Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead

^II TESTOSTERONE AUTISM

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 February, 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.

I don’t know what Oddball does through the dark months, because we’re not in very close contact, though I won’t hide it – I would have hoped for more. We see each other once every few days, and when we do, we exchange a few words in greeting. We didn’t move here for the purpose of inviting each other to tea. Oddball bought his house a year after I bought mine, and it looks as if he’d decided to start a new life, like anyone whose ideas and means for the old one have run out. Apparently he worked at a circus, but I don’t know if he was an accountant there, or an acrobat. I prefer to think he was an acrobat, and whenever he limps, I imagine that long ago, in the beautiful 1970s, during a special act, something happened that caused his hand to miss the bar, and he fell from a height onto the sawdust-sprinkled floor. But on further reflection, I must admit that accountancy isn’t such a bad profession, and the fondness for order that’s typical of the accountant inspires my approval and total respect. Oddball’s fondness for order is plain to see in his small front yard: the firewood for the winter lies piled in ingenious cords arranged in a spiral. The result is a neat stack of golden proportions. Those cords of his could be regarded as a local work of art. I find it hard to resist their beautiful spiral order. Whenever I pass that way, I always stop a while to admire the constructive cooperation of hands and mind, which in such a trivial thing as firewood expresses the most perfect motion in the Universe.

The path in front of Oddball’s house is so very neatly gravelled that it looks like a special kind of gravel, a collection of identical pebbles, hand-picked in a rocky underground factory run by hobgoblins. Every fold of the clean curtains hanging in the windows is exactly the same width; he must use a special device for that. And the flowers in his garden are neat and tidy, standing straight and slender, as if they’d been to the gym.

Now, as Oddball bustled about in his kitchen, I could see how tidily the glasses were lined up in his dresser, and what a spotless cloth lay over the sewing machine. So he even had a sewing machine! Shamefully I pressed my hands between my knees. It was a long time since I had devoted any special care to them. Oh well, I have the courage to admit that my fingernails were quite simply dirty.

As he fetched the teaspoons, for a brief moment his drawer was revealed to me, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away from it. It was wide and shallow like a tray. Inside, carefully arranged in separate compartments, lay all sorts of cutlery and other Utensils needed in the kitchen. Each one had its place, though most of them were quite unfamiliar to me. Oddball’s bony fingers purposefully chose two teaspoons that soon came to rest on willow-green napkins right beside our teacups. A little too late, unfortunately, for I had already drunk my tea.

It was hard to have a conversation with Oddball. He was a man of very few words, and as it was impossible to talk, one had to keep silent. It’s hard work talking to some people, most often males. I have a Theory about it. With age, many men come down with testosterone autism, the symptoms of which are a gradual decline in social intelligence and capacity for interpersonal communication, as well as a reduced ability to formulate thoughts. The Person beset by this Ailment becomes taciturn and appears to be lost in contemplation. He develops an interest in various Tools and machinery, and he’s drawn to the Second World War and the biographies of famous people, mainly politicians and villains. His capacity to read novels almost entirely vanishes; testosterone autism disturbs the character’s psychological understanding. I think Oddball was suffering from this Ailment.

But that day at dawn it was hard to demand eloquence of anyone. We were utterly dispirited.

On the other hand, I felt great relief. Sometimes, when one thinks more broadly, ignoring one’s usual mental preferences, and considers instead the sum total of a Person’s deeds, one might conclude that their life is not a good thing for others. I think anyone would say that I’m right about this.

I asked for another glass of tea, but purely to have the chance to stir it with the lovely spoon.

‘I once reported Big Foot to the Police,’ I said.

For a moment Oddball stopped drying the biscuit plate. ‘Because of the dog?’ he asked.

‘Yes. And the poaching. I sent letters complaining about him too.’

‘And what happened?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Are you trying to say it’s a good thing that he’s dead?’

Last year, before Christmas, I made my way to the local administration to report the matter in person. Until then I had written letters. Nobody had ever answered them, though there is in fact a legal obligation to respond to citizens’ enquiries. The police station turned out to be small, resembling the single-family houses built in the communist era out of materials rustled up from here and there – shoddy and sad. And so was the atmosphere prevailing inside too. The walls, coated with oil paint, were covered in sheets of paper, all of them headed ‘Public Notice’; incidentally, what a dreadful phrase. The Police use lots of extremely off-putting words, such as ‘cadaver’ or ‘cohabitee’.

In this temple of Pluto, first a young man sitting behind a wooden barrier tried to get rid of me, and then his older superior tried to do the same. I wanted to see the Commandant, and I insisted; I was sure that eventually they’d both lose patience and usher me into his presence. I had to wait a long time; I was afraid the grocery store would close before I left, and I still had to do my shopping. Until at last Dusk fell, which meant it was about four o’clock, and I’d been waiting for more than two hours.

Finally, just before the office was due to close, a young woman appeared in the corridor and said: ‘You can come in, madam.’

By now I was rather lost in thought, so I found it hard to come to my senses. Gradually I gathered my wits as I headed after the woman for an audience upstairs, where the Police Commandant had his office.

The Commandant was an obese man of about my age, but he addressed me as if I were his mother, or even his grandmother. He cast me a fleeting glance and said: ‘Sit yourself down.’ Sensing that this form of address revealed his rural origins, he cleared his throat and corrected himself: ‘Take a seat, madam’.

I could almost hear his thoughts – to his mind I was definitely a ‘little old lady’ and, once my accusatory speech was gathering strength, a ‘silly old bag’, ‘crazy old crone’ or ‘madwoman’. I could sense his disgust as he watched my movements and cast (negative) judgement on my taste. He didn’t like my hairstyle, or my clothes, or my lack of subservience. He scrutinised my face with growing dislike. But I could tell a lot about him too – I could see he was hot-tempered, that he drank too much and had a weakness for fatty foods. During my oration his large bald head gradually reddened from the back of his neck to the top of his nose, and visible knots of dilated blood vessels appeared on his cheeks, like an unusual army tattoo. He must have been accustomed to giving orders and being obeyed, and was easily carried away by Anger. A Jovian personality.

I could also tell that he didn’t understand everything I was saying – firstly, for the obvious reason that I was using arguments alien to him, but also because he had a limited vocabulary. And that he was the type of Person who despises anything he can’t understand.

‘He poses a threat to many Creatures, human and animal,’ I concluded my complaint about Big Foot, in which I had described my observations and suspicions.

The Commandant wasn’t sure if I was making fun of him or if he was dealing with a madwoman. There were no other possibilities. I saw the blood briefly flood his face – he was undoubtedly the pyknic type, who will eventually die of a stroke.

‘We had no idea he’s been poaching. We’ll see to it,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘Please go home, and don’t worry about it. I know him well.’

‘All right,’ I said in a conciliatory tone.

But he was on his feet by now, leaning his hands on the desk, a sure sign that the audience was at an end.

Once we have reached a certain age, it’s hard to be reconciled to the fact that people are always going to be impatient with us. In the past, I was never aware of the existence and meaning of gestures such as rapidly giving assent, avoiding eye contact and repeating ‘yes, yes, yes’ like clockwork. Or checking the time, or rubbing one’s nose – these days I fully understand this entire performance for expressing the simple phrase: ‘Give me a break, you old bag.’ I have often wondered whether a strapping, handsome young man would be treated like that if he were to say the same things as I do? Or a buxom brunette?

He must have been expecting me to leap from my chair and leave the room. But I had one more, equally important thing to report to him, forcing him to sit down again.

‘That Man locks his Dog in the shed all day. It’s not heated, so the Dog howls in there because of the cold. Can the Police deal with this by taking the Dog away from him, and punishing him as an example?’

He looked at me for a while in silence, and the feature I had ascribed to him at the start, calling it disdain, was now clearly visible on his face. The corners of his mouth drooped, and his lips pouted slightly. I could also see that he was making an effort to control his facial expression. He covered it with a lame smile, revealing his large, nicotine-stained teeth.

‘That’s not a matter for the Police, madam,’ he said. ‘A dog is a dog. The countryside is the countryside. What do you expect? Dogs are kept in kennels and on chains.’

‘I am simply informing the Police that the man is committing evil. Where am I to go, if not to the Police?’

He laughed throatily.

‘Evil, you say? Maybe you should go to the priest!’ he quipped, pleased with his own sense of humour, but he plainly realised that I did not find his joke amusing, because his face at once became serious again. ‘There’s probably a society for the care of animals, or something of the kind somewhere. You’ll find them in the phone book. The League for the Protection of Animals – that’s where you should go. We’re the Police for people. Please call them in Wrocław. They have some sort of animal wardens there.’

‘In Wrocław?’ I exclaimed. ‘How can you say that? These are the responsibilities of the local Police – I know the law.’

‘Oh!’ he said, smiling ironically. ‘So now you’re going to tell me what my responsibilities are, eh?’

In my mind’s eye I could see our troops drawn up on the plain, ready for battle.

‘Yes, I’m only too happy to do so,’ I said, gearing up for a longer speech.

In panic, he glanced at his watch and curbed his dislike for me. ‘Yes, all right, we’ll look into it,’ he said indifferently, and started to put the papers from his desk into a briefcase. He had escaped me.

At this point it occurred to me that I didn’t like this man. More than that: I felt a sudden surge of hatred towards him, as sharp as a knife.

He stood up again decisively, and I noticed that his leather uniform belt was too short to encompass his enormous belly. Out of shame this belly was trying to hide itself lower down, in the uncomfortable, forgotten vicinity of his genitals. His shoelaces were undone; he must have kicked his shoes off under his desk. Now he had to squeeze into them at high speed.

‘May I know your date of birth?’ I asked politely, already by the door.

He stopped in surprise. ‘What do you want it for?’ he asked suspiciously, holding the door open for me.

‘I calculate Horoscopes,’ I replied. ‘Would you like one? I can draw it up for you.’

An amused smile flashed across his face. ‘No, thank you. I’m not interested in astrology.’

‘You’ll know what to expect in life. Wouldn’t you like that?’

At that point he glanced knowingly at the Policeman sitting behind the reception desk, and with an ironic smile, as if taking part in a jolly children’s game, he gave me all his details. I wrote them down, said thank you and, pulling up my hood, headed for the exit. In the doorway I heard them snorting with laughter, and the very words I had predicted: ‘Crazy madwoman.’

That evening, just after Dusk, Big Foot’s Dog began to bay again. The air had turned blue, sharp as a razor. The deep, dull howling filled it with alarm. Death is at the gates, I thought. But then death is always at our gates, at every hour of the day and Night, I told myself. For the best conversations are with yourself. At least there’s no risk of a misunderstanding. I stretched out on the couch in the kitchen and lay there, unable to do anything but listen to that piercing wail. Several days earlier, when I had gone to Big Foot’s house to intervene, that brute had refused to let me in, and had simply told me not to interfere in other people’s business. In fact, he had let the Dog out for a few hours afterwards, but later on he’d locked her in the dark shed again, so that Night she’d howled again.

There I lay, on the couch in the kitchen, trying to think about something else, but of course it was no use. I could feel an itching, pulsating energy seeping into my muscles – just a little more and it would blow my legs off from inside.

I leaped up, put on my boots and jacket, fetched a hammer and a metal bar and every other Tool that fell into my hands. Minutes later, breathless, I was standing outside Big Foot’s shed. He wasn’t in, the lights were off, and there was no smoke rising from the chimney. He’d locked up the Dog and disappeared. Who could say when he’d be back? But even if he had been at home, I’d have done the same. After a few minutes’ work, I was bathed in sweat, but had managed to get the wooden door open – the boards on either side of the lock came loose, and I was able to slide the bolt. Inside it was dark and damp; some rusty old bikes had been tossed in here, and there were some plastic barrels and other rubbish lying about. The Dog was standing on a pile of planks, tied to the wall by a string around her neck. What else immediately caught my eye was a pile of excrement – clearly she’d always had to relieve herself in the same spot. She wagged her tail uncertainly. She looked at me with moist eyes, joyfully. I cut off the string, took her in my arms and we went home.

I didn’t yet know what I was going to do. Sometimes, when a Person feels Anger, everything seems simple and obvious. Anger puts things in order and shows you the world in a nutshell; Anger restores the gift of Clarity of Vision, which it’s hard to attain in any other state.

I put her down on the kitchen floor and was amazed how very small and slight she was. Judging by her voice, by that dismal howling, one might have expected a Dog the size of a Spaniel at least. But she was one of those local Dogs, known as a Table Mountains Uglymutt, because they’re not very attractive. They’re small, with thin, often crooked legs, a grey-and-brown coat, a tendency to gain weight, and above all with a visible overbite. Let’s just say this nocturnal songstress wasn’t blessed with beauty.

She was anxious, trembling all over. She drank half a litre of warm milk, which made her belly round as a ball, and I also shared some bread and butter with her. I hadn’t been expecting a Guest, so my fridge was glaringly empty. I spoke to her soothingly, I gave her an account of my every move, and she watched me questioningly, clearly baffled by such a sudden change of circumstances. Then I lay down on the couch, suggesting to her at the same time that she too should find herself a place to rest. Finally she squeezed under the radiator and fell asleep. As I didn’t want to leave her alone for the Night in the kitchen, I decided to stay put on the couch.

I slept fitfully; evidently there was still agitation roaming around my body, and it brought down continual dreams about stoked-up ovens belching heat, never-ending boiler rooms with hot, red walls. The flames locked in the ovens were roaring to be released, wanting that instant to spring onto the world with a monstrous explosion and burn everything to ashes. I think these dreams may be a symptom of the night fever that’s connected with my Ailments.

I awoke before dawn, when it was still completely dark. My neck had gone stiff from sleeping in an uncomfortable position. The Dog was standing by my headrest, insistently staring at me, and pitifully whining. Groaning, I got up to let her out – all that milk she had drunk was finally in need of an outlet. A gust of damp, cold air that smelled of earth and putrefaction blew in through the open door – as if from the grave. The Dog ran outside like a shot and had a pee, comically raising her back leg in the air, as if she couldn’t decide if she were a Dog or a Bitch. Then she glanced at me sorrowfully – I can boldly say that she looked me deep in the eyes – and raced off towards Big Foot’s house.

And so she went back to her Prison.

That was the last I’d seen of her. I’d called her, annoyed at letting myself be led up the garden path so easily, and helpless in the face of the sinister workings of bondage. I’d started to put on my boots, but that terrible grey morning alarmed me. Sometimes I feel as if we’re living inside a tomb, a large, spacious one for lots of people. I looked at the world wreathed in grey Murk, cold and nasty. The prison is not outside, but inside each of us. Perhaps we simply don’t know how to live without it.

A few days later, before the heavy snow fell, I saw a police car outside Big Foot’s house. I admit that I was pleased to see it. Yes, I had the satisfaction of knowing that the Police had finally called on him. I played two games of patience, both of which came out right. I imagined they’d arrest him, bring him out in handcuffs, confiscate his supplies of wire and take away his saw (this particular Tool should require the same sort of permit as a gun, for it wreaks Havoc among the plants). But the car drove away without Big Foot, Dusk fell rapidly and the snow began to fall. Locked up again, the Dog howled all evening. Next morning, the first thing I saw on the beautiful, spotless white ground, were Big Foot’s unsteady footprints and yellow trails of urine around my silver Spruce. All this came back to me while we were sitting in Oddball’s kitchen. And my Little Girls.

As he listened to my story, Oddball made soft-boiled eggs, which he served in china eggcups.

‘I don’t share your trust in the authorities,’ he said. ‘One has to do everything oneself.’

I’m not sure what exactly he meant by this.