Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead Read online

  Dressing the dead man was like a form of caress. I doubt he ever experienced such tenderness in life. We held him up gently by the arms and pulled the clothing onto him. As his weight rested on my chest, after a wave of quite natural disgust that made me feel nauseous, it suddenly occurred to me to hug this body, to pat it on the back, to soothe it by saying: don’t worry, it’ll be all right. But on account of Oddball’s presence I did no such thing. He might have thought I was being perverse.

  My aborted gestures changed into thoughts, and I began to feel sorry for Big Foot. Perhaps his mother had abandoned him, and he’d been unhappy throughout his miserable life. Long years of unhappiness cause a Person worse degradation than a fatal illness. I never saw any visitors at his place, no family or friends had ever appeared. Not even the mushroom pickers stopped outside his house to chat. People feared and disliked him. It seems he only kept company with hunters, but even that was a rare event. I’d say he was about fifty years old; I’d have given a lot to see his eighth house, and whether Neptune and Pluto were conjoined in there by some aspect, with Mars somewhere in the Ascendant, for with that jag-toothed saw in his sinewy hands he reminded me of a predator that only lives in order to sow death and inflict suffering.

  To pull on his jacket, Oddball raised him to a sitting position, and that was when we noticed that his large, swollen tongue was trapping something in his mouth, so after a brief hesitation, clenching my teeth with disgust and withdrawing my hand several times, I gently took hold of the something by its tip, and saw that what I had between my fingers was a little bone, long and thin, and sharp as a dagger. A throaty gurgle and some air emerged from the dead mouth, making a soft whistle, exactly like a sigh. We both leaped back from the corpse, and I’m sure Oddball felt the same thing as I did: Horror. Especially seconds later, when dark red, almost black blood appeared in Big Foot’s mouth. A sinister trickle came flowing out of it.

  We froze on the spot, terrified.

  ‘Well, I never,’ said Oddball, his voice quavering. ‘He choked. He choked on a bone, the bone stuck in his throat, the bone got caught in his throat, he choked,’ he nervously repeated. And then, as if to calm himself down, he said: ‘Back to work. It’s no pleasure, but our duties to our neighbours aren’t always going to be pleasant.’

  I could see that he had put himself in charge of this night shift, and I fell in line behind him.

  We fully abandoned ourselves to the thankless task of squeezing Big Foot into the coffee-coloured suit and placing him in a dignified position. It was a long time since I had touched anyone else’s body, never mind a dead one. I could feel the inertia rapidly flowing into it as it grew more rigid by the minute; that was why we were in such haste. And by the time Big Foot was lying there in his Sunday best, his face had finally lost all human expression – now he was a corpse, without a doubt. Only his right index finger refused to submit to the traditional pose of politely clasped hands but pointed upwards, as if to catch our attention and put a brief stop to our nervous, hurried efforts. ‘Now pay attention!’ said the finger. ‘Now pay attention, there’s something you’re not seeing here, the crucial starting point of a process that’s hidden from you, but that’s worthy of the highest attention. Thanks to it we’re all here in this place at this time, in a small cottage on the Plateau, amid the snow and the Night – I as a dead body, and you as insignificant, ageing human Beings. But this is only the beginning. Only now does it all start to happen.’

  There we stood in the cold, damp room, in the frosty vacuum prevailing at this dull, grey time of night, and it crossed my mind that the thing that leaves the body sucks a piece of the world after it, and no matter how good or bad it was, how guilty or blameless, it leaves behind a great big void.

  I looked out of the window. Dawn was breaking, and idle snowflakes were gradually starting to fill the nothingness. They were falling slowly, weaving their way through the air and spinning on their own axis like feathers.

  By now Big Foot had gone, so it was hard to feel any pity or resentment towards him. All that remained was his body, lifeless, clothed in the suit. Now it looked calm and satisfied, as if the spirit were pleased to be finally free of the matter, and the matter were pleased to be finally free of the spirit. In this short space of time a metaphysical divorce had occurred. The end.

  We sat down in the open kitchen doorway, and Oddball reached for a half-drunk bottle of vodka that was standing on the table. He found a clean shot glass and filled it – first for me, then himself. Through the snowy windows, dawn was gradually flowing in, milk-white like hospital light bulbs, and in its glow I saw that Oddball was unshaven; his stubble was just as white as my hair, the faded striped pyjamas protruding from under his sheepskin coat were not buttoned, and the coat itself was soiled with every imaginable sort of stain.

  I swallowed a large shot of vodka, which warmed me from inside.

  ‘I think we’ve done our duty by him. Who else would have done it?’ said Oddball, more to himself than to me. ‘He was a wretched little bastard, but so what?’

  He poured himself another shot and drank it in one, then shook with disgust. He plainly wasn’t used to it.

  ‘I’m going to make that call,’ he said, and went outside. I reckoned he must be feeling faint.

  I stood up, and started scanning the terrible mess in the hope of finding Big Foot’s identity card. I wanted to know his date of birth, in order to check his Score.

  On a table covered with worn-out oilcloth I saw a roasting tin containing burned pieces of an Animal; in a saucepan next to it there was some stagnant beetroot soup, coated in a film of white fat. A slice of bread cut from a loaf, butter in gold foil. On the floor, covered with torn linoleum, some more Animal remains lay scattered; they’d fallen from the table, along with a plate, a glass and some broken biscuits. All this was crushed and trodden into the dirty floor.

  Just then, on a tin tray on the windowsill, I caught sight of something that my brain took quite a while to recognise, in its efforts to shy away; it was a cleanly severed Deer’s head. Beside it lay four little hooves. The half-open eyes must have been closely following our labours throughout.

  Oh yes, it was one of those starving Young Ladies that naively let themselves be lured in winter by frozen apples, are caught in snares and die in torment, strangled by the wire.

  As I slowly became aware of what had happened here, I was gradually filled with Horror. He had caught the Deer in a snare, killed her, then butchered, roasted and eaten her body. One Creature had devoured another, in the silence and stillness of the Night. Nobody had protested, no thunderbolt had struck. And yet Punishment had come upon the devil, though no one’s hand had guided death.

  Quickly, with trembling hands I gathered the remains, those poor little bones, into one spot, in a heap, to bury them later on. I found an old carrier bag, and one after another I put those little bones inside this plastic shroud. Then I carefully placed the head in the carrier bag too.

  So eager was I to know Big Foot’s date of birth that I nervously began to search for his identity card – on the sideboard, among some papers, pages from a calendar and newspapers, then in the drawers; that is where documents are kept in rural homes. And indeed there it was – in tattered green covers, surely out of date by now. In the picture Big Foot was twenty-something, with a long, asymmetrical face and squinting eyes. He wasn’t a pretty sight, not even then. With the stub of a pencil I wrote down the date and place of birth. Big Foot was born on 21 December 1950. Right here.

  And I should add that there was something else in that drawer as well: a wad of photographs, quite new, in colour. I flicked through them, just out of habit, but one of them caught my attention. I looked at it more closely, and was about to lay it aside. It took me a while to understand what I was looking at. Suddenly total silence fell, and I found myself right in the middle of it. I stared at the picture. My body tensed, I was ready to do battle. My head began to spin, and a dismal wailing rose in my ears, a roar, as
if from over the horizon an army of thousands was approaching – voices, the clank of iron, the creak of wheels in the distance. Anger makes the mind clear and incisive, able to see more. It sweeps up the other emotions and takes control of the body. Without a doubt Anger is the source of all wisdom, for Anger has the power to exceed any limits.

  With shaking hands I put the photographs in my pocket, and at once I heard everything moving forwards, the world’s engines firing up and its machinery taking off – a door creaked, a fork fell to the floor. Tears flowed from my eyes.

  Oddball was standing in the doorway.

  ‘He wasn’t worth your tears.’ His lips were pursed as he focused on tapping out the number. ‘Still the Czech operator,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to go up the hill. Are you coming with me?’

  We quietly closed the door behind us and set off, wading through the snow. On the hilltop, Oddball began turning on his own axis with a mobile phone in each outstretched hand, seeking a signal. The whole of the Kłodzko Valley lay before us, bathed in the silver, ashen glow of dawn.

  ‘Hello, son,’ said Oddball into the phone. ‘I didn’t wake you up, did I?’

  A muffled voice gave an answer that I couldn’t understand.

  ‘It’s that our neighbour’s dead. I think he choked on a bone. Just now. During the night.’

  The voice at the other end spoke again.

  ‘No. I’m just about to call. There wasn’t any signal. Mrs Duszejko and I have already dressed him, you know, my other neighbour’ – at this point he cast a glance at me…‘so he wouldn’t stiffen…’

  I heard the voice again, sounding more nervous.

  ‘Well, anyway, he’s in a suit now…’

  Then the Person at the other end started gabbling at length, so Oddball held the phone away from his ear, casting it a look of distaste.

  Afterwards we called the Police.

  II

  TESTOSTERONE AUTISM

  A dog starv’d at his Master’s Gate

  Predicts the ruin of the State.

  I was grateful to him for inviting me home for a hot drink. I felt completely drained, and the thought of having to return to my cold, empty house made me feel sad.

  I said hello to Big Foot’s Dog, who had been resident at Oddball’s for the past few hours. She recognised me and was clearly pleased to see me. She wagged her tail – by now she’d probably forgotten about the time when she’d run away from me. Some Dogs can be silly, just like people, and this Dog was certainly one of them.

  We sat in the kitchen at a wooden table, so clean that you could lay your cheek on it. And that is what I did.

  ‘Are you tired?’ he asked.

  Everything in here was clean and bright, warm and cosy. What a joy it is in life when you happen to have a clean, warm kitchen. It has never happened to me. I have never been good at keeping order around me. Too bad – I’m reconciled to it by now.

  Before I’d had time to look around, I had a glass of tea in front of me. It was in a sweet little metal basket with a handle, and it was on a saucer. There were sugar lumps in the sugar bowl – a sight that reminded me of happy childhood hours, and really did improve my rather dismal mood.

  ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t have moved him,’ said Oddball, and opened a drawer in the table to fetch out some small teaspoons.

  The Dog stayed close to Oddball’s feet, as if refusing to let him out of the orbit of her small, emaciated body.

  ‘You’ll knock me over,’ he told her with gruff affection. I could see it was the first time he’d ever had a Dog, and he wasn’t sure how to behave.

  ‘What are you going to call her?’ I asked, as the first sips of tea warmed me from the inside, and the tangle of emotions caught in my throat began to melt a little.

  Oddball shrugged. ‘I don’t know, maybe Fly, or Tray.’

  I didn’t say anything, but I didn’t like it. Those names didn’t suit this Dog, considering her personal history. Something else would have to be thought up for her instead.

  What a lack of imagination it is to have official first names and surnames. No one ever remembers them, they’re so divorced from the Person, and so banal that they don’t remind us of them at all. What’s more, each generation has its own trends, and suddenly everyone’s called Magdalena, Patryk or – God forbid – Janina. That’s why I try my best never to use first names and surnames, but prefer epithets that come to mind of their own accord the first time I see a Person. I’m sure this is the right way to use language, rather than tossing about words stripped of all meaning. Oddball’s surname, for instance, is Świerszczynński – that’s what it says on his front door, with the letter ‘Ś’ in front of it. Is there really a first name that starts with the letter Ś? He has always introduced himself as ‘Świerszczynński’, but he can’t expect us to twist our tongues trying to pronounce it. I believe each of us sees the other Person in our own way, so we should give them the name we consider suitable and fitting. Thus we are polyonymous. We have as many names as the number of people with whom we interact. My name for Świerszczynński is Oddball, and I think it reflects his Attributes well.

  But now, as I gazed at the Dog, the first thing that occurred to me was a human name, Marysia. Maybe because of the orphan in the classic children’s story – she was so emaciated.

  ‘She wouldn’t be called Marysia, would she?’ I asked.

  ‘Possibly,’ he replied. ‘Yes, I think that’s right. Her name’s Marysia.’ The naming of Big Foot occurred in a similar way. It was quite straightforward – it suggested itself to me when I saw his footprints in the snow. To begin with, Oddball had called him ‘Shaggy’, but then he borrowed ‘Big Foot’ from me. All it means is that I chose the right name for him.

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t choose a suitable name for myself. I regard the one that’s written on my identity card as scandalously wrong and unfair – Janina. I think my real name is Emilia, or Joanna. Sometimes I think it’s something like Irmtrud too. Or Bellona. Or Medea.

  Meanwhile Oddball avoids calling me by my name like the plague. That means something too. Somehow he always finds a way to address me as ‘you’.

  ‘Will you wait with me until they get here?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure,’ I readily agreed, and realised I’d never have the courage to call him ‘Oddball’ to his face. When you’re such close neighbours, you don’t need names to address each other. Whenever I see him weeding his small garden as I’m passing by, I don’t need his name to speak to him. It’s a special degree of familiarity.

  Our hamlet consists of a few houses situated on the Plateau, far from the rest of the world. The Plateau is a distant geological cousin of the Table Mountains, their remote harbinger. Before the war our settlement was called Luftzug, meaning ‘current of air’, and nowadays it’s still called that unofficially, because we don’t have an official name. All you can see on the map is a road and a few houses, no letters. It’s always windy here, as waves of air come pouring across the mountains from west to east from the Czech Republic. In winter the wind becomes violent and shrill, howling in the chimneys. In summer it scatters among the leaves and rustles – it’s never quiet here. Many people can afford to have one house in the city, their year-round, official home, and another – a sort of frivolous, childish one – in the country. And that’s how these houses look as well – childish. Small and squat, with steep roofs and tiny little windows. They were all built before the war and they’re all positioned exactly the same way: long walls facing east and west, one short wall facing south, and the other, with an adjoining barn, facing north. Only the Writer’s house is a little more eccentric – it has terraces and balconies built onto it on every side.

  It’s no surprise that most people leave the Plateau in winter. It’s hard to live here from October to April, as I know very well. Every year heavy snow falls here, and the wind carves drifts and dunes out of it. Recent climatic changes have made everything warmer, but not our Plateau. Quite the contrary, especially in Febru
ary, when the snow is heavier and stays put for longer. Several times over the winter the temperature drops to minus twenty, and the season only ends for good in April. The road is poor, the frost and snow destroy whatever the local council tries to repair with its limited expenditure. To reach the asphalt you must drive four kilometres on a dirt road full of potholes, but in any case there’s nothing to be gained from the effort – the bus to Kudowa leaves each morning from down the hill and comes back in the afternoon. In summer, when the few pallid local children have school holidays, the buses don’t run at all. In the village there’s a highway that changes it imperceptibly, like a magician’s wand, into the suburbs of a small town. Should you so wish, you could drive along that highway to Wrocław or to the Czech Republic.

  But there are some for whom these conditions are ideal. There’d be lots of Hypotheses to put forward if we wanted to amuse ourselves by looking into it. Psychology and sociology would have plenty of potential lines of enquiry to suggest, but I don’t find the subject in the least bit interesting.

  For example, Oddball and I show a bold face to the winter. In any case, what a silly phrase: ‘show a bold face’; in fact we belligerently stick out our lower jaws, like those men on the bridge in the village. If provoked with some unflattering phrase, they respond aggressively: ‘What do you mean by that? Eh?’ In a way, we provoke the winter too, but it ignores us, just like the rest of the world. Old eccentrics. Pathetic hippies.

  Here the winter does a beautiful job of wrapping everything in white cotton wool, and shortens the day to the maximum, so that if you make the mistake of staying up too late at night, you might awake in the Gloom of the following afternoon, which – I frankly admit – has been happening to me more and more often since last year. Here the sky hangs over us dark and low, like a dirty screen, on which the clouds are fighting fierce battles. That’s what our houses are for – to protect us from the sky, otherwise it would pervade the very inside of our bodies, where, like a little ball of glass, our Soul is sitting. If such a thing exists.