Doppelgänger

by Daša Drndic

  I’m Estonian, says Ugo Tutz­man.

  Estonia is known for its black pudding. Would you like us to talk about Estonia? asks Printz.

  Estonia separated itself from the Soviet Union in 1991. It is now independent. Estonia is a small country, good for holidays. I have not been to Estonia for a long time. About fifty years, says Ugo Tutz­man.

  Printz: The soil is marshy.

  Ugo: The country is good for long walks.

  Printz: There are no more coupons for gas or vouchers for food. That has been abolished.

  Ugo: Estonia is now waiting for tourists, because Estonia is a country the size of Switzerland and there are no more lines for bread anymore either. In Estonia today there is plenty of bread for everyone.

  Printz: Estonia lies on the Baltic Sea and has a lot of islands and islets. One could say — Estonia is an island country. I’m from an island country too.

  Ugo: There are mosquitoes.

  Printz: There are 1,470 indigenous plants.

  Ugo: Estonia has rich fauna. Estonia has a lot of deer. There are ten kinds of rare amphibians.

  Printz: The amphibians are protected by law. They must not be killed, but they can be photographed.

  Ugo: Estonia is famous for its eagles. For golden eagles and white-­tailed eagles. There are also speckled eagles and rare owls.

  Printz: Estonia is best known for the European flying squirrel.

  Ugo: Flying squirrel?

  Printz: European.

  Ugo: The Soviet Union did not attack Estonia. It let her go. Estonia is a Catholic country.

  Printz: No children were killed. I have a soft spot for children. No towns were destroyed. Towns in the neighboring countries were shelled.

  Ugo: That was a long time ago, ten years or so ago. Why didn’t you go to defend those towns?

  Printz: My connection hanged himself. Maybe you’ve got some old shoes I could have?

  The church bells penetrate ever more loudly into Ugo Tutz­man’s room. The little animals in Printz’s head wake up. The swans float. Printz does not like that. If he does not do something, the clanging of the bells will overwhelm the space, it will fill Ugo Tutz­man’s room, then there will be no space in that room for him, Printz.

  Your windows don’t keep out the noise, says Printz.

  Printz is uneasy.

  He thought: here he was in a zone of peace, the wars are over, his body has found harmony, he has got used to things, he has fitted into his own life. These bells irritate him.

  It took me a long time to fit in, says Printz. I don’t want any changes.

  Printz also carries ants in himself, he carries the nests of short black worms. The nests of worms are woven into balls like balls of black wool and at the moment they are still. The ants are also still. If the worms and ants come to life, that will hurt Printz, the ants will bite him, they are red ants, the worms will come out of his mouth and eyes, they will wriggle under his fingernails, he could not bear that. No. And again, no, no way.

  The Catholic Church gets on my nerves, says Printz to Ugo Tutz­­man.

  Ugo Tutz­man smiles: You’re a naive man, he says.

  The Catholic Church is the murderer of a child’s soul, Printz goes on. The Catholic Church destroys all individuality. The Catholic Church cannot endure anyone who is not Catholic. It endures only Catholics. It despises others. Its aim is to turn everyone into Catholics, into unthinking creatures, into its mentally enslaved subjects. The Catholic Church is full of stupid missionaries, bigoted missionaries. Those missionaries go to non-­Catholic countries, they go to Africa, they go to Alaska, they go everywhere although no one invites them. What do Eskimos need with the Catholic faith? As soon as they have been poisoned with Catholicism, Eskimos stop making their miraculous sculptures, their art dies out with them. Have you seen Eskimo sculptures before and after the Catholic invasion? They cannot be compared! As soon as they convert, as soon as they become Catholics, their art dies, their art becomes universal, Catholic, as recognizable as a plastic gondola. That is a crime. The Catholic Church tells people fairy tales in order to break them, in order to subjugate them to its will, transform them into blind Catholics devoted exclusively to it, the Catholic Church. The Catholic Church offers its faithful myths, one after another, and myths are an integral and eternally active part of primitive culture. Ergo, the Catholic Church is a primitive church. Myths give inaccurate explanations of all phenomena, those of human life and those of the natural world. Myths are based on ignorance, on lack of understanding and that is why they are a lie, because if they were not a lie, they would not be myths. Myths, legends and fairy tales avoid science, history, philosophy, for science, history and philosophy are the murderers of every myth.

  Countries that proclaim themselves Catholic are chronically backward, they are backward countries. The Catholic Church is a great exploiter, the greatest capitalist, it is an inquisitor and manipulator. I do not wish to mention priests and so-­called reverend sisters. What sisters, what brothers, they are idlers who are fed by their flock, their sheep. Fanatics, fascist, Nazi, nationalist collaborators, liars, unbelievers. Catholics are the greatest unbelievers. Put the blinds down, Mr. Tutz­man, I can’t leave as long as this clerical din lasts.

  Oh, Mr. Dvorsky, don’t oblige me to tell you about Orthodoxy. How much of a stench there is about that religion! You really are a naive man, shouts Ugo Tutz­man as he pulls the tattered blinds down.

  While Ugo Tutz­man talks, Printz rubs away the dark flakes between his toes. He still hopes to get some shoes, of any kind. That’s why he waits. That’s why he listens. That’s why he’s angry. And, he is tense. Printz is tense because he feels like drinking his cognac, he wants to open his bottle, wallow in its golden fragrant infinitude. He can hardly wait. He will let the cascades of aqua vitae wash over his brain, he will observe the transformation of his brain, his awakening, yes, that’s it — he will wake up. He will watch the grayish-­black, shriveled and dead mass like cooled lava in his skull begin to swell, to float, to sway in the aromas of the past. Printz will go in between his eyes and see his brain acquiring color, becoming like pink lamb’s lungs, he will follow the metamorphosis of his brain into a thirsty spongy body, light and porous as a cuttlefish bone. Printz can hardly wait, oh, Printz is longing for rebirth. When he is reborn, Printz will beat like a heart, all over.

  Printz wants to drink the bottle of cognac which he has received from Ugo Tutz­man in return for the silverware belonging to Isa­bella Fischer who no longer exists, who has presumably died, Printz wants to drink that bottle alone, alone, in the winter silence, without the presence of Ugo Tutz­man and his tedious stories about Catholic Estonia, because stories about Catholic Estonia irritate Printz. He forgot to tell Ugo Tutz­man how particularly irritating he finds it that some Catholics believe that women are dirty when they bleed so they forbid them from washing, so those women then stink, they reek, especially in summer, then they reek like skunks and spread their bodily pong around them, for the Catholic Church in any case sees female creatures as unclean creatures and bans them from any enjoyment of sex. Printz has forgotten to tell Ugo Tutz­man that the Catholic Church teaches Catholic women to dissemble, that the most faithful Catholic women dissemble the most, especially when they climax and that he, Printz, cannot possibly accept that because he wants to share his sexual pleasures, only in recent times he has not had anyone to share them with. There. The Catholic stories about Catholic Estonia are making Printz itch all over, on his scalp, in his crotch even, and then he scratches, but Printz finds scratching unseemly because Printz has style.

  Perhaps Pupi is dirty and that’s why he scratches?

  Printz says: Something is making me itch. I won’t spend the night here, Mr. Tutz­man.

  Do you eat enough vegetables? asks Ugo Tutz­man. One should eat a lot of vegetables, especially raw.

  What do you think a
bout the godless, Mr. Tutz­man? asks Printz. What could the godless wear on little chains round their necks? A golden sickle and hammer? A clenched fist? A five-­pointed star? I am sickened by gold crosses, medallions with the images of Jesus and the mother of God, the six-­pointed star of David, Buddha and Amun-­Ras large and small, the keys of life — people dangle all of that around their necks and usually it is all a lie, an ordinary barefaced lie. Isn’t it time to introduce a variation of the theme of faith?

  Long ago Epicurus of Samos affirmed that the gods are not as they are portrayed in the collective consciousness, as they are imagined by the human herd. Such gods do not exist. Epicurus believed that the gods in which the people believe are in fact a sickness of the soul, they came about out of fear of the unknown, out of fear of death.

  Yes, Mr. Tutz­man, Printz Dvorsky agrees, the people are seriously sick, their gods are an illusion, their gods play with them cruelly. The people are sick, while individuals are locked up in madhouses.

  The person who rejects gods is not godless, the godless are those who attribute to them the opinion of the masses. Mr. Tutz­man has talked at length, but it is clear that the end of his story is near. It is enough. Enough for Ugo Tutz­man and enough for Printz Dvorsky. Enough. Just this, then goodbye, says Ugo Tutz­man. What most people affirm about gods is not based on reliable conceptions of them, but on false conceptions. So, down with rituals, down with astrology, down with the mantic, long live ataraxia!

  I feel like a bull, says Printz. I feel like a hydrangea, says Printz. I’m leaving, he says, and goes.

  Printz has his chosen trash cans, he does not rummage through any old trash can. Printz examines only those found in refined parts of the city. He does not want any old trash. When he digs around in trash cans, Printz is orderly. He perfected his orderliness in chemistry laboratories, for in chemical laboratories, orderliness is essential, particularly if it is connected with research, for instance, with the investigation of murders, especially if they are political and secret service murders. Order and cleanliness reign in chemistry laboratories.

  I’m very dirty. I don’t know how that happened.

  When he rummages through the trash cans, Printz has a system, so the rummaging goes quickly, without a pause. So, for instance, Printz first removes all packaging from milk, cheese, cream — sweet and sour, all the plastic bags, all drink cartons, all plastic bottles and glasses, liter-­sized, half-­liter sized and very small ones. Then he arranges his acquisitions on the pavement or a trimmed hedge if there is one nearby. Then he empties out their contents: in every discarded bottle, cup, in every drink carton there is always at least a finger-­full of cream, at least a gulp of liquid. Printz drinks it all, licks it all up, then he says: I’ve had enough. Then he puts all the packages back into the trash can.

  When he rummages through trash cans, Printz appears calm.

  Trash cans calm me.

  The streets are empty. It is still snowing. A lot has fallen. In the inside pocket of his Burberry, Printz is warming the bottle of Martell XO Supreme.

  The HL monogram has gone from my life forever.

  Printz is pleased.

  I made a good deal. An excellent exchange.

  Printz sits down on the edge of the pavement. The pavement is wet. Printz is fifty-­five. He drinks his cognac. He drinks slowly. He is enjoying it. He knows how much one can enjoy cognac. It is still snowing.

  It would be good to have a proper glass, a brandy glass. The aroma of cognac is strong.

  Printz is becoming increasingly white. His black hair is becoming increasingly white. His Burberry is becoming increasingly white. The snow covers the stains of meat pie, dirt and red wine, the stains on Printz’s clothes.

  Now I’ve got a white Burberry, white Florsheim shoes.

  Otherwise, under his Burberry, Printz is wearing a Pierre Cardin shirt, worn-­out, its collar is black. Printz has a silk Dior tie, maroon, with diamonds in a diagonal row. The tie is also full of blotches. Printz is full of blotches. Blotched. Printz had tidied himself for his visit to Ugo Tutz­man, that was a habit from the past, tidying oneself when going on a visit. By his feet lies his Samsonite briefcase with the encoded lock. The briefcase contains Printz’s life and Printz’s Oral-B toothbrush. And Oral-B floss, mint-­flavored, waxed, because Printz does not like silk Oral-B for the teeth, he likes the waxed kind.

  I’ve got strong teeth. I’ve changed my mind, I won’t have them out.

  Printz is tired. Printz is sleepy. The landscape is white. The landscape is deserted. Empty. Printz has merged with the landscape. It is no longer possible to see that it is Printz sitting on the edge of the pavement. The bottle of Martell XO Supreme is empty, of course.

  I’ll lie down for a bit.

  Printz breathes deeply. It seems that he is sleeping. Printz smiles.

  I’m not asleep. Birds are flying inside me. Their wings make big waves of air. I am swaying on those waves. Quiet earthquakes flow along my veins. I am walking through arcades with shops selling old lace. The Marquis de Sade is wearing a gray coat and a white muff. My fingers are frozen. I would like to have a white muff.

  Incredible things do happen.

  It is an early winter morning. The street is deserted and very quiet, as most streets are on early winter mornings. An old lady is walking along the street. She is walking slowly and with difficulty, because the snow is deep. The old lady stops beside the white tramp lying on the pavement, curled up like a huge fetus, like a snowy hill, so that he looks clean. So that he looks serene, he does not look at all tramp-­like. The old lady stoops over the body. She brushes the snow away. It is the body of a middle-­aged man. The old lady says: I must sit down and sits down on the pavement. The old lady sits down with great difficulty because she is old, she is eighty and has stiff knees. The old lady is crying. They are little tears, with old people everything dries up, including tears. With old people everything becomes tiny the way their footsteps are very tiny. The old lady brushes the snow from the sleeping man’s hair, he must be asleep, oh, he’s certainly asleep, says the old lady several times so that it sounds like a prayer although the old lady is not praying, it is clear that she is not praying because it does not occur to her to put her hands together and kneel and gaze up to the sky, it does not occur to her, evidently. Besides, the sky is quite invisible.

  The old lady bends down, she puts her lips to the tramp’s ear and whispers: Pupi Pupi Pupi Pupi Pupi. The old lady whispers for several minutes, say five. Not everything she whispers is audible, maybe she says something else as well, not just Pupi Pupi Pupi. While she whispers, the old lady strokes the man’s face. It looks heartbreaking. It looks like a scene from a Hollywood color film except that there are no curtains of music to increase the emotion. The old lady has a wrinkled hand with deformed fingers, she has a hard palm, not rough, just stiff with age. This man is fifty-­five and his name is Pupi, says the old lady, looking around, but there is no one there.

  The man stirs. The man’s eyelids flicker. The man turns his face toward the sky as though he was blind, but he is not blind, he is just sniffing the air. Perhaps he turns his face toward the old lady, it cannot be known, it cannot be seen. Then the man says: Aunty Hilda. Aunty Hilda, I’ve wet my pants.

  The rhinos are outside now because it is spring. The rhinos are running round the arena, trotting in a circle. The ground is dry, there is no grass, the grass has not yet sprouted as it is only early spring, not late. When they run in a circle, dust rises behind the rhinos. There are two rhinos. They always keep two rhinos in this zoo, male and female, regardless of the situation. It is not known whether they are the rhinos from five or six years ago, the ones that self-­harm like the Marquis de Sade, it is not known.

  Printz says: Aunty Hilda, it’s spring now. I’m leaving.

  In the nineteenth century a seventy year old Viennese man drove seven long nails into his head with a heav
y hammer. The old man did not die immediately. He changed his mind and went to the hospital covered in blood. At the hospital he expired, of course. For the burial they did not take the nails out. His relatives said: leave the nails, don’t take them out. If he had wanted them out, he would have done it himself. And so, a disproportionately wide coffin was ordered. Because of the nails sticking out of the old man’s head. In a fan shape. The Viennese man looked like the Statue of Liberty.

  Aunty Hilda is standing on the doorstep, waving. Aunty Hilda makes small waves, short waves, with her arm bent at the elbow. Her outstretched fingers are at the height of her withered breasts, low for waving, in other words, so Aunty Hilda looks as though she was frightened. Aunty Hilda has a rigid elbow, from old age, from gout, that is why she waves with small strokes. When she was young, Aunty Hilda waved differently. She waved with her arm held high over her head, lazily and elegantly, broadly, as though she was cleaning big windows, she did not wave in small strokes. When Pupi went to his kindergarten, when he walked away down the yellow road, Aunty Hilda’s arm swayed like a palm branch, becoming smaller and smaller.

  In 1970, in Great Britain, the body of an unknown man was found in a crack in a rock. Above the crack rises a cliff thirty meters high. Both the crack and the cliff are in the vicinity of the promontory called Land’s End. There is a similar place in France, but in France it is called Finistère, there are places like that everywhere, they designate the end of the land. So, one could say, the unknown man reached the point where the land pours into the sea, solid state into the aggregate, durability into the elusive. He was a very pedantic person, dressed like a true English gentleman, although he was in fact American. The man was wearing striped trousers, a black jacket, lacquered shoes and a bowler hat. He had an umbrella over his arm. The man had stuffed himself with sleeping tablets and gone down the path to the cutting, then turned westward, toward the sea, and fallen asleep. The police discovered that, although he was American, the man had lived in London for a long time. In Great Britain the promontory Land’s End, or the end of the world, the end of the earth, is at the most prominent English point, the point that is closest to America. The man died looking in the direction of his homeland. He could not, of course, see his homeland, because America cannot be seen from an English promontory, but the man was undoubtedly imagining his homeland. How he imagined it is impossible to conceive: everyone imagines his homeland differently.