I went to get a drink, trying to tune out everything except the racket and the snippets of conversation … at least then you can’t dwell on darker matters … I guess that’s why everyone was here … I took up a post at the bar. Onstage the half-naked singer was working himself into a state of ecstasy, prancing around as he whipped his back bloody, his ponytail was tied with barbwire, I noticed … “you turn around once or twice, then you’re pushin up daisies, oo-wah-ee,” couldn’t disagree with that, “like slaughtered cattle, man, it’s crazy, oo-wah-ee,” that was too harsh, I relocated again, to the corner. And even before I heard the soft voices, my skin broke out in goose bumps.
Human women eat flesh, take a good look.
And that one there …
She has an embryo in her belly. The flesh grows within their flesh. Sometimes they kill them.
To eat?
No. To burn. And that one there too, only she doesn’t know it yet.
They give birth to live young?
Usually. Now they do. But even the dead ones are bound to them by a cord of flesh. They used to bite through it. Now it gets cut.
I think the one in front of us can hear us. Should I kill him?
I didn’t shudder. I tried to listen to the singer again and smoothly, casually, rise from my seat. But I couldn’t budge.
Wait. Let me test whether he hears.
And then: Honey! It ran me through like a white needle of pain. And then her laughter, soft and friendly: It’s me, little brother, here I am. Turn around so I can give you a hug! I knew it wasn’t … couldn’t be She-Dog … this was the old tongue: Turn around and look at me! I want to see you. Turn around and we’ll be together forever, I promise. Come to me … my love.
If I turn around, Death’ll be there, I knew it. But it was starting not to matter anymore. I was sweating like in an oven.
Hey … nother Bomb? the bartender yelled.
Yeah, I mumbled, and took a step and then another … and turned around, but no one was there. No one was there anymore.
What’s up? said the bartender as I leaned on the bar, exhausted.
Aw shit, shit, c’mon, man, he added, spotting a manly tear or two running through my stubble. Hey, maybe it’s the new booze …
gimme an Incest …
… it’s funny, people see important stuff sometimes …
fork over the Incest an can it …
… this ain’t some counselin center here …
The Bomb!
Quit sobbin then. It’s only nine.
I left him and sat down in the first free chair. Teeth perched on the edge of my glass, I gave a little hiccup, because I found myself looking straight into the hungry eyes of Padre Booze.
Good evening, son.
Good evening, father, I said.
He looked pleased. He wasn’t used to that form of address. They usually called him Pachanga.
Your tall boots, my son, may conceal the knife of a warrior, or mere filth, your uncut and unwashed hair may be a lion’s mane, or a golden fleece awaiting the first strong hand, your silver ornaments, dear son, may signify the confidence of a man, or the vanity of a fop, your tattoos may contain the hidden truth, but they may also be a snakeskin hiding a wicked heart, your scar may be testimony to the fight for justice, or a blow bestowed upon you … he started choking.
But he had me read. That was quite a feat.
What are you drinking, father? You’ll have to go and get it though.
Thank you, he said proudly, scraped up the money, and made for the bar.
I stretched my legs, finally some space … alone by the wall. In one leap I was at his side; startled, he clutched the money in his fist. No, not that, I reassured him, I’m just afraid to be alone, if you don’t mind … He gave me a look of surprise, nodded. The bartender slid him the menu, I grabbed it away.
Brandy, said Padre Booze. Brandy please.
You know Padre Bohler? I resumed the conversation back at the table.
O, the apostate, living with a sect of Bog-lovers, communing with a heathen … you know him, son? he stopped short.
Yes, I said. From hearsay. People in our congregation say he’s a good man … it had been a long time since I’d spoken the old tongue, but when it came to a priest, even if he was a mop, I made the effort … an that group, that they support each other, that they’re all right, father.
They are unfortunates who distort the Church’s teachings, they are mutants, beware them, son. And which congregation do you attend?
Uh, here, boss father, Praga five.
Then surely you know the reverend Father Dobiáš. Sort of tall, red hair?
I knew those tricks. No, father, I don’t anyone by that name.
Good, said Padre Booze happily, he doesn’t exist. Sorry for that little trap, son. It’s just that you don’t look …
Do you know Padre Konrád, father, my good pastor … kina short and cross-eyed …
Certainly, my son, he is the Lord’s faithful servant. We know each other somewhat.
Father, may I ask something …
Whatever you want, son. Whatever you want.
Why is Starry Bog such a bloody pig? Why is He always devouring us? Sometimes I get scared that I’ll go insane.
He just tipped his head.
And sometimes I fear that I already have, he said. It does not surprise me that you are also one of them … there are no rules anymore, that is why we have fear. He finished his drink.
Your church knows all the rules, but it doesn’t know a single human heart, I read that somewhere.
Let each man search his own heart, that is his freedom. In any event he shall only come to know it by following the rules, said Padre Booze.
Bo … that is, a friend a mine says some’re damned even before they die … in eternity, I mean, like, for it.
If one single … Padre Booze scanned the club, then returned his gaze to my face … if one single sinner in this room is damned, then I want to be damned with him. I suppose that’s blasphemy.
So you really believe in God?
If not, I would shed these … this vesture and go unload freight cars, maybe work in some office, or beg, it would make no difference, but I am a limb of the Church, and the Church watches over the rules, it bears witness …
C’mon, they wrote you off! You’re a lush!
I may be a miserable priest, but that is beyond my control, I cannot revoke it. I might also … kill myself, or kill you, son, and it would make no difference, nothing would exist anymore.
I guess that’s what Starry Bog wants, I smirked.
Shut up! Padre Booze tore into me. Shut up! Shut up! Write it on your floor, tattoo it onto your filthy skin, look at it whenever you get up in that hole of yours you call home!
What’s up? The bartender stood over us. Should I toss him?
No, I said. Bring us a brandy. You’ll have another, father, won’t you?
He nodded almost imperceptibly.
I trust you, came out of me. Come with me, you can live with us. It struck me suddenly … I had a feeling I wouldn’t be so scared with Padre Booze around, I don’t know why, after all he was worse off than me.
No, I can’t.
Bohler is all right, he’s a … good person. I mean, c’mon, he’s just a helper, I sputtered.
It’s not him, you misunderstand me. How can I go with you … when there are still so many people who have never heard the Message, who know nothing. You at least live in a community.