Doppelgänger

by Daša Drndic

  Enough about rhinos!

  I’m fifty years old. Like a middle-aged rhino. My skin is smooth. My skin is soft and glowing. I’m still a bit handsome.

  Printz has no cataracts. Printz has fine eyes, black, slanting. Printz is somehow exotic, and his skin is white. Printz is as tall as a tall Japanese man. Printz is strong. Oh, how handsome and tranquil he is as he watches the rhinos in the late autumn in the empty, completely empty, zoo of a dead city. Printz has not gone gray. Printz has black hair, neatly cut. Printz takes care of it. A good haircut is crucial to him.

  Nothing is crucial to me, but I don’t realize that yet. Nothing is crucial to me.

  His hands are strong. His skin is smooth, it is not dry. It is shiny, shiny. Printz has style. There is no sun now, it is autumn, late autumn, it is very cold and the funeral is over.

  Rhinos become sexually mature in their seventh year. Some rhi­-nos reach sexual maturity later, but certainly by nine. Female rhi­nos mature earlier. When they are four, or six years old at the latest.

  I matured early, I, Printz. I’m going home. I’m sick of rhinos.

  Take your panties off, says Printz. Take your panties off, Mari­stella, and show me your bum.

  The street goes downhill, it is elegant, it is wide, on both sides there are villas with gardens, with fenced gardens, that stand and watch, silently. Those villas are older than the new country, which after the Second World War became shared and fraternal, among them there is a palace. It is a quiet street away from the center of town, inhabited by important people, political people, because such are the times, political. It is the nineteen-­fifties. The street goes downhill and is vaulted with yellow and white blossom, those are trees with yellow and white blooms through which the sky penetrates. This is where Printz lives. Here, in this yellow and white street is also where Mari­stella lives, with her knobbly knees, her sock that has slipped under her right heel so she is limping, although she is not lame. Mari­stella has wide-­set eyes, blue. They are on their way to the kindergarten at the end of the street that goes downhill and Printz tells Mari­stella take off your panties and show me your bum. They are five years old. Maybe six. They speak clearly. They are healthy and beautiful. He and Mari­stella.

  His name is Printz. Affectionately known as Pupi. He does not like that, he does not like being Pupi, he thinks of himself exclusively as Printz.

  Mari­stella and Printz love each other, that is why it is not terrible when Printz tells Mari­stella take off your panties. Mari­stella trusts Printz. They go into the garden of the villa called Samantha, the gate is heavy but there is no dog in the garden so it is safe. The barberries are in bloom, the garden is dotted with yellow. The grass is expansive, green, tended, it is a rich garden, in it lies a great spring silence, a morning silence. The grass is scattered with yellow barberry bushes, there is calm in the grass. It is nice. The air is clean. Mari­stella and Printz hold hands, Mari­stella has short sleeves and little golden patches on her arms.

  You’ve got little stars on your body, says Printz to Mari­stella.

  And my face, says Mari­stella.

  So your face shines like little stars, Printz smiles, show me your bum.

  I’m Mama’s little star, Mama’s little stella, says Mari­stella.

  Show me your bum, says Printz again.

  Mari­stella crouches behind a barberry bush and takes off her panties, Printz says I can’t see, lie down, Mari­stella lies down. Her knees are knobbly and scabbed. Mari­stella climbs trees, especially when the cherries are ripe, that is why she has knobbly, scabbed knees, because she keeps falling. There are five cherry trees in Mari­stella’s garden. There are Morello cherries too. There are three plum trees and four apple trees. There is all kinds of fruit, Printz and Mari­stella eat fruit when it is ripe and Mari­stella climbs high up and is grubby. And she kneels on the branches. She climbs down the trees, yelling like an Indian as she climbs down.

  Mari­stella lies down.

  Open your legs, I want to see what it’s like inside. That is what Printz says.

  Mari­stella lies on the green grass, barberry flowers fall over her face, covering the little stars on her cheeks.

  You’ve got a little ball inside there, says Printz. It’s small and pink.

  That’s the vagina, Mari­stella tells Printz. That’s what my Mama says.

  Your vagina is pink, Printz accepts what Mari­stella says. He be­lieves her because he loves her. I’d like to touch it, says Printz.

  Go on then, whispers Mari­stella.

  Printz stretches out his index finger and slowly approaches Mari­stella’s little ball and touches it the way dandelion seeds waft through the air.

  It tickles, says Mari­stella, we have to go to kindergarten.

  It’s run away, says Printz in surprise. Your little ball’s hiding.

  Printz takes off Ernestina’s panties. He wipes her, wipes her in front and behind, it depends whether Ernestina has peed or pooed, pissed or crapped. Then he washes her. He places her on the bed, as big as she is, fat as she is and says open your legs and (with a small moist towel, light blue) wipes between her flabby buttocks, between her flaccid labia with their dramatically thinned pubic hairs. The opera singer Ernestina has not sung for a long time. A little lump, a mammogram, an operation, radiation. The pains come and go. They spread toward her neck, her fingers grow numb. The pains are called metastases. The pains come when the metastases come to life and drill. Ernestina is fat, Ernestina sweats and speaks loudly, Ernestina is seventy. Her husband, the chemist Rikard Dvorsky, feeds her. Rikard Dvorsky is old, older than his wife Ernestina. Rikard Dvorsky has occasional attacks of amnesia. His speech is sometimes confused, as though a secret inner hand had turned off the light somewhere then turned it on again. Feeding Ernestina irritates Rikard Dvorsky. He no longer calls her Tina, just Ernestina, and shoves food into her mouth tetchily. Ernestina does not have a chance to swallow it before Rikard thrusts the next mouthful at her. Ernestina has started to refuse. She spits out what Rikard tetchily pushes between her half-­closed teeth with his fingers. These meals are less appetizing by the day, Rikard cooks but Rikard’s nerves are fraying. All this, Ernestina’s illness, has been going on too long. The food is pigswill and it makes Ernestina-­Tina sick. Her arms hang at the edge of the table like two dead fish on their backs, white-­bellied, fattened and stiff, and she is hunched over with unwillingness. At the table, no one speaks. Tina does not speak because she cannot, because her mouth is constantly full. Rikard does not speak because he is angry and afraid. Printz does not speak because neither Tina nor Rikard wants to listen to him anymore, stop talking, they say.

  Printz quietly opens the door. His father is sitting in a pink armchair, switched off. The armchair is covered in pink velour, that is why it is pink. The armchair is fifty years old, or more. It has been dragged through the Dvorskys’ life, regularly reupholstered. It came with the house into which Comrade Rikard and Comrade Ernestina Dvorsky moved in 1948. So the pre­war life of the pink armchair will be forever unknown; all that is known is its post­war life, the post­war life of the pink armchair.

  It is dark in the room.

  Where’ve you been? asks Rikard Dvorsky.

  Watching rhinos, says Printz. They’re as fat as Mama.

  Rikard Dvorsky is sitting in the armchair.

  Printz says: Tomorrow let’s go to the mountains to clear our heads.

  Printz goes to the kitchen, it is a large kitchen, old-­fashioned, with a stained concrete floor, with a floor of red, yellow, and white concrete squares. It is a cheerful floor. Printz drinks milk from a jug. Printz adores milk, he drinks a lot of it. He pours a liter of cold milk into himself, standing up, squashing little lumps of curdled cream with his tongue.

  Rikard calls to Printz who is standing in the kitchen drinking cold milk: When we get back, Herzog is going to buy this flat. I’ve gi
ven him permission to buy the flat.

  What will happen to Rikard Dvorsky, what will happen to Printz when Herzog buys the flat? It is not a clever solution.

  That’s not clever. Where am I supposed to go? Where will Rikard go when Herzog buys this flat? It’s a convenient flat, elegant and spacious. It has lots of rooms, it has ornaments, it’s a nice flat. What will happen to us?

  It’s very quiet without Ernestina, says Rikard Dvorsky. What are we going to do with her things? She’s got a lot of things.

  Mari­stella did not come to the funeral.

  The best thing about the kindergarten is the snack. The kindergarten was set up in another villa, adapted for it. There is no furniture for adults, there is furniture for small children. It is kindergarten furniture, for children. The loaves are big and black and weigh two kilograms. The slices are heavy. The jam is a mixture of fruit. Dark. It comes in plastic containers, also big. The margarine comes in boxes. Everything in the kindergarten comes in large packets, not like at home, in little dishes of porcelain or crystal. Some dishes at home are edged with silver, with engravings of vines, silver vines. The slices are heavy because they are big, they are heavy with margarine and jam so they bend, they make a bridge in his hand. That bread is living bread, it moves. You can’t see fruit in that jam. Printz is surprised, Printz is little and he is surprised: Where does the fruit in the fruit jam go to? It is the fifties.

  Don’t provoke me! shouts the teacher with a moustache, a deep voice and broad feet.

  The teacher is angry and Printz does not know why. Printz does not understand what she is saying.

  I don’t understand what you’re saying, says little Printz.

  In the kindergarten they drink milk made from pale yellow powder, they drink diluted dust. They eat powdered eggs. The teachers stink and have hairy legs. The teachers are not beautiful like his mama, like Mari­stella’s mama. Mari­stella’s mama is even more beautiful than his, Printz’s mama, who is called Ernestina-­Tina, while Mari­stella’s mama is called Alma. In the kindergarten Tito’s portrait hangs high up and watches over all the children.

  When no jam comes, they send yellow cheese, which everyone calls Unra’s.*

  Is Unra a cow? asks Printz.

  The comrade teacher sends Printz to the corner. You’ll stay there as a punishment, she says.

  Printz (looking at the corner, looking at the ceiling, the ceiling is very high, it is an old villa): I’ve got a cow in the garden. My cow is called Kata. Her milk isn’t dusty. Her milk isn’t yellow. Her milk is as white as my eyes when I turn them up.

  The comrade teacher says: Get lost, you red-­bourgeois trash!

  Printz kneels in the corner and listens to the horse-­drawn vehicles. The streets have lots of horses and few cars, such are the times. The horse-­drawn vehicles rumble because not all the roads are smooth, they are cobbled, and on the carts big aluminium churns full of milk sway. In front of the doors women wait with saucepans in their hands and cold perms on their heads. His mama does not wait outside. His mama, Printz’s mama, sings.

  Aunty Hilda waits and calls Pupi, here’s the milk, Pupi. That was before the cow, before his grandpa bought the cow, which they milked in the garden, before Herzog was born.

  There are droppings in the streets.

  Printz says: Horses shit balls.

  This is an American ball, says Rikard to Printz. I bought it for you. Look how shiny it is, look how colorful it is.

  That was before Herzog as well. The first glass marbles were before Herzog too. There was a lot before Herzog. Herzog does not have any unusual events as memories, he just has ordinary things. Herzog does not remember the clay marbles, but he, Printz, remembers everything. Printz has an excellent memory. Herzog has no idea that before the colorful glass marbles there were only those ugly little balls that do not clink, Herzog has no clue that balls were made of rags and hardly bounced, in fact they did not bounce at all, they just rolled. The shiny American ball bounced, it bounced of its own accord.

  Printz does not like the American ball and he does not take it to bed with him. Printz takes the rag-­ball to bed with him. Aunty Hilda makes the best rag-­balls, the very best. She makes them from Rikard’s old socks, Rikard has a lot of old socks and keeps buying new pairs, so he has a lot of new socks as well. In general there are lots of socks in the house.

  You don’t have to keep rag-­balls, says Aunty Hilda. When they wear out, you make new ones.

  You have to look after American balls because they come from far away. That is what Rikard says. Don’t damage this ball, Rikard says to Printz. It’s an expensive ball and it comes from far away. Naturally Printz immediately damaged the American ball, the next day it got a hole in it, the air came out, it deflated and lay crumpled up in the garden. Printz had not liked the American ball from the start. Printz does not kick well because he has high shoes that are heavy. They are called Rudos.

  Aunty Hilda smells different from Printz’s mama. Printz knows, because Aunty Hilda tells him, that it is Black Cat, while Ernestina wears Chanel. Printz likes Black Cat. Black Cat is all around him, it fills the air.

  At the kindergarten, the children boast: We eat bread mash and potato paprikash.

  At home, Printz announces at the table: I want bread mash too. I don’t want meat.

  Rikard gets angry and shouts: Shame on you! As a punishment, there’ll be no supper for you, and Ernestina nods, she agrees. Ernestina always agrees, so as not to anger Rikard. Printz does not understand why there is so much punishment, why there are so many stern people. In bed he twists a lock of his black hair. Aunty Hilda comes secretly into his room and whispers: I’ll make you bread mash when we’re on our own. And I’ll take you to the cinema. That’s what Aunty Hilda says. Then Printz stops twisting the lock of his hair and falls asleep.

  The film is called The Stone Flower. The second film is called The Pike’s Command.

  Printz asks: What are pikes?

  Predatory fish. Freshwater fish, says Aunty Hilda, they can be bombardiers as well.

  Printz does not want to ask who is the one in the film giving commands, the fish or the aeroplane, so he does not ask anymore. He just waits. It is dark in the auditorium, while outside it is a sunny Sunday. Printz likes that. The third film is called Baš Čelik. Printz does not like the third film. Printz screams and holds Aunty Hilda’s hand.

  I don’t want to go to the cinema anymore, says Printz.

  Aunty Hilda smiles with her red lips: I’ll read you stories, she says.

  Mama doesn’t have such red lips, Printz says.

  I use Baiser, Baiser is dark red. Baiser means a kiss and it doesn’t rub off.

  Then Printz says to Aunty Hilda: Kiss me.

  The children from the kindergarten have cleats on their shoes. Their shoes clatter but Printz’s don’t, that’s why he says: I want cleats.

  Ernestina says: cleats are worn by the poor, cleats are primitive.

  Printz never got shoes with cleats.

  In the garden, Printz says to Mari­stella: Cut off your plaits. Bobbed hair is fashionable now.

  He also says: I’m going to be a sculptor. He says that while he and Mari­stella dig tunnels in her garden so that the moles can come out, after Mari­stella screamed:

  They’ll suffocate under the earth in the pitch dark, liberate the moles, Pupi.

  I’m going to be a sculptor, Pupi says again, carrying on digging.

  They wait for hours by the holes, no moles come out, only worms.

  You’re not going to be a sculptor, says the secret agent and chemist Rikard Dvorsky. You’ll work with me, we need people we can trust. You’ll be a chemist in the service of the state.

  That is how Printz became a chemist.

  Mari­stella has an exhibition in New York.

  Printz does not own an flat. Printz lives with Rikard, his
father, because he does not have an flat and he does not have the money to rent even a small one. Besides, this is more comfortable. It is more secure. It is protected and Printz needs protection even though he is no longer little.

  I’d like to be little.

  Printz did have an flat of his own, oh yes. Printz was given a socialist flat in socialist days and then he left it to Selena, who now has Printz’s socialist flat even though socialism has left. Selena spends most of the time in that flat lying down because she is drunk and there is no one to buy her stockings and she cannot go out without stockings because it is cold outside and her legs are full of broken capillaries, of varicose veins. She has no sheets on the bed, no pillowcase on the pillow. Selena’s clothes hang in the bathroom, all her clothes, skirts and sweaters and blouses, and they are ironed by the steam.

  Selena has hair as thin as down, reddish. One day Selena will wake up and she’ll be bald. I’ll buy her stockings so that she can walk through the city bald, in black stockings. Selena is bald because of hormones, her hormones are abandoning her, disappearing. When their hormones disappear, people crumple. My hormones occasionally go away as well, but they come back. Without hormones people grow darker, especially women. Selena was lovely when she had hormones. We won’t drink together anymore. I’ll buy her black stockings when this passes, this post­death situation.

  It will not pass, Pupi.

  Mari­stella, where are you, Mari­stella!

  Selena lies on Pupi’s bed, on Pupi’s bed with no bedclothes, in laddered nylons, wearing sunglasses so the light does not bother her. She lies in her flat with two double windows, looking out at a gas station and a little park where dog owners walk their pets twice a day, in a circle. She lies and looks at Pupi’s books, which she does not read. There are all kinds of books there, expensive ones.

  Enough!

  Selena lies in black stockings with ladders in them, surrounded by empty bottles, she lies like that and says out loud: Ernestina has died and I don’t have stockings for the funeral. Funerals require black stockings.