by Daša Drndic
From the park beneath the window comes damp air, smelling of urine. I’ve wet myself, says Selena.
Socialism refuses to give Printz another flat. Printz buys a flat, a small one. Soon afterward, Printz leaves that flat to Milena. Milena is Printz’s second wife. Printz likes getting married. It is a ceremonial act. Milena has two children although those children are not his, Printz’s children. I can’t live with you anymore, Printz says to Milena after a year or two, it doesn’t matter which, and goes, leaving her the flat, because what would Milena do without an flat, where would she go? Now Printz has no wardrobe. He has no books. Printz is fifty and he no longer works. Why does he not work?
They sent a letter. They said, thank you, you will get a pension. That pension is small, miserable.
Life abandoned him silently, his life slunk away secretly, without warning, Printz was not ready, he did not hear a thing, he had no idea.
What’s this? Some kind of recapitulation? Shoo!
I have to take care of Tina, my mama, says Printz to Maristella who shouts Pupi, you’re crazy!
When Mama Tina dies, I’ll have to take care of Rikard. I’ve got my hands full. When it’s all over, I’ll decide what to do. That is what Printz says. The flat is large, there are things to sell. I’ll see, says Printz.
There are a lot of silver trays in the flat. They are big trays with decorated handles that curl as though they were whining, coil like tiny snakes, they hold at least a dozen glasses, crystal of course. They are trays for liveried waiters but there are no liveried waiters. Some handles are curled like coils of women’s hair, some like vines. They are heavy trays from the Villa Nora. When guests come, Rikard and Ernestina Dvorsky take out special cutlery, also silver. The forks are big, the spoons are big, so are the knives. The cutlery is obviously old.
Pupi takes a bag.
Samsonite.
He fills the bag with silverware, silverware that Printz’s brother Herzog has not yet taken because it would have been awkward for him to have taken everything at once, that is what Herzog thought. There’s time, Herzog decided.
I’m leaving the menorah, I’m leaving the menorah as a memento. It holds seven long slender candles.
The dealer takes out the trays, dishes, cutlery. He takes them out slowly and turns them over in his hands. He runs his index finger over the monogram engraved on each article, runs it tenderly, as though stroking it. The monogram is HL. Fifty years have passed, he says. It’s impossible to trace the owner. This takes place in a small flat in the suburbs. In stuffy half-darkness, in secret. There are a lot of surnames beginning with “L,” says the dealer.
Leder, says Printz. I’ve looked into it.
That’s leather in German, says the dealer.
Leder — the owners of the Villa Nora. My information is very reliable. Are there descendants, look into that, find out.
I’ll do what I can, promises the dealer.
If you don’t get anywhere, melt it all down, melt it all and feed the beggars, says Printz and leaves.
At home, Ernestina, irradiated with cobalt, shrieks: All my silver’s gone! My own son has robbed me! I’ve been nurturing a snake in my bosom!
Rikard Dvorsky has a blackout and says nothing.
Printz drinks milk, he always drinks milk when there’s electricity in the air. Printz drinks milk and says: I’ll comb Tina’s wig. And he says: I’m going to comb your wig, Mama, then you can sing.
It is very cold but the Dvorsky family is cheerful. The Dvorsky family is healthy and young and asleep. And they no longer live in the Villa Nora. It is 1975. The city is shrouded in snow. It is night. Printz takes two suitcases
Samsonite
and leaves the flat. The flat is warm. Printz is wearing a nice jacket, fur, inside-out lambskin. The jacket is yellowish-brown and expensive. Printz has leather gloves lined with rabbit fur and high shoes lined with rabbit fur. Rabbit fur is soft and Printz’s toes are melting with rabbit softness.
I’m wrapped in animals, says Printz. I’m wrapped in dead animals. That’s the fashion, he says.
The Dvorsky family does not live in the Villa Nora any longer as the Villa Nora has been transformed into the residence of a nonaligned ambassador, maybe Egyptian, maybe Sudanese, if the Sudan was nonaligned. It was the age of nonalignment.
Printz carries the suitcases as though he is going on a trip, he carries them in an official manner. Printz goes to the railway station but it is late, it is very late, there are no trains. There are homeless people in the corners, on the wet station floor, spat on, peed on. The homeless people doze as though they are waiting. Some of them drink beer. The station is half dark.
Printz sits down on the threshold of the waiting room, in front of it, because the waiting room is locked just so as to stop the homeless people warming themselves inside. Just for that reason, says Printz. Printz shouts Come! and the homeless people, men and women, draw near. The homeless people are dirty and neglected. And dishevelled.
I’ve brought clothes. And food, says Printz, opening the suitcases. The homeless people drag, snatch and stuff things into their plastic bags, for the homeless always have plastic bags because it is all they have.
There aren’t any coats here, says a woman.
We can swap, he says, taking off his jacket of inside-out lambskin, yellowish brown, and putting on a thin lightweight coat covered in stains, crumpled. The sleeves are too short for me, says Printz.
Printz goes home with empty hands, without gloves lined with rabbit fur. Printz skips through the white landscape, nocturnal, whistling.
I feel light and cheerful.
The Dvorsky family is asleep. Printz goes to the kitchen and drinks three glasses of cold milk. Then he falls asleep in the pink armchair.
Printz opens out his folding camp bed. We’ll go away tomorrow, he says. We’re going away tomorrow, Papa.
Maybe I shouldn’t have let Herzog have this flat? Rikard Dvorsky wonders but no one responds. Printz says nothing or else he is asleep.
The curtains are not often washed, nor are the windows. The drapes are made of heavy satin, pink like the armchair. The rooms are bathed in opaque light, dense light that does not flicker but sticks to objects, pressing on them. It is a cold light that comes in slyly through small cracks.
Ernestina lies like rolled-out dough in the room of white wood run through with gold threads. The mirrors are crystal, of course, and there are three of them, one on the dressing table, two on the wardrobe doors. Ernestina is sleeping, she sleeps because the morphine injections are ever stronger, ever stronger, and she dreams, she dreams in bright colors that she is singing in the town where Maristella is currently exhibiting her paintings, oh, that bitch Maristella (and her mother Alma) abandoned Printz to go and buy little flats for unknown cunts.
At night father and son, Rikard and Printz Dvorsky, go into the study with bookshelves stretching across two walls, and over a whiskey they look at each other, watching a world disappear, their world, after which comes nothing, while the ice in their crystal glasses clinks and the flower pots flake, dry and rotten.
Printz is asleep.
I’m not asleep.
Printz is lying on a narrow camp bed beside the dining table, the table is long, made of rosewood and it has slender legs, ending in little lion paws. Printz is covered with a checked blanket, it is warm in the flat. Printz is not wearing pyjamas, it is silly to put on pyjamas when you are sleeping on a camp bed beside the dining table, it is silly to take your socks off. Printz’s socks are dry; after the rain at the funeral, after the rain at the zoo, they dried. Printz has black socks, knee-high, formal socks, for the opera and funerals — a blend of cotton and silk, expensive men’s socks.
Rikard Dvorsky lies in the double bed where his wife, the fat opera singer Ernestina-Tina, died and says: We’re going to the mountain
s tomorrow, Printz and I.
Female rhinos carry their young for fifteen months.
Mama Ernestina-Tina says, nine months, that’s an age.
It is the winter of 1950 and Herzog is being born. Everyone is waiting for Herzog. Grandpa and Grandma come from another city, also large, also old, also a capital. In the shared country there are several main cities but one main main city. The Dvorsky family comes from a smaller main city and was moved to the main main city because it was deserving. Grandpa sells one of his houses: Grandpa is a businessman and he has more than enough houses and shops. Grandpa sells a house and buys a cow so that Herzog has milk. It’s better not to have a lot of houses, whisper the family round the engraved table, they’ll get taken from you in any case. Grandpa has never had a cow before, he does not know anything about cows, he does not know how to milk them. Grandpa puts the cow in the garden behind the Villa Nora because Nora is the name of the villa in which Printz is now living.
When Printz was on the way, they did not sell anything big, just little things, and there was a lot of poverty, postwar. Printz was born in a Catholic city, then they moved to an Orthodox city. He was little. Printz was not baptized as either Catholic or Orthodox — that is all right. That does not bother Printz. Had he been baptized into any faith, Printz would have rejected it by now. When Printz was born, books were sold. And some clothes. It was 1946. Printz’s grandmother waited in line for one egg, for one hollow bone to make soup. She waited all morning, the lines were long. It was 1947. Printz’s grandmother whisks the egg with sugar, it is disgusting, she gives half to Printz, half to Maristella. Printz and Maristella eat whisked egg yolk in postwar poverty because Printz and Maristella were born in the same lesser main city and were moved at the same time to the main main city because their fathers had the same duties, State and secret.
Open your mouth, says Printz’s grandmother, here’s something lovely. Printz is obedient, Printz has always been obedient, he opens his mouth because neither he nor Maristella can talk yet. They know how to cry and laugh. Printz’s grandmother has a soft chin that wobbles.
The theaters are full, Mama Tina sings and she is very fat while little Herzog has a big nose and fair hair. And light-colored eyes. Herzog is Printz’s brother. They do not look alike. They tell Printz — stay here, we’re going to bring you a brother. They leave him for two days. He waits. He waits outside, by the door. Aunty Hilda wears a lacy apron, it is very small, as though meant for Maristella’s dolls. Aunty Hilda has a little white cap. The cap is small as well. Aunty Hilda opens and closes the front door, looks out, makes sure that he, Printz, is there. Where else would he be? He is four years old, they told him to wait wait, we’re going to bring you a brother. He waits, and it is snowy outside. The garden is deep in snow and it sparkles. It is quiet waiting in the snow, in front of the thick front door, brown, with a yellow knocker in the middle. The knocker is the brass head of a troll with bulging eyes. Aunty Hilda says: You’ll freeze, Pupi. I want to see my brother, says Printz, adding: don’t call me Pupi. I’m Printz. They are coming. The car is gray and called an Opel. There are not many gray Opels around. Mama Tina sits on the edge of the bed, the curtains are flowery, Herzog suckles, Printz touches, Tina shouts: Don’t touch! Printz touches, Mama Tina shouts don’t touch, don’t ever touch either him or me! Printz’s fingers burn.
It is 1950. They tell Printz, they keep repeating, constantly repeating: remember this, they say. Remember this street, remember the number of the house, 23, remember, your name is Printz Dvorsky, your mama is called Ernestina-Tina and your papa Rikard. Mama sings at the opera, papa is a chemist at the Institute. Say that if you ever get lost, don’t ever wander off on your own. Aunty Hilda is here. The street is called Tito Street. And then they say: Your brother is called Herzog.
Herzog has a big nose, he is big all over, a big baby, with green snot dripping from his nose.
Perhaps it is 1953. It is winter again and again there is a lot of snow. Everyone is shrieking, even Aunty Hilda, who never shrieks. Where’s Herzog! the people in the house yell, running up and down. The Villa Nora has two staircases. It goes on for a long time, that searching through the house, the house is full of hidden places. Printz is wearing yellow pyjamas with little bears printed haphazardly on them, he has brown slippers on his bare feet. Printz goes to the garden shed. The cow is there but no Herzog. The hens are asleep. The snow is wet. Printz leaves the garden and sets off along the yellow street that is now white because the trees are bare so the whiteness is reflected from the sky. Printz does not look up. Up there it can be dark and Printz is afraid. At the top of the street is the main road. Printz walks along the deserted main road alone, in his yellow pyjamas, it is very quiet. Printz walks, twisting a lock of his black hair. Printz is seven. Printz walks for a long time. His feet are wet, he has no socks on, only small slippers. The main road is decorated with shops. Some shops have lights on, some do not, but all the shops are poor because it is 1953, under socialism. The shop windows are filled with various tiny objects, so that passersby can see what is inside. There is food, sausages and small chocolate bars, expensive, there are books with various drawings, there are New Year decorations, rubber slip-on shoes, bales of cretonne, knitted hats, garden spades and forks, there is the occasional toy, wooden. In early socialism there are no shops with specific things, and there are no glass marbles or lacquered balls and the notebooks are thin. The shops are collective and they are called stores.
Printz’s walk lasts a long time. Then, at the end of the main road, far from the Villa Nora, very far, Printz comes to a shop window in great disorder and says: Let’s go home, Herzog. Printz’s lips are black with cold, Herzog’s nose is running with thick green snot and they toddle off down the street towards the Villa Nora, soaking wet. There is no one anywhere.
I’ll kill you! shouts Mama Tina, looking at Printz while she dresses Herzog.
Rhinos live in bare places, isolated places, and they roam. Sometimes they run in a panic, as though demented.
Rhino horns are not real horns, they do not grow out of the skull. They are soft horns, made of matter like nails, like hair. Rhinos travel alone. When they give birth to little rhinos, that is the only time they are not alone. The mothers take care of the little rhinos until a new little rhino is born. Then the mothers abandon the first little rhino, saying: now you are grown up, off you go. The first little rhino is still small although it is bigger than the new rhino, just born, which is very small and helpless. So, rhinos roam alone, because the mothers cannot manage several little rhinos at the same time. Mother rhinos can only be bothered with one baby, not with two.
Come out, screams Mama Ernestina-Tina. Ernestina has a penetrating voice. When she screams Come out! it is as though she were in the theater on the stage. She has spread her legs wide, everything is wet. Beside the bed stands Maristella’s mother Alma, stroking Tina’s forehead and whispering it’ll be all right, Tina, everything will be all right. Push. Maristella’s mother Alma is not yet fat but she soon will be because five months later Maristella will be born.
Oh, Maristella, where are you!
His mother is very fat. She is bathed in sweat and steaming. There is a lot of noise outside. His mother is angry. That outside din upsets him, it is quite all right inside. On Ernestina’s upper lip moisture gathers in little drops that glisten. Those little drops keep collecting. And when she died, when she stopped breathing, her nostrils glistened. That disgusted Printz. He did not like Ernestina kissing him because then she passed her moistness onto him, onto his face. He always wiped it off.
Printz, who would later be called Pupi, does not want to come out. He refuses. Ernestina strains, so does Printz. Ernestina pushes, Printz uses his tiny hands to hold onto the slippery walls of the inside and goes back into the darkness, turning his head away, there is a painful brightness outside. Printz presses his lips into a hard, crinkled “o.” They ar
e little lips as blue as a plum.
Plums cost 50 dinars in 1946.
They are tiny lips pressed into a bud, tightly pressed together as though protecting themselves from sourness.
A lemon cost 100 dinars in 1946.
Printz uses his wrinkled feet to press against the walls of velvety darkness because his hands are no longer enough. He turns pale blue, dark blue, black. Nothing flows, only his great resistance drums, Printz is suffocating. Printz wants to lose consciousness so that he does not have to come out, ever.
They pull him out by force.
He is pulled out by a family friend, the vet Oto. Oto says: calves are easier to deliver than your baby, Tina. The family vet never comes to visit again. The Dvorsky family moves to a different city, and when the cow, with two pigs and seven bare-necked hens that lay speckled eggs moved into the long street, into the garden behind the Villa Nora, a vet used to come who was not allowed into the drawing room.
The blanket is soft, it is dark in the blanket.
They leave Printz to get warm. Printz quivers because he is angry.
That is how Printz was born.
That’s how I, Printz, was born.
Printz’s baby carriage stands beside Maristella’s for a photograph. Maristella’s baby carriage is elegant, big and high, her baby carriage is white. Maristella has a little cap on her head and a bright knitted jacket. Maristella is like a doll. Maristella’s clothes are pink, maybe yellow, maybe light blue, you cannot tell from the photograph because it is not a color photograph. There is snow on the ground. The hardness of the ground can be sensed. His baby carriage looks old. Printz is wrapped in a dark blanket of rough material and he is cold, that is obvious from the photograph. Printz is squinting. Maristella is laughing. Maristella is toothless and she is laughing. Printz is looking straight ahead, at what, we don’t know. Printz is not laughing. It is snowing. Then they are moved.