To the Wedding

20

Incomprehensible loudspeaker announcements about departures and arrivals and the siphoning noise of a large railway station. In the main hall of the Hlavná Stanica in Bratislava I search for Zdena. She is not there. I go outside to where the taxis are waiting and there I hear a man’s voice. I don’t know whose it is.

Spotted it not too late, grey Mercedes 500 SL nosing in on far side of hot dog stand. I see Vlady recuperated another trolley. His third this afternoon. One hundred dinar — unless he flogs it for two hundred to passenger arriving late with luggage. Must catch eye of grey Mercedes 500 SL. Catch it with authority. Without authority I am dog-shit. I am trying, friend, with my head, my neck, my shoulders, my right hand, my look, to catch the Mercedes 500 SL with authority — as if I had space, as if I had a uniform with peaked cap, as if I had polished boots, and not a torn anorak, not a hat-sock and not gaping sneakers without laces. I have to catch the driver’s eye. If I catch it, the vacant parking spot is mine to offer. He may have already spotted it, yet if I catch his eye, it becomes mine before it becomes his. It was the spot I was keeping for him. Vacated one minute ago. I’ll come over like a flash. He’ll reach into his pocket, and he’ll slip me one hundred or, with luck, two. Can of Pilsner. Keep an eye on the SL, Sir. One of us here all the while, Sir, no worry. Four hundred. Could be five. I don’t catch the driver’s eye. He won’t look at me. At least I can open the door, grasp the door handle. He swings door out of my reach. He locks car with press-stud and strides off. Haven’t space any more to lay out my name. No name. I’m That Fucker There. In anorak-pocket, have, had, used to have, jackknife. Could jag it into tyres of SL. Can’t find it. Black Russian ZIL arriving. Limousine, with curtains drawn across rear windows. Driver a Caucasian. He’d run me down if he could. He’s trying to …