My wife plays computer games all night long
She’s alone
and I want to die
then she prays
and nothing else came to me, but I didn’t put a period. I opened another bottle and wrote something different. And what I wrote, O hunters and chieftains, was a book, I wrote it in nothing but my own words, I was in a trap so I didn’t give a damn if that book was hygienic … what came out of me, sisters and girlfriends, was blather, babel, and babylon, what it was, dear good she-demons and cuddly soothsayers, was a sort of lesser pornography with a humanist spin, and Pragocentric to boot, what it was, kind potential she-reader and nosy Nelly, was cheap trade, on the trashy side, but in my own slave tongue … so I’d no longer be a slave … but it was so powerful I coulda not even been … I hacked my tongue, and stroked it, and it gave it right back, my tongue was alive! And it’s a secret and open tongue. And the days went by, and there were tough days and tougher days, and they mixed with the night, which could now set in at any time, because it was the night of my mind. And I began to seek out those black holes, something happened … I didn’t want to write anymore … I was scared … but there was no stopping it, the book began to live its own life, feeding on me, and as it grew it squeezed me out of my room into the freezing cold, where even my breath couldn’t warm me up. And I couldn’t destroy the book either, because by then its tongue had devoured so much of me it was stronger, someone else would have to destroy it. But there wasn’t anyone there.
I dragged myself outside one day to find no sign of my pseudodroog or — droogina. I was the last one. I said: Why me? And the answer came back: Why not? I was on the threshold, I was on my way … and the snow fell like it was nothing. Why wouldn’t it? I thought, and went on writing my tongue, no longer a gift but a curse. Sometimes I told myself, as long as I’m here … just then Jícha raised his head from the typewriter and cried: But I’m still here! Jesus an Mary! And feeling a prick of dread he burrowed into his comforters and quick began writing again … so if anyone back in the little mother says anything about a castle … I’ll kick their ass on the spot! And things began to happen … letters assaulted me, sentences wept … and all of a sudden I hear peep! peep! One of the letters was peeping at me. No big deal, a pretty trivial matter, the kind of thing that belongs in the Gwinness Book of Records. But then the letter sputtered and spat. It wouldn’t stop acting up. I told it, knock it off an get back in line, move it! Took a look up close, eyes still watering … it was the ř! The little hook slightly quivering … an I was happy again for a while because I realized it was my treasure, I mean nobody else has that letter but Czechs, it’s our national property, a rare an sacred gem! Anyone who doesn’t work with f is a furriner an a chauvinist! An their writing is nonsense … Then I heard footsteps, it was the Hungarian and the Bulgarian, they’d just gone off to try and rustle up a little something but were forced to turn back by the snowdrifts. Out in the woods they’d found one of the Romanians almost frozen solid, rattling on about highrise hotels … giant Ducks … Pepsi light and Pepsi heavy … gargantuan billboard people … he’d been living at some train station till all at once it hit him and he started trying to find his way back to the colony … he was a musician, but he never did find those pipes of his, the Hungarian and I gave him a few words of advice: dynamite, bone, sow … Langwidge! said the Bulgarian, and before he started writing we all sat down together and munched a few beechnuts he’d stolen from some tame wild pigs in the woods … he’d been surprised they didn’t put up a fight. And the rest of the artists began coming back too … the Poles with sacks full of goods … the other Hungarians with goulash … the Vietnamese with old fish … the Russian, now cured, with caviar … and I sat and wrote. And then it came to me and I typed:
My wife plays computer games all night long
she’s alone
I want to die
then she prays
and I’m still living
I pecked the period and out came the sun. My eyes stopped watering. It was obvious. Unmistakable. I opened the window and shouted to the others. The Bulgarian was tanning herself, singing some mountain cantilena. The Kanaks were waving scalps in the air, wasn’t much hair on em. The Hungarians and the Slovaks had occupied the sandbox and were building a dam. The Lithuanians were playing chess and checkers with the Russians, the Serbs were hugging the Croats, the Chinese were playing water polo with the Vietnamese, the Armenian was doing a handstand and the Azeri a cartwheel, that’s what it looked like, a regular spring of nations. I stood proudly in the window, hair aflutter, I had a book! I screamed something at the Slovak, because I was the best, it was obvious, in a word … Czech! An I told that band of nationalist chauvinists, too. Which was funny, since you helmsmen and smugglers know very well what a loyal Czech I am, hah. Well, eventually it broke down into various scuffles an frictions. Skirmishes. A Russian and a Ukrainian locked themselves in the barn. But the pitchfork’d been stolen by some Bosnian ages ago. The Slovak swiped my clothespins, so I took an axe to bed with me. The Kazakhs brashly complained to the management about the food. Wanted more of those fuzzy dirty dumplings of theirs, bosnians, they call em.
Then the caretaker took us on a walk into town at last. It was so gracious, I nearly bled to death with joy. The town hall for example was gigantic. And we only crossed on green. Red means: Stop and wait! At least then we could gawk at the cars: Talk about hot rods, cruisers, an calibers! We were droolin … The tour moved on. But we couldn’t get away with any hokeypokey or messin around. Look! The Bulgarian cried. The supermarket doors opened all by themselves! You just went up … one more step … an they opened! An step back … an they close! Incredeebeelay. I tried it out a few times myself. Everyone gathered around. The caretaker looked on indulgently. I was afraid somebody was going to get mad they didn’t have doors like that back home and break them before I got a chance. I gave the English levers a shove, but shrewdly, so it’d look like the Chechen’s fault. I broke it! Alarmed, we huddled around the miraculous doors, jabbering one over the other. But the caretaker didn’t even get mad. And no one came racing out of the place with a cane. Strange. We went on. I was about to take the Bulgarian’s hand, or grab her ass, I donno anymore, when someone tripped me up from behind. Lightning fast I spun an slugged the Pole behind me in the belly. But it wasn’t him! It was the Albanian behind him. I recognized my mistake from his grin, but it was too late to back out. You dog! the Pole roared. Dog’s blood! I roared back. Smallpox! the Pole roared. Cholera! I roared back. Di do prdele!* the Pole roared. Chłop zasrany!* I roared back. The others were quick to join in. I saw an Afghan kick a Russian in the head, a Bosnian put a Serb in a nelson … and off it went … the Chinese, Vietnamese, Cambodian, and Laotian women ran around, terrified, wobbling on their crooked legs … the Gypsies got a big laugh out of it, dipping into an open pocket or two. Here come the officers! On horseback! I quick made like nothing was up. The others also reined it in and began scanning the area for someplace to hide before the armored cars rolled in. But too late, surrounded! Nowhere to run. It looked like we could kiss our human rights goodbye. The Poles, the Afghans, and the Vietnamese started tearing up cobblestones and building barricades, a fancy car or two caught fire, loud prayers, weeping, and teeth gnashing all around. Anyone ready to tattle and at your service got off with a slap on the wrist. It still worked! The Kanaks charged the police … I, admittedly, was a little hesitant, but I took advantage of my hesitation at least by stompin the Slovak’s foot … reinforcements arrived … white overcoats … some religious-type crosses … and no beating or shooting … some tricky new technology! They kept their distance, politely negotiating with us through megaphones … put on some boring mellow music … offered us gift baskets … ham, potatoes, shrimp, everything … old I.Q. Pavlov set to work … we put our heads together … they had us surrounded, we started crossing one another, nothing but: Forgive me, brother! Kind neighbor! Dear friend! May Mother Earth be my witness! Visegrad … Sarajevo … Gabčíkovo … Hanoi … Saigon … Bucharest and Buchara, as long as I live … an never again … and then those desirable people at a distance offered us … jeans and jeeps and cars and chateaus and chewing gum … if we’d be good!