchala Photographs: Gabe Taylor ISSN 1212-0820 Contributors: Šimon Šafránek, Phil Shoenfelt, Kateřina Piňosová, Snezana Zabic, Katharina Schmitt, Rick Taylor.
Optimism Monthly 35 (March 2000) Publisher: Timothy C. Otis Editor: Laura Conway Production director: Martin Gibas Cover: Denis Baptiste ISSN 1212-0820 Art: Keith Gruchala Photographs: Gabe Taylor Contributors: Laura Conway, Bruce Isaacson, Kathleen Wood, David Lerner, Julia Vinograd, Thomas Alan Ward, Willias Masocha.
Optimism Monthly 36 (April 2000) Publisher: Timothy C. Otis Editor: Laura Conway Production director: Martin Gibas Cover: Tim Otis ISSN 1212-0820 Photographs: Tim Otis Contributors: Paula Tavares, Aaron Larrimore, Paul Landry, Šimon Šafránek, Jeri Theriault, Neil Addison, Margaret Wesseling. Optimism Monthly 37 (May 2000) Publisher: Timothy C. Otis Editor: Laura Conway Production director: Martin Gibas ISSN 1212-0820 Contributors: Willias Masocha, Eli Coppola, Rob McLennan, Paul Martia, Nora Ružičková, Snezana Zabic.
Optimism Monthly 38 (June 2000) Publisher: Timothy C. Otis Editor: Laura Conway Production director: Martin Gibas ISSN 1212-0820 Art: Allen Jones Contributors: Neil Addison, Jay Marvin, Willias Masocha, Kateřina Piňosová, Phil Shoenfelt, Katherina Schmitt, Laura Conway, Brouha Haková.
Optimism Monthly 39 (July 2000) Publisher: Timothy C. Otis Editor: Laura Conway Production director: Martin Gibas ISSN 1212-0820 Photographs: Petra Lipavská, František Drtikol Contributors: Šimon Šafránek, Gabriel Al Levicky, Laura Conway, Bruce Isaacson, Jack Micheline, Snezana Zabic, Aron Larrimore. 918 | PESSIMISM: Unoriginal Thought, Envy, Hate, Someone’s Bleak Reality [1995] Pessimism (July 1995) Editor/publisher: Tim Otis An Optimism spin-off Contents: collected anonymous hate mail.
THE PRAGUE REVUE [1995-2000; 2008]
Jáma Revue (Summer 1995) Managing editor: Max Munson Editors: David Leslie Conhaim, Jason Penazzi-Russell Poetry editors: Todd Morimoto, Will Pritts Associate editor: Jan Flemr Cover art: Valerij Narbekov Publisher: Jáma Cultural Foundation Contributors: Michael P. Belfiore, Alessandro Catalano, Daniela Dražanová, Jan Flemr, Beckian Fritz Goldberg, D. Ladislaus-Con, Eliza Penazzi-Russell, Jason Penazzi-Russell, Daniele Serafini, Joe Sutton, Anthony Tognazzini.
The Prague Revue / Jáma Revue 2 (Winter 1996) Executive editor: Jason Penazzi-Russell Editors: David Leslie Conhaim, Max Munson Poetry editors: Todd Morimoto, Will Pritts Managing editor: Jan Flemr Associate editor: Alessandro Catalano Contributing editor: Eliza Penazzi-Russell Cover art: Peter Bill Publisher: Jáma Cultural Foundation Contributors: Dino Buzzati, Elisa Penazzi-Russell, Douglas N. Arvidson, David Speranza, Ewald Murrer, Howard Sidenberg, William Snyder Jr., Daniele Serafini, Oscar Hahn, James Hoggard, Miguel De Unamuno, Anthony Kerrigan, Alice Friman, Frederick J. Gould, Daniela Hodrová, Tatiana Firkusny, Veronique Firkusny-Callegari, Daniela Dražanová, Laura Zam, William Borden, Valerij Narbekov.
TPR 3 (Spring 1996) Executive editor: Jason Penazzi-Russell Editors: David Leslie Conhaim, Max Munson Poetry editors: Todd Morimoto, Will Pritts Managing editor: Jan Flemr Associate editors: Alessandro Catalano, David Speranza Contributing editors: Eliza Penazzi-Russell, Howard Sidenberg Editorial assistant: Deanna Augsburger Cover art: John Correll Publisher: Jáma Cultural Foundation Contributors: Arnošt Lustig, Abdullah al-Udhari, Robert Reid, Marco Lodoli, Přemysl Rut, Janet Burroway, Jeanine Savard, Louis Armand, Roger Weingarten.
TPR 4 (Autumn/Winter 1996-7) Executive editor: Jason Penazzi-Russell Editors: David Leslie Conhaim, Max Munson Poetry editors: Todd Morimoto, Will Pritts | 919 Associate editors: Alessandro Catalano, Jan Flemr, David Speranza Contributing editors: Michael March, Eliza Penazzi-Russell, Howard Sidenberg Editor-at-large: Roger Weingarten Editorial assistant: Patrick Caroll, Rachel Earls, Megan Tyquin Cover art: Nikolej Bodnár Publisher: Jáma Cultural Foundation ISSN 1212-0030 Contributors: Marek Hłasko, Monica Pavani, Iona Crăciunescu, Philip Kobylarz, Igor Pomerantsev, Susan Terris, Otokar Březina, Jakub Deml, Vladimír Merta, Sylvie Richerová, Richard Toth, William Hollister, Dušan Mitana, James Hoggard, Greg Loomis, M.L. Liebler, Art Duff, Amy Trussell, Leilani Wright, Julie Chibbaro, David A. Goldstein, Peter Ruppert.
TPR 5 (Winter / Spring 1998) Executive editor: Jason Penazzi-Russell Editors: David Leslie Conhaim, Max Munson Poetry editors: Todd Morimoto, Will Pritts, Louis Armand Managing editor: Clare Wallace Assistant editor: Rachel Earls Associate editors: Alessandro Catalano, Eliza Penazzi-Russell, Howard Sidenberg Contributing editors: Michael March, Roger Weingarten Editorial assistant: Patrick Caroll, Jan Svoboda Cover art: Dianne Duffy Publisher: Jáma Cultural Foundation ISSN 1212-0030 Contributors: Ivan Klíma, Janice Galloway, John Kinsella, Miroslav Holub, Robert Menasse, Hanna Krall, Helena Sinervo, David Wheatley, Dimitris Nollas, William Borden, Karel Srp, Tomáš Mazal, Bohumil Hrabal, Alessandro Catalano, Richard Zenith, António Franco Alexandre, Sophia De Mello Breyner, Mário Cesariny, Nuno Júdice, Vasco Graça Moura, António Ramos Rosa, Pedro Tamen, Paulo Teixeira, Christopher Smith, Valerie Wohlfeld, Richard Jones, Beckian Fritz Goldberg, Robert Long, Maureen Seaton, Diann Blakely Shoaf, Mark Cox.
TPR 6 (1999) Fiction editors: D. László Conhaim, Max Munson, Jason Penazzi- Russell Poetry editors: Louis Armand, Todd Morimoto, Will Pritts Managing editor: Clare Wallace Assistant editor: Rachel Earls Associate editors: Alessandro Catalano, Eliza Penazzi-Russell Contributing editors: Howard Sidenberg, Roger Weingarten Editorial assistant: Patrick Caroll Cover art: Louis Armand Publisher: Jáma Cultural Foundation ISSN 1212-0030 Contributors: Louis Armand, Bill Embley, Odetta Norton, Michael Brennan, Justin D’Ath, Raoul Schrott, Alice Friman, David Galef, Justin Quinn, Riina Katajavuori, Vít Kremlička, Suzanne Kamata, Ian Demsky, John Millett, Julian Croft, Christopher Smith, Anthony N. Zahareas, Ramón del Valle-Inclán, Anthony Kerrigan, Pío Baroja, Miguel de Unamuno. 920 | TPR 7 (2000) Fiction editors: D. László Conhaim, Max Munson, Jason Penazzi- Russell Poetry editors: Louis Armand, Todd Morimoto, Will Pritts Managing editor: Clare Wallace Assistant editor: Rachel Earls Guest editors: Brian Henry, Andrew Zawacki, Michael Brennan Contributing editors: Howard Sidenberg, Roger Weingarten Cover art: Richard Ozanne Publisher: Jáma Cultural Foundation ISSN 1212-0030 ISBN 80-902291-23 Contributors: Debra di Blasi, Konstantin Biebl, Laura Deming, Raymond Farina, Susan M. Schultz, Ethan Paquin, Véronique Vassiliou, Marta Kadlečková, Drago Jančar, Jani Virk, Primoz Cucnik, Nina Kokelj, Marjan Strojan, Iztok Osojnik, Aleš Šteger, Andrej Blatnik, Dane Zajc, Uroš Zupan, Polona Glavan, Peter Minter, Kate Fagan, Zan Ross, Louis Armand, John Kinsella, MTC Cronin, Martin Harrison, Jane Gibian, Nick Riemer, Nicolette Stasko, Kevin Hart, Vivian Smith, David Brooks, Dorothy Porter.
TPR 8 (2008) Fiction editors: Max Munson, Jason Penazzi-Russell, D. László Conhaim Poetry editors: Todd Morimoto, Will Pritts Managing editor: Stephan Delbos Copy editor: David Speranza Cover art: Jan Hrubý Publisher: Jáma Cultural Foundation ISSN 1212-0030 ISBN 978-80-902291-3-6 Contributors: Lewis Crofts, Stephan Cushman, Benjamin Russell, Paul Laughlin, Ken Nash, Peter Ludwin, Louis Armand, Gary Charles Wilkins, René Georg Vasicek, Alicia Ostriker, Jason Gray, Andrew J. Browne, Zdeněk Fučík, Christopher Crawford, Irina Mashinski, William Wall, Jessi Tabalba, John Schulian, Joe Sutton, Douglas Shields Dix, Millay Hyatt, Robert Lyn, Lucien Zell, Jay Rubin, Mihaela Moscaliuc, Elizabeth Gross, Oliver Dunne, Kate Emily Harris, Karl Körner, Anatoly Kudryavitsky, Catherine Hales, Guadalupe Garcia McCall, Mark Terrill, Ivan Klíma.
[Unpronounceable Symbol] [1996]
[Unpronounceable Symbol] 1 (1996) Editors: Dan Kenney and Eric Wargo Contributors: Marion Blackburn, Melissa Duffes, Josef Fischer, Paul Kail, Dan Kenney, Christopher Lord, Frederic Malouf, Jean Paetkau, Mark Rutherford, Eric Wargo.
[Unpronounceable Symbol] 2 (1996) Editors: Dan Kenney and Eric Wargo Contributors: Danny Bruce, Melissa Duffes, Paul Kail, Dan Kenney, Frederick Malouf, Eric Nailon, Eric Wargo.
[Unpronounceable Symbol] 3 (1996) Editors: Dan Kenney and Eric Wargo | 921 Contributors: Mark Baker, Godfrey Daniels, Melissa Duffes, Paul Kail, Dan Kenney, Noel Le Bon, Christopher Lord, Michael Rowland, Adam Trachtman, Eric Wargo.
[Unpronounceable Symbol] 4 (1996) Editors: Dan Kenney and Eric Wargo Art: Dirk Lee Contributors: Melissa Duffes, Paul Kail, Dan Kenney, Dirk E. Lee, Christopher Lord, Frederick Malouf, Erin Naillon, Eric Wargo, Alex Zaitchik, Jeffree Benét.
[Unpronounceable Symbol] 5 (1996) Editors: Dan Kenney and Eric Wargo Contributors: Melissa Duffes, Paul Kail, Dan Kenney, Ma Le, Noel Le Bon, Christoper Lord, Donny Bruce Peace, Michael Rowland, Eric Wargo.
METRE [1996-2005]
Metre 1 (Autumn 1996) Editors: Hugh Maxton, Justin Quinn, David Wheatley Published in association with the Lilliput Press ISSN 1393-4414 Contributors: Rainer Maria Rilke, Conor O’Callaghan, Tim Kendall, John Burnside, Les Murray, Francis Ponge, Patrick Werner, Vona Groarke, Peter Robinson, Seamus Heaney, Gwyneth Lewis, Martin Earl, Harry Clifton, Gabriel Levin, Bernard O’Donoghue, Denise Riley, Caitríona O’Reilly. Metre 2 (Spring 1997) Editors: Hugh Maxton, Justin Quinn, David Wheatley Guest editor: Simon Caterson Published in association with the Lilliput Press ISSN 1393-4414 Contributors: John Tranter, Timoshenko Aslanides, John Kinsella, Kris Hemensley, Geoff Page, Bruce Beaver, J.S. Harry, Bruce Dawe, Caitríona O’Reilly, Dorothy Hewett, Dimitris Tsaloumas, Louis Armand, Kevin Hart, Tracy Ryan, Les Murray, Chris Wallace-Crabbe, Jemal Sharah, Peter Porter, Peter Rose, Philip Salom, Jamie Grant, S.K. Kelen, J.K. Murphy.
Metre 3 (Autumn 1997) Editors: Justin Quinn, David Wheatley Published in association with the Lilliput Press ISSN 1393-4414 Contributors: Samuel Beckett, C.L. Dallat, Fergus Allen, Harry Clifton, Peter Fallon, Eamon Grennan, Seamus Heaney, Thomas Kinsella, Peter McDonald, Sinéad Morrissey, Paul Muldoon, John Redmond, Peter Sirr, Selwyn Pritchard, Mark Roper, Tabish Khair, Michael Hartnett, Maeve McGuckian, Tom French, Christopher Pilling, Brian Henry.
Metre 4 (Spring/Summer 1998) Editors: Justin Quinn, David Wheatley Published in association with the Lilliput Press 922 | ISSN 1393-4414 Contributors: Brian Henry, Edwin Morgan, Charles Tomlinson, Mary O’Connor, Sarah Broom, Michael Longley, Michael Foley, István Vörös, Edward Hirsch, Nicholas Murray, Cathal McCabe, Selwyn Pritchard, Don Paterson, Elizabeth Jennings, Iain Sinclair, Paulo Teixeira, Tom French, Peter Robinson.
Metre 5 (Autumn/Winter 1998) Editors: Justin Quinn, David Wheatley Published in association with the Lilliput Press ISSN 1393-4414 Contributors: Frank Ormsby, Jane Yeh, Marilyn Hacker, Claire Malroux, Aidan Rooney-Céspedes, Bill Tinley, Anne Carson, Christopher Pilling, Andrew Zawacki, Richard Zenith, James McCabe, James Simmons, Maurice Scully, Fergus Allen, Eva Salzman, Howard Wright, Adam Czerniawski, David Constantine, Györgi Petri, Stephen James, Tom French, Matthew Sweeney, Peter Rose, Stephen Burt, George Szirtes.
Metre 6 (Summer 1999) Editors: Justin Quinn, David Wheatley Published in association with the Lilliput Press ISSN 1393-4414 Contributors: Lavinia Greenlaw, John Berryman, Michael Longley, Alison Brackenbury, Seán Lysaght, Robert Pinsky, Brian Henry, Constantine P. Cavafy, Simon Carnell, Bonnie Costello, Charles Tomlinson, Peter McDonald, Eugenio Montale, Paul Murray, Tom French, Jean Métellus, Adam Czerniawski, Steve Waling, Iain Bamforth, Carol Rumens. Metre 7/8 (Spring/Summer 2000) Editors: Justin Quinn, David Wheatley Guest editor: Chris Agee Published in association with the Lilliput Press ISSN 1393-4414 Contributors: Frank Bidart, Louis Glück, Jorie Graham, Russell Edson, Brian Henry, Christopher Merrill, A.R. Ammons, Robert Mezey, Edward Hirsch, Calvin Bedient, Samuel Menashe, Robert Pinksy, Lee Briccetti, Charles Simic, Stephen Berg, Phillip Levine, C.K. Williams, Helen Vendler, Harry Clifton, Michael Donaghy, John Haines, Gary Snyder, Garrett Hongo, Pattiann Rogers, Sandra McPherson, John Daniel, Galway Kinnell, W.S. Merwin, Dennis O’Driscoll, Eamon Grennan, Seamus Heaney, Wendy Rose, Rita Dove, Charles Wright.
Metre 9 (2000/1) Editors: Justin Quinn, David Wheatley Published in association with the Lilliput Press ISSN 1393-4414 Contributors: András Ferenc Kovács, István Vörös, Lajos Parti Nagy, Eamon Grennan, Sinéad Morrissey, Evan Rail, Marilyn Hacker, Martin Earl, Seán Lysaght, Fergus Allen, Julia Copus, Vénus Khoury-Ghata, Francis Harvey, Nicholas Murray, Stephen Knight, Mark Roper, Harry Clifton, Dennis O’Driscoll, David Mason, Fiona Sampson, Louis Armand, Gerard Smyth, Simon Carnell, Kevin Higgins, Michael Kelly.
Metre 10 (Autumn 2001) | 923 Editors: Justin Quinn, David Wheatley Published in association with the Lilliput Press ISSN 1393-4414 Contributors: PeterReading, Philip Larkin, Cathal McCabe, Vona Groarke, Reginald Shepherd, Mary Clifton, Annemarie Austin, Paddy Bushe, Peter McDonald, Evan Rail, Peter Redgrove, Jane Yeh, Peter Rose, Eamon Grennan, Tom French, Irving Feldman, David Kennedy, Conor O’Callaghan, John Latta, Gerald Dawe, Peter Robinson, J.H. Krchovský, John McAuliffe, Peter Fallon, Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin, Marita Over, Seamus Heaney.
Metre 11 (Winter 2001/2) Editors: Justin Quinn, David Wheatley Published in association with the Lilliput Press ISSN 1393-4414 Contributors: Austin Clarke, Aidan Rooney-Céspedes, David Mason, Carol Rumens, Matthew Fluharty, Díaz Mirón, Peter Robinson, Paul Farley, Simon Carnell, Cathal McCabe, Kevin Higgins, Andrew McNeillie, Sam Gardiner, John Kinsella, John McAuliffe, Glyn Maxwell, Carlos Drummond de Andrade, João Cabral de Melo Neto, Li Bo, Iggy McGovern, Peter Carpenter, Irving Feldman, Greg Delanty, Robert Saxton, Ian Duhig, Sean O’Brien, Stephan Wade, Maurice Scully, Howard Wright.
Metre 12 (Autumn 2002) Editors: Justin Quinn, David Wheatley Published in association with the Lilliput Press ISSN 1393-4414 Contributors: Vladislav Khodasevich, C.K. Norwid, Adam Czerniawski, Marcin Sendecki, Ewa Lipska, Tadeusz Różewicz, Mila Haugová, Robert Chandler, Afanasy Fet, Ivan Blatný, Petr Borkovec, Anthony Caleshu, Anne-Marie Fyfe, Tom French, Irving Feldman, Judy Kravis, Sarah Broom, Art Murphy, Brian Swann, John Greening, John McAuliffe, Dorothy Molloy, John Whitworth, Hugh O’Donnell, Fergus Allen, Michael Kelly, Jean Bleakney, James Sutherland Smith, Reginald Shepherd, Ted Kooser.
Metre 13 (Winter 2002/3) Editors: Justin Quinn, David Wheatley Published in association with the Lilliput Press ISSN 1393-4414 Contributors: Sinéad Morrissey, John Montague, Peter McDonald, Irving Feldman. Michael Longley, Simon Carnell, Rody Gorman, Andrew Fitzsimons, Conor O’Callaghan, Gwyneth Lewis, Maurice Scully, Peter Redgrove, Sam Gardiner, Eamon Grennan, Angela Leighton, Peter Robinson, Julia Copus, Deirdre Cartmill, Alison Brackenbury, John Whitworth, Gary Allen, Tom French, Paul Murray, Peter Didbury, Peter Carpenter, Glyn Maxwell.
Metre 14 (Autumn 2003) Editors: Justin Quinn, David Wheatley Published in association with the Lilliput Press ISSN 1393-4414 Contributors: Angela Leighton, Robert Minhinnick, Vona Groarke, Andrew Zawacki, Paula Meehan, Adam Thorpe, John Kinsella, Rody Gorman, Laurence James, Sarah Wardle, Carrie Etter, Peter Sirr, 924 | Paddy Bushe, Kevin Cantwell, Tim Kendall, Ben Sonnenberg. Metre 15 (Spring 2004) Editors: Justin Quinn, David Wheatley Published in association with the Lilliput Press ISSN 1393-4414 Contributors: Michael Longley, Tim Kendall, Carrie Etter, Robert Pinsky, Attilo Bertolucci, James McKendrick, Greta Stoddart, Zozimus Reilly, Irving Feldman, Leszek Engelking, Randolf Healy, Jerzy Jarniewicz, Anthony Caleshu, Ken Steedman, Harry Clifton, Anne Stevenson, Nicholas Murray, Peter Robinson.
Metre 16 (Autumn 2004) Editors: Justin Quinn, David Wheatley Published in association with the Lilliput Press ISSN 1393-4414 Contributors: Kevin Higgins, Carol Rumens, Reginald Shepherd, Peter Didsbury, Mark Granier, W.S. Merwin, Kerry Hardie, Sinéad Morrissey, Angela Leighton, Paul Muldoon, Sam Gardiner, Joseph Ford, John Redmond, Fergus Allen, David Butler, Andrew McNeillie, Gael Turnbull.
Metre 17 (Spring 2005) Editors: Justin Quinn, David Wheatley, Maria Johnston Published in association with the Lilliput Press ISSN 1393-4414 Contributors: Mebh McGuckian, Seamus Heaney, Patrick McGuiness, Colette Ní Ghallchóir, Bill Tinley, Martha Serpas, Sean O’Brien, Eamon Grennan, Ivan Blatný, Elizabeth Spires, Ben Sonnenberg, Rody Gorman, Jennie Feldman, Joseph Ford, Jacob Polley, Gerald Dawe, Vladislav Khodasevich, Maurice Scully. CAFÉ IRREAL [1999-present]
The Café Irreal 1 (February 1999) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 Contributors: David Doubek, Faruk Ulay, Matt Leibel, Marian Palla, Aleksander Dardelli, Aisys, Rowan Wolf, J. Eric McNeil.
The Café Irreal 2 (August 1999) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 Contributors: Ewald Murrer, Sabina C. Becker, Paulo da Costa, Josef Janda, Cheryl Pallant, s.c. virtes, Thomas J. Misuraca, Ronald Donn, J.B. Mulligan, James Heflin, Kevin James Miller.
The Café Irreal 3 (February 2000) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 Contributors: Vít Erban, Randy Schroeder, D. Harlan Wilson, Marc Kipniss, Dawn Comer, Utahna Faith, Brian E. Turner, Rowan Wolf, Lisa Kavchak, Věra Chase, Adam Shelton, Mark Lewis.
The Café Irreal 4 (August 2000) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 Contributors: Lock, Ron Burch, Cristovam Buarque, Donald Barnfather, Brock Vauss, Jan Sponaas, Kevin James Miller, Daniel | 925 Alamia, Sabina C. Becker, Ellen Lindquist, J.B. Mulligan, David Oates, Cheryl Pallant, Davis Schneiderman, Ali Seay, Jeffrey Valka.
The Café Irreal 5 (February 2001) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 Contributors: Jose Chaves, Utahna Faith, Marc Kipniss, Marian Palla, H. Turnips Smith, Ana Sousa, Richard Calhoun, Robert Caporale, Sydney Harth, A.R. Lamb, Gordon Ross Lanser, Mathew Leibel, Ewald Murrer, Bob Thurber, Brian Yee.
The Café Irreal 6 (August 2001) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 Contributors: Ana María Shua, s.c. virtes, Greg Jenkins, Vít Erban, D. Harlan Wilson, Norman Lock, Sabina C. Becker, Sarah Keevil, Anthony Dowler, Lucy A.E. Ward, Whitney Trettien, David Oates, Toiya Kristen Finley, Stephanie Hammer, Isabelle Sojfer, Delo White, Andy Miller, David Solum, Kathryn Rantala, Ellen Lindquist, Wyatt Bonikowski, Maggie Mountford.
The Café Irreal 7 (February 2002) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 Contributors: Mauricio Rosales, Ana María Shua, Laura Cooper, Jana Moravcová, Bryson Newhart, Sharon Wahl, Richard Calhoun, J.L. Navarro, Cheri Crenshaw, Dean Swinford, Michael P. Workman, Rebecca Beliak, (Sergio), Scott J. Ecksel. The Café Irreal 8 (August 2002) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 Contributors: Emilio Martinez, David A. Bright, Filip Prihoda, Rafael Perez Estrada, paulo da costa, Maggie Mountford, Stephanie Hammer, Gordon Ross Lanser, Matthew Lee Bain, Finley T. Larkin, Mark Rigney, Charlie King, TJ Rivard, Brendan McKennedy.
The Café Irreal 9 (February 2003) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 Contributors: Marco Denevi, Lillian Howan, Istvan Orkeny, Brian E. Turner, Carlos Edmundo de Ory, Chris Hill, Greg Beatty, Benjamin Chadwick, David Holub, Shepard Smith, Derek White, Tomas Hibi Matejíček, Ptim Callan, Benjamin Williams, Greg Jenkins, Barbara Herrick.
The Café Irreal 10 (August 2003) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 Contributors: Laura Cooper, Joe McCabe, John Stickney, J. Michael Slama, MaryAnn Suehle, Jessalyn Wakefield, Yorgos Dalman, Lucy A.E. Ward, Nikhil Pandey, Andrew Topel, Paul S Moss, John Crouse, Josh Hockensmith, Matt Leibel, Estelle Gilson, Dorothee Lang, Jamey Gallagher, Josh Wagner, Peter B. Fagan, Andy Miller.
The Café Irreal 11 (February 2004) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 926 | Contributors: Daniel Flores-Guadiana, Thomas Cummings, Greg Beatty, Michel Sauret, Michael Chester, Ptim Callan, Michael Mercer, Sandra Ramos O’Briant, W.B. Keckler, James Lewelling, Meghna Jayanth, Monica Kilian, Jiri Valoch, Brian E. Turner, Emilio Martinez, Louisa Howerow, Brian Biswas, Rafael Pérez Estrada.
The Café Irreal 12 (August 2004) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 Contributors: Ron Sandvik, Richard Kostelanetz, Evelio Rosero Diago, Bruce Holland Rogers, Norman Lock, Jiří Kratochvil, Edmund X. DeJesus, Miriam Fried, Timothy Green, D. Harlan Wilson, Peter Tunstall, Mary Szmagaj, Harry White, Michael Stein, John Shea, Isaac Fellows, Ashly Kehl, Cynthia Marie, Kevin L. Donihe, Andy Miller, Jennifer Gomoll, Joe McCabe, Lucien Zell, Maria Deira.
The Café Irreal 13 (February 2005) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 Contributors: Charles Simic, Daniel Flores-Guadiana, Laurence Davies, Sandra M. Jensen, Wim Hylen, Mark Budman, James Foreman, Rob McClure Smith, Blumfeld 2001, Stefanie Freele, Saeed Tavakkol, rovesciato, Ezra Kyrill Erker, Eruch Ernst.
The Café Irreal 14 (May 2005) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 Contributors: Terry Dartnall, W.B. Keckler, Jake Elliot, Cat Rambo, Pavel Řezníček, Brian E. Turner, Ethan Bernard, Brian Biswas, Olivia V. Ambrogio, A.D. MacDonald, James Grinwis, Jeremy Tavares, Sarah Bailyn, Robert Leach, Jeff Tannen.
The Café Irreal 15 (August 2005) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 Contributors: Emilio Martinez, Bob Thurber, Alexandra Berková, Michael Overa, Steven Schutzman, Margarita Engle, Derek White, Saeed Tavakkol, Beate Sigriddaughter.
The Café Irreal 16 (November 2005) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 Contributors: Michael Farrell, Sean Ferrell, Justin Kahn, Susan Lantz, M.E. McMullen, Mari Ness, Michael Obilade, rovesciato, Girija Tropp, Andrew Wille.
The Café Irreal 17 (February 2006) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 Contributors: Tomáš Přidal, Steven Schutzman, Gleyvis Coro, Peter Roberts, Anca Szilagyi, Sean Adams, Adam Benforado, Alta Ifland, David Zerby.
The Café Irreal 18 (May 2006) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 Contributors: Kris Saknussemm, Nancy Graham, Ignacio Padilla, Brian Biswas, Brian E. Turner, André Sant’Ánna, Bob Comenole.
The Café Irreal 19 (August 2006) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 Contributors: Margarita Engle, Juan José Millás, Caitlin Horrocks, Guido Eekhaut, Flavia M. Lobo, Fred Ferraris, Zachary Mason. | 927 The Café Irreal 20 (November 2006) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 Contributors: Fernando Arrojo-Ramos, Deb R. Lewis, Patrik Linhart, Norman Lock, David Ray, Steven Schutzman, Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingde.
The Café Irreal 21 (February 2007) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 Contributors: Ladislav Novák, Guido Eekhaut, Vanessa Gebbie, Mickey Z., Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky.
The Café Irreal 22 (May 2007) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 Contributors: Andrzej Bursa, Michael Ruby, Phil Richardson, Laurence Klavan, Girija Tropp, Bruce Holland Rogers, Andrew S. Taylor.
The Café Irreal 23 (August 2007) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 Contributors: Ian Seed, Norman Lock, Sharon Wahl, Harry White.
The Café Irreal 24 (November 2007) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 Contributors: Vanessa Gebbie, Daniel Hudon, Tania Hershman, Hubert Krejčí, Jiří Sedláček, Daniela Fischerová. The Café Irreal 25 (February 2008) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 Contributors: Alex Epstein, Matt Everett, Gianni Rodari, Norman Lock, R.E. Hartman, Kuzhali Manickavel, Kenneth Losey.
The Café Irreal 26 (May 2008) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 Contributors: Shome Dasgupta, Flavia Lobo, Michal Ajvaz, Georges- Olivier Châteaureynaud, Derek White, Ralph Wahlstrom, Srinjay Chakravarti.
The Café Irreal 27 (August 2008) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 Contributors: Bruce Holland Rogers, Stephanie Hammer, Brock Adams, Carsten René Nielsen, Norman Lock, Paul Blaney, Vanessa Gebbie.
The Café Irreal 28 (November 2008) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 Contributors: Peter Cherches, Sukumar Ray, Rebecca Sylvester, Brian E. Turner, Stefanie Freele.
928 | The Café Irreal 29 (February 2009) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 Contributors: Jefferson Navicky, Richard Baldasty, Daniel Y. Harris, Vanessa Gebbie, Darby Larson, Doren Robbins, George O’Gorman.
The Café Irreal 30 (May 2009) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 Contributors: Jesse Tangen-Mills, Marcel Schwob, Paul A. Green, Grace Andreacchi, Lee Williams.
The Café Irreal 31 (August 2009) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 Contributors: Kuzhali Manickavel, Michal Ajvaz, Kevin O’Cuinn, Flavia M. Lobo, George Moore, Marianne Villanueva, Marge Simon.
The Café Irreal 32 (November 2009) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 Contributors: D.L. Estero, Lee Williams, M.T. Fallon, Daniela Fischerová, Robert Caporale, Bob Thurber.
The Café Irreal 33 (February 2009) Editors: Alice Whittenburg, G.S. Evans ISSN 1931-6763 Contributors: M.V. Montgomery, Tad Crawford, David Laskowski, Shaun Sturgeon, Victoria Large, Tim Conley, Brian Biswas. SEMTEXT (PLASTIC) [2000]
Plastic 1 (2000) Editor: Louis Armand Justin Quinn, Marjorie Perloff, Louis Armand, John Kinsella, Peter Minter, Andrew Zawacki.
Plastic 2 (2000) Editor: Louis Armand Chris Emery, Juliana Spahr, Peter Minter, Ethan Paquin, Lukáš Tomin, Louis Armand, John Kinsella, Brian Henry, Raymond Farina.
Semtext (Plastic) 3 Editor: Louis Armand Georg Mertens, John Tranter, John Kinsella, Susan M. Schultz, Louis Armand, Peter Minter, Michael Brennan.
Semtext (Plastic) 4 Editor: Louis Armand Lucia Borgia, Brian Henry, D.J. Huppatz, Marjorie Perloff, Sandra Miller, Rod Mengham, Andrew Zawacki, John Kinsella, Susan M. Schultz, Peter Minter, Justin Quinn, Ethan Paquin, Octavio Armand.
Semtext (Plastic) 5 Editor: Louis Armand Coral Hull, John Kinsella, Andrei Codrescu, Ognjen Smiljanic, Rod Mengham, Ethan Paquin, Marjorie Perloff, Louis Armand. | 929 Semtext (Plastic) 6 Editor: Louis Armand D.J. Huppatz, John Kinsella, Bruno Solařík, Emmanuelle Pireyre, Ethan Paquin, Nicole Tomlinson, Louis Armand, Rod Mengham, Pam Brown, Sandra Miller, Nicole Mossoux, John Tranter, Brendan Lorber, Aleš Šteger, Ognjen Smiljanic, Louis Armand, John Kinsella.
PRAGUE LITERARY REVIEW (PLR) [2003-2005]
PLR 1.1 (May, 2003) Editor: Michael Levitin Poetry editor: Alsion Wilson Art: Rosy Lamb, Lucia Nimcová, Ken Nash Publisher: Roman Kratochvíla Contributors: Kristin D’Agostino, Globalhead Media, Colin Shea, Leila Antonin, Roman Kratochvíla, Ken Nash, Róbert Gál, Phil Shoenfelt, Gwendolyn Albert, Debi Faulkner, Tobias Myers, Jeri Theriault, Willie Watson, Lucien Zell, Louis Armand, John Feakins, Rinat F.M., Joe Sherman, Adrian Hornsby.
PLR 1.2 (July, 2003) Editor: Louis Armand Design: lazarus Publisher: Roman Kratochvíla Contributors: Aleš Debeljak, Michel Delville, Simon Critchley, Gerald Parks, Tom McCarthy, Jane Vein, Ethan Gilsdorf, Pierre Daguin, Benjamin Kline, Vincent Farnsworth, Karen Mac Cormack, D.J. Huppatz, Drew Milne, Travis Jeppesen, Robert Dassanowsky, Larry Sawyer, Sandra Miller, David Seiter, Tom Jones, Louis Armand, McKenzie Wark, Alan Sondheim, Gregory L. Ulmer, Clare Wallace, Jitka Pelechová, Adrian Hornsby.
PLR 1.3 (September, 2003) Editor: Louis Armand Design: lazarus Technical support: Radim Ševčík Publisher: Roman Kratochvíla Contributors: Aleš Debeljak, Allen Fisher, Tony Ozuna, MTC Cronin, Joshua Cohen, Emmanuelle Pireyre, Drew Milne, Michel Delville, D.J. Huppatz, Justin Quinn, Petr Borkovec, Marjorie Perloff, William Allegrezza, Kevin Nolan, Peter Minter, Sandra Miller, McKenzie Wark, Tom McCarthy, Adrian Hornsby.
PLR 1.4 (October 2003) Editor: Louis Armand Associate Editors: Drew Milne, Howard Sidenberg Editorial assistance: Clare Wallace, Joshua Cohen Design: lazarus Technical support: Radim Ševčík Publisher: Roman Kratochvíla Contributors: Ron Silliman, Keston Sutherland, Steve McCaffery, Aleš Debeljak, Bruce Andrews, Jáchym Topol, Vladimír Hulec, Joshua Cohen, Andrej Blatnik, Søren A. Gauger, Vincent Farnsworth, Drew Milne, D.J. Huppatz, Michel Delville, Ian Ayers, Jorn Ake, McKenzie 930 | Wark, Jitka Pelechová, Louis Armand, Adrian Hornsby. PLR 1.5 (November, 2003) Editor: Louis Armand Associate editors: Aleš Debeljak, Drew Milne, Howard Sidenberg Design: lazarus Technical support: Radim Ševčík Publisher: Roman Kratochvíla Contributors: Arod Suliman, Aleš Debeljak, Bruce Andrews, Damian Judge Rollison, Bob Perelman, Ian Ayers, Nicole Tomlinson, Larry Sawyer, Drew Milne, Kate Fagan, John Kinsella, Joshua Cohen, Anselm Hollo, Malissa McCarthy, Tom McCarthy, Michael Rothenberg, Andrew Norris, McKenzie Wark, Louis Armand, Travis Jeppesen, Adrian Hornsby.
PLR 1.6 (December-January 2004) Editor: Louis Armand Associate editors: Aleš Debeljak, Drew Milne, Howard Sidenberg Editorial assistance: Clare Wallace Design: lazarus Technical support: Radim Ševčík Publisher: Roman Kratochvíla Contributors: Affonso Romano de Sant’Anna, Arod Suliman, Marisa Nováková, Charles Bernstein, Jane Vein, Joshua Cohen, Ahron Weiner, Travis Jeppesen, Zoran Bognar, Peter Šulej, Drew Milne, Philip Hammial, Christian Popescu, Véronique Vassiliou, Adam Roulin, Travis Jeppesen, McKenzie Wark, Aleš Debeljak, Duncan O’Connor, Louis Armand, Adrian Hornsby. PLR 2.1 (February, 2004) Editor: Louis Armand Associate editors: Aleš Debeljak, Drew Milne, Howard Sidenberg Editorial assistance: Clare Wallace, Joshua Cohen Design: lazarus Technical support: Radim Ševčík Publisher: Vršovický ezop Contributors: Lev Kreft, Tom McCarthy, Gordon Teskey, Sebastian Gurciullo, John Kinsella, Tatjana Lukic, Larry Sawyer, Tomaž Šalamun, Anzhelina Polonskaya, Sudeep Sen, Lina Ramona Vitkauskas, Dennis Cooper, Drew Milne, Affonso Romano de Sant’Anna, Srdja Pavlovic, McKenzie Wark, Louis Armand, Adrian Hornsby.
PLR 2.2 (March-April, 2004) Editor: Louis Armand Associate editors: Aleš Debeljak, Drew Milne, Howard Sidenberg, D.J. Huppatz Editorial assistance: Clare Wallace, Joshua Cohen, Travis Jeppesen Design: lazarus Technical support: Radim Ševčík Publisher: Roman Kratochvíla ISSN 1214-6277 Contributors: Arod Suliman, Joshua Cohen, David Seiter, S.K. Kelen, S.T. Swift, Alan Halsey, Steve Nash, John Kinsella, Phil Shoenfelt, Kateřina Piňosová, Vincent Farnsworth, Sandor Kanyadi, Katalin Mezey, Jano Lackfi, Geraldine Monk, D.J. Huppatz, Sebastian Gurciullo, Sue de Beer, Travis Jeppesen, McKenzie Wark, Simone | 931 Ghan, Adrian Hornsby.
PLR 2.3 (May, 2004) Editor: Louis Armand Associate editors: Aleš Debeljak, Drew Milne, Howard Sidenberg, D.J. Huppatz Editorial assistance: Clare Wallace, Joshua Cohen, Travis Jeppesen Design: lazarus Technical support: Radim Ševčík Publisher: Roman Kratochvíla ISSN 1214-6277 Contents: Aleš Debeljak, Lukáš Tomin, Muharem Bazdujl, Travis Jeppesen, Ahron Weiner, Joshua Cohen, Charles Bernstein, Sudeep Sen, Kai Nieminen, Franz Josef Czernin, Stephen Rodefer, Patrick Pritchett, McKenzie Wark, Donald F. Theall, Clare Wallace, Adrian Hornby.
PLR 2.4 (July-August, 2004) Editor: Louis Armand Guest editor: Travis Jeppesen Associate editors: Aleš Debeljak, Drew Milne, Howard Sidenberg Assistant editors: Clare Wallace, Joshua Cohen Design: lazarus Technical support: Radim Ševčík Publisher: Roman Kratochvíla ISSN 1214-6277 Sebastian Gurciullo, D.J. Huppatz, Stephen Rodefer, Lou Rowan, Drew Milne, Thomas Tomorrow, Joshua Cohen, Peter Minter, Dennis Cooper, Six, Larry Sawyer, Guillaume Destot, Matthew Wascovich, James Hoff, Tadeusz Pióro, Fritz Widhalm, Paul Sohar, Louis Armand, Róbert Gál, McKenzie Wark, Michaela Howard, Clare Wallace, Søren Gauger.
PLR vol. 3, no. 1 (2005) Editors: Joshua Cohen, Róbert Gál, Travis Jeppesen, Howard Sidenberg Art director: Mario Dzurila Front cover: Mario Dzurila Back cover: Six Technical support: Radim Ševčík Publisher: Roman Kratochvíla ISSN 1214-6277 Contributors: Václav Kahuda, Stephen Rodefer, Joshua Cohen, Todd Colby, Matthew Wascovich, Dennis Cooper, Andrew Erwin, Pavel Brycz, Robert Gal, Noah Cicero, Forrest Aguirre, Laura Conway, Peter Šulej, Marek Mikus, Six.
PLR vol. 3, no. 2 (2005) Editors: Joshua Cohen, Róbert Gál, Travis Jeppesen, Howard Sidenberg Art director: Mario Dzurila Front cover: Mario Dzurila Back cover: Lubos Plny Technical support: Radim Ševčík Publisher: Roman Kratochvíla ISSN 1214-6277 932 | Contributors: Soren A. Gauger, Jerzy Ficowski, Mark Kanak, Derek White, Ivan Blatný, Ismet Prcic, Bruce Benderson, Sesshu Foster, Lubos Plny, Joshua Cohen, Raymond Federman, Travis Jeppesen, Guillaume Destot, Susan M. Schultz.
PLR vol. 3, no. 3: New Slovenian Writing Special Issue (2005) Editors: Joshua Cohen, Róbert Gál, Travis Jeppesen, Howard Sidenberg Art director: Mario Dzurila Cover: Mario Dzurila Technical support: Radim Ševčík Publisher: Vršovický Ezop o.s. ISSN 1214-6277 Contributors: James Chapman, Wolfgang Hilbig, Eva Švankmajerová, Brian Willems, Michal Habaj, Bertie Marshall, Benjamin Paloff, Mark Kanak, Travis Jeppesen, Joshua Cohen, Andrej Blatnik, Aleš Debeljak, Primoz Cucnik, Drago Jancar, Mojca Kumerdej, Svetlana Makarovic, Brane Mozetic, Gregor Podlogar, Andraz Polic, Andrej E. Skubic, Jana Putrle Srdic, Tone Skrjanec, Aleš Šteger, Suzana Tratnik, Maja Vidmar, Dane Zajc, Uroz Zupan.
PLR vol. 3, no. 4 (2005) Editors: Joshua Cohen, Róbert Gál, Travis Jeppesen Cover: Mario Dzurila Publisher: Vrsovicky Ezop o.s. Art director: Mario Dzurila ISSN 1214-6277 Contributors: Martin Solotruk, Michael Brodsky, Joshua Cohen, Stephen Rodefer, Davide Trame, Geoffrey McCarthy, Vernon Frazer, Peter Sotos, Brandon Stosuy, Clark Coolidge, Derek White, Travis Jeppesen, Joshua Cohen, Jeremiah Paleček, Maria Karo, Rositzka Pironska.
BLATT [2006]
BLATT vol. 1, no. 1 (2006) Editor-in-chief: Travis Jeppesen Editor: Joshua Cohen Associate editor: Carolyn Mimran Art director: Mario Dzurila Translations: Markéta Hofmeisterová Advertising director: Miro Peraica Cover Photo: Mario Dzurila, of a sculpture by Tobias Rehberger Publishers: Miro Peraica, Leo Eugene Schrider (Anagram, s.r.o.) ISSN 1801-6529 Contributors: Tom Bass, Jerry Vilhotti, Christopher Crawford, Joshua Cohen, Brane Mozetič, Travis Jeppesen, Kateřina Rudčenková, Michael Nardone, Daran Anderson, Phil Schoenfelt, W. Martin, Lucien Zell, Katarina Toth, Adam Nadaszdy, Rolf Dieter Brinkman, Kateřina Králová, Michael Nardone, Darran Anderson, Chip Smith.
BLATT vol. 1, no. 2 (2006) Editor: Travis Jeppesen Associate editor: Joshua Cohen Art director: Mario Dzurila | 933 Advertising director: Miro Peraica Translations: Markéta Hofmeisterová Publishers: Miro Peraica, Leo Eugene Schrider (Anagram, s.r.o.) ISSN 1801-6529 Contributors: Lee Rourke, Arthur Saltzman, Agnes Gergely, David Hill, Peter Schwartz, Levente Kiraly, Gabor G. Gyukics, Michael Castro, Alistair Noon, Tod Thilleman, Geoffrey McCarthy, Jonathan Carr, Tsipi Keller, Joshua Cohen, Michael Disend, Travis Jeppesen, Daniel Elkind, Zoran Kovačevič, Jeremiah Paleček, Henning Soppe, Zoran Kovačevič.
BLATT vol. 1, no. 3 (2006) Editor: Travis Jeppesen Associate editor: Bruce Benderson Art director: Mario Dzurila Advertising director: Miro Peraica Translations: Markéta Hofmeisterová Publishers: Miro Peraica, Leo Eugene Schrider (Anagram, s.r.o.) ISSN 1801-6529 Contributors: C. Bard Cole, Clark Coolidge, Andrew Gallix, Zoran Pilic, Gaby Bila-Guenther, Igor Isakowski, Rositza Pironska, Gojmir Polajnar, Tomaž Šalamun, Jana Putrle Srdic, Bruce Benderson, Travis Jeppesen, Marika Ley, Emma Young, Joshua Cohen. 3. PRAGUE ANTHOLOGIES
Bohemian Verses: An Anthology of Contemporary English Language Writing from Prague, ed. Scott Rogers (Prague: Modrá Músa, 1993). ISBN: 80-901515-0-7. Contributors: Kevin Sprague, Jeffrey Young, Shoshana Berger, Colin Hamilton, Jason Sanders, James Ragan, Christina Stucky, David Green, Kim Hillman, David Freeling, Mara Hills, Daniela Dražanová, Michael S. Venn, Andrew Waterman, Kevin Blahut, James Ashley, Rick Rogers, Vijai Maheshwari, Arjun Gupta, Haywood Augustus Rose, Bobby Riddell, Jim Bunch.
Dokonalost Mizení / The Art of Disappearing, ed. Lenka Králová (Prague: Apriles, 1997). Contributors: Monika S. Benešová, Heather Faulkner, Dáša Frančíková, Magda Kolínová, Lenka Králová, Věra Pivoňková, Šárka Víšková.
Prague Tales: New Europe Writers, ed. John a’Beckett (Podkowa Leśna: OpEn Renewable/NEW, 2007). ISBN: 978-83-925539-0-8. Contributors: Andrew Fincham, Peter Bateman, Daniela Hodrová, James Freeman, Stephan 934 | Delbos, Lyn Moir, Ivo Vodseďálek, Sandra Simpson, Martin Reiner, Elizabeth Winder, Jáchym Topol, D. Harlan Wilson, Richard Katrovas, Wojciech Maślarz, James G. Coon, Zbynek Hejda, Justin Quinn, John Webber, Ivan Wernisch, Libuše Čačalová, Lenka Procházková, Mnohacek Zgublacenko, Věra Chase, Bohuslav Vaněk, Adam Daniel Mezei, Joseph Josephides, Alexandra Berková, Pavel Řezníček, Bethany Shaffer, Petr Hruška, Patrik Linhart, Jane Kirwan, Sasha Skenerija, Alice Vedral Rivera, Darren O’Keefe, Petr Zemek, Leskek Engelking, Lee Passarella, James Sutherland-Smith, Kateřina Rudčenková, David Doubek, James G. Coon, Irena Douskova, Anna Kay, Graeme Hetherington, Katherine Reid, Simon Mawer, Carole Langille, Helen Nathan, Marian Palla, Louis Armand, Lucien Zell, Jiří Kratochvil, Pam Brown, Rachel Cohen, Michael Shepherd, A. Bo.
Rakish Angel 1, ed. Stephan Delbos (Prague, 2009). Contributors: Sarah Borufka, Christopher Crawford, Stephan Delbos, Gil Fleischman, Jason Mashak, Kateřina Rudčenková.
Rakish Angel 2, ed. Stephan Delbos (Prague, 2010). Contributors: Anne Brechin, Milan Děžinský, Joshua Mensch, Scott Jonathan Nixon. 4. OTHER ANTHOLOGIES (SELECTED)
The Poetry of Survival, ed. Daniel Weissbort (London: Anvil/Penguin, 1990).
Child of Europe: The Penguin Anthology of East European Poetry, ed. Michael March (London: Penguin, 1991).
An Anthology of Czech Literature, ed. Walter Schamschula (New York: Peter Lang Publishing, 1991).
Description of a Struggle: The Picador Book of Contemporary Eastern European Prose, ed. Michael March (London: Picador, 1994).
Czech Plays: Modern Czech Drama, ed. and trans. Barbara Day (London: Nick Hern Books, 1994).
Prague: A Traveler’s Literary Companion, ed. Paul Wilson (San Fransisco: Whereabouts Press, 1995). | 935
Traveller’s Literary Companion to Eastern and Central Europe, ed. James Naughton (Brighton: In Print Publishing, 1995).
This Side of Reality: Modern Czech Writing, ed. Alexandra Büchler (London: Serpents Tale, 1996).
Daylight in Nightclub Inferno: Czech Fiction from the Post- Kundera Generation, ed. Elena Lappin (New Haven: Catbird Press, 1997).
Allskin and Other Tales by Contemporary Czech Women, ed. Alexandra Büchler (Seattle WA: Women in Translation, 1998).
A World Apart and Other Stories: Czech Women Writers at the Fin de Siècle, ed. and trans. Kathleen Hayes (Prague: Karolinum Press / Progetto, 2001). Visegrad Drama I: Weddings, ed. Anna Grusková (Prague / Budapest / Warsaw / Bratislava: Theatre Institute Prague / Hungarian Theatre Museum and Institute Budapest / Theatre Museum Warsaw / Theatre Institute Bratislava, 2002).
Primary Documents: A Sourcebook for Eastern and Central European Art since the 1950s, eds. Laura Hoptman and Tomáš Pospiszyl (New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 2002).
A Fine Line: New Poetry from Eastern and Central Europe, eds. Jean Boase-Beier, Alexandra Büchler and Fiona Sampson (Todmorden: Arc, 2004).
Visegrad Drama II: Escape, ed. Anna Grusková (Prague / Budapest / Warsaw / Bratislava: Theatre Institute Prague / Hungarian Theatre Museum and Institute Budapest / Theatre Museum Warsaw / Theatre Institute Bratislava, 2005).
936 | Six Czech Poets, ed. Alexandra Büchler (Todmorden: Arc, 2007).
Visegrad Drama III: The Sixties, ed. Anna Grusková (Prague / Budapest / Warsaw / Bratislava: Theatre Institute Prague / Hungarian Theatre Museum and Institute Budapest / Theatre Museum Warsaw / Theatre Institute Bratislava, 2009). 5. JOURNALS, Newspapers, Threshold Praha ZINES & MAGAZINES Editor: Robert Forrester (1997)
Litteraria Pragensia Umělec Editor: Martin Procházka (1990-present) Founding editor: Vladan Šír (1997-present [from 2000 in English]) Svět a divadlo / World and Theatre Editor: Karel Král (1990-present) The Prague Tribune Editor: Philippe Riboton (1997-2007) Prognosis Editors: John Allison, Ben Sullivan (November The Prague Business Journal 1990 - March 1995) Editor: Vlad Jenkins (1999-2004)
Carolina Freezerbox Magazine (1991-2001) Editors: Alexander Zaitchik, Cedric Howe (1998- 2008) Czech Theatre Magazine Editor: Barbara Topolová (1991-present) Central European Review Editor: Andrew Stroehlein (June 1999-2002) The Prague Post Editors: Alan Levy, Frank Kuznik (October Transitions Online 1991-present) Editor: Jeremy Druker (April 1999-present)
Chalk Dust Plotki: Rumours from Around the Bloc Editor: Chris Crawley (1992-3) Editor: Felix Wolf (2001-present)
Prague News The Prague Pill (1993) Editors: Micah Jane, Alexander Zaitchik, Joshua Cohen, Travis Jeppesen (2002-3) Bohemia Daily Standard | 937 Editor: Erik Best (1993) RASH Editor: Patrick Seguin (2002-2003) Perspectives Editors: Christopher Lord, Petr Drulák (1993-present) Prague Insider Editor: Scott Macmillan (2002-2003) Transitions Editor: Kees Schaepman (1994-1999) Think Again Editor: Gordon Walker (2003-present) Theatre News Editors: Alex Gammie, Christoper Lord (1995) Slovo a Smysl/Word and Sense Editors: Libuše Hecyková, Josef Vojvodík, Jan Riding Black Wiendl (2004) Editors: Kevin Bisch (aka Raymond Montclair), Bill Powers (aka Stuart Willow) (1995) Xeno Editor: Mike Gisondo (2004) Velvet Editor: Christopher Holland (1995-6) Cento Editor: Brian Rosenblum (2004-5) Knee Deep in the Rivers of Rage Editors: “Norberto y El Ojo Rojo” (1996) The Compass Editor: Tom Dirlis (January 2004-May 2005) Pozor: News from Around the Bloc Editors: Kevin Bisch, Elizabeth Cornell (January Provokátor (formerly Instigator) 1996-September 1996) Editor: Marika Ley (2004-present)
Think Prague Monitor Editor: Jeffree Benét (October 1996-June Editor: Bryn Perkins (2004-2009) 2002) OTHERS The New Presence The Central European Business Weekly Editor: Ferdinand Peroutka (1996-present) The Czech Business Weekly The Fleet Sheet East European Reporter 938 | | 939 940 |