As I knocked around, tryin to see an hear as much as possible for myself, I managed: Berlun: disturbing the peace and riding the subway without holding on; Dormut: hooliganism and provoking an officer (it was the first time in my life I’d ever eaten an artichoke, which I only knew from books before, an I got carried away); Milan: I donno; Paree: I don’t remember; Gibraltar: I’m not tellin; Munchen: sleeping in a private doghouse, an that was the only one that pissed me off, cause the dog couldn’t’ve cared less; we had four guys snoozin in there at the time.
After my successful sightseeing tour filled with Kanak studies, I came back to the lair and gave all my soap and blankets to Kopic. I kept one fragrant box for myself, just in case … and off to market we went.
And as I stood around, picking up all sorts of words and expressions as the tribes mixed together in byznys to survive … stealin cash an words from each other … experiences an words … it struck me maybe somethin was happenin here, maybe the mixing was givin rise to a new tongue … a Kanak one … an maybe it was a tongue of peace, a pre-Babylonian one … I mean they’re poor, they gotta communicate … till everything’s tremendous again an we all look like the billboards an pitch in to rebuild … they need each other … only most of the folks at the markets looked pretty bad, shabby, emaciated or bloated, all kinds of deprivation peering out of their eyes, and hunger … for safety and things … they would’ve had to mix with the handsome natives too … to put an end to tribes … but they’re not wanted, that’s obvious … the rags the Romanian Gypsy ladies bundled their lousy young in … weren’t fit for a dog, I know, I saw em. I was there. Maybe unfortunately what it’ll take, I thought … truly unfortunately, is another couple Auschwitzes, a Wall or two, a Gulag … an even longer path … till it dawns on everyone.
Beat it! Beat it! Quit gawkin, move! Kopic oftentimes interrupted my daydreams and meditations as the noose drew tight yet again, a raid … we grabbed the ashtrays and hopped on our steeds, if ours’d been stolen we stole someone else’s … and the prairie stretched out endlessly under our ponies’ hoofs as we rode, deftly hunched down in our saddles, zigzagging to safety from the Haida and Mandan bullets.
We didn’t steal much … just here and there … like sparrows, I guess, we were fed up with organizing and didn’t have the time for heavy-duty crookery. We weren’t in the mood either. There were huge quantities of colorful stuff to see. Look at that yellow, zaps me in the eyes, I donno that one, said Kopic. I get it, I said. We swung off our saddles, hitched up our bikes, walked into the department store, and came back out with beautiful sunglasses on our noses. At the next ad, I panicked. I donno that beige, my old WWI wounds’re gettin itchy an openin up inside, it’s definitely gonna rain. We stopped and went in a department store, came out with raincoats and umbrellas. Kopic had a radio, too. Switched it on. Oy, some unfamiliar, ponderous, industrial, fanatic music! Kopic blanched. But it played. We’d made a good purchase. Now and then we’d get off the bikes and dawdle around on the sidewalk. Then off we’d ride again, each with a packhorse tied to our saddle. How’s Iltschi? Kopic called out. On her last legs, I replied honestly. Hatatitla’s* barely swingin his hoofs too, grumbled Kopic. We switched to fresh bikes to confuse our pursuers. Sometimes we had to save ourselves … by sacrificing one of the bikes and riding the rest of the way on the better one, each of us standing on one side, holding on to the seat, pedaling in turn … they never did get us. Ah, Berlun, a true sanatorium!
Then I got a job in a brothel. Washin spitoons, takin out trash, sweepin up, I was the spitboy. It’s perfect, the spitboy sees everything, goes everywhere, an he’s lower than the sawdust on the floor of a pub, no one’s gonna usurp him. His rag an bucket make him invisible.
I soon made friends with the whores. There were dumb ones of course, blabbers an screamers an whiners, but some of the girls were great. Fistfuls of Czechs, wagonloads of Romanians, armies of Ukrainians, pastures of Poles, heaps of Hungarians, one gorgeous Jewess, and others. I noticed the movement of nations began in the brothels. One of the great human urges it’s got on its mute conscience: the desire for fresh meat. The Italians an Greeks an Turks bemoaned the loss of their position. They organized an underground. No petitions, just vitriol. It got intense at times. Whores’re a tribe, I guess, like toy makers or gladiators, clans’re a byznys thing. My heart burned for a sister of my tribe. Howdy, whores, I’d say. Howdy, wage slave, they’d reply. Peace and quiet prevailed. I often eavesdropped on their fabled phlegmaticism: You don’t watch out, there it is, turn to the left, there it is, lean to the right, there it is still. Cocks, knives, toyfils, crabs, whatever, it’s all the same.
I taught them the saying: Singelosh, bangelosh, split right through, quality work’s what we aim to do. It had a good rhythm, the girls said it helped em deal with alla those sickening pigs. From time to time they’d express their gratitude, but for real, briskly, in the prenoon hours, before the wheel spun up to full speed. So they weren’t totally wiped out yet. They told me about things I didn’t know. Permutations, combinations, variations, uriny, greasy, moist, an bloody. Some of the girls, the foolish ones, began to get nostalgic here, dreamin about the petroleum ponds and tractor-filled fields of home. They’d come in search of treasure, but it didn’t take em long to rack up a debt the very same size as that chest of sparkling ducats. Housing, heat, meals, makeup, clothes. Protection! The door out of the cage to the golden West slammed shut in their faces. They were under the wheel now. Pieces of meat, not much to look at. Others were smart an strong an didn’t let any drool near their bodies, even if that body was as broken and plowed over as Mother Earth herself. They knew their way around. They knew how to get the cash outta the wild pigs, an what to do with it afterwards … they were the ones the students an the killers fell for. One yep, another nope, you in, you out … same old story. I raced around with a mop, tampons, a broom … set up a little hairpin-and-condom byznys, plus lipstick, least they didn’t have to cross the street. For some of em that street was the only thing they saw on their way to Europe.
Litka was Slovak, or Slovenian, I donno anymore, I took her to the fair. They’re lookin at us, she said in the pastry shop. When it came to sweets, she was like a little girl. No, they’re not, I lied. You could tell. What she was. It was as plain as Mars on fire. Wow, she lit up, look at the swings. She gave em a whirl. The bumper cars too. Another coffee. And then it hit her: we gotta go back. C’mon. Let’s get outta here. Los! Bitte! Wait, I wanna go to the shooting gallery, squeeze off a shot or two first. I’ll shoot your heart out! The way she looked at me, it dawns on me in retrospect, she must’ve been Slovenian. We stood in the amusement park arguing, in Kanak of course. People all around. Bumping into us. They came to have fun. And we were in their way. It was embarrassing. She wheeled around on a high heel and ran off, she thought toward the exit. Ran all the way to the back of the park, I almost couldn’t keep up. Ran right into the fence, stupid whore. Collapsed and began to sob. Her purse spilled out on the ground, she tossed all her doohickeys back in with the mud. C’mon now … Litka! Get up! Finally I got her into a cab. Some date, I thought glumly, all that cash! I looked out of the car at all the people, buildings, machines, phantoms. What else was I sposta do. Didn’t wanna look at her. We rode in silence the whole way back to the brothel, the place where she lived. The place she couldn’t get away from.