‘I’m drawing.’
‘What are you drawing?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
Kras lifts his knees and edges closer to her. There’s a plane in the drawing. The plane is at the top edge. In the bottom left corner there’s a tiny figure with a bowed head.
‘It’s nice.’
‘It’s not done.’
‘Hmm.’
Now he takes a closer look at the inside. A makeshift carpentry bench. An old dresser. A small box of nails. On the floor, the head of a hammer.
‘What’s in the drawers?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You didn’t look in?’
‘They’re locked.’
He inches closer to her, on his knees. The boards creak.
‘Po, how about if you go down? I don’t think these boards will hold both of us.’
‘I was here first. Besides, I can fly.’
‘Hmm.’
He grabs the handle and tugs. The drawer doesn’t budge. Harder. Nothing.
‘Can you pass me the hammer?’
‘That’s not a hammer.’
‘The head of the hammer.’
Po does not avert her gaze from her picture, she just reaches out a hand, picks up the head and passes it to him. Kras takes it and wedges it into a crack in the dresser. Then he pries. The wood splits.
‘Brother Wolf, is it really true you don’t have any friends?’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Nobody.’
‘Hmm.’
Again he yanks the handle, and ends up with the front of a drawer in his hand. A dark hole gapes at him.
‘Well?’
‘What.’
‘You really don’t have any?’
‘I used to.’
‘Hmm.’
Kras reaches inside and carefully taps around. For a second it looks like he’s got his hand stuck in a trap.
‘Why don’t you have them any more?’
‘Because we’ve all gone our separate ways.’
‘Why?’
‘Because that’s how things turned out.’
His fingers can feel a leather cover. He grabs it and pulls out a black notebook. It’s mouldy around the edges. He turns it over in his hands, studies it. The same feeling again. A trap.
‘Isn’t Edgar your friend?’
‘That’s different.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s family.’
He hears Raven calling.
‘Po! Breakfast!’
Po places a finger over her lips. Kras smiles, despite himself, and opens the notebook.
Alan sometimes thinks that all that’s missing in his life is pornography. He still has no intention of marrying, not even of courting someone, not even of attempting some trickery that would involve lying to and then, under the force of shame, silencing a girl, since such things tend to turn out bad. Those three porn mags his father gave him for his fifteenth birthday (he’d had to swear to tell nobody where he’d got them – for years, Raven had kept them hidden in the attic under a pile of coats that were irrevocably out of fashion), those he already knew by heart. All the pictures, all the stories. They no longer turn him on, not in the least. All he has to do to see the pictures is close his eyes. And they no longer do anything for him. They’ve lost their unseemly scent.
He doesn’t have the slightest idea how someone in this day and age would go about securing a fresh supply. The harsh morality laws that were brought in strictly forbid pornography and now people clearly prefer to resign themselves to their wives’ bodies than to smuggle in little depictions of copulations that, incidentally, could cost them a finger. It’s not even talked about, not even among the young. Of course, they confide their sexual reveries to each other, but to have them put down on paper? What a strange idea. He had never shown his magazines to anyone. And even if they were no longer effective in terms of desire, they still served to fill him with adrenaline. Dangerous magazines. He was a little fearful of them. What if someone found them?
When Grace and Olive came to spend their holidays under his window, in the extension that had been built for Edgar, his body trembled with imagination. Women in love. Not on paper, in the flesh. He could slip out of the window onto the roof, and the previous weekend, when his half-sister and her wife were away at the seaside he’d hammered a few railroad spikes into the shingles so that he could hold on to them and, safely, head facing down, peek right into their bedroom window. Till now he’d not been lucky. They slept without a light, got up early to spend their sport-filled days far from the homestead, and they would walk around the rooms fully clothed, and on top of that, someone – Mum, Po, Dad, Mila – was always bothering him with their problems, so he couldn’t constantly lie in wait. He suspected that they showered together, but their bathroom was windowless. The closest he’d come to anything carnal was a gentle kiss on the lips that Grace had stolen from Olive before they’d gone cycling one morning. This kiss, in all its innocence, definitely anchored his conviction that he simply had to see them when they were at their filthiest.
And so he’s lying on his belly, head full of blood, and snooping. Things look very promising. Yesterday they got drunk, and after all the mess that occurred they probably wouldn’t be heading directly for the hills. They’re still sleeping, although the morning is no longer young. A leg is peeking out from under the covers, but the fact that he can’t tell whether it’s Grace’s or Olive’s keeps his excitement in check; a half-sister’s leg isn’t quite all that. The panties lying on the floor are more enticing, even if it’s equally possible that they are related to him. But it doesn’t matter who wears them. What matters is that someone has taken them off.
‘Ah, come on, I don’t believe a word of it.’
Mila is telling him what he missed yesterday and laughing, a little at the memory, a little at his bulging eyes. Borut is lying in a hospital bed, half-covered in one of those arse-exposing gowns they stick you in, and gravely shaking his head, though Mila’s smile is most fetching indeed.
‘It’s all true! Why do you think I’m here? Sorry if it sounds a bit harsh, but if Edgar wasn’t lying in the next room I don’t know whether I’d be coming to tell you all that we have to be ashamed of.’
‘Really?’
‘I swear. Basically everything was awful yesterday, but the more I think about it, the funnier it gets.’
‘The Wolfs.’
‘Family crumbles, because it is fuller without than within,’ cites Mila.
‘Starves itself right to the edge, then turns around,’ continues Borut.
‘Steals its own shadow, to wear as a gown,’ Mila, again.
‘A wheeze, a sneeze,’ Borut.
‘And down, down, down,’ they finish together, laughing.
‘Whoa,’ says Mila, ‘we know our poets.’
‘Only the ones who speak to us.’
Mila turns serious. As she nods, Borut looks out of the window.
‘What is it with you, I mean, I know you’re all right now, but did they tell you what it was?’
‘Epilepsy,’ says Borut.
‘Oh Jesus.’
‘I know I have it, but the seizures are pretty infrequent and mild, usually. Usually I don’t even fall down.’
‘I didn’t know. I mean, I wouldn’t have offered if I did.’
‘Don’t worry, it’s not your fault. I should have known better.’
‘Why didn’t you say no?’
Borut smiles.
‘Because…’
The door opens and in peeks Katarina’s head.
‘Mila, let’s go.’
‘What do you mean, let’s go? What about Edgar?’
‘They say she stabbed him right through to the bone, so it is going to hurt for a while, but otherwise it’s really just a scratch. A few stitches.’
‘Yeah, but, Mum, Voranc is…sick.’
‘Oh dear. Lies after lies, this family. I’ve never really understood Alenka, but
something like that…’
‘What?’
‘Yeah, well, nothing. Nothing. I’ll tell you in the car.’
Mila squeezes Borut’s hand.
‘When are they going to let you go?’
‘What?’
‘I mean, from the hospital.’
‘Oh, that. Observation tonight, check-up at noon tomorrow. Then I’ll see.’
‘Can I call you?’
Borut winces.
‘Oh, sorry, I forgot.’
‘Take care.’
Walnut’s voice is coloured blue. Only the profoundly penitent can hear it. Those who used to be violent and who, finally, have become ashamed. There’s nothing to blame them for any more. Now they live in order to observe how everything grows. Everything grows.
‘Old Raven. It is now rare for you to tread upon my roots.’
‘I’m sorry, Walnut. You know they frighten me.’
‘The bloodied soil?’
‘…’
‘Old Raven… Is it not that you have become fearful of the human?’
‘I’m only afraid that it’ll come back.’
‘Trees see all and never forget. Do not worry. I am only trying to ground you a bit. Put your ear to the ground and you will hear a crying more terrible than any other under the sun.’
‘Not here.’
‘The voice of the trees does not carry across water. The woods here are tranquil. Calm your heart. Don’t be afraid. We have had our fill of blood. We will only drink rain now. Strange rain.’
‘Is my daughter here?’
‘Your son. Your daughter.’
‘My son?’
‘You have sons. More than one. One is hiding in my crown, another on the roof. I cannot see the third.’
‘On the roof?’
‘Climb up and you shall see. On the ground, eyes are blind.’
‘Walnut, sometimes I do not understand you.’
‘You will never understand me. You are not a tree. Climb.’
‘I would need all my fingers to do that.’
‘Grab hold of my branch, and I will raise you into the air.’
Little Po is focused on her drawing, pressing the tip of her tongue between her lips; the tips of her fingers are black. Kras’s face has lost its colour, his eyes are sunken, and sweat is dripping from his forehead. They do not notice him. He can watch them, a warm feeling of serenity filling his lungs. Without him, an empty crown. Deaf air. A space full of blind spots, a kingdom of flowers and crickets. But because of him – people, universes full of thoughts. And to want wasn’t a mistake, even though he knew what they would be born into. That he wanted, still. Everything is forgotten, but not quite so soon. And not for everybody.
A child’s hand. Thursday, 21 October 2021. This date means nothing to Kras, but it should, if only he’d thought a little more. I hate I hate I hate. Clumsy printed letters. The shaky and unsteady pen strokes don’t link up. Not even one line is quite straight. I hate I hate I hate. The writing gets larger with each word. The letters grow trenchant, compact, confident. I hate I hate I hate. The path of someone who is releasing himself into his skin, word by word. I hate I hate I hate. And so on, for ten pages. Three thousand six hundred fifty two times I hate. The last hate looks poised, written ruler-straight and with perfectly distributed ink, devoid of any tiny dots of spillage that might betray a fleeting moment of hesitation or a split second of doubt. Thus conviction grows, through practice, into pure expression. From emotions into character.
Kras is getting angry. The scraping of chalk over the drawing paper, the whooshing and rustling of leaves in the wind, the whistling of the neighbour’s tea kettle. A tractor sputters in the distance. The waves of electricity are buzzing like a hornet’s nest. Somebody’s flushing a toilet, the bowl slurps. The bell towers have started to toll noon, rifle bursts from the army barracks on their exercises cut the air. There’s no peace, anywhere.
When you’re here – written on a new page – I am lame. A non-being, a parasite. A miserable thread of a bad pattern. When you’re here, I am less than I. I am nothing like I. You are speaking to a shell. Because you think that counts. That’s the only thing that keeps me calm. Because you think it counts. That violence touches someone. That you can seize someone. That you can hold him. Nothing counts. A knot is a migraine. That piece of brain that swells. It can’t be cut out. And shame is cheap, but when you start feeling sorry for people…then you might as well hate.
Right, Wolf?
Then, over two pages.
I AM NOT AND NEVER WILL BE WOLF.
Kras snaps the notebook shut. Po flinches. Raven, who till then had been standing on a branch and craning his neck to observe them, pulls himself up to the floor of the little house. The branch sags a bit. Something moans in the depths of the wood. Po smiles. Kras’s and Raven’s eyes meet. A moment of strange energy passes. The heated steel in Kras’s pupils sizzles under the deluge of Raven’s lenient expression. Although the old man has no right to be lenient, it now comes as solace. Kras’s lips tremble. He no longer has the strength to wage a two-front war. One up here, one down there. He has to give in somewhere. He breaks his oath, and the heavens do not break in two.
‘Po will be an artist,’ he says.
‘If they’ll still allow people to be artists,’ replies Raven. The faces converge in a careful smile. Later, when Po tells them what happened nobody believes her, only Edgar will, with a hand on his hip, feel a pinch of happiness and mutter, ‘At least there’s that.’
Janez, who is Bernard’s chauffeur, has been up all night. He was napping in the car the previous evening when all of the sudden the door opened and he had to race to the hospital – a broken nose, a stabbed side, a gouged forearm, a lost consciousness and a pulled head of hair. Then he had to clean the blood from the car, go back to the Soča River, then go back again, wait until dawn, and now, after the family council, drive Olga’s sisters home, along with Olga and Bernard to keep an eye on them. The tiredness was now claiming its toll. At the intersection he’d strayed from the path, not paid attention to the road, and by the time they’d figured out that they were lost he no longer knew how to get back. Bernard was swearing at him but Janez, who was used to getting sworn at, shrugged and issued a closed-mouthed yawn. His nostrils flared, his eyes filled with tears, making him see even less. He’d have to stop. They were in the hills. On the winding slope that was wide enough for just one car, every hundred yards there’s a passing place where cars can veer off to avoid a crash. He stops here. There are five candles at the edge of the precipice. The road was not quite wide enough for someone.
‘Fuck, Janez, how are you gonna turn around here?’
‘Mr Wolf, we will manage. Just get out of the car in case something happens…’
‘If what happens?’ shouts Bernard. His nose is bundled up in gauze, his dark eyes are bloodshot.
‘Sir, I’m asking you, I’ll manage, but please get out.’
The ladies have fallen asleep. Bernard turns around.
‘Mother!’
Nothing.
With his good hand he grabs her knee. He is weak. Nothing.
‘Janez, you do it.’
‘Oh, sir, I would prefer not to.’
‘Mother!’
Olga sits in the middle, a sister’s head resting against each shoulder. Their palms are pressed together.
‘Mother!’
Nothing. His voice, already so thin and quiet, is even more taxingly nasal under the bandages. He exhales nervously and presses the middle of the steering wheel. Nothing.
‘Fuck, Janez, what’s wrong with this car?’
‘I know – you have to press hard. Shall I do it?’
‘Honk.’
The horn jolts them upright. Olga’s eyes are blood-red, her sisters press themselves up against her, terrified.
‘Olga,’ ‘Olga,’ ‘what was,’ ‘that?’
‘Bernard, are we already there?’ Olga looks out of the window. ‘This isn’t
Grča. Where are we?’
‘We took a wrong turn. We have to get out of the car so Janez can turn around,’ says Bernard.
‘Lord have mercy, Janez, there’s only one road up here. Where did you find another one?’
Bernard looks at Janez, whose eyes are closed.
‘Janez?’
He shakes him.
‘Ah…mmh, what? Sir, I will turn around, just get out of the car, please, if you will, please.’
‘You weren’t by any chance sleeping, were you?’
‘No, no, no, sir, not at all, I was just trying to figure out what to do… It’s nothing, we’ll turn around, there’s no other way.’
‘Will you be able to turn here?’
‘Master Janez can do anything, don’t you worry.’
Bernard looks back.
‘Let’s get out.’
They get out. The sand is moist. Rain has fallen overnight. The clouds have still not dispersed, the forest smells acridly of moss. Ferns everywhere. Big leaves on enormous stems block the view. Bears, lynx, rabid foxes…Bernard shudders. The ground isn’t used to human feet. Though some human body must have brought the memorial candles here. They’ve already burned themselves out, the plastic is blackened from the soot, the tops are rusty brown. He inches to the edge of the road. ‘Careful,’ Olga calls out, and looks over. A cliff. Deep in the valley below, again there’s the edge of a forest. Not a house in sight. You can get lost even in a tiny patch of woods.
Janez reverses an inch, turns the wheel, moves forwards an inch. Slowly. The sound of the engine has woken the trees, which are yawning in the wind.
‘Mother, do you see where revenge leads you? Right into the sticks.’
‘Spare me the accusations, Bernard. Tears alone didn’t help me one bit.’
Olga is proud of herself.
‘And what have you achieved?’
‘If nothing else, peace of mind.’
‘Wolf is going to throw you out of the house.’
‘Ha! That hypocrite! And when he takes his pound of flesh, everything is perfectly fine.’
Backwards, a turn of the wheel, forwards.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. If you’re thinking about those Roman reforms or something, he had nothing to do with them.’
In/Half Page 15