Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead

by Olga Tokarczuk

  Dizzy shook his head dubiously.

  ‘What about the Police? Which celestial body represents the Police?’ he asked.

  ‘Pluto. It also represents the secret services and the mafia.’

  ‘Well, yes, yes…’ he repeated, unconvinced, though I could see he had a lot of goodwill and was doing his best.

  ‘Keep looking,’ I said, and showed him the position of the planets. ‘Saturn was in Scorpio in 1953 – the death of Stalin and the political thaw; 1952 to 1956 – repression, the Korean War, the invention of the hydrogen bomb. The year 1953 was the toughest for the Polish economy. Look, that’s just when Saturn rose in Scorpio. Isn’t that incredible?’

  Dizzy fidgeted in his chair.

  ‘Well, all right, look at this: Neptune in Libra – chaos, Uranus in Cancer – the people rebel, the decline of colonialism. Uranus was entering Leo when the French Revolution erupted, when the January Uprising occurred and when Lenin was born. Remember that Uranus in Leo always represents revolutionary power.’

  I could see he was finding it painful.

  No, it was impossible to persuade Dizzy to believe in Astrology. Never mind.

  Once I was alone and was laying out my research Tools in the kitchen, I felt pleased that I could keep track of these amazing conformities. First I deciphered Big Foot’s Horoscope, and straight after that the Commandant’s.

  Generally speaking, the tendency of a particular Person to have accidents is shown by the Ascendant, its ruler and the planets in the Ascendant. The ruler of the eighth house indicates a natural death. If it is in the first house, it means that his death will be the Person’s own fault. Maybe he was a careless Person, for instance. If the signifier is connected with the third house, the Person will be aware of the cause of his death. If it is not connected, then the poor fellow will not even realise where he made the fatal error. In the second house death occurs as a result of wealth and money. In this configuration the Person might be attacked and killed for the purposes of robbery. The third house is typical for road and transport accidents. In the fourth we find death because of land ownership, or because of family, especially the father. In the fifth because of children, abuse of pleasure, or because of sport. In the sixth house we bring illness on ourselves through lack of caution or by overworking. When the ruler of the eighth house is in the seventh house, the cause of death is a spouse; that could mean a duel, or despair resulting from infidelity. And so on.

  In the Commandant’s Horoscope in the eighth house (a threat to life, the house of death) we find the Sun, the body that symbolises life itself, but also a position of power. It is located in quadrature – a very difficult aspect – to Mars (violence, aggression) in the twelfth house (Murder, assassination) in Scorpio (death, homicide, Crime). The ruler of Scorpio is Pluto, and thus power may be to do with organisations such as the Police, or…the mafia. Pluto is in conjunction with the Sun in Leo. In my view, all this means that the Commandant was a very ambiguous and enigmatic Person, mixed up in various sinister affairs. That he was capable of being cruel and ruthless, and gained distinct advantages from his position. It’s highly possible that as well as his official authority within the Police, he had a lot of power somewhere else, within something secret and ominous.

  What’s more, the ruler of the Ascendant is in Aries, which governs the head, and thus violence (Mars) is in direct relation to his head. And I also remembered that Saturn in an animal sign – Aries, Taurus, Leo, Sagittarius or Capricorn – portends a threat to life caused by a wild or aggressive Animal.

  ‘In Dante’s Inferno Virgil says that as their punishment the astrologers had horribly twisted necks,’ said Dizzy to wrap up my argument.

  ‘Come on, my friend, don’t let me down,’ I said to the Samurai, which was growling at me, but then instantly it fired up. It’s a form of loyalty. When you’ve lived together for such a long time and you’re reliant on each other, a sort of friendship develops. I know it has reached quite an age by now, and with each year it’s finding it harder to move about. Just like me. I also know that I neglect it, and that this winter had made its life a misery. Mine too. In this car I have everything I need in case of an Accident. A rope and shovel, an electric saw, a petrol can, some mineral water and a packet of crackers that are sure to be completely damp by now – I’ve been carrying them about since the autumn. There’s also a torch (so that’s where it is!), a first-aid kit, a spare wheel and an orange camping cooler. I also have a can of pepper spray in case anyone were to attack me on the road, though it’s highly unlikely.

  We drove across the Plateau towards the village, through meadows and wonderful wilderness. Gently and timidly, everything was starting to go green. Young nettles, still weak and tiny, were poking their tips above the ground. It was hard to imagine that two months from now they’d be sticking up stiffly, proud and menacing, with fluffy green seedpods. Close to the ground near the road I could see the tiny little faces of daisies – I could never help feeling that they were silently inspecting everyone who came this way, casting their stern judgement on us. An army of flower folk.

  I parked outside the school and at once the children from my classes ran up to the car – they were always impressed by the Wolf’s head stuck to the Samurai’s front door. Then they escorted me to the classroom, twittering away, all chattering at once, and pulling at the sleeves of my sweater.

  ‘Good morning,’ I said in English.

  ‘Good morning,’ the children replied.

  And as it was Wednesday, we started our Wednesday rituals. Unfortunately, half the class was absent again – the boys had been excused from their lessons to attend rehearsals for first communion. So we’d have to repeat this lesson again next week. I taught the next class some nature vocabulary, and that meant making a lot of mess, which earned me a scolding from the school cleaning lady.

  ‘You always leave a pigsty behind you. This is a school, not a kindergarten. What on earth are these dirty stones and seaweed for?’

  At this school she was the only Person whom I feared, and her screeching, resentful tone drove me up the wall. The lessons tired me, physically even. I reluctantly trudged off to do my shopping and go to the post office. I bought bread, potatoes and other vegetables, in large quantities. I also went to the expense of buying some Cambozola, to cheer myself up if only with a bit of cheese. There are various magazines and newspapers that I sometimes buy, but reading them usually gives me an unspecified sense of guilt. A feeling that there’s something I haven’t done, something I’ve forgotten, that I’m not up to the demands of the task, that in some essential way I’m lagging behind the rest. The newspapers may very well be right. But when one takes a careful look at the people passing in the street, one might assume that many others have the same problem too, and haven’t done what they should with their lives either.

  The first feeble signs of spring hadn’t yet reached the town; it had probably settled in beyond city limits, in allotment gardens and in stream valleys, like enemy troops in the past. The cobblestones were covered in sand left over from the winter, when it was scattered on the slippery pavements, but now, in the Sunshine, it was raising dust, soiling the springtime shoes brought out of the closet. The town flower beds were small and miserable. The lawns were fouled with dog dirt. Along the streets walked ashen people, squinting. They looked stupefied. Some were queuing at the cash machines to withdraw twenty zlotys to pay for today’s food. Others were hurrying to the clinic, armed with a ticket for an appointment at 13.35, while others were on their way to the cemetery to change the plastic winter flowers for real spring daffodils.

  I felt deeply moved by all this human hustle and bustle. Sometimes an emotional mood of this kind assails me – I think it’s to do with my Ailments – and my resistance weakens. I stopped in the sloping market square, and gradually I felt flooded by a powerful sense of communion with the people passing by. Each man was my brother and each woman my sister. We were so very much alike. So fragile, impermanent and eas
ily destroyed. We trustingly went to and fro beneath the sky, which had nothing good in store for us.

  Spring is just a short interlude, after which the mighty armies of death advance; they’re already besieging the city walls. We live in a state of siege. If one takes a close look at each fragment of a moment, one might choke with terror. Within our bodies disintegration inexorably advances; soon we shall fall sick and die. Our loved ones will leave us, the memory of them will dissolve in the tumult; nothing will remain. Just a few clothes in the wardrobe and someone in a photograph, no longer recognised. The most precious memories will dissipate. Everything will sink into darkness and vanish.

  I noticed a pregnant girl sitting on a bench, reading a newspaper, and suddenly it occurred to me what a blessing it is to be ignorant. How could one possibly know all this and not miscarry?

  My eyes began to stream again; by now it was becoming truly awkward and problematic. I couldn’t hold back the tears. I hoped Ali would know what to do about it.

  Good News’ shop was in a small side street off the market square, and one entered it straight from the car park, which wasn’t the best incentive for potential buyers of second-hand clothes.

  I looked in there for the first time last year in late autumn. I was frozen through and hungry. Damp November darkness was hanging over the town and people were feeling drawn to everything bright and warm.

  From the entrance, some clean and colourful rugs led inside, then diverged among the rails, on which the clothes were classified by colour, playing a game with the different shades; the place smelled of incense, and it was warm, almost hot, thanks to some large industrial radiators beneath the windows. This had once been home to the Tailors’ Cooperative for the Disabled, as indicated by a sign still visible on the wall. There was a large plant in the corner, a huge chestnut vine that must have outgrown its previous owner’s flat long ago; its strong shoots were climbing the walls, aiming for the shop window. The whole thing was a mixture of socialist cafe, dry cleaner’s and fancy-dress costume hire. And in the middle of it all was Good News.

  That’s what I called her. This name suggested itself irresistibly, at first sight. Irresistibly – that’s a beautiful, powerful word; when we use it, we shouldn’t really need to provide any further explanation.

  ‘I’d like a warm jacket,’ I said shyly, and the girl looked at me intelligently, with a gleam in her dark eyes. She nodded encouragingly.

  So after a short pause I continued: ‘To keep me warm and protect me from the rain. I want it to be different from all the other jackets, not grey or black, not the kind that’s easily mistaken in the cloakroom. I want it to have pockets, lots of pockets for keys, treats for the Dogs, a mobile phone, documents – then I won’t have to carry a bag, and can keep my hands free.’

  As I made my request, I realised that I was placing myself in her hands.

  ‘I think I might have something for you,’ replied Good News, and led me into the depths of the long, narrow space.

  At the far end stood a circular clothes rail with jackets hanging on it. Without having to think, she reached out and extracted a lovely down coat in a crimson shade.

  ‘How about this one?’ The large surfaces of the bright windows were reflected in her eyes, which shone with a beautiful, pure light.

  Yes, the jacket was a perfect fit. I felt like an Animal that has been given back its stolen fur. In the pocket I found a little shell, and decided it was a small gift from the previous owner. Like a wish: ‘May it serve you well.’

  I also bought some gloves at this shop, two pairs. I was just about to rummage in a basket full of hats when I noticed a large black Cat lying in it. And next to it, among the scarves, there was another one, identical, but bigger. Mentally, I named the Cats Hat and Scarf, though afterwards I always found it very hard to tell them apart. Good News’ black Cats.

  This sweet little shop assistant with Manchurian beauty (she was also wearing a fake-fur hat) made me a cup of tea and pulled a chair up to the gas heater for me to warm myself.

  That was how our friendship began.

  There are some people at whom one only has to glance for one’s throat to tighten and one’s eyes to fill with tears of emotion. These people make one feel as if a stronger memory of our former innocence remains in them, as if they were a freak of nature, not entirely battered by the Fall. Perhaps they are messengers, like the servants who find a lost prince who’s unaware of his origins, show him the robe that he wore in his native country, and remind him how to return home.

  She too suffered from her own special illness – a very rare and bizarre one. She had no hair. No eyebrows, or eyelashes. She’d never had any – she was born like that. Genes, or Astrology. I of course think it’s Astrology. Oh yes, I verified it in her Horoscope: Damaged Mars close to the Ascendant, on the side of the twelfth house and in opposition to Saturn in the sixth (this sort of Mars also produces covert activities and unclear motives).

  So she drew herself lovely eyebrows with a pencil, and tiny little lines on her eyelids to look like lashes; the illusion was perfect. She always wore a turban, a hat, occasionally a wig, or else she wound a scarf around her head. In summer I gazed in amazement at her forearms, entirely devoid of those little darker or fairer hairs that we all have.

  I often wonder why we find some people attractive and not others. And I have a Theory about it, which is that there is such a thing as a perfectly harmonious shape to which our bodies instinctively aspire. We choose in others the features that seem to match this ideal. The aim of evolution is purely aesthetic – it’s not to do with adaptation at all. Evolution is about beauty, about achieving the most perfect form for each shape.

  Only when I saw this girl did I realise how ugly our body hair is – those brows in the middle of the forehead, the eyelashes, the stubble on our heads, armpits and groin. Why on earth do we have this peculiar stigma? I think that in paradise we must have been devoid of hair. Naked and smooth.

  She told me she was born in a village outside Kłodzko, into a very large family. Her father drank and died before his time. Her mother was sick, seriously so. She suffered from depression and had ended up in hospital, drugged into a stupor. Good News coped as best she could. She had passed her final secondary-school exams with flying colours, but hadn’t gone to college because she had no money, on top of which she was taking care of her siblings. She decided to earn the money for her studies, but couldn’t find a job. Finally the owner of this chain of second-hand shops had taken her on, but the salary was so low she was barely able to survive on it, and from year to year her studies were further and further postponed. When there was nobody in the shop, she read. I knew what books she liked, because she put them on a shelf and lent them to her customers – gloomy horror stories, Gothic novels with crumpled covers featuring a drawing of a Bat. Perverted monks, severed hands that murder people, coffins flushed out of graveyards by floods. Evidently reading this sort of thing confirmed her in the conviction that we are not living in the worst of worlds, and taught her optimism.

  When I heard Good News’ account of her life, I mentally began to formulate questions that start with the words ‘Why don’t you…’, followed by a description of what – in our view – one should do in this sort of situation. My lips were on the point of producing one of these impertinent ‘why don’t yous’ when I bit my tongue.

  That’s just what the colour magazines do – just for a moment I’d wanted to be like them: they tell us what we’ve failed to do, where we’ve messed up, what we’ve neglected; ultimately, they set us on ourselves, filling us with self-contempt.

  So I didn’t say a word. Other people’s life stories are not a topic for debate. One should hear them out, and reciprocate. So I told Good News about my life too, and invited her to my home to meet my Little Girls. And that’s what happened.

  In an effort to help her I went to the local authority, but I found out there’s no support, no grants for people like Good News. The woman behind the d
esk advised me to arrange a bank loan, the kind you pay back once you finish your studies and start to work. There are also free computer, dressmaking and flower-arranging courses. But those, unfortunately, are only for the unemployed. So she would have to quit her job in order to go on one.

  I made a trip to the bank as well, where I was given a stack of forms to complete. But there was one vital condition – Good News had to secure a place at college first. And I knew that eventually she would achieve her aim.

  It’s good to sit in Good News’ shop. It’s the cosiest place in town. Mothers with children meet up here, and old ladies on their way to lunch at the pensioners’ canteen. The car park security guard and frozen saleswomen from the vegetable market come here. Everyone is given something hot to drink. One could say that Good News runs a cafe here.

  Today I was to wait for her to lock up this sanctuary, and then we’d be off to the Czech Republic with Dizzy to visit the bookshop that sells Blake. Good News was folding some bandanas. She never said much, and if she did speak, she did it quietly, so you had to listen to her very carefully. The last few customers were still browsing the clothes rails in search of a bargain. I stretched out on a chair and closed my eyes blissfully.

  ‘Have you heard about the foxes that have been seen out on the Plateau, near where you live? Fluffy, white foxes.’

  I froze. Near where I live? I opened my eyes and saw the Gentleman with the Poodle.

  ‘Apparently that rich fellow with the funny name released some from his farm,’ he said, standing in front of me with several pairs of trousers slung over his arm. His Poodle was looking at me, a doggy smile on its face – it clearly recognised me.

  ‘Innerd?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s the one,’ confirmed the man, and then addressed Good News. ‘Would you please find me some trousers with an eightycentimetre waist?’ Then at once he went back to his story. ‘They can’t locate the man. He’s gone missing. Vanished without trace. Like a needle in a haystack,’ the old gentleman went on. ‘He’s probably run away with his lover to a warmer country. And as he was rich, he’ll find it easy to hide. Apparently he was mixed up in some sort of racket.’