by Drago Jancar
He was a unique old gentleman, that Monsieur Mieroslawski. More than anything, he loved antiques and odd objects brought from distant lands. On the street, he routinely dragged us in front of the display window of some antique store, if not into the store, for us to gape with him at a lamp stand made of large seashells (probably a decadent fin-de-siècle work). Or at a little Chinese chest guarded by a golden dragon: when the chest is opened, the dragon spurts fire and smoke, as Monsieur Mieroslawski explained to us in French (because I didn’t understand Italian), and as I then had to translate to Liz Franz, who was bored but feigning great interest. The ignition mechanism wasn’t working at the moment, but it was apparently possible to fix.
M. Mieroslawski’s apartment on a quiet cul-de-sac near the dome of Les Invalides (with a view, if you parted the heavy velvet curtains, of the golden cupola of Les Invalides, and down onto the square) was a genuine exhibition of ancient junk. The curtains kept away the daylight, so that M. Mieroslawski’s mise-en-scène could have a better effect on the viewer. An African mask grinned beneath a spotlight, while in another corner a Japanese aquarium sparkled with its green plants and red and white fish. All of the furniture was heavy and antique; the ashtrays, dishes—nothing originated from this century or from the part of the world called Europe. We visited M. Mieroslawski at his home for a good-bye dinner before Liz Franz’s announced departure (she didn’t actually fly out that day, although she even had herself transported to the airport). That “dinner at home,” which was served by a butler, was excruciating. I felt awful sitting there in my shabby clothes. Everyone else was decked out like bohemians—a well-known TV journalist and cultural commentator, a music critic, a professional musician, and a then-fashionable columnist for Le Nouvel Observateur—but I soon saw that those bohemian, open-minded pants, jackets, and shirts were very, very expensive.
I also felt slightly demeaned because I was the only interpreter present. The label owner’s wife did ask me, out of politeness, what I did in my native country, but she took no notice of my reply, because while I was formulating it, the entire table had managed to burst out laughing at the TV anchor’s joke, which went over my head (as did most of their jokes), because it involved references to some inner circle and targeted, as far as I could understand, the highest strata—all the way up to President Mitterrand. I had to translate those jokes for Liz Franz.
To my relief, no one seemed to be all that interested in her, even though she was the dinner party’s guest of honor, because no one could be bothered to converse via an interpreter, and, furthermore, they had quite enough of their own Paris affairs to discuss, each one wanting to be in the spotlight at least once during the course of the evening. I also noticed that after each guest’s departure, the remaining diners began backbiting mercilessly, although it was all somehow done in a way that left a friendly, private impression. Nowadays, having somewhat greater experience with Paris’s cultural circles, I know that it was an ordinary, even normative scenario for an evening. I’ve also learned to take part in such conversations and understand the jokes. The only thing I haven’t acquired is a knack for producing these jokes. I’m too slow and am never able to seize upon whatever infinitesimal slit in the fabric of the conversation into which I might jab my own poisonous allusion.
Naturally, at that dinner, no one said a word about yesterday’s concert (aside from a couple of polite statements dropped during the appetizers), at which a couple of the guests had, however, been present; nor of Liz Franz’s recent album release. In my naïveté, I had imagined that Liz Franz would be asked to perform one or two of her prettier songs for the guests (I now know that she wouldn’t have done so anyway). Liz Franz was dressed in black again, from head to toe, just as on stage; but this time, it was a pantsuit. I had liked the previous evening’s black velvet dress more, of course, but I also saw that it would have been out of place at that “bohemian” dinner. All the same, I would have been perfectly happy to see that striking sight as often as possible: Liz Franz, during her last song—her hit, “Prayer,” which was popular in the Baltic States’ freedom movement—on a dark, black stage, kneeling right at the edge, in a spotlight, her head slightly lowered, the microphone held between her hands, seemingly pressing it against her chest; just like the white rose on her concert poster. The silver microphone looked like a white rose in her hands, at that moment. Then, the fading of the last notes, and several more seconds of tense silence, Liz Franz frozen in the same pose, barely moving; then, the storm of applause, people rising to their feet, shouting “bravo,” whistling; everyone had the feeling that they had been present (assister) at something very special—as Nicole Zand wrote the next day in Le Monde, probably summarizing the feelings of many: “the few chosen ones who had the fortune to make it into that concert partook of a powerful and, at the same time, inexplicable common experience, which can be summarized in a few words: the birth of freedom.”
Truly—upon reading those words in the newspaper, even I felt that Nicole Zand was absolutely right. I was very proud that I had been able to share in that moment. And, overall, I was euphoric. Even I was free once more—I had money again.
The thing was that the very next morning after the concert, I had to do quite a lot of work. Liz Franz was attacked by an entire horde of radio- and newspaper journalists (she had gone on television without me), and this time I really did have to translate. Following that tense media session, a small meeting was held at the record company, during which a rundown of the coming record launch was made; a contract was likewise signed for the release of another record, for which Liz Franz was supposed to receive quite a nice (for me, anyway, back then) advance. I have to admit that the album was never released, and it probably won’t ever be, given the fact that the Paon record label was dismantled as well, meaning that M. Mieroslawski can now dedicate himself entirely to his true passion, which is the collection of old and odd items. He was apparently able to net a pretty sum for himself from the sale of Paon.
Translating Liz Franz’s contract in Paon’s small office that afternoon (luckily, M. Mieroslawski didn’t realize that I couldn’t actually understand the contract’s legal terminology in the least), my mouth went dry and my head began to buzz. When the meeting was over, M. Mieroslawski invited the two of us into his office (I had picked up on the fact that M. Mieroslawski had taken a peculiar liking to me), where he led us to his window, making a sweeping gesture and asking us to marvel at the view.
Presumably, the view was one of the pearls of M. Mieroslawski’s collection. Outside the window was a small monastery courtyard—a garden, absolutely invisible from the street. It contained a couple of ancient, pruned trees, a few oddly shaped hedges, a grassy square, a small pond with greenish water, and a moss-covered fish statue on the pond’s stony bank, from the mouth of which water gurgled. Truly, gurgled. The effect when M. Mieroslawski opened the window was, overall, one of genuine tranquility—unbelievable for the septième arrondissement. A black thrush sang quietly, but somehow passionately, reminding that winter would soon turn into spring. Then, M. Mieroslawski closed the window again, went over to his large, empty desk, took an envelope out of its main drawer, and handed it to Liz Franz. Cash, I supposed. Then, he said a couple words more about the (then) upcoming dinner (something to the effect of expecting both of our presences), after which—as if he’d recalled something else at the last second—he turned neither toward me, directly, nor toward Liz Franz, but somewhere in between, with a question, or more like a statement of opinion, saying that an interpreter is also entitled to his fee. I had initially counted on perhaps a couple hundred francs, but in the meantime, I’d also come to terms with the likelihood of being forgotten about completely.
M. Mieroslawski paused a moment after his words, for suspense, as if expecting me to name my price. After that, he stuck his hand into the breast pocket of his moss-green cashmere jacket, pulled out two banknotes (it suddenly seemed to me that all of his drawers and pockets were full of cash), and han
ded me two five-hundred-franc bills.
“Will this be sufficient?” he asked politely.
I was only capable of nodding dumbly. “This” exceeded all of my expectations. “This” was a moment of enlightenment, during the course of which I realized what money really is. Money isn’t, of course, those rubles with which I had managed the majority of my life. Nor was money the one thousand Finnish marks that I received from Helsinki for screening my film, because, in my opinion, even for one movie, that wasn’t exactly generous. Nor was money the nearly four thousand francs earned for breaking my back on a cru, one thousand of which was spent right there on food. It wasn’t much for an entire month’s worth of very hard work. No, money, I realized, standing at that moment in that quiet office with its view of a monastery garden, is when M. Mieroslawski takes with an absentminded and almost indifferent gesture two five-hundred-franc notes out of the breast pocket of his green cashmere coat, and hands them to you, asking if it’s enough. Is it enough for walking around the city with Liz Franz, and for the numerous café sessions, which Liz Franz insisted upon again and again, and during which she always treated me, and to which I had quickly become accustomed? Is it enough for the several luxury (Thai or Japanese style, in the private rooms of the most expensive restaurants) lunches, at which immigrant Russian comtesses and princesses jingled their gold?
Truly—is it enough? It’s never enough, but it’s bearable if you get it just the same, and for nothing to boot. Then and only then it is money. Otherwise, it’s a salary, wages, or who-knows-what. According to the laws of economics, added value is created during the course of work. You receive a part, often only a trifling part, of that added value as remuneration. As such, you basically give money for working—you don’t receive it. You make money for others, and money is exactly that: whatever is in those other hands. Money is the rain that falls upon a rich field, but doesn’t fall on a poor one. Money is freedom.
I, for example, felt exceptionally free thanks to the two five-hundred-franc notes that appeared out of M. Mieroslawski’s coat pocket. I was no longer dependent upon my Estonian acquaintance outside of Paris, or on his Citroën, lying on its belly in his driveway, for transport. I could buy a bus ticket and travel back to my homeland all on my own. But I wasn’t in any hurry, initially. At that point, it still seemed as though Paris had many more interesting things in store for me than did wintery and poor Tallinn, where there was nothing available at all anymore, as the rare tourists who arrived from there reported to us where we usually gathered in Paris—goods were apparently only available with ration coupons. Moreover, I was in no hurry because Liz Franz remained in Paris at first. Specifically, she used the freedom contained in that rather fat little envelope handed to her by M. Mieroslawski as follows: she didn’t bother to use her return ticket to Rome, which M. Mieroslawski had purchased. She did indeed have herself driven to the airport, but upon arriving, before checking her baggage, she shook off her escorts and waited a little while, then took a taxi back to the city. She had informed me of her plans beforehand, saying that she wanted to “stroll around” Paris for a few more days without having any bothersome obligations and escorts (but I wasn’t a bothersome escort—that much I realized immediately); new obligations would be awaiting her again in Rome, one way or the other.
She took a new hotel room as far away as possible from the old one (and likewise as far away as possible from M. Mieroslawski’s stomping grounds), on rue de Courcelles, on the Rive droite, in the XVIIème arrondissement. Interestingly, it’s quite near to my current apartment and I pass it often; however, it’s been ages since I’ve felt anything when looking at that hotel’s facade, even though I do think back—again and again—to that decisive (if it was decisive) evening with Liz Franz, there in that very building. From time to time I’ve thought of stepping in to see whether that same receptionist is still at the front desk—a boy with a dreamful face, who watched us just a bit too sharply that time, and who I ineptly tried to make eyes at. But even if the same receptionist is there, he’d be a middle-aged man by now—no longer a boy. Just like me, really. Not that I’m reconciled to that, just yet. Looking at shorts yesterday in the Tartu Department Store—taking into account the fact that, according to a gay friend of mine, people in New York walk around in shorts all the time, unlike in Paris, where only American tourists wear them—rummaging through those overly athletic and boyish shorts there at the department store, not finding anything at all that could possibly look youthful, sufficiently chic, and solid all at once, I suddenly realized that I am already an old man, or will be becoming one very soon, in any case. That I’m no longer a boy. The realization hit me very hard. Life, which has always seemed dreadfully long, suddenly appeared incredibly short. Youth has passed, and there’s been nothing . . . nothing of what I dreamed about throughout my youth, and which I’ll probably keep on dreaming about as an old, pathetic youngster manqué, ridiculous in his pubertal implacability. (Three pimples appeared on my nose after my fever: I looked at them, like—see? Puberty again! Another one!) Really, there’s nothing left for me to look forward to. What’s been has been, and I even thought with a certain sense of satisfaction that the plane might actually crash into the ocean or something like that; I may not want to die, especially, but there wouldn’t be anything especially tragic about it if you look at it rationally: it would simply be cutting my agony back to a reasonable length. For the agony already began long ago, maybe so much as eleven years ago, when I knocked on the door of Liz Franz’s hotel room on rue de Courcelles at the prearranged time—four knocks, likewise prearranged (so she wouldn’t have to open it for the maids, etc.). I was twenty-eight years old then—it already felt as though my life was ending, although I was actually very young; furthermore, I looked young for my age. Actually, one day at the gym, recently, when paying my fee, I was asked rather stridently whether I wasn’t a student. Yes, I’m a student—Liz Franz’s eternal, moronic student; but I don’t get any kinds of discounts for it when taking the bus or going to the gym.
TRANSLATED FROM ESTONIAN BY ADAM CULLEN
[FINLAND]
MOX MÄKELÄ
Night Shift
I’m going to end it, because they’re at me all the time. I’ll mess them up bad, even though it isn’t right, in fact it’s completely wrong. Everything’s wrong, that’s the whole problem, it was wrong right from the start.
The old guy’s dim as a jug of rotgut even if he doesn’t drink anymore, and so’s the old lady, but she’s drunk on the Word. She keeps harping on about higher-ups even though they never pay her a visit, not the earthly ones or the heavenly ones. Everybody keeps their distance from us and sneers at us. Stuck in this same rut ever since I was little, but back then I didn’t know how bad things could get when they really set their minds to it.
The old man makes sure we’re always working. Even if it’s just smashing rocks with a hammer for no reason, the sound of damns and hells should be audible, and him complaining about the pain in his back and hips and butt, and the old lady adding to the chorus with her pious songs, which are supposed to calm the restless spirit and soothe the weary laborer. I often go out, run along the beach, spit and curses running out of my mouth all the way down the trail, which is the best world there is for me. I curse these demons that I live with, that I’m trying to get away from.
I can see the shore, and the opposite shore, as I pace back and forth puffing smoke. I know it’s all there, on the other side, a place I can’t get to. That’s where my real home is, my nest in the dim depths of the forest, under a tall tree where a hawk sometimes rests in the highest branches.
There are wadded up cartons and broken glass on the beach—groups of kids toss them down off the rocks. Sometimes there are gun nuts on the rocks, too, shooting shooting shooting, and the birds flounder in their own blood after those battles and I gather up the spent shells along the rocks and sometimes I shout for the birds’ sake, as if I could get them back up into the sky, the blood back cir
culating in their veins.
When I go out among people the demons always get into me and I can’t get along with them. I can’t stand them because I can’t understand them. I can’t stand to be anyplace where people are in heat—the hell, the spread of it. I trudge past the church and the church comes after me and tries to drive me down to the market, but I’m too clever, I swerve under the lip of a tarp at a construction site. It’s muddy and the wind blows, but I’m safe. The church doesn’t like it and stays behind to spy on the other sinners over in the park.
I go to the hardware store to buy some string and I hear whispers like they’re going to murder me there in their backroom, the storage area. At the bakery at least no one stares all that much. The baker doesn’t sneer, since he knows how to at least be somebody, to be himself.
I go across the spoiled beach. It wasn’t a sin to put shit in the lake back then, and it still isn’t. I say unto you, birds, forgive us. I don’t know what gets into me sometimes when I ask for forgiveness, and they sit like that with their heads tilted and ask me what for.
I keep going and now the soft, shadowy path is like freedom again. I could stay here overnight and sometimes I do, but then I get cold and go back to hell. I open the door and the old lady’s eyes are like slits and she squawks that somebody’s been somewhere slacking off, daydreaming. She’s a body, she’s been killed. I let myself be in other worlds. But then there’s that hymn again, yowling because the cassette’s old and the tape’s wearing out. A sheep bleating about salvation. But the old man has his own word he’s preaching, about how he’s been digging a hole all day long, yelling at me to fill it up tomorrow, saying I’ve got worker’s hands even if I do go around with my head stuck in ants’ nests and other daydreams.