We gave ourselves up and boarded a bus. Then we drove down a stunning high-frequency highway, lotsa intersections, all kindsa lights, overpasses, underbends, concrete, no people … an then Gejza notices the bus doesn’t have any windows! There’s glass but it won’t open! We know this one, the Romanies roared, whipping out their razors. Never again! Same old tricks! Churi des churi hudes!* Betrayed! Now comes the gas! Gas. Plynyata, the Croatians translated for their Serbian cousins, plonovyeshcha, the Russians translated for the Ukrainians, drinking vodka and kissing each other, plynovodstvo! plynka! plynoubitiye! plynuii! plyndura! plygur! plona! the Slavs lamented, the Asians still didn’t know what it was, bezpelészrzvéketil! the Hungarian screamed. The Bulgarian singer kept pushing me off, I didn’t get it, I mean we’re gonna croak anyway, so why not gimme some? But she wanted to cross herself and curse the Bulgar-killers a few more times still. The Popes whipped out icons, the Navajos kachina dolls. Where’re the jeans? the Albanians screamed, they’re takin us to a concentration camp, the Ruthenians cried excitedly, wonder what it’ll be like? And the shaman from Yakutsk whipped out his drum and horseshoes, and the bus came to a stop. We were at some gigantic town hall again, out in front were mayors, scientists, and doctors with medals. It was Timbuktu for all we knew. Someone started a rumor that the buses aired out automatically. A miracle! It’s a miracle, declared the Galician Hasidim, tugging at their beards … from the time of Abraham the Angel and the holy rabbis of Belz … great, great wisdom and progress. Pff, bull shit, I said, showing off for the Bulgarian and a couple of Gypsies … they can take their acclimatization … an shove it! There’s holes in the bottom! Hey, the guy’s right, said one of the swarthy men. And then they led us inside for the reception. We ate like pigs. The Kanaks put jeans on their arms. After the cake fight, they washed us up and we read a few of our beautiful, sad, and bitter poems. We traded em around at random, an anyone that didn’t know how to write got somethin written up for em in some tongue or other, no sweat. The artists unlingually reached into their warm-ups and sacks and whipped out their artefacts, pictures, cult figurines, and gallows. The mayors applauded that too. Success! We were a hit. Then they gave us the medals, an I got one of the biggest, cause I’m Czech! An that’s somethin! That means somethin in this world, dammit!
Jícha raised his hands an went to wash em. Also rinsed out his mouth an gargled at length. Which meant we could speak without being called on: Good job, Jícha! You really got it goin over there! That was way Czech … progressive an deep, like the Stag Moat.* At least there was somethin goin on! Just no intelligentsia or small works,* there’s various ways, various possibilities, there’s many things out there! We know, we know, O beloved Jícha. We applauded our representative. An how bout the pseudodroogina? What’s with the Balkan, huh? She still around? You guys write? Is she Varana or Ljubita, does she float like a butterfly or sting like a bee? Or both?
The whole thing’s a little intricate, said Jícha, settling back down.
Hey, Jícha, but anyways. So how bout that book a yours, what’d ja write back there? Spider inquired.
Lost it soon as I finished, buried it somewhere, thing’s unreadable, never mind talkin about it. I don’t have it exactly. But the main thing is I’m back, no? East, west, home’s the worst, eh? An also the best, isn’t it? Why search for happiness abroad when you can find it at home with the family, huh? Yep, things’re great here, an they’re only gonna get better, right? But somethin’s gotta be done. To wash out the filth. From this land. Our country. Yep, that’s what I’m tryin to get at. This has been a little tale to welcome dear Potok into our midst.
10
WHAT THEY WANT FROM ME. I GO OUT AN I’M NOT ALONE. A GREEN LIGHT AND A WORD FROM SHE-DOG. AND THE MILL. AND OUR DEAR TENANTS. HUNTER.
Good to have you here, said Jícha. We’re countin on you, Potok. Your tribe … yeah, fine, but there’s other outfits here. We’re employin you! He yelped in my face.
An we’re a war outfit, he added in a deep voice.
Tribes, hmh, Hadraba stretched. It’s a different era, man!
After a rapid-fire exchange of glances, Spider got up and said his goodbyes.
Jícha dumped some photos out of an envelope onto the table.
Look here, you got Olda, this here’s Svoboda, then Nutcracker, Side Pocket, Duchač, an who have we here? Jícha was plainly on cozy terms with the collection.
So they’re spooks, ess-tee-bee, what’s the big whoop? The poet astounded me. I wanted to know more.
Doesn’t it strike you as interesting where our old enemies’re turnin up now? I arrange the private settling of scores. These pricks here just go right on playin detective, pokin around the embassies, an even, get this, our friend Side Pocket happens to be an occasional guest at a certain Asian embassy you’re no doubt familiar with.
I’m not interested in embassies, what’s your point?
You guys’re the ones that started this, you an that Organization a yours, an you don’t even know who you got in your own backyard.
You’re crazy, what do our Laotians gotta do with the ess-tee-bee?
Well first of all, said Jícha, they aren’t Laotians, at least not some of em. They’re Hmongs, he said triumphantly.
I don’t get any a this, but if Hadraba here thinks he can take over their shops, well I’d say it’s gone far enough already …
No, that’s not it, it’s the spooks I’m after, said Hadraba. Side Pocket an this bunch here. They’re the ones interested in those Lotions a yours.
You tailin these guys or somethin? I asked.
We tail em, Jícha said proudly. Dostoyevsky, our private persecution agency.