When I wake up, I’m in a hospital. The walls are not white, but a greyish beige. They say I’ve had an accident. I’ve lost sight in one eye and the movement in one of my arms, but the most important thing is that I’m alive. A woman enters the room, cries, and hugs me. She smells like linen and jam. Beside her stands a girl who says,
“Hi Dad.”
I hug the girl. Her body is as compact and solid as an athlete’s.
An investigator wants to talk to me. He apologizes for the injuries I have sustained and assures me that the interview is a pure formality. I have done the neighborhood a big favor. The boys I killed were scum.
“We should have more people like you,” he says, taking my hand. It’s sweaty, and he pulls back his own a little too hastily.
I am moved back into what used to be my home. I do my best to behave as if I understand what is happening. When she who calls herself my wife tells me about her day at work, I listen and nod.
We lie next to each other, curled up like little balls. We constantly invent new movements. We are animals, and animals will not be subdued. We don’t beg for help. We are not to be pitied. We fall asleep lying close together. It must be completely acceptable to get up in the middle of the night and go to the toilet or out on the balcony to smoke a cigarette. I should be able to resist. I lie there, looking at her in the light from the hallway, and don’t manage to move. I want to stretch out my hand and stroke my fingers gently across her cheek.
*
It is Sunday. A girl leaps from the fifth floor wearing an Alice in Wonderland costume. Her friends pull her up from the concrete and take her to the emergency room. It’s late winter. A slushy winter.
The broadband isn’t working well. At least twenty percent of your portfolio should be weighted toward emerging economies. Inflammation. Bulging eyes and the hope of a short convalescence. Impatience. Information. Intravenous. Solar eclipse. Suicide. Sanitary napkin. A chaotic tumult.
Marie screams.
She kicks and hits.
She has lost the green duck.
I bend down by the sofa, stick my right hand under it, and press my fingers forward in order to grab hold of the little duck which is lying a little further in. I press myself more closely to the floor while I attempt to squeeze my shoulders underneath so my hand will reach further and my fingers will find their way, but first I have to lift the sofa itself with my left hand, which is not and never will be as strong as the right hand, but which nevertheless succeeds in lifting it high enough so that both my arm and my head slide underneath it just at the moment when my fingers encircle the duck’s head.
*
I sign up for duty in a foreign mission. It’s not a personal desire, I tell my wife one evening, it’s a mission. We fly low over a mountain chain at night, and I see no sign of life beneath us. At the camp I meet a young man whose name is Omer. He has a scar across his left cheek. His eyes are glittering. We are given the task of cleaning the toilets together, and we tell each other stories to pass the time. He tells me that his father grew up in a Yemeni village more than eighty years ago. At the age of sixty he left the village and married Omer’s mother. He looks around when he tells the story, speaking in a low voice. There is an intimacy in his tone. We scrub the urinals assiduously.
In the twilight, just before I fall asleep, some people approach me. They encroach on me from all directions, but I can’t see what they are holding in their hands. Suddenly, I am surrounded. They stand there for a couple of seconds. Then they start shooting. They can’t be bothered to aim, they just lift the barrels of their guns and fire away. The bullets are fired again and again. I shoot back. The first shot hits the closest one in the thigh. He falls immediately, but the rest of them remain, unflustered, and continue to hammer the bullets in our direction. I spot Omer. He is lying in a pool of blood on the floor. I can’t help staring at his hands. Afterwards all is silent.
*
One day.
Then another.
Then yet another.
Desert.
One of them extracts the toenail of my big toe. I scream with pain. Another stretches out my cock and makes an incision along the shaft.
I writhe away, but they hold me down.
I pass out.
I am woken by the pain in my crotch. It stabs me all the way up into my stomach. I lie in a small, dark room. I feel around with my fingers. A stone in the floor is loose. When I kick at it with my heel, I catch a glimpse of the light in the floor below. I understand that I am supposed to find my way out of the room. I dig and tear away stones until the hole is large enough. Then I jump down. The room is empty. I approach a door, open it, and start walking down a corridor. Suddenly I see a man leap from behind a box. In his hand he has a machine gun which peppers bullets towards me with a deafening blare. I attempt to fling myself sideways, but it’s too late and the bullets riddle my body, again and again. I get up. I throw myself at him and strangle him with my bare hands. His neck is so soft. He looks surprised. I don’t let go until I hear the sound of others nearby. I find a pistol and shoot those who are coming towards me. I regain control of my body and storm on. I am in a zone where everything is possible. The bullets whine past my ears. I get hit in the shoulder, am torn to the ground, but refuse to fall, and continue running.
*
My doctor has a mild, warm face, and tells me that she has a daughter who is the same age as mine. I think to myself that it’s easier to imagine how her face looked when she was cramming for that first exam in physiognomy than when she gave birth to her daughter. She asks if I am tired, are you tired, she asks, emphasizing the first part of tired, as if she is as tired as I am.
I constantly find new reasons to visit the doctor. On the padded chairs in her hallway, others sit waiting, but they are not like me. I have showered and am freshly shaved. I don’t badger her and always remember to pay. She refers me to specialists, but it’s her I want to talk to. At night I sneak into the toilet and masturbate while I fantasize about her. She doesn’t undress. She remains sitting in her doctors’ coat, watching me while smiling. Then she stretches out her hand and touches me. She holds me tightly. When I am having sex with my wife, I close my eyes and think about her. She allows me to come closer to her than anyone else. We grow together. I have to fight to avoid coming straight away and open my eyes. My wife has closed her eyes. She leans her head backwards. I hold out.
One day at work I look up her Facebook profile. I don’t understand why I haven’t done this before. I hear footsteps behind me and I immediately click back to the order invoice I was typing on. A colleague says:
“We have three outstanding from Kronberg, should I take them, or will you do it?” “I can do it,” I reply, and he turns behind me and says “Facebook-babes, huh? Thought you were settled.”
*
I’m standing in a park. It’s Sunday. My daughter sits in her stroller next to me. We have forgotten to bring water, but my wife has been shopping. She crosses the street, her head at a slight angle, as if she is zooming in on me with her eyes. I think that I have now succeeded. This was all it took. It’s morning. There’s hardly anyone around. Only the birds.
The car that hits her is a yellow Golf with grimy side windows. Afterwards she lies completely still on the pavement. I turn the stroller so my daughter won’t see. The driver is a woman in her fifties wearing a large shawl. She drops down onto her knees next to my wife. This is the moment when I should go towards them, but I just stand there, hearing my daughter cry.
Three days later there is a letter in the mailbox. It’s a love letter from my wife. She loves my mouth and how I get European capitals starting with B mixed up. Budapest, Bratislava, Berlin. Bucharest. I can recognize her cough anywhere. The thin body that rattles with every cough.
*
I have stopped waking up.
I go to bed every night.
I brush my teeth.
I take out my contact lenses.
I read a comic
about zombies.
I fall asleep and dream that it’s morning.
My daughter is already up. She is standing in the kitchen making breakfast. She is wearing a pink bathrobe and preparing crisp bread with brown goat’s cheese. She is talking about how drunk she was when she came home last night. Then she continues to read the paper. Her face is hard. It’s overcast outside, but the light is still terribly sharp. I understand that my wife is dead. She has lost the battle against lymphatic cancer and was buried a few weeks ago. I am uncomfortable in my new role as sole caregiver. Marie looks at me and asks if I want something to eat. I say I don’t feel well and am just going to lie down a little. She looks at me with a worried expression. I assure her that it’s not serious and go back into the bedroom. I lie down and fall asleep almost immediately.
It’s dark outside. There is no one else in the house. I lie there listening to the cars driving past. Everything is the same, nothing changes. I know that there are enemies under every roof. I can see that the leaves on the trees are concealing larvae. I am conscious of what is happening. I have a definite will. I am aware of the difficulties.
*
Marie and I travel by ferry from Trondheim to Båtsfjord. I am going to show her Norway. We have been saving up for eight months. Our cabin is airy with a large window facing the horizon and the islands in the open sea. In the evening we have the Fruits of the Sea menu together with a couple from Botswana.
The next morning I get up before her. I walk around the almost empty ship. We are far out at sea, and it’s still dark outside. Out on deck I catch sight of a man who is taking photos of something in the water. When I get closer I see that it is the man who tortured me. I go over to him. I stand there studying the fingers holding the camera. The nails are bitten a long way down. I leap up and kick him in the neck. The camera flies over the edge. I tumble to the ground. The man hangs over the railing. Suddenly I feel unsure of whether it is him or not. He turns. Now I’m sure. It’s not him. But I’ve seen his face before. Maybe we were once childhood friends. Maybe we sat next to each other at a bar counter. I want to apologize. I want to make the situation different. But he leaps at me, grabs hold of my head and starts banging it against the deck.
*
I start again.
This time I am in the Arctic wilderness. It’s twilight. I creep along an iceberg that’s several hundred meters high. In the distance, I can hear the ice crack. I am on a mission to locate a defector from Ukrainian special forces who has stolen three nuclear warheads and has a plan to destroy the world. With my night binoculars I see everything. I have walked for several miles and will continue for several more, but suddenly I can sense my motivation failing me. I don’t want to, I think. I sit down. I think of Marie. It gets warmer and warmer.
*
It’s morning. Marie comes in with breakfast for me. She says that I am going to get better soon. She’s gotten a job in the Research Institute of the Armed Forces. She now has a boyfriend who is a top diplomat who can speak six languages. They do a lot of hiking in the mountains and have already decided never to have any children. I grind my teeth and know that the sound is unendurable. I open my eyes wider and wider. I press my fingers into my thigh. She disappears. It’s light outside, but the blackout curtains make the room dark.
*
I start again.
I am the token female in a comedy show on TV Norway. I squeeze my thighs tightly together under my short skirt. This does not make sense. I am in an institution. The walls are not white, they are a greyish beige. On the TV close to the ceiling, I see the token female in a comedy show. She squeezes her thighs tightly together under her short skirt. A nurse comes over to me. He asks me to come with him. I struggle to get up from the chair but manage it in the end. He accompanies me to the Director’s door and lets me enter alone. The office is opulent and old-fashioned. Heavy teak and books lining all the walls. The Director gets up from the desk and approaches me. He is a man in his late forties. I take his hand and sense how he is attempting to signal his own vulnerability without using any words. I stroke my thumb across his thumb and take in the thoughts that come streaming. He has an oral fixation he does not dare to realize. He tries to find new ways of concealing his hair loss. He sometimes views his patients as cattle moving through a labyrinth which he alone has a full view of. He has never stopped eating his own snot, the consistency of which makes him ever more curious.
We sit down. He says I am making progress. He views me as a bright person who has made some wrong choices. I try to answer him, but he gets up and comes towards me. He lifts the other hand: it is disproportionally large and full of grazes, bites, and cuts. First I try to get away, but then I let him do it. He lays it over my face, presses two fingers into my eyes, and squeezes.
*
A man sits smoking in the corner of my room. I can’t make out his face. He says he knows I’ve got one more mission in me.
“I have known you for so long and I’m sure you’ll manage this,” he says.
His voice sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. My stomach hurts. It’s burning and I make an effort to avoid showing any pain.
“This isn’t a simple mission. If it had been we wouldn’t have come to you.”
The man disappears. I get up and step out of bed. My feet feel stronger than they have in a long time. I have been given a project. I have an aim. I have to manage this.
I take a shower, get dressed, and go out. The house is surrounded by identical houses with gardens, trees, and children cycling around. Neighbors greet me. I don’t need any help. My car is a red Mazda from the sixties. It has more horsepower than I need and soft leather seats. The weapons in the trunk, under the seat, in the dashboard, and in the door make me feel safe. I roll down the windows and play the Rolling Stones at full blast while driving.
I screech to a halt in front of the school and jump out of the car. There are almost no people in the streets. I open the trunk. It’s now or never.
*
I start again.
Minesweeping using people. IV drips. Tractor tracks. Her face before she falls asleep. Things that begin with S. Sewage system, sun cells, sister of the Shah. Rain over Esfahan. I am torn to pieces. The Khmer Rouge. The Kalahari Desert three years later. I meet my wife. We kiss on the way to work. I like her more and more. I run to catch the bus. I can’t get over how lucky we are. We have to sleep now but can’t help talking. The words continue even though we are no longer there. A boy who lives in the basement cuts off the tip of his little finger. Hang in there. We’re not comparing ourselves with anyone. We meet a fat couple on their way home that night. They look so happy.
I start again.
This time I am the dictatorship of the proletariat I am Pakistan’s secret police I am Queen Elizabeth I am South Ossetia I am the genocide in Rwanda I am Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome I am the Janjaweed Militia I am the last copper virus I am Guantanamo Bay I am the Niger Delta I am the categorical imperative I am Huntington’s Disease I am Anna Politkovskaya I am NATO I am the pancreas I am the Democratic Republic of Congo I am the Prophet Muhammad I am the Victoria Falls I am Pol Pot I am the Waffen-SS I am resistant tuberculosis I am Jerusalem I am the Industrial Revolution I am the American Ambassador to Afghanistan I am gulag I am Leukemia I am Cambodia I am The Great Migrations.
TRANSLATED BY SARAH OSA
[POLAND]
AGNIESZKA TABORSKA
FROM Not As In Paradise
BROTHER-IN-LAW
J. was shopping in the supermarket of a small town in the Auvergne where for years he had spent his holidays. In the frozen food department, a gentlemen ran up to him with a huge smile on his face. Before J. managed to place the pack of bacon he had just taken off the shelf in his cart, the gentleman flung his arms round his neck and kissed him twice on both cheeks. Having extracted himself from the man’s embrace, J. put the bacon down in the cart and took half a step backwards to get a better view. He scrutinized the stranger but rem
ained convinced he had never seen him before. Meanwhile the man continued to show signs of joy, patted J. on the shoulder, kept repeating “What a meeting!” and laughed so loudly that other shoppers glanced over at them intrigued. Losing patience, J. struggled to stay civil. “It’s very nice of you, but we don’t know each other,” he said. The man stood still for a second in amazement, after which he roared with even louder laughter. “What on earth do you mean?” he yelled. “I didn’t realize I had a joker for a brother-in-law!” “Brother-in-law?” “Surely my brother-in-law! Who else?” he yelled, louder still. J. was not amused by the scene that was dragging on too long. “I am not your brother-in-law!” he repeated several times more, but the other only thumped him on the back with ever greater energy. The incident ended just as suddenly as it began. The exasperated J. finally took his driving license out of his pocket and shoved it under the stranger’s nose, thereby interrupting the cascade of laughter and back-slapping. Then he walked away without saying good-bye, pushing the cart with the bacon in front of him and postponing the rest of his shopping until another day. He left the pseudo-brother-in-law with mouth wide open in astonishment, a wounded heart, and the conviction he had fallen victim to a monstrous conspiracy.
WAITERS
In The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, in one of the scenes where the protagonists experience yet more frustration at being unable to eat a meal, the perpetually surprised Parisiennes learn that the kitchen is even out of water. M. and I once ordered freshly squeezed orange juice in a café. I don’t know whether the waiter had seen Buñuel’s film, but he returned with an equally courteous explanation: the juicer had fallen apart while processing our order. Another incident happened to us one late afternoon in a pub near Wilanów. I received my potato pancakes very quickly. I finished eating and was admiring the setting sun. M. was still waiting. As usual, he had ordered the most complicated dish. I had been wondering how in such a modest dive they were going to prepare the snails, which featured nevertheless on the menu. I got the impression M.’s choice had been noted with a certain anxiety … The sun went down, traces of dried froth glistened on the sides of our beer glasses, it grew chilly. M., not for the first time, held forth to me about the virtues of genuine cuisine, which in contrast to fast food requires preparation. On this occasion, however, his words of truth did not allay my disquiet. The fact that we were the only customers in the garden did not bode well. Abandoning M. to visions of the chef bustling over his meal in the kitchen, I went to have a look around. The restaurant, however, was shut, the lights switched off, the chef and waiters long gone home. I was not surprised, only troubled by the thought of M.’s disappointment. Perhaps we should have been more suspicious earlier on, when a knife and fork appeared on the table instead of a snail skewer. Had the staff run away because professional honor prevented them from admitting they didn’t know how to prepare a dish listed on the menu? Before they fled, had they come to blows in the kitchen? Had they done a bunk through the back exit after locking the main door from the inside? Otherwise we surely would have noticed. Or perhaps the chef had been the victim of a crime? Bleak scenarios teem inside my head as the hungry M. and I leave the deserted garden, above which a full moon is just beginning to rise.
Best European Fiction 2017 Page 22