On the hour, Death rung his bell, the apostles rotated in their windows like “Ohhhnooo!”, and the three evils shook their heads from side to side, saying “please, please I don’t wanna go” (too bad, suckers).
Afterwards, we’d cross the bridge to Letenské Park, and just hang out at the kolotoč, the old carousel in the middle, a closed-up mustard hexagon with those grinning, life-size horses carved from wood and covered in real horse leather stuck in mid-gallop on their metal stakes.
*
I got my period before Jana despite being as flat and skinny as a birch tree, so yeah I bragged a little. Then Jana got hers soon enough, right on her birthday, and our country, the former Czechoslovakia, split. I told Jana her ovaries burst and cracked our nation in two, ha ha. That New Year, people danced a little harder as the snow dusted down the black sky. Janka and I were both sitting under the table, our heads touching the top when we sat up straight, so we hunched and chatted and snuffed at anyone who told us that we were too old to sit under the table on New Year’s Eve. All the adults were so involved with their own bodies, they danced with closed eyes, then Slavek’s papka plugged in the strobe light that Slavek had got him, and everyone swivelled around the thick rays of white and yellow and green and blue.
Then we saw it, between two flashing strobes of white, her mamka kissed my mamka on the lips in a quiet, lag way. They held each other, with their mouths pressing together, as around them hands and elbows jutted into the multi-coloured flashes. It looked like forever, but before we could say anything out loud, it was done. Our mamkas parted and soon they were dancing with our daddies. I climbed out from the table and stood there, wanting to run around their legs like the Malá Narcis that I was. I could feel it swelling up in me, I could have even given my pee trick a go, but that stunt was old news. Janka climbed out and stood next to me. She pulled out her hand and I reached it and took it. We were anonymous pillars, standing the test of time.
*
I followed my mamka into the shared kitchen and stood behind her until she turned around. Then I asked, “Why did Mrs Táňa kiss you on the lips?”
Her eyes flashed.
“It’s not what you think,” she said and began to feign rubbing a stain out of her dress.
She stopped, looked up at me and said, “If you must know, your father is going to die.” She took a breath and I kept looking at her, so she said, “He is ill and he’s going to die young and I will be left all alone.” Her eyes began to heat up, then she grabbed her skirt again and began rubbing, like sparking the fabric against itself.
“It’s awful, awful, the diseases that climb into your body and putrefy the organs. You think it can’t happen, or someone else, or later, but it swells right up inside you, deep inside and makes room for itself until you’re wheezing for mercy—” then she just stopped talking.
I knew what it was. My index finger was high and snug in my nostril, grabbing at something promising. She slapped my hand out from my face and screamed, “Don’t pick your nose when I’m explaining death to you! Bože na nebi, Zorka, you’re almost a woman!”
My nail scraped the inside of my nostril, and a ring of blood and some nose hairs pulled out.
My mamka looked at my finger, then at my face, then pulled me into her chest with a frantic grab, my forehead bumped into her collarbone.
Yeah, she was trying to hug me.
She began murmuring in her silky voice, “Please, please, please, my love . . . don’t be weird.”
She let go of me and walked back towards the party. At the doorway, she stopped, two men shouted her name at the same time. She bent her knees and shook her ass, holding the sides of the door, then propelled herself forwards and was dancing inside the strobe-light colours that were tearing holes into the room. Everyone danced like bodies being resurrected in gunfire. I licked the blood off my finger and told Janka to come dance with me.
*
So our pubic hair had begun to grow in enough to shave it off. Jana did like I asked her and stole her dad’s razor.
We took turns with it in the bathroom, sliding the razor in and out over our cunts and all the way back to our assholes, and all around, pulling the lips out one by one to get it good. We wiped away the flecks of blood and looked at the curled black and brownish strands floating in the toilet bowl, then flushed and faced each other, with our underwear and jeans still down at our ankles.
I ran my hand over my bald cunt and said, “Agnus Dei.” Like the Lamb of God, like they were teaching us, in the Book of Revelations: “Slain but standing”. That was my cunt’s name.
Jana did like me and ran her fingers over hers and thought about it. I thought about it too. But we couldn’t think of a name for hers. I crouched down and looked at it head on to get some ideas, pulling apart her cunt’s lips with my fingers and having a good look around and then I saw it!
“Woah!” I announced. “It’s the Jan boys in there!”
“What?”
“Jan Palach and Jan Zajíc, you know! The divine heretics, hello, our shooting stars, our punk meteors, our—” I plucked the air like an electric guitar and sang out “great balls of fire!”
I reached out my hand and Jana helped me up.
“Agnus Dei and the Jans,” I said. “That is, number one, a great title for the past and the future, and number two, an even greater band name, which is our cunts, Janka, jamming like—” I crunched my eyes and got the high notes of the air guitar, “like . . . hell no, hell nooo, Hell FUCKIN NOOOOOO . . .”
“Agnus Dei and the Jans,” Jana repeated as she hit some air drums around her.
Then we straightened up and took each other by the shoulders and leaned in close. Our jeans and everything were still bunched at our feet, it was just us, all bare, all shaved, just in our jumpers, me in my bright red turtleneck and Janka in her blue and tan striped. I told her to close her eyes and I closed mine.
“You see us?” I whispered. “We’re floating above, you see it?”
“Yeah . . .” Jana whispered back. “Above . . . everything . . .”
“Below us . . . everything’s in flames . . .”
“Yeah. I see it.”
“See our ugly apartment building there . . . ?”
“Yeah . . . there’s fire . . . in the windows . . .”
“And our ugly school . . .”
“The side just collapsed.”
“And our ugly kolotoč in the park . . .”
“The horse leather is broiling and the wooden bodies are splintering off their poles . . .”
“And look!”
“What?”
“You see it?”
“Yeah . . . I think so . . .”
“The Vltava . . .”
“The river . . .”
“The water’s even on fire!”
“And . . . the trees too!”
“And the birds.”
“And the gravel roads . . .”
“And even us!”
“Us?” Jana asked.
“Yeah us . . . You see us?”
“Sure . . . where are we?”
“Look . . . There we are . . . I mean just our ugly bodies that is . . .”
“Yeah . . . our ugly bodies.”
“They’re burning. You see that?”
“There’s flames on my eyelashes – but it doesn’t hurt.”
“We’re running across Wenceslas Square . . .”
“And all our ugly limbs, like hands like shoulders like knees, and our ugly clothes, all on fire . . .”
“There’re the benches . . . and the row of yellow taxis . . . and the Saint on his horse in front of the National Museum . . . And there’re people all around us, stupid people, flocks, people and pigeons and cars honking. And the stupid police blowing their whistle . . .”
“And we’re running across in flames . . .”
“And the more we burn the higher we get! Look now: There’s our ugly city, and our ugly country, and our ugly world! . . . Even the stuff w
e thought was okay or even nice or really beautiful, it wasn’t, it’s not . . .”
“It’s all the same. It’s all on fire.”
“And now we’re just . . . finally . . . essential . . .”
“And it feels good . . .”
“It feels so good.”
“Fuck off ošklivý svět . . . ugly world, peace out. Agnus Dei and the Jans have risen, baby!”
*
When I opened my eyes, we were already kissing. Maybe we were doing that the whole time. Janka’s tongue was strong, I remember. I thought, wow, so that’s where she keeps all her strength then. I remember it, strong, in my mouth.
Girls only
0_hotgirlAmy_0 has joined the group
Dominxxika_N39: Hey hotgirlAmy, A/S/L?
0_hotgirlAmy_0: 15/f/Milwaukee. U?
Dominxxika_N39: 35/f/Prague.
Dominxxika_N39: . . . too old?
BabyBoi_whatup8: For real.
0_hotgirlAmy_0: Whatev BB. It’s hot.
Dominxxika_N39: *smile
Dominxxika_N39 has left the group
Dominxxika_N39 has joined the group
Dominxxika_N39: Sorry hotgirlAmy! I sign off quick cuz I thought husband come home.
0_hotgirlAmy_0: Oh . . .
Dominxxika_N39: But its OK, is just bird outside who make noises.
BabyBoi_whatup8: Ummmm Dominxxika, it’s GIRLS ONLY – If u not a dyke – GOODBYE>>>
Sexy_Kimmie_: Not everyone here’s a dyke, btw, gross.
69Beachgirl69: Seriously BabyBoi. Go back to the butch/femme chatroom.
~GlitterCrush~: F U Kimmie & Beachgirl. BabyBoi stay.
BabyBoi_whatup8: Holla GlitterCrush.
~GlitterCrush~: *bites her glossy lip
BabyBoi_whatup8: Damn.
00ps-I-did-it-again00 has joined the group
00ps-I-did-it-again00: *waves to everyone
00ps-I-did-it-again00: Anyone here from Nebraska?
~GlitterCrush~: Hey 00ps, u a heart-breaker?
00ps-I-did-it-again00: *dusts her shoulders off
~GlitterCrush~: *giggles
Mybigbootie56: Any other latinas here?
JLoJLoJLo: . . . Duh. *waves at bigbootie
Mybigbootie56: *shoots herself in the head
JLoJLoJLo: lol. 17/Houston
Mybigbootie56: All my exes live in Texas! JK. Me = 15/HOTlanta, Georgia holla!
Sexy_Kimmie_: KatieCutie, Id totally just make out with her. Like even if she’s all, I’m not like that, just kiss her.
69Beachgirl69: Yeah do it!!!
KatieCutie16: What if she tells our swim coach?
69Beachgirl69: Then we’ll like come over there.
Sexy_Kimmie_: KatieCutie we got ur back girl.
KatieCutie16: Haha thanx guys. Itd b so funny if u just showed up in Toledo.
Sexy_Kimmie_: I could whatev. Ohio is like what a 12 hour drive from Vermont.
69Beachgirl69: Yo swing by Detroit and pick me up too! *rolling on floor laughing
Sexy_Kimmie_: For real!
0_hotgirlAmy_0: Dominxxika, wanna go private *wink
Dominxxika_N39: I follow u . . . *takes hotgirlAmy’s hand
Dominxxika_N39 has left the group
0_hotgirlAmy_0 has left the group
00ps-I-did-it-again00: I played with ur heart. Got lost in the game . . .
~GlitterCrush~: *reapplies lip gloss
Global Plastics
Aimée shifted in her plastic seat in front of the stage across from N39. Four men were on stage, wiry mics hooked up to the table. Framing them, two banners spotted with logos, each bearing the title – in leaning blue lettering – Global Plastics.
*
“. . . to most accurately mimic the strength, resilience and flexibility of a human hand . . .”
*
Aimée shifted again. There was an odd sensation, as if right behind her shoulder. She turned discretely around and glanced at the seated public in the rows behind her, suits and blazers, attentive to the lecture. Everyone’s eyes were on the speaker. She turned back to the stage and tried to listen.
*
“Yes, metal devices are durable, but they are frustrated by their limitations—”
The speaker had a small head with white hair and pinkish lips at the centre of his greying beard. His bright red tie spotted with white dots stood out against his pale-blue shirt and his dark-blue suit-jacket. The name-card in front of him read: Docteur de Saint-Pé.
*
“. . . more supple, coated with polyurethane.”
*
Next to the doctor, the man in the black suit nodded dutifully, his brown hair thick and neat. On the other side of the doctor, a long-faced man with deep indents leading to his mouth pursed his lips like a question mark, his thin blond hair catching the overhead lighting. The last man at the end of the table in the asphalt-coloured suit flared his nostrils as if punctuating the doctor’s speech.
*
“And, of course, injection moulding technologies . . .”
Aimée tried to concentrate on her father’s words, but she felt as if her seat was being budged. She glanced down at her hands holding her mobile phone on her lap, and gripped the device more firmly.
“. . . this biofeedback is precisely what the amputee has to rely on in order to determine how much pressure to exert in any given movement . . . something metal devices don’t and can’t offer . . .”
The Doctor gestured to the brown-haired man on his left and smiled.
“Like the V3 Remotion Knee in California . . .”
Both men smiled at each other. The asphalt suit itched his nose.
“These plastic sockets are based on vital, primary anatomical principles.”
*
She was clutching her mobile phone, trying to force her eyes forwards, but her head was drifting over her right shoulder again, resting on the man sitting beside her, with long earlobes, who was jotting something down on his notepad. Behind him, there was a woman, dry skin coated with layers of make-up, dark eyebrows coloured in, her eyes loyal to the speaker. Aimée twisted her torso further round in her plastic seat, sweeping over the faces of the sitting people, looking for the source of her agitation. But not a single person’s eyes were on her, everyone was looking straight ahead at the speaker.
“. . . as with Touch Bionics,” the Doctor continued.
It was there though, the feeling. Behind the audience. A man had halted his step. Grey suit, eggish body, balding head with a thin pair of glasses on his nose. His head was facing the stage but his eye was directly on her. She met his stare and the two held each other’s gaze. The man lifted his left hand and began moving it towards his chest. Aimée watched his hand disappear between the jacket lapel and his button-down shirt. She felt her own blouse shift and wrinkle at the ribcage. Then she saw his hand reappear, first wrist-bone, then knuckles, and she exhaled as if he were pulling something out from inside her. He held a square sky-blue silk handkerchief and put it to his mouth to cough. He coughed several times, then crumpled up the handkerchief and began sliding it back into his jacket pocket. Aimée’s shoulders shrivelled into her heart.
Then the man was walking away, into the rows of stands, towards the internationals section.
Aimée unwound herself to turn back towards the stage. She lowered her eyes to her lap, where her hands were still gripping the mobile phone, as if sensing it was about to ring between her two palms. She looked up again to the panel, and saw a different stage altogether, an elevated theatre stage, deep in its black-painted floor, framed with a heavy curtain drawn open, lights crossed and fusioned over the body of a woman standing barefoot in a white satin nightie. In her shadow, a younger lookalike, white satin nightie, thighs, knees, spread toes.
FEMME (facing audience, looking at horizon)
I was young once.
FILLE (facing audience, looking at public)
I was o
ld once.
*
Aimée was a miracle child, meaning her mother had had her when she was deemed past-her-prime, and it was the last mistake her parents had shared. Their other two children were already grown up and making their own lives when Aimée came into the emptied nest, and not two years in, her parents filed for divorce. Her mother moved to London in a sweeping gesture, underlining how many years her father had kept her from doing what she had wanted to do all along. Incidentally, she had a beau waiting for her there.
Her older sister Sylvie followed suit, calling Paris a dwarfish, stone-hearted city, but looking directly at their father. Her brother, Benoît, had always had a thing for South-East Asia, and long before the women of the house proclaimed their British leanings, he turned his medical volunteering into a stable job at a hospital in Thailand, half a world away from the father who could not help but mention that he thought Benoît was too sharp to be a generalist for coughs and sneezes. Over time, the mother and sister and brother became less family and more painted figurines, shrunk and motionless, from a childhood Aimée had too abruptly outgrown. And so, she and her father grew closer together as if it had always been just the two of them in their family unit.
*
Her father tried his best to cultivate the girl, whom he promised himself would be different from Sylvie and by-God nothing like his wife.
*
He had got them front-row seats at the theatre for a show starring the French film actress Fanny Ardant, which was getting some buzz in the papers. Aimée was thirteen, her thin blonde hair brushed and tucked behind her ears.
*
One woman came on stage wearing a white satin nightie, barefoot. It was Fanny Ardant. The public sat up in their seats. The famous actress took a breath and said, in her velvet voice, “I was young once.”
From the other side of the stage a younger woman came out, also wearing a white satin nightie, also barefoot. Her dark hair was brushed out like Fanny Ardant’s and her face held a resemblance to the actress’s sagely luscious features. The younger woman came forth and stopped at Fanny Ardant’s level. Looking out into the audience with an invigorated glare, the younger actress proclaimed, in a broad voice, “I was old once.”
Virtuoso Page 4